And Fitzgelder would have the locket along with all the family secrets it contained. One thing he wouldn’t have, however, was Julia. Rastmoor’s gut tightened at that thought. He could still keep Julia from Fitzgelder, whether she wanted it or not.
She was glaring up at him, one skeptical eyebrow cocked at an angle and one smudged fist jabbed into her hip. Her cropped hair stuck out in odd places. Her clothes sagged. Her feet were bare but nearly as black as the earth. By God, he could have laughed at her if he hadn’t wanted so fiercely to drag her back up to their burned-out room and get another fire going. Murder and scandal be damned.
“They went north,” he lied calmly. “I’ll see about hiring a conveyance.”
Chapter Ten
He’d hired a dilapidated gig. It was all the ostlers could muster for them in the middle of the night, and Julia supposed she should be grateful. As much as she’d rather not be wedged here so tight against Rastmoor’s warm, solid body like this, she knew she’d never have been able to stay atop a horse. Every muscle ached, her throat was raw, and her tired eyes simply would not keep open. Indeed, she was thankful for the secure seat beneath her bottom, uncomfortable though it might be.
They’d been driving for hours. The pink glow of dawn was just now beginning to erase the darkness of night, and the first songs of morning birds could be heard in the trees and hedgerows around them. The bony nag that plodded along before the gig tossed his shaggy mane, and the harness jingled. A mist clung low to the ground; its origin was the river that ran quietly along beside the narrow road.
“Are you sure they came this way?” Julia asked, more to keep herself awake than to actually get an answer.
Rastmoor shifted the reins in his hands. “I know Lindley. I know where he’s going,” he said.
That’s what he’d said earlier, too, when they’d passed through a sleeping Warwick without so much as pausing at the crossroads to wonder if Lindley had turned off. They’d passed one lonely farm cart along the way, and Julia urged Rastmoor to ask whether the driver had seen Lindley’s fine carriage pass by, but he flatly refused. Stubborn prig.
They had been only a few miles past Warwick when Rastmoor turned onto another, smaller road. It twisted and wound along beside the Avon, and she asked about his decision but, as usual, he’d simply assured her he was convinced he knew Lindley’s destination. Of course she’d reminded him the most logical thing for Lindley to do would have been to take Sophie—and the locket—directly back to London, but that only seemed to make him ill-tempered. He’d told her to keep quiet and use the remaining travel time for resting. As if she could.
Being jostled back and forth against him like this was not exactly conducive to resting. The small conveyance was clearly built for short daytime jaunts and wide-awake persons who were not the least bit attracted to one another and who didn’t mind having to hold on to the seat for dear life. If she did happen to take his advice and allow herself to rest, she’d likely tumble right out of the gig to lie in a snoring heap on the side of the road. Rastmoor would likely leave her there, too.
Or worse, she might find herself snuggled up next to him mumbling in her sleep how much she’d missed him these past three years. By God, she was not about to let that happen.
“How can you be so sure you know where Lindley is headed?” she asked again. “You didn’t exactly perceive early on that he was a part of your cousin’s plot to murder you.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
Well, certainly he knew what he was doing. She only wished he’d share it with her. Where were they going? What did he think they’d do when they got there? Did he really understand they were most likely heading straight into honest-to-goodness danger? Instead of being short with her, he ought to be spending their travel time planning and considering the situation. All this ridiculous brooding was quite irritating and certainly unproductive.
But she was too exhausted to persist in conversation. Besides, despite her worries for Sophie, it would honestly be a relief if they got wherever it was they were going only to find Rastmoor’s assumptions were wrong. No doubt it made her a bad friend to poor Sophie, but a large part of Julia truly hoped they were heading quite the opposite direction from the people who wanted Rastmoor dead.
But poor Sophie. It was impossible to believe she would ever be a willing accomplice in what had occurred. Julia may not have known her long, but she simply couldn’t imagine Sophie hurling torches up into Rastmoor’s room. No matter what he might say about the girl’s character, Julia knew Sophie’s involvement with Lindley was not by choice. If Julia were a true friend, she’d have not settled for Rastmoor’s brusque replies. She’d have pestered him to hurry the nag, beg information from locals, and overtake Lindley.
