Well, at least that indicated St. Clement felt the danger here was minimal. Rastmoor could stand relieved that his chances of taking a lead ball while throwing himself in front of Julia were slim. He appreciated those odds. Still, it did all leave him a bit confused. What on earth was going on?
The ostrich feather flounced violently as the turbaned woman graciously enlightened them all. “This damn fool sneaks in here while the rest of us was out in the front. He thinks no one sees him, but I do. I see him and follow him up here, whoever the hell he is. He comes in here and goes to ripping out those floorboards! I swear, I told him not to.”
“Of course you did, Mrs. Bixley,” St. Clement said in a remarkably soothing voice.
She was not soothed. “I told him there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t stop, but I guess he thought it was just fine that we’d be the ones getting in trouble for his mischief, the useless jackanapes. He wouldn’t pay me no mind. He just went on yanking up those boards, and then he pulls out that bloody pistol and starts shooting at something he finds under there!”
An odd story, yet indeed, someone had quite truly ripped out several floorboards just near the foot of the bed. A shame, really. The cottage may be in need of certain repairs, but overall it still held quite a bit of charm. Dashford could not be pleased to find it so rudely vandalized. What must this mutton-headed gunman be thinking to make such a mess, right in broad daylight?
Rastmoor watched him. Like St. Clement, the puzzling housebreaker showed very little emotion. If anything, he seemed nothing more than peeved by the woman’s ranting. Odd, considering that if she was to be believed, then he would soon find himself in a good deal of trouble. At any rate, it appeared he had just the one gun. Plus, he was thoroughly outnumbered. If he did get peeved enough by the accusations that he suddenly developed the urge to reload and put the ostrich feather out of its obvious misery, he’d be taken down long before a second shot could ring out.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing here?” Dashford asked, taking a step closer to the gunman and examining the hole in his floor.
The gunman glanced from Dashford to St. Clement and raised his eyebrows as if in question. St. Clement sighed.
“This is his lordship, Dashford,” he said with a casual nod in Dashford’s direction.
The gunman seemed to understand and nodded in reply. Still, he said nothing.
The turbaned woman made up for his silence. “I swear, it wasn’t none of our troupe that did that there, my lord, sir. We’re respectable people, we are. I don’t know who this ruffian is or what he’s trying to accomplish, but he’s got nothing to do with us, and that’s a fact.”
No, it wasn’t. Rastmoor had been witnessing a very telling display of silent communication between St. Clement and the other man. He had no clue what any of it meant, of course, but the nods, eye movements, and subtle gestures the two were making could not possibly be misinterpreted. They most certainly did have something to do with each other.
Dashford crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the gunman. “It’s the treasure, isn’t it?”
Aha! A trace of recognition stole across the man’s face. So Dashford had struck a nerve, had he? Well, the fool ripping up the floor would be in for some disappointment. Rastmoor knew something about treasure.
Apparently Julia did not. “Treasure?” she asked.
If Dashford noticed the fact that she, too, was suddenly minus one ridiculous accent, he gave no indication. Instead, he chuckled. “The Loveland treasure, Miss, er, Mignonette. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
She shook her head. Great. Dashford just loved telling the story of his grandfather’s mistress who’d been installed here at Loveland years ago and the rumors that had circulated for decades about a treasure hidden nearby. No doubt they’d all be forced to listen to it. Again.
“There’ve been stories around the countryside for years that some magnificent treasure was hidden here by smugglers,” Dashford said, thankfully giving them the shortened version of the tale. “But I’m sorry to tell you we’ve once and for all put that rumor to rest. What treasure there was has already been discovered.”
Now, that brought actual surprise to the gunman’s features, while both of St. Clement’s eyebrows twitched. Julia seemed no more shocked or confused than she already had been. Rastmoor decided that was a good sign. He’d remember to point it out to Dashford if his friend took it upon himself to prosecute the looters.
