Their horses snorted in nervousness when Rastmoor finally stopped. He fixed the reins to a tree, and Julia followed suit. Hopefully they would be safe here, off the road and out of sight. But what of Sophie? What were the chances this gunfire had nothing to do with all that happened at the inn tonight?
Holding his fingers to his lips and motioning for her to follow, Rastmoor began moving slowly back toward the road. Drat. He was intending to go out there, wasn’t he? Julia’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t too keen on being shot at, but of course if Sophie was in trouble, they had to go and help. She had no choice but to follow Rastmoor toward the danger.
They made their way quietly. Soon the sounds and voices were directly in front of them, no longer moving along down the road. The noisy carriage had stopped rumbling, and Julia could make out men’s voices. They didn’t sound too happy, either.
“Damn it, wrong carriage!” one of them called out.
Another man swore loudly, and there was the sound of a scuffle. The carriage horses stamped and whinnied. Then Julia heard a baby cry. A baby?
A woman’s voice called out, “Don’t touch my baby!”
The baby’s crying turned more to whimpers. Julia could scarcely believe her ears. She pushed up into the thick undergrowth, desperate to see what was happening. Rastmoor was beside her and motioned for her to keep silent.
“What the hell are we going to do with this?” one of the men said.
Julia could barely make him out. He wore a dark coat and a mask over his face. Highwaymen! Two of them, it appeared. They had stopped the carriage and apparently killed—no, injured—the driver. He lay slumped on the ground, groaning.
One highwayman held the lead horse, his gun trained on the driver while the other man grasped a young woman by the hair, poking his pistol at the crying bundle she clutched desperately. Julia clenched her fist. What monsters, to threaten an innocent babe like that! By God, if Rastmoor didn’t do something pretty soon, she would.
“This was supposed to be ’is lordship’s carriage,” the man at the horses said.
“Well, it ain’t,” the other replied. “We must have missed him. Damn. The boss ain’t goin’ to like that.”
“What are we going to do?” the first man asked. Even from this distance, Julia could see his gun hand shaking.
“What do you think we’re going to do? His nibs likely don’t want no witnesses.”
The woman with the baby made a frightened little squeak, and now another woman appeared in the window of the carriage. She let fly a string of words Julia had never heard come from a woman—she was quite impressed by it, really—until the man simply reached through the window and smashed his fist into the woman’s face. The tirade stopped immediately, though the baby’s mother made more squeaking sounds. Her child began crying again.
“He’s going to kill them!” Julia hissed to Rastmoor, glad for the baby’s distracting cries.
“No. Here’s what we’ll do,” Rastmoor said, leaning in very close so that his voice was hardly a whisper. “I’ll take the man at the horses. You step out and aim this at the other man.”
From somewhere he pulled out a gun. It looked huge and heavy and frightening. He handed it to Julia. She shook her head violently.
“No, it’s too dangerous!” she protested.
“You’d rather stand back and watch innocent people die?”
“No.”
“Good. Can you handle a pistol?”
“No!”
“Of course not. All right, I’ll set it to ready for you. Now, damn it, be careful where you aim, then pull the trigger.”
“All right,” she said, but it sounded more like she was being strangled than preparing to boldly overpower the enemy.
He growled out a sigh. “Miss Darshaw certainly got a bargain with you, didn’t she, St. Clement?”
“You have no idea,” she replied, but wasn’t sure he heard.
Rastmoor was already moving away, pushing slowly and silently through the bushes. Julia didn’t want to, but she followed. The minute he stepped out into the open, he’d have two guns aimed at him, and as far as she could tell, he’d just handed her his only weapon. If she didn’t get herself out there and convince those bloodthirsty highwaymen she knew what she was about, Rastmoor would soon be shot full of holes.
Likely they’d all end up that way.
