Damsel in Disguise

by Heino, Susan Gee

  “No, we’re not.”

  The ostler shrugged his sloping shoulders. “Too bad. Jeb’s the one that told us all about the excitement. He says he watched it real good, got to see everything. That first man was injured, he said. Bleeding in the leg.”

  His friend nodded. “Might have been shot, I suppose, though Jeb didn’t mention it.”

  “Injured? Are you sure about that?” Rastmoor asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the first man replied. “Jeb was real sure of that. Hey, if you’re looking for that man, you might think of looking in at the surgeon. Maybe the fellow found his way there.”

  “Yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Rastmoor agreed. “I think we’ll do just that.”

  Julia was, once again, left to trot along behind Rastmoor like an obedient whelp. They got the surgeon’s direction and left their horses in care of the helpful ostlers. The busy, narrow streets were crowded, and Rastmoor declared two men on foot would blend in and move more quickly than two on horseback. Well, at least Rastmoor was able to move quickly. His long strides carried him over ruts and mud holes with ease. Julia was not quite so fortunate.

  “Slow down,” she complained.

  “I thought you were eager to find your friend.”

  “I am, but I’d prefer to do it without a broken ankle.”

  “Just watch where you’re stepping, is all.”

  “That would be easier to do if we weren’t sprinting. Can’t you hold up just a bit?”

  He not only held up; he stopped. She ran into the back of him. Slowly he turned to face her with a mocking grin. “What, are you having trouble keeping up with me? Poor Julia. Perhaps you should get more sleep at night.”

  She glared back. “I assure you, sir, it is my policy from now on.”

  His left eyebrow shifted slightly, but other than that, he gave no reaction. “Good. It’s nice to know we are in agreement.”

  “For once.”

  Now the brow shifted again, but this time his lip twisted at one corner, too. “No, my dear, we’ve been in agreement many times, as I recall.”

  “Well, not anymore. Are we off to the surgeon or not?”

  “We’re definitely off,” he replied and turned on his heel to resume his rapid pace.

  She was left to amble along behind. Drat this man! He was infuriating. He was insulting. He was insufferable! And he was damn fine in those tight trousers, his long, muscular legs striding evenly, two steps ahead of her. Bother. If she didn’t keep herself less distracted, she truly would trip and break an ankle.

  Or worse, she’d succumb to him again and break something much dearer.

  THE SURGEON—A ROUND-FACED MR. WARREN—WAS no help. He’d heard nothing of a late-night injury and had seen no one or no thing of interest this morning. Rastmoor was forced to admit they’d come up empty. He cursed under his breath all the way back to the Steward’s Brake. Hell, they’d wasted nearly an hour here in Warwick and had absolutely nothing to show for it. And now it appeared Julia had given up on making any effort whatsoever to keep pace with him.

  She dragged along as if her feet were made of lead. Twice he caught her hiding a yawn. Honestly, she looked exhausted, and he figured he ought to take some of the blame for that. He ought to be ashamed of himself, he supposed, but he wouldn’t be. It was nothing short of ridiculous to trouble over a woman like Julia St. Clement. Late nights and lack of sleep were things she surely knew well.

  He made a pretense of checking traffic on the street to give a worried glance over his shoulder at her. Her eyes were sunken, and her cheeks were pale. Blast. Very well, he’d make sure she got a break when they reached the inn. He’d order up a luncheon for them and insist she take a rest before they climbed back onto their mounts and continued after Lindley.

  Or whomever they were after. Hell, he still wasn’t ready to believe it. Lindley, in league with Fitzgelder? It made no sense. But the innkeeper’s description of the man who arrived to cause such a disturbance in the middle of the night certainly sounded like Lindley. Damn. Just one more person Rastmoor had been wrong about.

  “Come along,” he said, opening the door for Julia when they finally made it back to the Steward’s Brake. He pointedly ignored the hateful glance she sent up at him. “Have a seat, and we’ll get some food.”