“You mean to say this fool is up here trying to steal treasure that’s already long gone?” the older woman asked with a self-righteous sneer, her feather dancing overhead.
“Yes, unfortunately. That poor floorboard has suffered in vain,” Dashford replied.
“The treasure’s been found?” St. Clement asked. “How? By whom? And where is it now?”
Now Julia appeared somewhat more surprised. She completely forgot herself and turned to gape at her father. “Papa? You knew about this treasure?”
This time it was Dashford’s turn to appear surprised. He refocused his gaze from the men onto Julia. “Papa? You mean Signor Giuseppe is your father?”
No one replied, so Dashford turned to St. Clement. “You’re not really Giuseppe, are you?”
No one replied to that, either, so the man with the gun spoke up. “Who the hell is Giuseppe?”
St. Clement groaned and rolled his eyes. Whatever game the men—and Julia—had been playing was clearly not well-organized. It was falling apart right before their eyes. Rastmoor wondered just exactly what he’d learn as he watched it unravel. Then again, perhaps he ought to think of what Dashford would learn as things unraveled. All it would take was one person, one actor or one feather-headed matron, to call Julia by her real name, and Dashford would figure it all out.
He’d probably try to rescue Rastmoor from his own stupidity by having St. Clement’s whole bloody troupe—Julia included—incarcerated for housebreaking and vandalism. Rastmoor didn’t relish trying to untangle that mess. It seemed that the best thing to do, under the circumstances, was to take sides with the woman in the turban.
“I think it’s obvious our housebreaker here doesn’t even know these good people,” Rastmoor announced. “Perhaps now that he knows the treasure is gone, he’ll apologize for all the trouble and make the appropriate repairs to the floor. Then no harm done, right?”
“But it’s not gone,” the man said simply. “It’s right here.”
He pointed down into the hole he’d made in the floor. Hell. This was certainly going to slow down the process of extricating Julia from the muddle. He had a fair notion the only thing to be breaking loose any time soon was, well, all hell.
Chapter Eighteen
What in heaven’s name was treasure doing buried under Dashford’s abandoned floorboards? More importantly, how on earth did Papa know about it?
Oh yes, Julia had no doubt Papa knew about that treasure. Whether that was a part of his motivation to come here or whether he really had made his way to Loveland in an effort to be near her, she wasn’t entirely certain. She’d like to believe it was the latter, but something about the glances he’d been shooting back and forth between that strange man with the pistol gave her doubt.
She recognized the man. She didn’t know his name, but she’d seen him. Not quite two weeks ago, in fact. She’d seen him with Papa outside the home where they’d stayed in Oxford before their disastrous visit to London. She’d asked about the man—they’d seemed so deep in conversation and so hushed in their tones—but Papa explained he was merely an actor looking for work. She’d thought nothing more of it, although now she realized it had been precisely after that meeting that Papa had announced they’d be stopping in London before going on to an engagement in Gloucester.
Now, she’d never claimed to be a scholar of geography, but she knew enough to recognize that London was not anywhere near the route they would normally take from Oxford to Gloucester. It was, in fact, quite the opposite direction. Clearly th
eir trip had not been a simple little detour.
What had this man said to Papa to make him divert their whole troupe as he had? Given how tight their finances had been lately, she couldn’t deny the mention of treasure might have done the trick. Had Papa been plotting something with this reckless vandal all along? But why go to London—where they’d accidentally encountered Fitzgelder and been forced to embark on this recent debacle—instead of coming directly here?
She couldn’t make sense of it. If only she had the opportunity to ask him. It was plain to see, however, that Lord Dashford was not about to allow for private conversation. His lordship eyed them all with heavy suspicion. That hole in his floor did not make him happy, nor was he glad to see a stranger reach into said hole and pull out a fairly large metal box: a metal box that gave every impression of being built to hold—and protect—a treasure.
She looked up at Rastmoor and found his eyes. He leaned toward her.
“You didn’t know about this, did you?” he whispered.
