Now Penelope finally dropped her hand from Julia’s sleeve. “Already married?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Fitzgelder said, clearly relishing his role as bearer of truth. Poor man. Even when he tried to give accurate information it was, in fact, a lie. “I encountered him and his wife in London not three days ago.”
Lady Rastmoor was struggling to make sense of this. “Mr. Nancini has a wife?”
Fitzgelder gleefully went on. “Oh, yes. But this man is not Nancini. His real name is Clemmons, and he’s nothing more than an actor. His wife is a common harlot called Sophie.”
Everyone seemed to be quietly taking this in. Lady Dashford, however, suddenly lunged at Julia and grasped her shoulders. “Dear heavens . . . you’re that Mr. Clemmons? You’re Sophie’s husband?”
Julia nodded then shook her head. By God, she didn’t know what to say.
“Where is she? Is she well?” Lady Dashford rattled on. “Is she coming to Hartwood with you? Oh, no . . . the fire! Was she hurt in that fire?”
The lady’s questioning was quite enthusiastic. Julia looked up at Rastmoor for assistance. Fortunately, he nodded and took up the cause.
“Clearly an explanation is in order,” he said, clearing his throat to commandeer their attention. “Perhaps now we should all return indoors to get things sorted out?”
Julia would have truly liked to see how he might propose to do such a thing. As far as she could see, any explanation at this point would serve merely to create further conflict, not sort things out. What were the chances she could steal a horse and find her way to that cottage where Papa was camped right now? None, she had to admit. Drat it all.
The group begrudgingly agreed to do as Rastmoor suggested and make their way back into the house. Lady Dashford, however, was impatient. She resumed her questioning right away, latching on to Julia with almost the same tenacity as Penelope.
“Is your wife truly Sophie Darshaw? The same one who, until recently, was, er, employed by a certain Madame Eudora of London?”
Julia glanced at Rastmoor. He shrugged. Oh, marvelous. The man had not a clue what they should do to get out of this.
Well, she supposed she had little choice but to give out as much truth as she dared. She nodded in reply to Lady Dashford’s question. Indeed, Julia may have lost her Nancini identity, but surely she could cling to the story of her injury in the fire, couldn’t she? No sense speaking and giving herself away as female until it was absolutely necessary. As long as Fitzgelder was still in the dark, at least her life wasn’t in jeopardy. Provided Penelope didn’t say anything to put it there.
Judging by the way the girl still smiled and clutched her arm, it seemed Julia may not have to fear in that area. Whatever game Penelope was playing, she seemed content to continue it. For now, at least.
But Julia had no opportunity to contemplate Penelope’s motives. Their hostess was still barraging her with inquiries as to Sophie’s well-being.
“Then where is Sophie?” the viscountess continued. “Why did she not accompany you? Is she well?”
Julia didn’t even bother to look at Rastmoor this time. A fat lot of help he was proving to be.
“Yes, where is your young bride, Mr. Clemmons?” Fitzgelder asked, eavesdropping as Rastmoor ushered them all into the hall.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Rastmoor said, finally—and thankfully—placing himself between Julia and Fitzgelder. “Mr. Clemmons has temporarily lost his voice. He was injured in a rather unfortunate fire at the inn where we stayed last evening. Perhaps you heard something of it?”
“No,” Fitzgelder said. He was a good liar. “Nothing at all, though it sounds dreadful. I suppose it’s fortunate you weren’t killed.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
The men glared at one another. Thankfully there were witnesses present, and Julia hoped that meant violence between the two might be avoided for a bit longer. She wouldn’t have minded, however, if something had come up to take a bit of the attention away from her.
“Well, I for one would like to know why this Mr. Clemmons felt the need to deceive us,” Lady Rastmoor said, giving severe looks to both her son and to Julia. “Italian opera singer indeed. Anthony, if this is just another of your larks, it has been in very poor taste. Think of what you’ve done to your dear sister!”
“Penelope is fine, Mother,” Rastmoor said as the group found itself gathered in the grand entrance hall. “I’ve done nothing to her, and I can guarantee Mr. Clemmons hasn’t, either.”
