Damsel in Disguise

by Heino, Susan Gee

  She studied the effect in her reflection. Not bad, for a slightly rounded, smooth-faced, effeminate young man. Was the disguise enough to keep the household convinced? Oh well, this was the best she could do.

  She yanked the door open and hurried out into the hallway. It wasn’t until after the fact that she realized she’d half expected to find herself locked in—it would be so like Rastmoor to come up with an excuse for such a thing. The fact that he hadn’t done so struck her as rather ominous. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to secure her in her room. Perhaps he was already long gone. How many hours had she slept? He could be miles from here by now!

  Not sure what to expect, she kept her footfalls as silent as possible when she made her way down the stairs. How on earth did gentlemen spend their lives clomping around in these heavy, noisy boots? When this was all over and done, she would never again begrudge any of her fussy female apparel.

  There had not appeared to be any sign of Rastmoor upstairs, so she thought she’d best go down. Hadn’t Dashford said something about Rastmoor meeting him in his office? Yes, but where on earth was his lordship’s office? She had no idea how to find her way in this enormous house. Did she dare risk uncovering their lie and actually speak to someone to ask for directions? Before she could do that, she’d first have to find someone, wouldn’t she? That, too, could be problematic.

  Well, what could it hurt to do some of her own investigating? That blasted office had to be somewhere, didn’t it? She made it to the bottom of the stairway and realized she had two options: one archway opened onto a wide corridor that led to the small drawing room they’d initially been ushered into, and one archway opened to a narrower corridor that snaked around toward the back of the house. Likely the office was along one of these.

  She peered first around one archway then the other. Each corridor held several doors that likely opened into music rooms, libraries, retiring rooms, or whatever else one needed a room for in a giant house like this. Clearly Dashford had rooms to spare in this place. But which way would take her to the man’s office?

  Voices caught her attention. She peeped back around the first archway. The door to the one drawing room she had been in was only partially closed, and she could distinctly hear voices inside. Not Rastmoor’s, though. These were female voices. Well, surely they’d know where to find Rastmoor, wouldn’t they? She tugged her coat into place and headed for the doorway.

  Then she remembered she couldn’t speak. Rather, she wasn’t allowed to speak. Lady Dashford would likely intend to enforce that, as concerned for her guest’s well-being as she’d appeared to be. And, of course, Julia’s written Italian was rather lacking. Indeed, it was nonexistent. Rastmoor would have known that, of course, drat his ruddy hide.

  She paused outside the doorway, wondering what to do. Her silent pondering gave her accidental snatches of the conversation inside. Rastmoor’s name came through particularly clearly, trilled on the tongue of some youngish female. More precisely, his Christian name was trilled on the tongue of some youngish female. And spoken with a fair measure of affection, as a matter of fact.

  Julia leaned in toward the door to accidentally hear more.

  “Yes, Anthony can be quite vexing at times,” the female trilled on with a wistful sigh. “But I do love him, of course.”

  “Of course you do,” what was likely Lady Dashford’s voice replied. “He was merely surprised to have you arrive here, that’s all.”

  “Well, he needn’t have been so cross with me when we arrived!” Trilling Female Voice said, sounding far less affectionate and rather more petulant. “What did he expect, that I would stay back in London and wait? He was supposed to have come to us a month ago.”

  “It must be very frustrating for you,” her calmer, less petulant hostess said. “But Dashford and I were so glad Anthony could be with us for the wedding.”

  “I was supposed to be planning my own wedding already, if Anthony had done as he should by me.”

  “Of course. And I’m sure Lord Rastmoor will see to making that happen just as soon as he can,” Lady Dashford said.

  Her voice continued, soothing the obvious irritation in the first lady. Julia could not tell if she was successful or not, but she did detect a rather distinctively unsoothed irritation in her own person. And she didn’t like it.

  So, Anthony was getting married, was he? She hadn’t heard that. She shouldn’t be surprised, of course. She’d always known he’d marry someday; it was inevitable. The man had his duty to think of. Indeed, there was a title and entailments and that ridiculous wealth that needed an heir. Of course Rastmoor would feel the need to marry, if not the urge. Then again, if the petulant triller behind the door was even halfway attractive—and Julia expected she was—Rastmoor likely felt the urge.

