“You tapped at his door?” Rastmoor roared. The room took a quick turn around him.
“Yes, but the poor man must be dead to the world. Poor, poor Mr. Clemmons. He might as well be dying up there for all you seem to care. And him about to become my fiancé, and all.”
“Good God, he’s not about to become your fiancé, Penelope.”
“Oh? But you can’t expect me to believe what Fitzgelder said about him being already married to Lady Dashford’s cousin. He just doesn’t seem the type to be married to that girl. Does he?”
Lord, he did not have the strength for this today. What on earth had gotten into Penelope? He never recalled her being so blasted annoying. What could Fitzgelder have possibly done to the girl to turn her into this . . . this raving shrew?
“I thought you wanted me to let you marry Fitzgelder.”
Penelope simply shrugged. “I find I don’t really like Mr. Fitzgelder anymore. I much prefer Mr. Clemmons. Don’t you?”
Hell, yes he preferred Mr. Clemmons. “No. I prefer that you leave off any further talk of fiancés.”
“Jealous?”
“What?”
“That I should find someone I wish to marry while you still grieve that actress.”
“I’m most certainly not jealous.”
Why, by everything holy, couldn’t the girl keep her mouth shut this morning? She seemed particularly unaware of his discomfort and continued. “Pity she had to die, though, wasn’t it, Anthony?”
He saw absolutely no need to respond to that whatsoever.
But Penelope went on. “She did die, didn’t she, Anthony? I mean, what a miracle it would be if she turned out to still be living somewhere.”
The miracle was he didn’t turn the little brat over his knee at that point. What a thing to say! What could she be thinking to bring up such a subject? By God, could she actually have an inkling of the truth?
Surely not, not given the way she’d been acting around Julia last night. Lord, but if Mr. Clemmons truly had been a mister, Rastmoor was fairly certain he’d have had to call the bugger out today. Thank heavens he wasn’t, and Penelope was just a naive little girl who had no idea the game she was playing.
He rubbed his throbbing head. “You were hardly old enough to know anything about my affairs three years ago, Penelope.”
She sniffed. Somehow she managed to do it loudly. “I was fifteen, and I’ve never been stupid, Anthony. I knew what people whispered about, that you had gone and gotten engaged to a lowly actress. I heard all about how horrible she was to run off with our cousin and then have the nerve to die a few months later.”
“Then I should think you’d know enough to put a person like that far from your mind.”
“Yes, as should you. Yet you didn’t. So I assumed there must be more to the story, more to her.”
“Don’t assume things, Penelope. It’s not wise.”
“Assuming as in judgments or as in identities?”
“Either,” he replied swiftly. “No more talk of things that are over and done.”
“Are they?”
“I said no more, Penelope.”
“But Anthony, you don’t—”
Her words were interrupted as Lady Dashford came hurrying into the room. She seemed relieved to find them here. She had an odd look of concern on her face.
“Ah, here you are,” she said. “Have either of you seen Mr. Clemmons this morning?”
Rastmoor didn’t like the sound of that. “No, I haven’t.”
“I knocked at his door, and he didn’t answer,” Penelope said.
Lady Dashford merely frowned. “The servants say he is not in there. In fact, I was told it appears his bed has not been slept in. I thought perhaps . . .”
She glanced at Rastmoor then looked away quickly. He had a fair idea what she might have been thinking and was quick to properly inform her.
“The last I saw of Mr. Clemmons was last night, very shortly after our discussion in the study. He took his leave, and I assumed he was retiring for the night.”
“Then where on earth could he be?” Penelope asked.
Rastmoor’s jaw clenched nearly as tightly as the fists held tightly to his sides. “Fitzgelder.”
But Lady Dashford shook her head. “I had the butler check. No one has been in or out of there all night. Mr. Fitzgelder was left quite uninterrupted. Alone.”
“Perhaps Mr. Clemmons went for a morning ride?” Penelope suggested.