His mother merely sniffed in disbelief. “I’m glad you can put so much faith in a man who uses false names and lies to young girls. I cannot.”
Julia cringed inside. My, but wouldn’t Lady Rastmoor be thrilled if she found out who Mr. Clemmons really was? What a dreadful encounter that would be. Julia vowed to make sure she was long gone when that revelation finally occurred.
“I understand, Mother,” Rastmoor said. “And I assure you I will handle everything.”
“Indeed you will,” his mother responded. “You’ll find out what Mr. Nan—er, Clemmons—has for intentions.”
Julia didn’t much care for the sound of that. Penelope simply giggled, although she stopped quickly when her mother shot a withering glare at them both.
“Come, Penelope. We shall retire,” the older woman announced. “Forgive us, Lady Dashford. You’ve been kindness itself, yet my son has seen fit to populate your home with wretched intruders.”
“Mother, really now,” Rastmoor began. “This is not nearly so—”
His mother paid him no heed. “Come along, Penelope. This is no place for you.”
Penelope pouted. “But I have the feeling things are only now going to become interesting, Mamma!”
“All the more reason we should be upstairs. Come. Now.”
Even Julia recognized that was a tone one did not dispute. Penelope sighed her disapproval, but she dropped her hand from Julia and followed her mother toward the staircase. Lady Dashford seemed torn between following her guests to see to their comfort and remaining here, with her husband.
The latter won out. As Lady Rastmoor harrumphed her way upstairs with the quietly grumbling Penelope, Lady Dashford glared at Julia.
“But what of Sophie?” she asked with a barely controlled desperation. “Please, I must know if she is well. And, er, the baby.”
Well, that certainly caught Julia off guard. “Baby?”
Rastmoor and Fitzgelder echoed her. Apparently they were just as surprised by this development as she was. True, she and Sophie had not enjoyed a particularly long acquaintance, but never had the girl mentioned a baby. Good heavens! There was a poor, innocent baby involved in all this?
THE LAST THING RASTMOOR WANTED WAS TO PROLONG Julia’s interaction with Fitzgelder. Unfortunately, he didn’t see any way around it. Lady Dashford wanted answers and, quite frankly, she deserved them. Since he knew full well Julia didn’t have any suitable answers to give, that left only Fitzgelder. Like it or not, Rastmoor would have to keep the man in their conversation.
At Dashford’s suggestion, they all made themselves comfortable—at least, as comfortable as one could be when seated in close proximity to a viper like Fitzgelder—in the large drawing room just off the main entrance hall. Julia looked decidedly pale. As well she should. It had been beyond careless of her to speak. Fortunately, Rastmoor had covered it by reminding them all of the damage to her voice. With luck, anything recognizably feminine in her tone had been dismissed as part of her injury.
Still, he didn’t much care for the way Fitzgelder was looking at her. Or Dashford either, for that matter.
“You can understand our concern for poor Sophie,” Lady Dashford was saying. “I’ve been searching everywhere for her! Anthony was kind enough to agree to look for her when he got to London, but I’m afraid I didn’t mention anything about the child to him.”
“No, you didn’t. Obviously Mr. Clemmons also knows nothing about it.”
“Is this true
?” Lady Dashford asked. “You did not know about the child?”
Julia shook her head. It was nothing if not believable, yet the Dashfords seemed unconvinced. Rastmoor really couldn’t blame them. How on earth could a man not know his wife had a child . . . unless something tragic had happened.
“How long have you known Sophie, Mr. Clemmons?” Dashford asked.
Julia appeared at a loss. Rastmoor quickly answered for her.
“When I met Mr. Clemmons, he and Sophie had been married a matter of days.”
Dashford glanced at him and slowly raised one eyebrow. “That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”
“The man can’t speak,” Rastmoor reminded him. “If you have any questions for him, I’ll answer.”
“You are intimately versed in Mr. Clemmons’s private life, are you?” Dashford said, the implication obvious.
“I know enough to tell you he was never aware of any baby.”
“So you are not the child’s father?” Lady Dashford asked, turning huge, questioning eyes on Julia.
Julia shook her head.