  And this, of course, explained why Fitzgelder was suddenly so motivated to rid the world of Lord Rastmoor. If Rastmoor married, it would only be a matter of time before the world was riddled with more little Rastmoors, and each one of them would put Fitzgelder just one step farther away from getting his greedy hands on any more of the unequally distributed Rastmoor money. It made perfect sense. Rastmoor was to marry.

  But what was his fiancée doing here? It didn’t seem as if Rastmoor had expected her. The girl said he’d been cross. Well, Julia didn’t wonder. He’d no doubt been more than a bit surprised—not to mention uncomfortable—to learn that his former and current fiancées were suddenly ensconced under the same roof with him. The whole thing could be really humorous, actually. If, of course, Julia didn’t feel so utterly wretched clear down into her bones.

  How could Anthony possibly be marrying that little twit? And did this mean he had run even more swiftly from this place, or did this new circumstance mean he was bound to extend his stay? Julia would not relish seeing him fawn over his dearest intended. No, at this point she rather hoped he had gone already. She’d be the one to follow him, not insipid trill girl.

  First, however, she’d have to deal with the throat-clearing personage who just materialized behind her. Bother, she’d been caught eavesdropping, hadn’t she? Slowly, she turned.

  A stern-faced matron stood there, glaring expectantly.

  “Are you looking for someone?” she asked.

  Julia had no idea who this was, but the woman’s regal bearing and feathered turban convinced her immediately she was not one to trifle with. Unfortunately, trifling was all Julia could do at the moment. Her throat was dry, and she made a rather odd sound when she tried to come up with some logical reply.

  “Well?” the woman said, obviously taking pleasure in Julia’s discomfort.

  Julia’s throat gurgles and the woman’s impatient foot tapping must have been enough to alert the ladies behind the door that they had company. The door swung open to reveal Lady Dashford. She smiled at Julia and then at the turbaned mother superior.

  “Ah, Mr. Nancey . . . or would you rather that we call you as they do in your homeland, Nancini? I trust you had a nice rest. Lady Rastmoor, this is our guest, Mr. Nancini. He’s a friend of Lord Rastmoor’s, from Italy.”

  “How nice.” The lady pinned Julia with her stare. “And do you always make it a habit of listening at doorways, Mr. Nancini?”

  Julia couldn’t help but stare back. This was Rastmoor’s mother? The poor man had his current fiancée, his former—and disturbingly recent—lover, and his mother all converge on him at once? Indeed, she was quite sure he must have gone at the earliest possible moment. And she really couldn’t blame him, either.

  “Poor Mr. Nancini cannot speak, my lady Rastmoor,” Lady Dashford said kindly, opening the door and stepping aside to invite Julia in. “I’m afraid he was overcome by smoke in a fire recently and is under strict orders not to use his voice until his throat heals. You are a singer, are you not, Mr. Nancini?”

  Julia nodded and bowed, trying to be as manfully gracious as possible in the hope that Lady Rastmoor would stop glaring at her. Good heavens, she’d sooner face six Fitzgelders than
one Lady Rastmoor who might determine her true identity!

  Then her eyes caught on the real terror in the room.

  A young woman perched primly on a sunny settee near the window—she was nothing short of stunning. By God, this creature was the epitome of gentle breeding. She turned compassion-brimmed, doelike eyes in Julia’s direction, and her expression held not only concern and purity, but there was depth and intelligence, as well. She was everything Julia had once aspired to be. No wonder she had failed miserably.

  “Oh, how dreadful!” the young lady said with honest sweetness. “How distressing for you, Mr. Nancini. Surely the doctor has given every hope you’ll soon regain your voice?”

  Julia hated her. Never in a hundred years, not with all the theatrics in the world, could she herself have become the mixture of beauty and sincerity and innocence that was Rastmoor’s future bride. Indeed, the man had done remarkably well for himself. She hated him, too.