  She didn’t protest. The proprietor was glad to see them back and ushered them into a private room, promising to bring only his best meal. It arrived quickly and, Rastmoor was pleased to discover, smelled almost enticing. He was happy to forgo conversation and focus on food.

  “We should leave soon,” Julia said, surprising him after the lengthy silence.

  His mouth was full when he answered. “And where, exactly, should we go?”

  “South,” she said. “Of course Lindley’s taking the locket back to Fitzgelder. Sophie, too, if she’s still alive.”

  “Of course she’s alive,” he said, though of course he couldn’t swear it was true.

  “I hope so,” Julia said and poked listlessly at her food.

  Blast it, now she was ruining his appetite. So far, he hadn’t really given much thought to Sophie’s plight, but he supposed Julia was right. There was no reason for them to believe whoever abducted Sophie would feel the need to keep her alive once the locket was retrieved. Indeed, they’d seen more than enough violence these past few hours to assure them Sophie was, most likely, in very real peril. Damn. He’d been truly enjoying his stew.

  “I suppose your disgusting friend Lindley might prefer to keep Sophie alive for a while yet,” Julia said, startling him again. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how he was staring at her last night—how you were both staring at her last night.”

  “Of course we were staring at her. We were on our way to London to look for her.”

  “How lucky for Lindley you found her so easily,” she grumbled and shoved her plate away. “I don’t even want to think about what could be happening to her. We should go after them. Now.”

  “What, now? You haven’t even touched your food.”

  “How can you think about food right now? Don’t you care at all that your friend Lindley might have already killed a woman?”

  “Lindley’s no murderer.”

  “What about that fight here last night?”

  “Fighting is not the same as murdering. Besides, we don’t know for certain that second man who arrived was Lindley.”

  “You don’t believe it was?”

  Damn it, he couldn’t lie to her. “Yes, I believe it was. Too many coincidences for it not to be Lindley.”

  “And I know for a fact he’s in league with Fitzgelder, who plans to kill you and anyone else who doesn’t strike his fancy, apparently. Any man who keeps friends like Fitzgelder would hardly have qualms about doing all manner of evil things to poor Sophie.”

  Rastmoor could well imagine what some of those evil things might be. “Perhaps he’d prefer her alive, then.”

  “That’s not entirely comforting.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  “Not sitting here, we won’t.”

  “Eat your stew, Julia,” he instructed. “You need your strength. If Lindley’s goal was simply to kill her, he could have done that and been on his way. Instead, everything would indicate he’s taken her with him—alive. We have no reason to believe he won’t keep her that way.”

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  “I do.” Oddly enough, he sounded as if he meant it.

  She was quiet. He watched her eyes as she pondered this. She seemed to take hope from his words, and he prayed to God they would turn out to be the truth. Lindley, despite his elegant appearance and dispassionate attitude, was a capable man. If he had any malicious intent where this Sophie was concerned, she’d be unlikely to put up any effective resistance. If Lindley wanted to murder an unimportant little tart to steal back the locket for Fitzgelder, he’d find a way to do it, and it wouldn’t be right here where there were witnesses.

  The fact that the innkeeper
at the Steward’s Brake believed Sophie was alive and well when she left in the night really meant nothing to them. Lindley could easily have taken care of an unwanted companion anywhere else. There were a hundred places in and around Warwick where a sturdy gentleman could hide a body in the middle of the night. Free from the hassle of a struggling victim, Lindley would already be well on his way back to London, and Fitzgelder would soon be holding the trump card. That would be bad for everyone.

  Except that Rastmoor and Julia had not passed Lindley on the London road. True, there were other roads, but this would have been the fastest and most direct. Somehow Lindley’s detour seemed significant and ought to be investigated.

  He wasn’t prepared to discuss this with Julia just now, though. She’d find this yet one more reason to worry and one more reason to tear off willy-nilly, despite her own exhaustion. On that count he was determined to give his guilty conscience some relief.