She hadn’t, though. She simply let their little gig clatter slowly along, secretly hoping they were miles and miles from Lindley and poor Sophie and plots against Rastmoor. Oh, but she ought to be ashamed of herself. Once again she was willing to sacrifice a friend on account of Anthony Rastmoor.
The slow, rhythmic hoofbeats altered their tempo. Rastmoor tugged the reins, and Julia tried not to be aware of the taut muscles in his arm when she was forced to lean against him as the gig lurched. They were leaving the main road and turning onto another lane.
Julia frowned. Their gig felt especially shabby as they passed by an imposing stone gatehouse. No one appeared to stop them, and Rastmoor gave no indication of hesitating. For the first time since leaving that posting house in Geydon, he urged the horse to pick up the pace. Julia’s chest tightened.
The lane was every bit as wide as the road they’d been traveling, yet obviously it was a private drive. This, no doubt, was the entrance to someone’s grand estate. They’d apparently reached their destination.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Hartwood,” he replied.
“That tells me nothing,” she grumbled. “What is Hartwood?”
“The home of a friend.”
“Lindley?”
“No. I said a friend.”
“A friend like Lindley?”
“No. A friend who doesn’t generally try to murder people.”
“Generally?”
“You’ll be safe here.”
She was momentarily distracted by the expanse of manicured lawn around her and the glory of dawn reflected off the still waters of a lake just to their right. Then his words sank in, and she turned to glare at him.
“I’ll be what?”
“This belongs to my friend Dashford. You’ll be safe here.”
They rounded a stand of trees, and an enormous house appeared before her. No, it was more of a palace. Huge, rambling, well-tended, and luxurious; whoever this Dashford was, he certainly did well for himself. A person could get lost in a house this vast. Apparently that was exactly what Rastmoor had planned.
“You think you’re going to leave me here, don’t you?” she said, her voice remarkably controlled for the sudden rage that was welling up.
“I am leaving you here,” he replied. “And you’re going to be polite about it.”
“I most certainly am not!”
“You are. Dashford and his new lady are friends of mine, and they’ll keep you safe. I can’t introduce you as Alexander Clemmons—they’ve heard that name and think you’re Sophie’s husband, for God’s sake. So we’d best come up with another pseudonym. How about, oh, I think Percival Nancey should do nicely. You’ll make a convincing Mr. Nancey, I should imagine.”
“I will not! If you believe for one minute that I’ll stay here while you go and get yourself killed, well, you . . .”
“You will stay here until I send word it’s safe for you to leave. This is not a matter open to discussion, Julia. You are staying with Dashford, and under no circumstances will you reveal your true name or your gender to anyone. Is that clear?”
“Oh, it’s clear enough,” she said with clenched teeth.
By God, she could scarcely believe he
r ears. He was leaving her here? Expecting her to quietly agree to his preposterous commandments? He was a fool.
No, she was the fool. How on earth had she not seen this coming? Of course Rastmoor hadn’t needed to hurry his nag or question passersby along the way. He’d known since the very start that Lindley did not come this way. By God, he’d been bringing her here to dump her off like yesterday’s refuse all along! He knew Lindley had done the logical thing and taken Sophie south, down to London. All this way Rastmoor had simply been bringing Julia up here to abandon her, to get her out of his hair.
The opportunity to fume at him was lost as footmen darted out of the huge house to greet them. Rastmoor handed the horse over to them and let Julia clamber down from the gig under her own power. He gave her a dark look of warning then strode comfortably up the wide steps to the broad front door. More servants appeared and greeted him. It seemed Rastmoor was recognized and loved by everyone, although Julia felt more than a few curious stares directed her way as she trailed Rastmoor into the expansive foyer.
“How nice to see you again, my lord,” the Dashford butler said, hurrying to welcome them.
