She was right there in the yard before the rustic cottage, snuggled up nice and tight with some bloody actor dressed like a bloody peacock. Two or three bloody others were scurrying about the two bloody wagons that sat waiting. It would appear the group was expecting to depart within mere moments. Despite Dashford’s presence, Rastmoor was glad they’d made it when they did. A few minutes later, and they might have missed Julia altogether.
Damn, but could he have come that close? And double damn, but did she have to seem so comfortable there in that fellow’s arms? Clearly any faint hope Rastmoor may have had that Giuseppe was nothing more than a passing fancy were completely in vain. Julia seemed more than happy to be with him.
Well, he’d just have to convince her she could be happier with him. He took a deep breath and made sure his shoulders were back. The cut of his coat was perfect, and he’d allowed Dashford’s valet to adjust the pitiful cravat he’d attempted while the world was still spinning around him this morning. At the very least he could take comfort in knowing he looked a fair sight better than Julia’s bloody peacock.
She hardly seemed impressed, though. She glanced up to see them, and joy was not exactly what Rastmoor could see in her face. Panic was more like it.
With a few hushed words to her lover, she gave him a disgusting buss on his cheek then ran inside the cottage. It was awful, and Rastmoor really wished he hadn’t seen it. Hell, he wished Dashford hadn’t seen it, either.
“What the . . . Who is that?” Dashford asked.
“Who?”
“That woman,” Dashford said, nodding in the direction she had just gone. “By God, she looked like our man Clemmons . . . in a dress.”
“It wasn’t Clemmons.”
“It looked like Clemmons.”
“It wasn’t Clemmons.”
Dashford shook his head, clearly confused by the whole thing. “I suppose you’re right. Clemmons would never look so damn delicious in a dress.”
Rastmoor ground his teeth. He’d be damned if he was going to put up with Dashford drooling over an anonymous Julia; even if she did look so damn delicious in a dress.
“I’m sure a certain Lady Dashford would appreciate it if you confined your appetite to more domestic fare,” Rastmoor reminded him.
Dashford merely laughed and got to the business at hand. “Hey, there!” he called out as they approached. “Which one of you fine men is the Great Giuseppe?”
The damn blackguard whose hands had been all over Julia replied. “Si, signore! I am-a zee Great Giuseppe, here to be at-a your service!”
By God, the man’s accent was deplorable. If Rastmoor didn’t already hate him, he’d certainly be halfway there already. He didn’t bother to climb off his horse, content to stare intimidatingly down instead. Giuseppe, to his credit, didn’t appear much intimidated. In fact, he moved to stand near Rastmoor and smiled boldly right up at him.
It was then that Rastmoor recognized him. Albert St. Clement. Oh, hell and double hell. This wasn’t Julia’s lover, it was her father!
Despite the fact that this man very likely would love to kill him, Rastmoor was suddenly overjoyed to see him. He was exceedingly and ridiculously overjoyed, as a matter of fact. He also was quite glad he’d not gotten down from his horse. There may still be need for a hasty retreat should Julia’s father turn out to have any ready weapons. She’d had ample time to inform him what had been going on these past several days.
“Buon giorno, gentlemen!” St. Clement greeted, waving his arms in grand gestures. “You have-a heard of zee Great Giuseppe and have come-a to see for yourselves? Ah, perhaps you have wish-a to join with zee famous compagni del teatro, si? I know exactly the parts I would have you play! You, sir,” he said with a flourish toward Dashford. “You are il capitano! Yes, I see it clearly—very brave. And you, signore,” he said, turning to Rastmoor with an even brighter smile. “My Pantalone!”
Rastmoor glared. “Happily, sir, I am most definitely not your Pantalone.”
“Regrettably, we are not here to join your troupe, Signor Giuseppe,” Dashford said before St. Clement had the chance to heap on yet more insult. “I’m Dashford. You’ve agreed to come to my home for an impromptu performance today, I believe. We have some ladies who are most eager for pleasant diversion.”