  And she hated this ruddy cravat. Standing here, surrounded by silk wall coverings, ornate furniture, and three cultured, noble-born ladies, Julia felt more out of place than she had ever been. She tugged at the cravat and wished to God she’d stayed up in her room. And to think, this was the world she would have entered to become Anthony’s wife! What a fool she’d been.

  “Rastmoor assures us he will heal,” Lady Dashford said. “But only if we are careful to insist he not strain himself. No, you mustn’t speak, Mr. Nancini. Perhaps you can use gestures if there is something you must tell us.”

  “Yes, please do!” the stunning one said brightly. “It will be most amusing. Almost like a game!”

  Julia rejoiced to see the girl’s halo tarnished by a smidgen of insipidness.

  “If Mr. Nancini has something to say, can he not simply draft us a note?” Lady Rastmoor suggested.

  “No, I’m afraid he only writes in Italian,” Lady Dashford explained. “It is your native tongue, is it not, Mr. Nancini?”

  Julia nodded, hopeful no one would test her in this. Italian was as native to her tongue as ancient Sanskrit.

  “Pity,” Lady Rastmoor said with a frown. “I’m afraid my Italian is incomplete. I should love to hear all about this dreadful fire my son claims was hardly more than a spark from the stove. Odd that a simple spark should cause you so much pain, isn’t it, Mr. Nancini?”

  Julia wasn’t certain how to answer that. What did the lady suspect? Did she suspect Julia’s ruse, or was she aware of Fitzgelder’s scheme? Likely she had no idea her son’s life was in danger. Should Julia give up this pretense and warn her? Would any of these fine people believe her? More likely they’d be appalled by her lies and throw her out on the street.

  Curses on Rastmoor for putting her through this. He should never have brought her here. They should be on their way to London right now, rescuing Sophie and getting that dratted locket back.

  “I think fires are perfectly terrifying,” the young lady in the settee said with a sigh that hinted she could do with a bit more terror in her well-ordered life. “Now I wish I had learned Italian instead of all that useless French. Pity you don’t write in French, Mr. Nancini.”

  Yes, pity she didn’t. Except that she did. As a matter of fact, Julia’s French was every bit as good as her English, spoken or written. Indeed, Rastmoor had said nothing about French, had he? Perhaps Mr. Nancini had just found his voice after all.

  Julia nodded profusely for them. Her lips formed a rather exaggerated Oui.

  “WE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WE?” RASTMOOR ASKED his friend, glaring across the mahogany desk in Dashford’s private study.

  “I mean we will leave for London in the morning,” Dashford replied, studying the whiskey he’d just poured himself. “I discussed it with Evaline while you were catching up with your mother. She agrees that you need me more than she does right now.”

  “That’s not exactly what one wants to hear from one’s new bride, Dash,” Rastmoor chided. “I can handle Fitzgelder on my own.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m going with you just the same.”

  “Likely you’re simply looking for an excuse to leave this house full of women.”

  “I do seem to be outnumbered—my mother will be most disappointed she left when she did and missed all this excitement. Then again, there is Nancini to keep me company . . .”

  “No! You assured me he’ll be left alone. Dash, it’s very important no one interferes with his rest.”

  “And no one will. By God, you’re on edge. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I just wasn’t expecting my mother and Penelope to show up here, that’s all.”

  “Yet here they are. That proves things are worse than we thought, which is why I’m not letting you go back to London alone.”

  “But . . .”

  “The matter is settled,” Dashford said with convincing determination. “I’ve already dispatched men. They’ll see what they can find out about Lindley’s involvement and then wait for us at my town house. You can gain nothing more by charging off before morning.”

  “Dash, I appreciate it, but this doesn’t concern you.”

  “Of course it does. My unfortunate young cousin and my thick-headed friend are both involved, so I’m concerned. End of discussion. If you’d like to explain this Nancini person to me, however . . .”

  Rastmoor was about to inform him there was nothing further to discuss about Nancini when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. A footman appeared.

  “Excuse me,” he said with a bow. “Lord Rastmoor asked to be informed if Mr. Nancini left his room.”