“Then who is?” Dashford asked.
Julia slid her glance over to Fitzgelder. The others followed suit. For the first time it dawned on Rastmoor that this was the most likely explanation. No wonder Sophie was playing Fitzgelder’s pawn in all this.
But Fitzgelder pushed himself back into his chair and fisted his hands. “Oh, no, don’t think I’ll be taking the blame for that one,” he said. “The chit’s only been in my house a matter of weeks, and I’ve gotten nothing but a swift kick to my articles out of her—the least damned agreeable slut I ever heard of. If she’s got some brat tucked away somewhere, it sure as hell ain’t one of mine.”
Lady Dashford was somehow able to ignore Fitzgelder’s vulgarity and simply went on, worried for her cousin. “But what might have happened? Sophie’s last letter was posted in March, and she assured me the babe had arrived and all was well. She was leaving the, er, her previous employment and was going on to honest work for some gentleman. I suppose she could have meant you, Mr. Fitzgelder.”
Fitzgelder shrugged. “That sounds right. But I never saw any baby. Madam Eudora didn’t mention it, either.”
“So, you are familiar with her former employer?” Lady Dashford asked carefully.
“I knew how the hussy earned her keep before she came to my service,” Fitzgelder admitted. “Hell, a man’s got to get references on his employees, doesn’t he? Don’t want someone who can’t do the job that’s expected, and all.”
Rastmoor had a fair idea what had been expected of Sophie. Julia and Lady Dashford apparently did, too, from the dual glares sent in Fitzgelder’s direction. Rastmoor wondered which lady was going to leap from her chair and pummel the man first. He’d rather enjoy watching that, as a matter of fact.
But of course there was no time for sport just now. They needed to satisfy Lady Dashford’s concern for her missing cousin—and the little detail of that baby—and get Fitzgelder as far from Julia as possible. So far, the man was still in the dark, but Rastmoor knew better than to expect luck to hold out forever.
“I suppose she must have given the child over to someone’s care,” Lord Dashford suggested. “Surely that’s done often enough. And we could hardly blame her for not mentioning it to her new husband, after all.”
“Oh, but to feel she must leave her own child! Poor Sophie,” Lady Dashford said, giving her attention back to Julia. “Please, if you have any idea where we can find Sophie, you would tell, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course he would,” Rastmoor answered for her, although it was hardly necessary. Julia’s dramatic head-nodding left no question as to her feeling on the matter. Indeed, now that a baby had entered the picture, Julia appeared all the more determined to absolve Sophie of any willful collusion with Fitzgelder and heap even further guilt on the man. Rastmoor was rather inclined to agree.
“So you’re really going to fret over the likes of that gutter wench and her little bastard, are you?” Fitzgelder asked, watching Lady Dashford chew her lip.
“Of course I am,” she shot back. “Sophie is my cousin!”
“And mine,” Dashford added. “Any child of hers is a member of this family, and we’d appreciate whatever help you could give us in the matter of locating them both.”
Fitzgelder wasn’t too thick to miss the scent of reward in Dashford’s statement. His hands unfisted, and he relaxed in his chair. “Well, now, my lord. Just how much do you imagine you’d appreciate my help in the matter?”
Lady Dashford nearly pounced on him. “You know where they are!”
“Don’t trust him,” Rastmoor cautioned, but it was a waste of breath.
Just one quick glance at the expression of desperate hope in Lady Dashford’s face, and he knew beyond a doubt that Dashford would give Fitzgelder whatever the bastard asked for if there was even the slightest hope it would bring joy to his wife. And who could blame the man? Rastmoor knew he’d do exactly the same thing were this some beloved relative of Julia’s lost in the world somewhere.
He looked over at her and found her eyes on him, full of nearly the same desperate hope he’d seen on Lady Dashford. But Julia never let her emotions be displayed for long. Quickly, she looked away, and her face became that passive mask she’d perfected so well. Still, for just a moment, Rastmoor had seen into her soul. She’d been watching him, trusting him.
He would not betray that trust. Not this time.
“No games, Fitzgelder,” he warned. “If you know something, then tell us.”