“But he doesn’t know the area,” Lady Dashford said. “Wherever would he go?”
Damn, but thanks to that map in the study Mr. Clemmons did have a passing knowledge of the area. Rastmoor suddenly had an idea just where their frustrating Mr. Clemmons might go—and why.
“Has Dashford received word yet from that troupe of actors?” Rastmoor asked.
“I don’t know,” the viscountess said with a shrug. “But why—”
Penelope broke into an excited little squeal. “Mr. Clemmons has run off with Signor Giuseppe and his Poor Players!”
JULIA SLEPT SURPRISINGLY WELL. OF COURSE, THAT could have been due to the brisk hour-long walk she took to find her way to the little cottage known as Loveland, but she also knew she must credit the surprisingly soft—if not a bit musty—bed she’d curled up in. Indeed, someone had once lived quite luxuriously here.
After leaving Rastmoor last night—a feat that had been far more difficult than it ought to have been—she left Hartwood. It had been easy to leave unseen, as most of the servants had been instructed to keep their eyes open for strangers trying to get into the house or for Fitzgelder trying to get out. As she was neither of these things, she simply strolled out into the garden and kept right on going. That map in the study had been a godsend.
In the darkness of late twilight she’d followed the road confidently until she came upon a fork. That, certainly, had given her a few moments of desperation—it must have been created after the map had been drawn. But panic never solved anything, so she caught her breath and tried to remember where Loveland was in relation to the river that ran the length of the estate.
She chose the correct fork and found Loveland not half a mile down that road. Her feet had not yet begun to ache when she came over the low rise of a gentle slope to see the cottage below. The whitewashed walls shone in the moonlight, and the sweet, damp smells of flowers filled the air around it. Really, with a bit of care, this would be a lovely place. No wonder Papa had thought to camp here. Lucky for them Dashford was kindly allowing them to stay.
Not that they could stay, of course. Not with Fitzgelder at Hartwood and his men prowling with no good intent. And most especially, not with Rastmoor so nearby. More than anything, she needed to leave him far, far behind.
Papa had opened the door immediately to her knocking. He’d seemed hardly surprised to find her and was far more concerned with offering her supper than he was in learning that Fitzgelder was at Hartwood. In fact, he assured her he knew all about it. Well, that was comforting. If he’d known Fitzgelder was there, he must have given an adequate excuse for turning down Dashford’s generous offer to hire them for a performance.
“Ma petite chou,” he’d said, shoving a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread at her. “It is all taken care of. Now eat, rest. You should be exhausted, coming all this way like that.”
The only other female member of their troupe, the matronly Mrs. Maybelle Bixley—although Julia had never heard talk of any Mr. Bixley—fussed over her and nearly shed tears when she saw the state of Julia’s hair. She pulled out a brush and set to coaxing out the tangles that had gathered under that blasted hat. Julia had to admit, it was heavenly to be back among her own people. She was free to let down her guard and be who she was. She could speak out loud, even.
But Papa hadn’t let her say much. Instead, he enthusiastically filled her in on his exploits these past few days. He’d not led the group to Gloucester as they’d planned, but he’d been just half a day’s travel from her all along. As s
he should have suspected, Papa had been watching out for her this whole time. Thankfully, he didn’t mention anything about Rastmoor. She, of course, volunteered nothing.
It had been all too easy to feel safe and secure for the first time in days. She’d let Mrs. Bixley show her to a lovely bedroom—the cottage was surprisingly spacious—and then slipped into her very own night rail, courtesy of the entire collection of their personal belongings the troupe carted from London. Ah, how heavenly! She was sure she fell asleep the moment her head hit that pillow.
And now a new day had dawned, and the sun was shining. Julia stood in the doorway surveying the little, muddy yard in front of the cottage. Birds were singing, and she could almost be convinced that all was right with the world.