Rastmoor made his move. Julia had no idea a highborn gentleman could move so fast or so silently. Almost before she knew what was happening, he leapt out of their cover and dove at the first highwayman. They tumbled to the ground. Julia was vaguely conscious of the encouraging fact that there was no immediate responding gunshot, but she couldn’t get too hopeful. There was still another man with an evil-looking pistol nearby, and she’d better do something to subdue him.
“What the hell?” the man near the carriage yelled as Rastmoor grappled with his friend.
Julia watched as he leveled that evil pistol in Rastmoor’s direction, and she tried to replicate his quick and stealthy movement. Crouching to make herself less visible—not to mention a smaller target—she scurried out of the brush.
And managed to trip over her own ungainly boots.
With an unmanly cry, she crumpled to the ground. Drat, she was mucking this up already! Rastmoor would likely curse her up one side and down the other. If he lived long enough to curse anyone, that was.
Her clumsy actions had one unaccounted benefit. Both highwaymen were immediately distracted. This gave Rastmoor the opportunity to gain the advantage and take possession of his opponent’s gun. In an instant he was on his feet, the weapon aimed squarely at his foe.
The downside of this was that now Julia found herself thrashing in the dirt, her pistol uselessly flung somewhere several feet ahead of her in the overgrown weeds. The man nearest her grinned. She could see his yellowed teeth in the moonlight. Very unsavory. His eyes fell on her just long enough to realize she was no threat. Mostly his attention was on Rastmoor.
With practiced skill he raised his gun. Julia could already imagine it firing, the bullet lodging somewhere in Rastmoor’s body and sending him to the ground. It was all too obvious what would happen after that.
Unless, of course, she did what she was supposed to have done right from the start. Her fingers dug and clawed at the earth, and somehow she managed to get her feet under her. She hurled herself forward, arms swinging wide, and somehow her hand contacted the cold metal of her pistol.
She grabbed it up. Their assailant was ignoring her, still training his weapon on Rastmoor when she felt the powerful recoil. She had fired.
It hit the man dead in the chest, up high toward the throat. The hideous scarlet stain was instantaneous and heavy. He staggered back, his pistol dropping into the roadway and an odd, gagging gurgle sounding in his throat. It was the most wretched sound Julia had ever heard.
Good God, what had she done? The man stared at her wild-eyed, his arms flailing to his wound and his legs buckling beneath him. He collapsed, but not quickly. The whole dreadful scene was playing out slowly, etching itself in her mind. Those damn yellow teeth were becoming red with blood, and he glared at her as if that in itself could avenge his injury. Perhaps it could. She felt a churning in her gut and the taste of bile.
The woman with the baby shrieked at some point and pulled herself away from the man, covering her child. There was blood on the woman’s clothing, but Julia was fairly certain it was not hers. Or the babe’s. It spattered off the man as he gurgled there, sinking pitifully into the ground. His lungs were full, and bloodied air was escaping through his chest. Lord, it was positively hideous what she had done to another human being!
She put one hand over her mouth and crawled backward, wishing she could get far, far away from this place but unable to take her eyes from the man. He was completely prone now, twitching and still gurgling, but the sounds were getting weaker. The woman in the carriage had reappeared, and she had blood on her face, too. The mother and child
rushed to her and they whispered and cried and consoled one another. The baby had been frightened into silence by the sudden gunfire, but now he was howling for all he was worth. Julia took that to be a good sign, all things considered.
The driver of the carriage was moving, groaning, and awkwardly trying to get to his feet. Rastmoor had his quarry firmly under control. Good, because Julia was completely useless now. Dropping the spent pistol back into the weeds, she climbed to her feet and turned her back on the group. The bile finally got the best of her, and she cast up tonight’s dinner. Heavens, it certainly hadn’t felt as if she’d gotten that much soup inside her, but here it was now to prove she had.
The heaves kept coming long after the soup was gone. She dug a handkerchief out of her coat pocket and tried in vain to tidy herself, succeeding only in displacing her mustache. It was no use salvaging it. Between creeping through the forest and now this, the fragile bits of hair Papa had fashioned into this theatrical disguise were ruined.