St. Clement cocked an eyebrow and leered at Rastmoor. “Ah? Two vigorosi as yourselves, and you can’t-a give molto diversione for your ladies? For shame. But you ask Giuseppe to assist, and I accept zee very gracious invitation. See? My compagni are already preparing to go-a to your home, signore.”
“Wonderful,” Dashford said, seemingly oblivious to the embarrassingly crude caricature St. Clement was creating. In fact, Dashford got right to business, remembering what brought them out here in the first place.
“But you wouldn’t by any chance have run into an old friend of yours here recently, would you?”
St. Clement made a dramatic frown. “Old friend? But who has need of zee old-a friends when he can make-a zee new friends like yourselves, eh?”
“You’re too kind. But a young actor named Clemmons was recently a guest in my home,” Dashford explained. “I believe he said he knows you. Have you seen him?”
St. Clement pretended to give the matter deep thought. “Ah, Clemmons . . . yes, I think I know him! He played in-a Romeo and Juliet one year.” Now St. Clement gave Rastmoor a meaningful glare. “I especially like-a zee part when Signor Romeo he died.”
“You would,” Rastmoor grumbled.
“But have you seen him recently?” Dashford asked. “He hasn’t shown up here?”
“Here?” St. Clement repeated. “No one is here but my humble players, signore. As you see, we are busy getting zee wagons ready to go to your home. You are so very kind to let us stay in your most charming-a cottage last-a night.”
“And you haven’t seen Clemmons?”
“There is no one here zat is called Clemmons, signore. Just my simple band of players. So, finish your morning ride, and we’ll see you for our performance after zee little while. Bye-bye, now. Arrivederci!”
Clearly St. Clement was trying to be rid of them. Rastmoor couldn’t blame the man. In his position, he’d likely do the same. But he wasn’t in that position; he was determined to find Julia, and no overly protective father was going to stand in his way.
Well, at least not figuratively. In actuality, St. Clement was standing in his way. He nudged his horse to move away, but St. Clement carefully compensated and kept himself very securely positioned right between Rastmoor and the cottage.
Indeed, if he was going to get to Julia, he’d have to pass through the very substantial St. Clement. It was obvious he had no intentions of letting Rastmoor so much as lay eyes on Julia again. The minute he and Dashford were out of sight, St. Clement would gather his troupe—and his daughter—and be off in another direction. Well, this was simply unacceptable.
Rastmoor loved Julia. Nothing was going to deter him from seeing her again, not angry fathers, long-standing friendships, or even bad acting. He was just calculating the distance between his horse and the front door of the cottage when everything changed. The cottage door opened, and there was Julia, tripping lightly out into the yard in full view of everyone. Rastmoor’s mouth dropped open.
She was utterly beautiful.
Gone was the ill-fitting men’s clothing. Gone was the rumpled hat she’d been wearing. Gone was every shred of the awkward Mr. Clemmons. Instead, before them all was the captivating form of a stunning young woman.
She wore a flowing gown of sprigged muslin, the color of new grass and as fresh as a Sunday morning. Her crisp bonnet was trimmed with lilac and ivy, while her cropped hair haloed her face with chestnut curls. A velvet ribbon went around her throat, drawing far too much attention to the graceful rise of her neck and delicate curve of her shoulders. Two precious mounds of ivory flesh bulged at the neckline of her bodice, just enough to torment him and not nearly enough to satisfy.
The gentle mornin
g breeze tossed her skirts about her slight ankles as she made her way in velvet slippers quickly toward the group at the cart. An older woman followed behind her, but even in a garish burgundy gown and outrageously feathered turban, she was practically invisible beside Julia’s perfection. The men in the yard seemed frozen in place as all eyes followed the presumably unintentional sway of Julia’s hips. Her nut brown eyes were bright, and her smile was as innocent and guileless as a newborn babe.
By God, no wonder he was still her hopeless slave after all they’d been through.
“Here I am, Monsieur Giuseppe,” she said with a lilting French accent. “Mon Dieu, have I made us late again? Je regrette , but this gown, it is too awful and . . .”
Her eyes locked on to Rastmoor as if she were only just now aware of his presence. He knew it was an act, but he simply couldn’t help but ignore that fact when her face broke into a glorious smile. Lord, but his chest got tight when she looked at him that way.