“Oh, I know quite a bit, Cousin,” Fitzgelder said with a greasy smile, his voice sounding almost like a purr. “Are you so certain you’d like me to share it all?”
“The only thing I’m interested in is locating Mrs. Clemmons,” Dashford said, thankfully shifting the topic back to his own concern. “And her child. Do you know where they are?”
“Possibly.”
Rastmoor had a few choice words for his cousin, although for the sake of the ladies present, he skipped them in favor of further questioning. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about a child?”
“I don’t. But if the chit did end up breeding, I have a fair notion where she’d tuck the brat.”
“Tell them,” Rastmoor ordered.
Fitzgelder frowned. “And how does this benefit me?”
“I might let you keep breathing,” Rastmoor said.
“Not good enough,” Fitzgelder said.
“What do you want, Fitzgelder?” Dashford asked. “I can assure you my wife and I will be very grateful should your information prove worthwhile.”
Fitzgelder seemed to consider the offer. Rastmoor couldn’t quite imagine what in hell the man thought he had to consider, but finally Fitzgelder spoke again.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“What?” Rastmoor asked.
“Tomorrow,” Fitzgelder repeated. “I will have the information for you tomorrow. I’m waiting for word from someone; then I can tell you where they are.”
“What the hell do you—” Dashford began, but his wife laid her hand against his arm and stopped him.
Rastmoor, however, had no doting wife to check his temper. “What the hell do you need to wait for?” he asked, rising and looming over his cousin. “Tell us where to find Sophie.”
“No,” Fitzgelder said simply. “I can’t. The truth of it is, I won’t know where the bloody little wench is until I hear from my man.”
Now it made sense. “So you’ve got someone out hunting her even as we speak. To get that damned locket back, I presume.”
“Hunting her? Oh, no, Cousin. It’s much easier than that. I’ve managed to buy myself the one man she’ll willingly follow to the ends of the earth—and it ain’t you, is it, Clemmons?” Fitzgelder sneered at Julia.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rastmoor asked.
“He’s bringing her—and the locket—right where I want her. And when I get that da
mned locket, you can have your precious little whore,” Fitzgelder said and actually had the nerve to laugh in Rastmoor’s face. “Although what you’d do with her I can’t imagine. Seems you’re content enough with this half of the happy couple you’ve already got.”
His condescending glance toward Julia was hardly necessary. Rastmoor knew what the man was implying, and it was not meant as a compliment. Still, he couldn’t help but smile. The bloody bastard fool still thought Julia a man, did he? He obviously hadn’t misinterpreted their relationship, but he thought Julia was a ruddy male. That was rich—Fitzgelder had been duped again. The woman deserved an award.
He’d see what he could do about showing his appreciation for her talents. Later.
“What sort of danger have you dragged Sophie into, Fitzgelder?” Dashford asked. “How much has she had to suffer just so you can reclaim this contemptible locket?”
“She’ll be fine. Once I’ve got the locket, you just might be able to make it worth my while to tell you where she is,” Fitzgelder said with a smug leer. “I don’t care if she does have well-heeled connections or a limp-wristed little husband. That chit owes me.”
“No, Cousin,” Rastmoor said. “I owe you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Julia could have done without the tension filling the air and constricting her chest. The longer she stayed here, suffering Fitzgelder’s demeaning sneers and probing glances, the more inevitably she’d be found out. Fortunately, the Dashfords were far too distraught over their concerns for Sophie to give her a second thought, but how much longer could that continue? Her nerves were frayed, and it was just a matter of time before she’d forget the role she played and say something or do something to ruin it.
Fitzgelder’s conceited posturing didn’t help matters, either. If someone didn’t shut him up soon, she’d be likely to slap him. Although, from Rastmoor’s expression, it appeared he was only too eager to shut the man up—permanently—and Julia knew she really ought not condone that.
“So it would seem you won’t have the satisfaction of tossing me out on my ear tonight, Cousin,” Fitzgelder said, still smiling at Rastmoor. “I’m sure our gracious host would much rather offer me one of his luxurious beds than run the risk that I might not return with news of his dear Sasha.”
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