She fumbled with it but soon realized Rastmoor had come up beside her. All she could do was crumple the wilted thing in her handkerchief and hope she could keep her face averted. Between the loss of mustache and the tears he would obviously see streaming down her cheeks, only a fool could still believe her to be a man.
And Rastmoor was no fool.
“You did what you had to do,” he said from behind.
“I know.”
“Your aim was excellent. He didn’t suffer long, if that makes a difference.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You saved several lives tonight.”
“He only had one gun,” she pointed out. “I saved one life tonight.”
“Well, if you hadn’t, most likely you would be the one lying in the dirt right now.”
His tone was so oddly gentle, so compassionate, it made her forget her guard. She glanced up at him. Too late she realized he hadn’t yet noticed the absent mustache. He did now, however. She saw the moment it registered. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed.
She gathered her courage and returned his stare. “He was aiming at you when I fired, Anthony.”
His voice came out brittle. “And yet you did fire. I wonder why?”
For just a moment he remained there, his eyes locked on to hers. But then he broke away, turning to the others and calling to make sure they were all right.
The carriage driver, though favoring one arm and limping slightly, had a pistol in his good hand now and was keeping it on the one living highwayman. That fellow sat in the dirt, staring at his departed companion and shuddering every now and then. The ladies were recovering and now began to express concern over Julia.
“Is your friend there all right?” the older one asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Rastmoor remarked without interest. “He likes to make as if he’s a sensitive sort, but I daresay it’ll take more than murder to really affect him.”
Julia ground her teeth. He hated her. Indeed, it had been evident in his eyes, and she could hear it in his voice. He hated her, and no doubt this was far from over.
But at least he was going to let her keep up this charade while in public. She had no doubt it was, of course, purely for his own benefit. What plausible excuse could he have to explain his romp in the forest at night with a woman in men’s clothing? To save face in front of these others, he’d let her remain Alexander Clemmons.
And it was just as well. She was in no great hurry to face a furious Lord Rastmoor as herself, that was definite. She hadn’t done it three years ago, and she certainly didn’t wish to do it now.
RASTMOOR SWORE UNDER HIS BREATH AND STALKED back over to the remaining highwayman. He had to question the man, find out who he was working for and who he’d been hired to target. He doubted he’d like any of the answers he got.
Damn it, though, he couldn’t think straight.
She was alive! God, it was too fantastic to believe. Julia was alive. How could this be? She’d died in Fitzgelder’s bed three years ago. He’d seen the announcement in the paper, heard family members discuss it in hushed tones. Lady Fitzgelder had died and was buried, her newborn child with her in the ground. His child.
But she wasn’t! She was here, standing just yards away, pale and shaking and still retching from the trauma of just having watched a man die at her hand. Apparently this was a new experience for her. Perhaps she’d always managed to disappear before having to face the consequences of her heartless actions—just as she had three years ago when she tore his heart out and tromped on it in her haste to become Fitzgelder’s wife.
Damn it, Julia was alive! He’d been grieving her all this time, and she’d never even been dead. If he hated her before, he hated her more now. What game was this? What sport could she possibly find in tormenting him this way?
Or perhaps it was more than sport. Perhaps she was here at Fitzgelder’s command, a part of his plan to remove the cousin who held all the title and fortune a bastard like him could only dream of inheriting. Indeed, that actually made sense.
It was far more likely he had Julia to blame for all this than that he should suspect Lindley. God, but she would have to pay for this. For all of it. Not now, though. First he needed to figure out what other dangers might still be lurking, and he doubted Julia would be eager to inform him.
Rastmoor stalked to the one remaining highwayman and loomed over him. The man was young and scared for his life. Unlike Julia, cooperation would come easily here.
The carriage driver had found some rope and begun binding the criminal. The poor driver had been hurt in the earlier struggle, and he was only too grateful to let Rastmoor relieve him of this duty. The driver leaned with a heavy sigh on the carriage, still keeping his pistol at the ready should anyone need an assist. Rastmoor bent to further restrain the nervous highwayman.