  “We’ll take a room here,” he announced.

  Her eyes darkened, and she pinned him with a defiant glare. Good thing he hadn’t intended to make full use of that room. Any attempt to repeat last night’s exercises would likely result in Rastmoor’s body ending up dumped in a deserted place.

  “A room for you to rest and refresh yourself. Alone,” he clarified. “Sleep, Julia. I’ll do some more asking around. If Lindley is on his way back to London already, he’s taking a roundabout way. I’ll try to discover it. Surely someone in this ruddy town saw something of them last night.”

  Of course she was hesitant to trust him, but he could tell she was rather enticed by the idea of refreshing herself. Good. She needed it, and he didn’t appreciate being reminded of his beastly weakness every time he glanced at her. He’d had no right to force himself on her last night. By God, it would not happen again.

  “I promise to find out all I can about Sophie and return to tell you the moment I have anything solid,” he assured her when it was obvious her doubt might prevent her from agreeing to his proposal.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “I could do with a little rest. As long as I can trust you.”

  “You can trust me,” he said.

  She didn’t look him in the eye. Instead, she merely nodded then stood. The proprietor had been hovering at the doorway and now rushed in to them. Rastmoor tossed him some coins and made the arrangements for the room. Julia didn’t complain.

  The proprietor left to prepare the room, and Julia seemed eager to get up to it. She would have followed the man out if Rastmoor’s hand on her elbow hadn’t stopped her.

  “I’ll return in a couple hours,” he said quietly. “Be prepared to leave if I’ve learned anything.”

  “Of course,” she replied, then raised her eyes to meet his. “Just one thing, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  She jerked her arm from his and left the small dining room. He let her go.

  Chapter Eight

  The sun was just an orange ball resting atop the trees on the horizon. Rastmoor had found no trace of Sophie—living or dead. He supposed that was good, but it didn’t do much for telling him what to do next.

  He knew what he wanted to do, but that had nothing to do with rescuing Sophie or getting that damned locket back before Fitzgelder got his grimy hands on it. He wanted to go curl up in bed with Julia.

  He’d checked on her twice this afternoon, just to reassure himself she was still there. He’d been half afraid she’d disappear or that Fitzgelder might find her. Or that maybe he’d just imagined the last twenty-four hours, and she’d never been there to begin with. But she was.

  Each time he’d checked, she was sleeping soundly, tucked neatly into the bed he’d procured for her. To judge, the woman was dead to the world. It must have been a long while since she allowed herself to rest. He found himself ridiculously glad to have been able to afford her this luxury. He was a fool.

  He still loved her, didn’t he? God, he’d never admit that to anyone, most especially not to himself. Best to spend his time thinking about that locket.

  He spent the afternoon hunting around the alleys and side streets near the Steward’s Brake, alternating between searching for Sophie’s cold, mutilated body and checking on Julia’s warm, inviting one. He spent a fair amount of time remembering last night, too, but that was another thing he preferred not to admit to himself. The hours ticked by, and he let Julia sleep. Thankfully, he did not find Sophie’s body. It seemed Lindley had other plans for the girl than a quick demise.

  So just what was Rastmoor going to tell Dashford? He’d promised his friend he’d find the girl, but he never dreamed it would entail all of this. And what if he failed? How could he explain this to his friend? Well, perhaps Dashford wouldn’t be overly shocked. They all knew Sophie had not led a charmed life. Perhaps she did not truly want the rescue Lady Dashford so firmly believed she needed.

  It would be a great disappointment to them though. Even despite the fact that Sophie had spent the last several years in a brothel, Dashford and his new bride were more than eager to locate their cousin and welcome her into their embrace. Ridiculous, of course, to think such a person could ever be accepted into society, but Rastmoor supposed he understood. He hadn’t exactly been thinking of society’s intolerance when he himself had become engaged to an actress, had he? Of course, he hadn’t known right away the full truth of who—and what—Julia was, but in the long run, it hadn’t mattered to him. He’d been only too happy to plan a future with her, right up until she ran off with Fitzgelder.