“Thank you, Williams,” Rastmoor replied, handing his sooty hat and gloves over to a curtsying maid. “Forgive our sudden invasion, but as you might assume, we’ve encountered some difficulties in our travel.”
“Indeed?” Williams replied, valiantly ignoring their ragged condition. “I’m sure his lordship will be eager to know of your arrival.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will. If you would be so kind as to let him know I’ve brought along my good friend, Mr. Percival Nancey.”
Julia cringed. Damn him. The very least he could have done was let her choose her own alias—something a bit more, er, masculine. How was she to keep her gender a secret while prancing around with a name like Nancey?
The butler went off to inform his master of the arrivals, while Rastmoor and Julia were led by a Mrs. Kendall—the housekeeper, she assumed—into a cozy room to await their host. The house seemed to be bursting at the seams with curious servants, and in no time a tray of muffins and tea was brought in for them. Surrounded by such luxury and opulence, Julia felt supremely self-conscious.
Soot clung to her every inch, so she dared not sit on the furniture. Rastmoor, too, she noted, stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room. His face was lined, even more so thanks to the dirt and grime he’d not quite been able to wipe off. The man needed rest. She hoped his friend Dashford—if indeed the man was a true friend—would convince him to refresh himself before attempting the ride to London. If Rastmoor was to survive any further attempts Fitzgelder might have waiting for him along the way, he’d need to be wide-awake and in full control of all his faculties.
Besides, if Rastmoor could be prevailed upon to stall his departure, that might give Julia time to contrive a way to accompany him or at least to escape Dashford and follow at an undetected distance. But stay here with ruddy strangers? As Percival Nancey, no less? She thought not.
“You’re awfully silent,” Rastmoor said at length.
“I’m plotting,” she admitted.
“Well, stop it. When I tell Dash he is to keep you here at all costs, I assure you he’ll do just that.”
“He might certainly try.”
Rastmoor took an angry step toward her, and she had to force herself not to cringe. “Damn it, Julia, I’ll not let you—”
But the door opened and interrupted whatever furious demands Rastmoor had been about to make. It was just as well—she’d not have paid heed to them, anyway, considering her attention was immediately drawn to the tall, disheveled man who entered.
He was dark, long-limbed, and striking. His hair was thoroughly tousled, and he carried his coat thrown over one arm. His shirt, Julia noted, was only partially tucked into his trousers, while the shirt points hung limp at his neck with no cravat in sight. Clearly his lordship—she had no doubt this was Dashford himself—was only just roused from bed to greet them. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Even by country standards it was, after all, still very early in the morning.
The gentleman didn’t seem to mind guests at such an hour, though. He appeared altogether cheerful and alert when he moved to clasp Rastmoor by the hand.
“Anthony! What the devil brings you back here so . . .” Then he paused, taking in Rastmoor’s muddled condition. “Good God, man! You look like hell.”
“Don’t worry, we haven’t mucked up the upholstery,” Rastmoor said. “Sorry about dragging you from bed so early, though.”
Dashford shrugged. “No trouble. I was awake. But tell me, what on earth happened to you?”
Julia reminded herself to play her part as Dashford’s curious gaze scanned over her filthy attire. She held up her chin and tried to look manly. It wasn’t easy. Compared to these two gentlemen, she must certainly look a poor example of masculinity if not a sham entirely.
“This is my friend, Nancey. Percival Nancey,” Rastmoor announced.
Julia had the presence of mind to bend at the waist rather than curtsy, but Rastmoor continued before she had opportunity to greet their host.
“You’ll have to forgive him; he doesn’t speak. He can’t.”
What? Blast the man! Now he was taking away her ability to speak? Oh, she could simply choke him. Perhaps Dashford would leave them soon, and she might have opportunity to do just that.
Dashford, however, seemed perplexed by Rastmoor’s words, so the ruddy liar continued. “There was a fire in the posting house. Nancey took in too much smoke, unfortunately. Likely it’ll be days before he can find his voice again.”
Curse him! Oh, she’d find her voice again soon, indeed. He could be sure of that.