Trousers, too.
“Why, sacre bleu! If it isn’t zee Lord Rastmoor!” she exclaimed with a delicate squeal. “Quelle surprise!”
The turbaned companion was right at her side and spoke up before Rastmoor had a chance to so much as form a thought.
“Is this gentleman one of your admirers, Mademoiselle Mignonet?” the older woman asked.
Rastmoor frowned. Mignonette? So she was still not Julia but calling herself Mignonette now? He decided to keep his mouth shut until he had a better idea what the vixen was up to.
“Oui!” Julia said, her voice a luscious coo as she batted her lashes and smiled coyly. “Dear Rastmoor has admired my talents for quite some time.”
No argument there. But what was she doing? It appeared St. Clement was in the dark regarding her new persona every bit as much as Rastmoor was. The older man cleared his throat and pinned Julia with a glare that implied warning. Papa did not approve. Blast it, but what was the girl up to?
“If mademoiselle might recall,” St. Clement told her sharply, “we are expected for a performance today. You can let il signore go back to admiring you later.”
“And look, he has a friend!” the burgundy lady remarked with a broad grin.
Julia glided toward the wagons being loaded in the yard. “Ah, but this is the only one I am looking at right now.”
Then she leaned in to whisper to her companion, something that made the older woman giggle. One of the actors milling about helped Julia up into the waiting cart, but the older woman seemed to have forgotten something and trotted back into the cottage. Julia tucked and primped her skirts around her as she settled into a seat, all the while paying no mind to her fuming father. She did, however, keep her coy smile aimed right at Rastmoor.
She batted her eyes and beamed at him across the muddy yard. To his shame, he was helpless to respond in any of the ways he probably should have responded. Instead, he was clearly responding in ways he shouldn’t.
The lilting voice went on. “Ah, mon chéri, you have come all ze way out to here for me? So romantique! But quelle dommage ; I cannot leave Monsieur Giuseppe. Non, he has been too good to me.”
“Has he, now?” Rastmoor muttered, letting his gaze roam over her delightful figure, only slightly regretting the lack of trousers that had previously flaunted her long legs. What the gown concealed in the lower areas, though, it easily made up for in the top. His eyes ate up every inch of her and only longed for more.
She paid him no mind and pressed her delicate white hand against her forehead, giving out a grand sigh. “Poor, poor Rastmoor. It is très tragique, oui, but you must learn to survive without me, chouchou. Mais, we will always have our memories, non?”
To be honest, Rastmoor wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about. All he knew was he did, indeed, have some rather vivid memories of Julia. Very vivid indeed. He would have loved to forget just about everything else, as a matter of fact, but slowly he recalled that he and Julia were not alone here, and that her very charming demeanor just now was merely an act.
Dashford was watching them with marked curiosity.
“So, this is another one of your actresses?” the man had the nerve to ask. Loudly.
Rastmoor winced, and Julia frowned, of course.
“What? Does he imply zere are others?” she asked with dramatic affectation. “But mon chére Rastmoor, you tell me I am zee only one!”
“How awkward,” Dashford said. “What with Giuseppe mucking about, and all. And Clemmons, too, of course.”
Julia frowned again. “But as monsieur has said, we have not seen Mr. Clemmons. Why on earth would you think he is here now?”
“Because he was trying to send a message here last night, and now he’s gone missing,” Dashford said. “We’d be ever so glad if you could produce him just now.”
“But we can’t!” Julia said quickly, minus a bit of the treacle-sweet accent.
“Clemmons is not here, sir,” St. Clement said, cutting her off. “If he was trying to contact us, we’ve heard nothing.”
Dashford studied him for a moment. “Haven’t you?”
Julia nodded earnestly and batted her thick eyelashes. “Non, monsieur, we have heard nothing.”
Suddenly, they all heard something. A gunshot. It rang out loudly, an echoing crack from somewhere nearby. Julia shrieked.
“Well, that certainly sounded like something,” Dashford said.
“IT CAME FROM INSIDE THE COTTAGE,” RASTMOOR said.