Until she caught a glimpse of Papa as he directed two of his young actors as they packed the troupe’s belongings into their wagon. Good Lord, what was the man wearing? Her usually elegant father was dressed in blue and purple and orange so bold he appeared to be posing as some exotic bird. Oh dear, but wasn’t this the costume he’d used in the past for the Great Giuseppe? Why would he be keeping up this particular masquerade? In half an hour’s time they would be gone from this place. Wouldn’t it be best if they did nothing to draw attention to themselves as they traveled along, assuming yet another group identity and hiding themselves in another little town?
“Ma petite!” he called when he saw her. “You had a good sleep, non?”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, coming out to give him an affectionate peck on his cheek. “Thank you, but you shouldn’t have let me sleep so long. I should be helping you.”
He laughed and squeezed her into his huge, protective embrace. “You have not had enough sleep lately, I think. And besides, you should not be tromping out here, getting your lovely clothes ruined in all this mud. This dress has been lonely for you, ma belle. Let the men work while you stay pretty inside. We are nearly finished, anyway.”
She had to admit she did enjoy being female again. Mrs. Bixley had pressed one of her favorite morning gowns and helped her into it. It felt wonderful on her body. She’d stolen a peek in a large mirror in the bedroom and then scolded herself for being vain. Then she’d had to scold herself for wishing Anthony could see her like this, garbed in fashionable muslin, freshly bathed with her newly short hair curling in a chestnut halo around her face.
But Rastmoor would never see her again—not if she could help it. She’d done what she could to protect him; now it was time to help Papa. And heavens, but he did need her help. The poor man must have been too long without an audience; he was practically burying her against his blue and purple and orange waistcoat while calling out orders to his actors in the most obnoxious, singsong Italian accent she’d ever heard. Lord, she supposed she ought to be thankful Rastmoor had made her Mr. Nancini mute.
“What on earth are you—” she began with a laugh, only to be cut off by Papa’s whispered warning.
“It appears your absence has been noticed, chouchoute,” he said.
She looked around his shoulder and squinted into the morning sun. Two men on horseback were just coming into view at the top of the hill. It took all of half a heartbeat for her to recognize them: Rastmoor and Dashford. What were they doing here? Oh, but Rastmoor would recognize Papa. Surely, even despite the flamboyant costume of the Great Giuseppe, Rastmoor would know the man who had once hesitantly given him permission to marry his daughter.
“Hurry, into the house, ma chérie,” Papa instructed into her ear. “No fears. I’ll take care of everything. You go inside and help Mrs. Bixley with your portmanteau.”
Papa thought she could concentrate on packing when Rastmoor was so near? Just what would Papa say to him? He certainly had never really liked the idea of Julia marrying so far above herself, but he’d allowed the engagement because it made her happy. After things ended as they did, he’d been understandably bitter toward the man who’d broken his daughter’s heart. No doubt he knew what must have been going on the past few days.
Oh, but this was dreadful! Papa would surely have more than a few unpleasant words for Rastmoor. They would argue, fight even. Dashford would learn who she was, things would all get out of hand, and no one would remember to run away and hide before Fitzgelder’s men found them.
But Papa wasn’t the only actor in the family, was he? Maybe if she hurried, she could salvage something from this. She kissed Papa lightly, then scurried into the house and set to finding Mrs. Bixley. And her portmanteau.
Chapter Seventeen
“I hope you remember to ask your bloody friend a few questions,” Dashford was saying as their horses clopped along the muddy roads. “Before you leap down and bludgeon him to death.”
“I have no intention of bludgeoning him,” Rastmoor said.
“Truly? That’s not what that storm cloud over your head seems to say. You’ve had murder in your eyes since the minute we left Hartwood.”
“It’s not Clemmons I’d consider murdering.”
“Giuseppe, then?”
Rastmoor rewarded his friend’s astuteness with a grunt.
Dashford shrugged. “That note would seem to convict them both.”