She shook her head. Would he believe her? She wasn’t sure. He turned back to the scene before them and watched as the metal box was brought into full view.
“Hand that here,” Dashford directed.
The man glared from Dashford to Papa. Oddly enough, Papa nodded. The man seemed displeased by that but nodded in return. Grumbling, he relinquished the box. Dashford seemed to be doing his own grumbling, but he took the box and placed it on the washstand beside him for study.
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” the man replied.
Julia wondered if Papa could say the same. His face was unreadable, which usually meant he was hiding something. But what?
“How does it open?” Dashford questioned after a moment or two of looking at the box from various angles and frowning.
Julia leaned closer to try to see, but Rastmoor was blocking her view. The more she tried to see around him, the more he seemed to stand in front of her. Drat the man! Did he think she would attempt to steal the treasure right out from under the noses of Dashford and all these gold-hungry men? Ridiculous.
She was not even convinced there really was a treasure. The man with the pistol, for instance, didn’t seem the least concerned about Dashford’s inquisition or the eager eyes leering at him. He simply shrugged. “You need keys,” he announced. “Two of them—specially made.” Before anyone could ask, he continued. “I don’t have them.”
“Who does?” Rastmoor demanded. He looked directly at Papa.
The room was silent. So was Papa. Julia could feel the tension starting to mount. If there really was treasure in that box, and someone here really did have the keys to open it, then something was clearly just about to happen. And it would probably not be good for Dashford. Even with Rastmoor to back him up, the man was hopelessly outnumbered.
Oh, what on earth had Papa gotten involved in?
“I don’t know who has them,” the man replied smoothly. “That’s why I tried to shoot it open. Didn’t work.”
“Idiot,” Papa grumbled. “You could have damaged it.”
“Where are the keys?” Dashford repeated.
“I don’t know!” the man snapped. “They may have changed hands over the years.”
“But you have a reasonable idea that you can find them, don’t you?” Dashford asked.
The man merely gave an unconvincing shrug, so Dashford continued. “Unless perhaps you plan to take a hammer to it and risk destroying whatever is inside. Hmm, perhaps we should do that right now?”
“No!” both the gunman and Papa chimed together.
Well, that answered one question. Papa obviously knew what was inside, or at least he seemed to have a good idea what might be there. Botheration, why had he not told her he’d learned of a treasure hidden in an abandoned cottage? Heavens, if she’d known, perhaps she could have done more to keep Rastmoor and Dashford from finding them here.
“I think you should do it, Dash,” Rastmoor said. “Surely we can find something heavy around here to bash it. It’s your house, so whatever’s in that box is yours, too.”
Dashford contemplated this. “Actually, it’s my wife’s. This house—and everything in it—rightfully belongs to her. I should probably take this back to Hartwood so we can bash it open in her presence.”
“Yes, excellent idea,” Rastmoor agreed.
Julia did not agree. The dark look the gunman was sending to Papa hinted that he, also, did not agree. Rightful owner or not, it was obvious he had no intention of letting Dashford take the treasure and leave. But just what lengths would he go to in order to get the box away from Dashford? And would Papa help him? Lord, she hoped not! The law did not look favorably upon commoners who acted with violence against the peerage.
Dashford let the tension in the room build for just another heartbeat, then he tucked the box under his arm and straightened his coat. “Well, Rastmoor, shall we be off, then?”
“No!” the man shouted.
Things happened quickly. Before Julia even had time to blink, the man had leapt past Dashford and was grabbing poor Mrs. Bixley. Something flashed at her throat. Good heavens! The man had a knife!
“Stop, or she starts bleeding,” the man warned as Rastmoor and Dashford together turned on him.
Thankfully, they stopped. Mrs. Bixley was wide-eyed and shocked into silence. That in itself was alarming. Julia had never known the woman to be silent. Ever.
“No!” Papa suddenly bellowed.