“Over here,” he said, grabbing the man and strategically moving him to sit where he’d have an unobstructed view of his friend’s tortured body lying in the bloodied dirt. This turned out to be a wonderful motivator for the young man.
“We wasn’t supposed to be killing no women and children,” he said quickly, his eyes begging Rastmoor to believe him. “I swear, that wasn’t what I signed on for. Just a simple robbery of some London gent, that’s what I was told.”
“Just a simple robbery, was it?” Rastmoor asked, yanking the ropes unnecessarily tight.
“Ouch! Yes, a robbery,” the man said and gave another yelp. “Well, all right. It was supposed to look like a robbery, but Hank said the boss really wanted this man done away with. But I swear I didn’t know about that until we got out here. I don’t go for that none, killing and all, so Hank said he would do the deed.”
“Yet you were content to share the purse, no doubt.”
“A man’s got to make a livin’, don’t he?”
“And murder makes a hefty living, I’m sure. But tell me, who is this boss you were working for?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t know, and that’s the honest truth. Hank did the meeting with him, and it don’t look like he’s talking much more tonight, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Rastmoor had to agree. “So I guess you’ll have to do his share. Where did he meet this boss?”
“I don’t know! I swear it, sir, I don’t. Warwick most likely, but to tell the truth, I don’t know. Hank just comes back from meeting him and he says we’ve got to get this carriage tonight, on this road at this time. So we do, only it turns out to be the wrong carriage.”
“Obviously. So tell me, which London gent were you expecting to find here?”
“Don’t know, sir. All Hank says is we’ve got to come up and down this road looking for a bloke with a broken axle; that would be our man. But we got confused. We found this here carriage sittin’ still and thought it must be the one. It wasn’t. I guess they was just taking a rest, or something. Soon as we come up on them, off they go. Hank says we’d better follow, so we did, and now here we are.”
Well, that was informat
ion enough to confirm his suspicions. That axle had been broken intentionally, and he had been the intended target of this ambush. Damn, but it had to be Fitzgelder’s doing. He must have found someone to sabotage the carriage axle. But how? Rastmoor and Lindley had left Dashford’s just this morning. Could Fitzgelder have gotten to one of Dashford’s servants and persuaded him to do this? It seemed impossible; Dash’s men fairly worshipped him, and Mother’s letter clearly placed Fitzgelder in London. How else could he explain this, though?
Well, he and Lindley had stopped for a quick luncheon break in Warwick, hadn’t they? That must have been where it happened. Yes, that made perfect sense. Their carriage had been left in the care of strangers for half an hour at least. Anyone could have tampered with it, damaging the axle to weaken it. These outlying roads were heavily rutted and rough. Anyone would have known the axle had no chance of lasting through their journey; they’d be left as easy prey for these thugs. By God, it was purely luck they hadn’t met up as intended.
Unless, of course, it had not been purely luck. Lindley certainly had been in a hurry to get them off the road, hadn’t he? Rastmoor would have been just as happy to work at attempting to bind the axle and see if they couldn’t get the horses to drag the carriage along with them to the posting house. It had been Lindley’s idea to abandon it. He’d been the one to insist on carrying weapons, too, hadn’t he? Perhaps that was all just coincidence—Lindley didn’t really strike him as the adventurous sort, after all—or perhaps there was more to it.
A ridiculous notion, though. Why on earth would Lindley have done anything to jeopardize his own safety? If he truly was in league with Fitzgelder, as Clemmons—er, Julia—suggested, he could have done much more to see to it that Rastmoor had been exactly where they wanted him.
Then again, perhaps he had. That bullet in the posting house had not been merely imaginary. Lindley had suggested that private room, too. Damn, Rastmoor hated to suspect his friend, but things were just not adding up. Exactly what was Fitzgelder up to, and who did he have helping him? Julia and Lindley? Then how did Sophie figure in?
Damsel in Disguise Page 5