Indeed, it did, though not for the things Dashford assumed. He seemed to believe Julia’s note to Giuseppe indicated more than just an affaire de coeur. Dashford’s assumption was that Julia’s intercepted note to Giuseppe implied they both knew something about the missing Sophie. Well, of course Rastmoor knew the young woman Julia referred to in the note was herself, but he hadn’t figured out a way to convince Dashford without explaining the whole ruse. Julia and her lover were innocent of those charges. Still, Rastmoor didn’t mind letting Dashford think what he would. He did rather like the idea of his friend making plenty of trouble for the unsuspecting Italian.
“I don’t know exactly what this Clemmons fellow means to you,” Dashford went on. “But I don’t like him. I don’t think he’s precisely what he appears to be.”
“He’s not.”
“Then what are you doing with him?” Dashford asked. “I mean, er, I don’t really care what you do with him, but I do care that he’s using your friendship against you.”
“He’s not.”
“Oh? Then what in the devil is he doing?”
Blast it all, but Rastmoor didn’t have an answer. Well, he did have an answer, but not one he could share with Dashford. He knew exactly what the devil Julia was doing. She was running off with Giuseppe. Despite what Dashford might assume, this had nothing to do with Sophie. Confronting Giuseppe would bring them no closer to finding Dashford’s missing cousin. Rastmoor wasn’t quite sure how to break this news to his determined friend.
“And it’s theater folk again,” his friend muttered. “I just hope this doesn’t turn out like that fiasco three years ago—with that actress.”
Rastmoor heard him plain enough. He understood, too. A warning bell rang out in his brain. If Dashford were to start piecing things together, things would not go well for Julia.
“If I thought for one minute these actors had anything to do with those actors, I’d have them booted from my lands and shipped back to the damn Continent. That little trollop forced her pretty hands down deep in your pockets then ripped out your heart. I promise you, Anthony, I’ll not stand by to watch that again.”
“This is nothing like that.”
“Oh? You mean other than the fact that Clemmons is an actor rather than an actress?”
“You have no idea what’s really going on here.”
“I have eyes in my head, Anthony,” Dashford declared. “I see how you look at him. Now, it’s not my place to judge where you put your affections—or anything else—but in this case . . .”
“It’s not like that!”
“Then what is it like? Is it like last time when you actually planned to marry that lying, traitorous little whor—”
Rastmoor found himself swinging a fist at his friend’s face. Dashford ducked. His horse shied and sidestepped, w
hile Rastmoor’s mount balked at the way he’d tightened the reins. Rastmoor barely caught himself from falling off. The momentary distraction gave him enough time to realize he’d been about to leap from his saddle and yank Dashford to the ground for a thorough pummeling. He decided not to.
“What the hell was that for?” Dashford demanded.
“She’s not a whore!”
“What? Oh, for God’s sake, Rastmoor. That was three years ago. I distinctly recall you had more than a few colorful words to describe her yourself. Since when are you defending the worthless jade?”
“Since I learned a few things. And she’s not a worthless jade.”
“You mean she wasn’t a worthless jade.”
“Yes. Right. That’s what I said.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Then I misspoke.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.”
But he was not nearly the actor Julia always was. His words sounded unconvincing even to himself. Surely Dashford would be able to deduce the truth, and then where would things stand? Despite the woman running away to this Giuseppe person, despite everything that note implied, despite those three long years between them, Rastmoor was not about to lose Julia again. He didn’t particularly relish the thought of losing his oldest and dearest friend, either. How would Dashford react when he realized the truth?
He’d been an absolute fool to let his friend accompany him on the ride to Loveland. What did he think he’d do once they got there and found Julia in the arms of her bloody actor friend? Hell, there’d be no keeping anything from Dashford at that point. The best thing to do right now was to come up with some brilliant excuse to send Dashford back to Hartwood.
Unfortunately, he was coming up empty on brilliant excuses. There was nothing to do but hold his breath and cringe as Loveland came into view just as they crested the last gentle hill. It took Rastmoor all of about two seconds to spot her. How could he miss her?
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