“Dash it, I’m terribly sorry,” Dashford said with conviction. “A fire, you say? Were there any other . . . Say, where the duce is Lindley?”
“Don’t worry, he survived. The scoundrel is halfway to London by now, I suppose,” Rastmoor said. “These last two days I’ve been traveling with Mr. Nancey.”
Now Dashford frowned and gave her a suspicious look. At least, it felt to Julia like a suspicious look. She gave extra effort to a masculine pose. A quick glance at Rastmoor told her she was not succeeding. He rolled his eyes.
“Perhaps we might have the opportunity to refresh ourselves,” Rastmoor said, drawing Dashford’s attention again. “I’m sure Mr. Nancey could use some sleep, but if you’re not too busy this morning, Dash, I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
Dashford nodded. “Of course. I’ll call for someone to show you up to your rooms.”
Well, at least she would have her own room in this expansive home. With luck it would be far, far removed from Rastmoor’s. With a heavy lock.
Dashford moved to the bellpull, and Julia took advantage of his distance to scowl at Rastmoor. He smiled innocently. The snake.
She gritted her teeth and muttered so he alone could hear, “I’m not about to let you leave me here—mute of all things!”
“Hush, Mr. Nancey, don’t strain your voice. Just think how that could ruin your opera career,” Rastmoor said loudly.
Dashford frowned again, watching her. She feigned a sniffle and wiped her nose against her sleeve. There, was that manly enough? Apparently not. Rastmoor rolled his eyes again.
“That’s rotten luck about your voice, Nancey,” Dashford said after summoning his staff. “I’ll call for the physician right away.”
Oh, that was all they needed! Julia glared daggers at Rastmoor. Didn’t the idiot realize his kindhearted friend would insist on medical care when he decided to make her a victim?
“No, really, there’s no need,” Rastmoor said quickly. “I assure you, Nancey was seen before we left Warwick. All he requires is a bed. For sleeping.”
Julia glared harder, subtly pointing to her sooty, sagging clothes. Rastmoor got the hint.
“And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I suppose we could both use another change of clothes. I’m afraid we�
�ve been rather separated from our bags.”
“Of course,” Dashford said politely.
The housekeeper arrived, and Dashford explained that the guests would need rooms for rest and refreshing, as well as fresh apparel. Julia tried not to blush as Mrs. Kendall surveyed her, obviously wondering where in the world to find men’s clothing to fit such a peculiar body type. For Rastmoor it would be simple—he could likely wear some of Dashford’s garments. For Julia, however, the staff would have to be more creative. Indeed, far more creative than they knew. She hoped she could keep it that way. At this point it would be far more troublesome to explain a change in gender than to simply keep up with the ruse they’d already started on.
Drat Rastmoor for his voiceless opera singer, though. If she thought for one minute she would be trapped here after he left, she’d be completely furious. As it was, she could do little but bide her time and choke back her anger. He’d get his tongue-lashing soon enough. And it would not be the pleasant kind, either.
Mrs. Kendall led them back through the grand entrance hall, and Dashford instructed Rastmoor to meet him in the office at his convenience. Julia hoped she was glowering enough that Rastmoor might get the idea he was not to leave this house without her. Stupidly, he seemed not to notice.
He did notice the figure floating down the stairs toward them, though. Julia glanced up and couldn’t help but stare. For one minute she thought it was Sophie, but of course it was not. The hair was a somewhat darker shade of blond, and the eyes were very alike, but this person was a stranger. It must, of course, be the new Lady Dashford.
“Ah, here is my wife now,” Dashford said, confirming Julia’s expectation.
Lady Dashford met their group at the foot of the stairs and welcomed Rastmoor warmly. Too warmly. She threw her arms around him like some long-lost brother. He didn’t protest, Julia was quick to notice.
Not that she cared, of course. Drat, she scolded herself for caring. It was none of her business whom Rastmoor let kiss his cheek or hang on his arm. But did Dashford not see the comfortable smiles the two shared?
Damsel in Disguise Page 14