Thank God Julia was right out here before him, or else he would have been tempted to panic right then. As it was, Dashford seemed a bit concerned by the unexpected gunfire. Then again, so did everyone else. Indeed, that must mean whoever was in there shooting was not exactly authorized to do so.
That must mean it had something to do with Fitzgelder.
“Damn it,” Rastmoor muttered as he and Dashford instinctively leapt from their mounts and took off toward the cottage.
“Clemmons?” Dashford asked, sending him a worried glance.
Rastmoor wasn’t certain if his friend was suggesting Clemmons was the shooter or the shootee, but either way he shook his head. “No.”
“Fitzgelder.” Dashford’s words were a statement rather than a question. Rastmoor agreed.
He did not, however, agree with what he noticed behind him. Julia was there, trotting along beside her father as the whole group from the yard rushed toward the cottage. By God, what was the woman thinking? Someone in there was unexpectedly shooting! She ought to be running the other way, the suicidal ninny.
He purposely stopped in his tracks. She crashed into him from behind. It was not altogether an unpleasant experience.
Rastmoor took full advantage of her momentary loss of balance. He rounded on her, taking hold of her soft, slender shoulders, quite determined not to let go any time soon. He willed her into meeting his eyes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise. Did she honestly think he’d just stand by and let her run into a house with random gunfire? She obviously didn’t know him very well.
“Stay out here, where it’s safe,” he ordered. He could see plainly she had no intention of obeying.
Especially when the next noise they heard was loud, feminine screeching coming from the same general direction as the gunshot.
“Mrs. Bixley!” she exclaimed and nearly shook herself free from Rastmoor’s grip.
Now, he had no clue who this Mrs. Bixley was, but if she was important to Julia and if she was in mortal danger, he knew, of course, Julia would not let a little thing like his demands keep her from rushing in there. Julia would be joining them indoors.
“Damnation,” he said and released his hold on her shoulders. “Very well, come with me. But stay behind me.”
Fortunately, there hadn’t appeared to be any repeat of the gunfire, and as they drew closer to the house, it was obvious the screeching was not the weakening death cry of some helpless victim. It was, he quickly realized, the an
gry scolding of an angry woman. She certainly did not sound as if her life was in any immediate danger. Now, whoever she was yelling at, however . . .
The good thing about having taken that pause to make his vain attempt to keep Julia from rushing into the cottage was that now they were well and safely behind the others. Dashford led the way in through the front door, St. Clement followed, then came two actors before Rastmoor and Julia at last made it into the building. The screeching had stopped, and the ancient cottage resounded with footsteps clomping up the staircase. Rastmoor fell into step, careful to keep himself directly in front of Julia should their mysterious shooter suddenly appear from above.
He didn’t really expect that he’d particularly enjoy being shot, but he knew he’d enjoy the alternative much less. Having already lost Julia once through betrayal, once through death, and once to the imaginary Giuseppe this morning, he was in no hurry to lose her to a crazed gunman right now. Besides, in that god-awful peacock coat, St. Clement made a much more obvious target.
He trailed the group of concerned men into what he recognized as the master bedroom of the home. As expected, there was a fuming woman in there, foot tapping and fists dug into her hips. She was none other than the burgundy nightmare from earlier. Her anger, it appeared, was directed toward a middle-aged man who stood across from her. He was the one holding the gun.
“What the devil?” St. Clement shouted in a voice that was surprisingly—and blessedly—devoid of Italian accent.
“He’s tearing up the bloody house!” the woman shrieked.
Her clothes made St. Clement’s seem pale in comparison, and a wilted ostrich feather bobbed in her turban. She was not altogether an unattractive woman of a certain age, though by her wardrobe it appeared she’d worked hard to conceal that. Rastmoor wondered what part she was supposed to be playing. He watched St. Clement carefully for anything he might learn from the man’s expression, but it turned out to be a waste of time. The only hint of emotion on St. Clement’s face was a slight quirk to his left eyebrow. Rastmoor decided he’d have to categorize that as a display of mild curiosity.
Damsel in Disguise Page 27