Julia jolted. So did the others. She glanced around the room, taking in the range of emotion swirling around. There was desperation in the eyes of the man with the knife, fear on Mrs. Bixley’s face, and an eager anticipation on the two actors who had accompanied them. Dashford seemed tense and ready to move, while Rastmoor was deadly calm. She noticed that he’d managed to slide himself between her and the others—again—and she wondered if perhaps she’d been too hasty to interpret that as mistrust on his part.
Could it be, rather, that he was protecting her? That was kind of sweet, actually. What a pity this was hardly the time for her to revel in such a show of affection.
“Enough violence,” Papa announced, glaring ice at the man with the knife. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Release her this instant!”
“But he’s going to take the box!” the man protested.
“Let him bloody have it!” Mrs. Bixley wheezed, obviously somewhat recovered from her initial shock.
“It’s not worth this,” Papa went on.
“It is! You don’t know, but I need it. I need all of it,” the man declared.
“The only thing you’re getting is a visit to the hangman if you cause that woman any injury whatsoever,” Dashford said.
“That, and I’ll give you a swift kick in the gooseberries,” Mrs. Bixley assured her captor.
Papa sighed. “She’ll do it; trust me. Just let her go and give it up.”
“What, so he can bash it open? You think I’m going to let that happen? You know good and well it will be useless if he destroys it.”
Papa sighed again. “I know. I won’t let that happen. Lord Dashford, if you will refrain from bashing the box, I will tell you who has the keys.”
“No!” the man protested.
His hands fell limp to his sides, and the knife clattered to the floor. Mrs. Bixley stood motionless for half a second, then quickly made good her word and nailed her attacker with a swift kick to the, er, gooseberries. He crumpled to the floor.
“That’ll teach you, worthless mongrel!” she said over her shoulder as she scurried to stand beside Papa.
Dashford kicked the knife to Rastmoor who scooped it up, lest anyone else get ideas. Julia let herself relax, but only slightly. The danger seemed momentarily averted, but there was still an awful lot she did not understand.
“All right, then,” Dashford said. “I won’t bash the box. But I need some answers! To start with, tell me who has the keys.”
The man
on the floor moaned. Julia didn’t think it was entirely due to his injury. The greedy thing, he really did not want Papa to give up so easily.
“One belongs to an actress, my lord,” Papa said, his silly, affected accent long gone. In fact, the only vestige left of Signor Giuseppe was, well, his vestment. Other than the insufferable clothing, Papa was very much his old self. No one seemed the least interested in this recent transformation, however.
“Which actress?” Rastmoor asked.
“Julia St. Clement,” Papa replied with just the hint of an ironic smile.
“Hellfire,” Dashford swore. “She’s been dead three years! Her bloody husband likely took everything she left and sold it.”
Julia was no less surprised than the others, though obviously for other reasons. What was Papa talking about? She didn’t own any mysterious key. He must be fabricating this simply to buy some time. Good grief, was he planning to cross Dashford? She’d love to tell him that was likely not a very good idea.
She glanced at Rastmoor. No surprise, he was eyeing her with a questioning quirk in his brow. She spared him a slight, confused shrug. He turned back to Papa.
“Who’s got the other key, damn it?” Rastmoor asked.
Papa winced. “Well, I’m afraid that gets a little bit tricky. I’m not sure who has it right this moment.”
“Guess,” Dashford ordered.
This time Papa deferred to the man with the gun. “Well?” he said, expectant.
The man frowned and dragged himself up off the floor. “I told you, I don’t know. But if I had to guess, I’d have to say, er, what time is it?” The man made a great show of pulling up his watch to check. “Well, by now it’s probably made its way to our dear friend, Mr. Fitzgelder.”
Now it was Papa’s turn to groan. Rastmoor joined him.
But Dashford simply nodded. “Well, then. I’d say we ought to go have a talk with dear Mr. Fitzgelder.”
“Or something like that,” Rastmoor grumbled.
“But if he knows where—” the gunman started, only to be cut off by a sharp word from Papa.
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