  Damn, but he was a fool to let his mind wander over such things. Finding that locket was all that should matter to him right now, and so far, he still had no idea where it was. It seemed Lindley could have taken any number of roads out of town, and Rastmoor was without a clue.

  More frustrated than ever, he turned his horse over to the ostler and headed back into the inn. There was still no sign of the return of this Jeb fellow who supposedly might have additional pieces of information, though the stable hands assured him the man was expected anytime. Basically, the entire day had been wasted.

  Weary, he made his way up to Julia’s room. He’d simply check on her again then leave her be. There was no sense waking her when he had no information to share. He supposed when she did wake, they might as well simply head to London and hope to meet up with Lindley there. It would surely be too late to prevent Fitzgelder from getting the locket, but perhaps Lindley could at least give them news regarding Sophie.

  The door latch shifted easily, and he stepped quietly into the room. It was dim, the worn curtains blocking most of the last golden rays of sun. Julia still slept peacefully, curled like a kitten in the center of the large bed. He’d made sure the proprietor gave her the best room he had.

  She was every bit as beautiful now as she’d been that first time he’d ever laid eyes on her. He should have known when their eyes locked in that crowded ballroom that no one who appeared that beautiful, that perfect, could possibly be all she seemed. But he was completely taken in, believing every lie she told him about a privileged life and a fabricated pedigree. He’d been a complete dupe for her.

  By the time he learned the truth, he had already published the announcement of their betrothal. He felt a bit foolish that she hadn’t confided in him, but he thought he could understand. He was heir to a title; surely she’d been ashamed to admit she was nothing more than an actress. He quietly forgave her and ignored anyone who tried to reason with him. Julia St. Clement would be his wife, actress or not.

  And then she’d met Fitzgelder. Even as she planned her wedding to Rastmoor, she conducted a clandestine affair with his devious cousin. She must have assumed Rastmoor would never marry her once he found out. Foolish woman. Rastmoor had been such a sap, it probably would have been worth her while to at least beg him for forgiveness. Easily he would have given it.

  Damn, but he’d been her fool right from the start. Even now, years and lies later, he was captured
by her soft features. Where were the harsh lines of guilt or the haggard marks of shame? She was still as fresh and peaceful as a child. He studied her as she slumbered, seeing again the glowing woman he’d danced with those long years ago.

  They’d met in London, at a ball. Ridiculous that he allowed himself to still remember it so well, but he did. She’d worn a silk gown in pale, silvery blue. It made the chestnut warmth of her hair stand out in the crowd, and her enormous dark eyes drew his attention. The graceful and ample curves of her tempting body would not let him ignore her, but she was so enthralled by the opulent luxury around her, she hardly seemed aware of her own loveliness.

  He quickly mistook her for one of the giddy debutantes that swarmed the room, but still he was not deterred from making her acquaintance. No one he knew was able to provide an introduction, so he simply waited until he saw her wander off alone. He cornered her in a hallway.

  But their meeting had been all innocence. In fact, she made him feel perfectly at ease, and he’d been happy to simply discuss with her the row of portraits that lined the hall. He’d never in his life found portraiture or hallways so damned absorbing. When she declared it was time to go and that her father would be looking for her, he fairly begged her to meet him the next day. She agreed.

  From then on, he’d been lost.

  Even when he’d learned about her background, found out she’d merely been posing as a gentlewoman and had not even been invited to that blasted ball, he was determined to marry her. He didn’t tell her he’d learned the truth. So what if she was, in fact, an actress? He didn’t care. She was his, and that was all that mattered.

  He leaned over her and touched her hair. She still felt like his.

  She stirred in her sleep, and his heart felt like lead. She’d been his, she’d carried his child, and she’d gone off to marry Fitzgelder instead. What a stupid bastard he’d been. Any man who could still love something like that deserved what he got for it.