“Shit,” he said with understated passion and dropped his pile of clothing.
Julia carefully held back the laughter. It probably wouldn’t do to laugh at the man when he must realize what their hostess clearly suspected. If she told her husband, poor Rastmoor would be humiliated. Or worse. Then again, clearly he wasn’t that upset. His cravat had not exactly reached the floor with the rest of the clothes. It had been, conveniently, caught. Waving like a white flag, it hung there, tantalizing her.
“You know,” Julia said, catching her breath. “She did say no one would be around for at least half an hour.”
RASTMOOR LET THE DOOR SHUT NOISELESSLY BEHIND him. He hoped their hostess had been correct, and no one was prowling the hallway. It could very well have been past that half hour she gave them, though. God, what Julia could do to a man!
He was glad dinner would be early. He needed sustenance.
“Patch things up, did you?”
The voice startled him, and Rastmoor was surprised to find Dashford waiting at the head of the staircase.
“Beg pardon?”
“Did you patch things up with Nancini there?” Dashford asked slowly. “When you brought him up here, you seemed a bit put out. Now I see you’re smiling.”
“Am I?” He quickly remedied that.
Good God, had Lady Dashford mentioned anything to her husband? Damn it, now how was he going to explain himself without giving Julia away? Indeed, Dashford could be trusted, but even the walls had ears, and as long as Fitzgelder might have honest reason to hate Julia, Rastmoor just couldn’t take any chances.
“He’s an odd pup, that Nancini,” Dashford went on, blocking the stairs so Rastmoor was forced to stand in the hall and have a conversation. “Wherever did you dredge him up?”
“I told you, we met in London a while ago.”
“Yes, you told me, but I thought I’d go ahead and ask again. Thought possibly I’d get a different answer.”
“You won’t.”
“Fair enough.” Dashford shrugged. “It just seems you might like to tell me who the pretty little bloke really is.”
“The bloke is a bloody opera singer. If this isn’t acceptable to you, then I suppose we can send for a carriage and be out of your hair before dinner.”
“No need for that. Dash it all, Anthony, is it just this Fitzgelder thing that’s got you so off balance, or is there something more? I’d like to think you consider me trustworthy if there’s something more plaguing you.”
“There’s nothing plaguing me,” Rastmoor said sharply. Even he thought it sounded decidedly plaguey. “I just didn’t expect my mother and sister to turn up, all mixed into the situation.”
“No, I would have expected Penelope to be enjoying her first season, not running away from it. They sent their regrets for the wedding, you know. How odd they’d show up three days after it.”
“Yes, isn’t it? The quicker we can get back to town to see what my ruddy cousin’s up to, the better.”
“But could it be possible that . . .”
Here Dashford paused. The butler stood at the bottom of the stairs and cleared his throat. Dashford glanced over his shoulder at the man.
“Yes, Williams?”
“Sir, there is a Mr. Thatcher here to see you,” the butler announced.
Dashford frowned. “Thatcher? Do I know him?”
Rastmoor ran through his memory but couldn’t think of any Thatcher that might have anything to do with his current troubles, so he decided this must be a legitimate matter for Dashford. Good. Last time the butler announced arrivals, it was Rastmoor’s uninvited family.
“He comes from Findutton.”
Yes, that was most certainly a business matter for Dashford. Findutton-on-Avon was a tiny village just upriver from Hartwood. Much of the property surrounding it was a part of the Dashford estate except, of course, for Loveland. That neglected heap was an old cottage, held dear by Lady Dashford because it once belonged to her grandmother. Oddly enough, though, that cottage was intended for cousin Sophie. Dashford and his wife were hoping to locate the girl and turn the title over to her.
Ironic, however, that Sophie was most likely going the opposite direction, on her way to London in the probable employ of Fitzgelder and that traitorous Lindley. Damn. Things were beginning to overlap. Perhaps Rastmoor ought to be concerned about this Thatcher fellow, after all.