  Dashford sent Rastmoor a questioning look, but Rastmoor ignored him. He tried to remain calm as he questioned the footman. “Has he?”

  “He’s gone to the drawing room, sir, with the ladies. I was only just made aware of it, but Mrs. Kendall says he’s been in there half an hour.”

  Hellfire. What was Julia up to? He did not need this right now.

  “Thank you, Hal,” Dashford said.

  The footman excused himself with another bow and pulled the door closed behind him. Rastmoor gripped the arms of his chair and wished he hadn’t already downed his whiskey. He needed a drink. Damn, but he’d like to get his hands on Julia right now and . . . No, it would not be helpful at all to think about what he’d like to do to Julia right now. Best to think about whiskey, instead. Just as soon as he figured out what to do about what must be happening in the drawing room.

  “So, shall we adjourn there?” Dashford said after an uncomfortable pause.

  Rastmoor nearly leapt from his seat. He really needed to work on being more subtle, but right this moment, all he cared about was getting to Julia and finding out what damage she’d done. If she’d given his mother and sister greater cause for worry, why he’d . . . he’d . . . well, it wouldn’t involve anything that required him to lay hands on Julia’s person. Somehow every punishment he dreamed up involving hands and physical contact ended with her in his bed wearing nothing but a satisfied smile.

  He followed his friend out into the hall, through the grand entrance area, then under another archway into the hallway that led to the drawing room. Why in heaven’s name couldn’t the man walk faster? This damned enormous house made it impossible to get anywhere in a timely manner. There was no telling what Julia might be saying. Dash it all, if she gave his mother reason to suspect her true identity . . . well, he might be walking into a catfight, the likes of which the world had never seen.

  The nearer they came to the drawing room, the more he was convinced this must be exactly what was occurring. Female screeches issued from the partially opened door. Dashford glanced at Rastmoor with a raised eyebrow, and Rastmoor pushed him out of the way. He bowled through the door prepared to dodge anything from flying bric-a-brac to fainting matrons.

  He found neither, however. It was much worse.

  Julia, he discovered, was cleaned, combed, trousered, and disguised in immaculate linen and a well-tailored waistcoat. She was behind the settee, fairly leer
ing over a cow-eyed, giggling Penelope. The other two ladies cackled from their perches at either side of his sister, blinking with adoration at the dandified young man Julia appeared to be. Bits of scrawled handwritten paper were scattered about them and clutched in their hands. The women’s mirthful rumpus silenced just long enough for them to glance up and take in Rastmoor’s blustering presence. Then, with sidelong glances at Julia, their hilarity started all over again.

  By God, were these women laughing at him?

  “What the devil is all this?” Dashford asked.

  “Hello, my dearest,” Lady Dashford replied in her sweetest tone. “Mr. Nancini has been very kindly telling us how he and poor Rastmoor survived that terrible fire.”

  Somehow “poor” Rastmoor had a feeling Mr. Nancini must be embellishing the truth somewhat. From his recollection, there had been nothing funny about that damned fire. What the devil was Julia doing? She was supposed to be tucked safely away in her room. Mute.

  He glared at her. “Mr. Nancini is not supposed to be speaking. He’s supposed to be resting his voice. Upstairs. Alone.”

  “Don’t be such a worrier,” his mother said, waving away his concern with a flick of her fan. “Mr. Nancini has been very careful with his voice. He’s written it all on paper.”

  He narrowed his eyes at Julia in case she hadn’t yet noticed how angry he was. “Oh? But Mr. Nancini cannot write in English, if he might recall.”

  “English isn’t the only language on earth, you know,” Penelope announced. “Mr. Nancini has been writing in French. And very prettily, I declare. He’s kept us well entertained this half an hour. Did you know he’s a poet as well? He wrote me a sonnet! In French!”

  “Oh, did he, now?” Rastmoor clenched his fists and stepped back to rest his weight on one leg. His jaw twinged where he ground his teeth to keep from saying just exactly what he thought of Mr. Nancini’s decision to become French.