Dashford, however, seemed to be waiting for more information. He simply stared down at his butler until the man finally gave further explanation.
“Mr. Thatcher was passing by the cottage, sir,” Williams continued. “He says someone was there. He fears treasure hunters again, sir.”
“But everyone knows there was no treasure,” Dashford replied. “What makes Mr. Thatcher so suspicious he’d come all the way over here to warn me?”
Rastmoor had an odd, sinking sensation. Damn and damn again! Last time something was going on at that blasted cottage, he’d thought he’d lost his best friend. But all of Dashford’s troubles were solved weeks ago. Who on earth could be pillaging Loveland this time? Unless, of course, it was someone in league with Fitzgelder; someone stalking him, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
By God, couldn’t they at least have chosen a new location this time?
“He says it looks like it might be a troupe of actors, sir,” Williams went on.
Dashford seemed no less surprised than Rastmoor.
“Actors?” they said in unison.
“Yes, sir,” the butler confirmed. “Perhaps if you would like to speak with the man yourself, he can give you details.”
“Yes, all right,” Dashford said. “Have him sent to my office.”
That seemed a simple enough request, but the butler cleared his throat again.
“Yes, Williams?” Dashford asked.
“Thatcher is a farmer, sir.”
“Is he?” Dashford asked, clearly wondering what that had to do with anything.
“Yes, sir,” Williams confirmed. “Pigs, sir.”
“Ah, well, my condolences for Mrs. Thatcher. Now please show the man in to my . . .”
The butler cleared his throat again. By Hades, was the man consumptive? Dashford really ought to look to better care of his servants’ health.
“Yes, Williams?”
“He’s coming from his yard, sir,” Williams announced. “His pig yard, sir. The place where he keeps his pigs, sir. Several of them, by the smell of it.”
Ah, now the butler’s lung trouble made more sense.
“So you’re saying Thatcher has brought bits of his labors with him, are you, Williams?” Dashford chuckled.
“Indeed, sir.”
“So perhaps conferring with him out of doors might be the best course, eh, Williams?”
The butler gave a great sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. If you don’t mind, sir. The staff would have a devil of a time removing that from your carpets, sir.”
“Then by all means, for the sake of my carpets, let’s go meet with Mr. Thatcher outside,” Dashford said with a smiling glance at Rastmoor. “Care to join me? I can’t imagine a troupe of vagrant actors would hold any interest for you, yet . . .”
“Yet then again, it might,” Rastmoor finished for him.
Indeed, Dashford knew his past history with actors. Well, with one particular actress and her scheming father, to be more specific. Likely he, too, was wondering what this manifestation might have to do with whatever Fitzgelder had simmering.
Yes, Rastmoor would most certainly care to join him in the yard with the aromatic Mr. Thatcher. It would be interesting to see what they could find out about these mysterious actors who appeared out of the blue to take up residence in Sophie’s former home. He was more than a little interested, also, to find out if perhaps Julia knew anything about it.
JULIA SLID THE DOOR SHUT AS THE TWO MEN DISAPPEARED down the staircase at the end of the hallway. She’d poked her head out after Rastmoor left, curious as to where he would go.
Of course she couldn’t help but listen when Dashford practically announced his suspicions about her, and Rastmoor’s gruff responses could have done nothing to ease Dashford’s mind. The man was a horrible actor—out of the bedroom, anyway.
But what on earth was this? Someone had been speaking to them from the bottom of the stairs. The butler, she’d deduced, and it seemed he was talking about—had she heard it right?—a pig farmer. Well, that certainly was less than interesting.
But something else captured her attention. Actors. Both men had said “actors,” and the way they said it convinced her there was some measure of importance. Someone was bringing word of actors.
Well, this could mean nothing, but then again, it could mean everything. Papa and his troupe should be safely in Gloucester, shouldn’t they? Yet if Fitzgelder had found out about them, there was no telling what could be occurring. She simply had to find out what this was.
She quickly readjusted the binding that wrapped tightly around her chest, fussed with her clothes, and peeked out into the hallway again. Empty. Good.
It had sounded as if someone was here to speak to Dashford about these actors, and of course the likely place for that would be his office. Julia would sneak her way down there and, with luck, shamelessly eavesdrop outside the door. Hopefully this had nothing to do with her.
From the tension she’d heard in Rastmoor’s voice when he agreed to accompany his friend to talk to whomever they were meeting, she didn’t feel there was strong hope. Rastmoor appeared to believe this did have something to do with her. And the way her life had been going, it probably wasn’t something good.
Chapter Thirteen
So, where the devil was that man’s office? She’d hunted it earlier but found the drawing room, along with three chatty women. She’d rather avoid them just now, so she headed in the opposite direction this time. An elaborate archway beyond the grand staircase led her down a hallway she’d never been in. Well, there was no sign of Rastmoor or anyone, so she wandered.
This blasted house had rooms and doors and hallways at every turn, it seemed. How ever had Lady Dashford learned her way around? She’d seemed perfectly comfortable here, yet Rastmoor said the viscount and his lady had been wed just a few days. Then again, likely the new viscountess came from a house very much like this. These well-bred blue bloods arrived on the planet knowing about such things as gargantuan estate homes and flocks of servants. It would surely have taken Julia more than a few days to adjust to being lady over such opulence. Just as well, then, that she would never be faced with that particular hardship.
Thank Providence for small favors, she supposed.
She heard sounds from the room several steps ahead of her but immediately knew it could not be Rastmoor. It was those women again. As much as she’d enjoyed their company, now was not the time. She needed to find Rastmoor and learn about this acting troupe. But the ladies’ voices appeared to be heading for the hallway. Seeing her best hope of escape, Julia ducked into the nearest doorway, realizing at the last moment that she had no reason to believe this room was any less crowded than the hallway was about to be.
Nervous, she glanced around and found herself blissfully alone in the library. Books lined every wall and filled several low shelves placed here and there about the area. The room itself was oddly shaped, with alcoves and corners in unpredictable locations. Indeed, if one wanted to avoid detection, this would be the place. Could it be she’d actually gotten lucky? She tucked herself around the corner and held her breath as the women’s voices got louder in the hallway outside.
“But what do you think of him?” Penelope was asking. “So beautiful and delicate, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose some would describe him as such,” her mother replied.
“He’s hardly the type my brother usually keeps as friends,” Penelope went on.
Oh Lord, were they talking about her? Rather, about Mr. Nancini? Julia was not at all pleased to hear high praises from Penelope. Bother! She’d hate for Rastmoor to be proven right.
“Yes, he is at that,” Lady Rastmoor said, agreeing with her daughter.
She did not sound particularly enthusiastic about it, though. What was that chilly edge to her voice? Perhaps she, like Rastmoor, had suspicions that Penelope might indeed be growing a bit too fond of this odd Mr. Nancini. Or worse, perhaps Lady Rastmoor was worried that it was her son who harbored a secret tenderness for the delicate gentleman. Well, on that point the lady could rest perfectly assured. At least, partially assured.
“I like him exceedingly,” Penelope declared. “And I daresay he’s quite a positive influence on my brother. I shall hope we see much more of him.”
“He’s an affable sort, indeed,” Lady Dashford said with hesitant agreement. “But we should remember that once he recovers from his vocal troubles, he must be back at his career. I’m sure we cannot depend on having him much underfoot, my dear.”
The voices seemed to stop just outside the library door. Julia held her breath and crept farther away from the door, inching closely against the shelf-lined wall.
“Oh, but surely Anthony will take me to the opera to see him. Perhaps I might even visit him backstage!”
“Absolutely not,” her mother announced. “I’ll not have my daughter carousing with an opera singer!”
“It doesn’t seem to bother you that your son is, though,” Penelope pointed out.
“My son is a grown man. Whom he chooses for friends is his own business.”
“Well, I’m an adult now, too,” Penelope replied. Julia could practically hear her pouting. A silent tension filled the air, and Julia wondered if the mother and daughter were going to argue over her right there in the hallway.
But Lady Dashford was the perfect hostess and diffused the situation with a polite suggestion.
“Ladies, here’s the library,” she announced in an airy tone. “My husband keeps an excellent collection. Perhaps you’d like to select something to take up to your rooms as we dress for dinner?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Julia scurried to hide behind a low bookshelf. She had to drop down and sit on the floor to be sure she was not visible behind it. It was a foolish attempt, though. All it would take was for the women to walk into the room and make one curious turn around the shelf to find her there in this unusual position. However would she explain herself then?
Once again she was in a most uncomfortable situation, and once again she had the viscount Rastmoor to thank for it. Well, she supposed if she were honest, not all of the positions the man had put her in had been uncomfortable—especially not that rather interesting one upstairs not so very long ago. But goodness, she’d best not dwell on that! She could feel her face flushing already. Indeed no—she needed to spend her mental energies on thinking up some logical excuse for what she might be doing here in case she was detected.
The ladies would surely think her a sight, crawling on the dusty floor as she was. She could only hope she’d chosen to conceal herself behind a bookshelf that saw very little use. Oh please don’t let the novels of gothic romance be shelved here! Surely that would be Penelope’s first choice. Julia quickly scanned the leather spines of the books beside her.
Thank the heavens. This corner appeared to shelve nothing more than abandoned miscellany. Why, on one shelf in particular a large medical treatise was upside down and haphazardly shoved between two volumes of poetry. In another place a thin and particularly well-worn book with no lettering on the spine was literally crammed between the shelf and the wall. Shame on Dashford for letting things go so out of order.
If she wasn’t in mortal fear of discovery, she would have dug that little book out and found a proper shelf for it. Books were a luxury not all could afford; they deserved to be treated with better care. The footsteps at the doorway, however, reminded her to ignore her righteous indignation and stay still.
“I already have something to read, thank you,” Penelope said pertly. “I saved all of Mr. Nancini’s notes.”
Lady Rastmoor grumbled something under her breath, and though Julia couldn’t quite make it out, she had a fair notion of its meaning. Rastmoor had been correct after all—his sister was smitten. Dinner was shaping up to be regrettably awkward.
“Come along, then, Penelope,” Lady Rastmoor demanded. “I suppose we should refresh ourselves.”
The footsteps padded off, leaving Julia to breathe a sigh of relief as she heard the ladies’ voices trail down the hallway and out toward the grand staircase. Thank heavens she’d been spared an awkward encounter. With Penelope safely upstairs, perhaps Julia could resume her search for the men.
First, however, she’d do the decent thing and right Dashford’s bookshelf.
She had to work her fingers tightly into the space between the shelf and the wall before she could grip the worn volume tucked in there. Slowly, she worked it out. The words embossed on the binding were faded, so she casually flipped the cover open. There inside she read the book’s rather intriguing title: My Hours With the Fairer Sex: the informative notations of a Particular Gentleman. For further clarification, it went on: An Illustrated compilation of the memoirs of an English Gentleman. His most congenial relations carefully recorded and illuminated for instructive purposes.
Congenial relations? Did that mean what she rather assumed it meant? Indeed, this gave her pause. Of course she should have been rushing off to find Rastmoor and learn more about those mysterious actors, but instead she cracked the book open to a page roughly in the middle. There, carefully engraved, was the detailed illustration of a certain unmentionable activity she and Rastmoor had engaged in not more than a half hour ago. Dear heavens!
She slammed the book shut and peeped up over the shelf to make sure no one had heard. No one was there, and no footsteps sounded in the hallway. Thank goodness.
She sank back down onto her knees and slowly opened the book again. It was purely to convince herself she could not have possibly seen what she thought she saw, of course. She couldn’t, could she? What sort of book was this?
Damsel in Disguise Page 19
