“So this is the real Julia St. Clement,” he said, and she could feel his horrible eyes raking over her body. “I wondered what my deluded cousin saw in that first one, but now I understand. You truly are exquisite. I should have known that other was not the right one. But I suppose the fault was not entirely mine. You went to great effort to make a fool of me, didn’t you? You and that slut I was tricked into marrying.”
His fingers were digging, bruising her, and her lungs were crushed under his angry force. Still, she forced herself to stay calm. Fainting and hysteria never helped anyone. Somehow Fitzgelder would make a mistake, and she’d have her opportunity to escape. All it would take was just one moment, one cry, and the others would hear and come running. She just needed to wait.
“I suppose you’re wondering what I have planned for you,” he said.
As if she could answer. The idiot. She muttered curses she had no hope of him understanding. It was safe to assume he got the gist of it, though.
He laughed at her. “Talkative, aren’t you? Well, I’ll make a bargain. I’ll release your mouth so you can speak, but if you make any peep louder than a whisper, I’ll slit your throat. Fair?”
Hell, no! But given the circumstance, she’d agree to it. She nodded as best she could, considering there was a lethal knife at her throat.
For the first time ever, Fitzgelder was true to his word. He relaxed his fingers just enough for her to gasp out a reply.
“You’d best pray my father doesn’t learn of this,” she said.
He actually spat on her. “Your father? Hell. I care nothing for a broken-down, insignificant actor. No, my focus is entirely on my magnificent cousin, the wonderful Viscount Rastmoor. That title should have come to me! My father was the older son, you know.”
“I’ve heard,” she said. It was probably unwise, but she didn’t stop there. “You, however, are nothing more than a bastard.”
She winced as the knife blade pressed painfully into her skin. Yes, it had been unwise to say that. But she’d enjoyed it.
“You really are in no position to insult, Miss St. Clement. Given the circumstances, I would expect you to be much more agreeable. After all, I have your life literally in my hands.”
Ouch! The tip of the blade pierced her. She could feel the first drops of blood trailing down her neck. Indeed, now would be a very good time to scream!
“One extra sound from you, and you will be dead before your precious father finds you here,” he said as if he’d read her mind. “And I will be gone. Lindley was kind enough to unlock my door for me.”
She had plenty more to say to him, but this time she thought it through before babbling something that would only result in further injury to her person. “How did you manage to get a man like Lindley to side with you in all this?”
He laughed at her apparent stupidity. “Money, my dear! Everyone knows Lindley’s father squandered the family fortune. The man may have inherited an earldom, but he got a king’s ransom in debt with it, too. He’s had to lie, cheat, and steal to keep a roof over his head—and Lindley prefers an expensive roof. All I had to do was mention that I knew the secrets of a hidden French fortune, and he’s been my bosom friend ever since. Everyone has their price, you know.”
He seemed to honestly believe that. And perhaps he was right. She would have never guessed her father could be won over by simple treasure, but it seemed that he had been. But perhaps she could use this to her advantage.
“It must be a very large treasure,” she whispered.
“Enormous,” he whispered back.
“How did you find out about it?”
“Ah, suddenly you’re not so eager to be free of me, are you? Yes, everyone can be bought for a price.”
“My father and that other man seem to think they have rights to this treasure.” It was a dangerous thing to say, and she held her breath, but he seemed to be enjoying the conversation.
“Perhaps they do. Obviously they were a part of bringing it into the country to fund some of their countrymen who were here, working for their little emperor and spying on the Crown.”
“What? You mean this treasure was used to support French spies, right here on English soil?”
“Dastardly, isn’t it? Do you really expect me to believe you had no idea your father was a spy? That he was betraying the country that had housed him and supported him for so long? My, but that is tragic, my dear.”
No, it couldn’t be true! Papa was a spy? She would not believe it.
Fitzgelder’s shoulders shook against her. He was laughing. Damn him, but he was laughing at her again.
“Poor little actress. I’m tempted to believe you truly did not know. Well, perhaps he never intended to share it with you.”
That she knew would never be true. But Fitzgelder didn’t. He must have never known a parent who would sacrifice and give up his own hopes and dreams for the sake of his child. On some level she supposed Fitzgelder should be pitied, but it was a little difficult to do that right now while he held a knife to her throat and breathed his sticky breath all over her.
But now that she understood his weakness, she would find a way to use it against him. She’d done it before, hadn’t she? And this time she’d not hide behind someone else. She’d defeat the man on her own.
“He was so disappointed in me when I failed to marry Rastmoor,” she said, feigning a tremble in her lip. “He wanted me to make a match there; he helped convince Rastmoor I was more than just a common actress. When you came to tell Papa that Rastmoor had learned the truth and wanted no part of me, he was furious.”
Fitzgelder rumbled with prideful mirth. “Yes, I remember that. I told him I had my cousin’s vowels, that he’d wagered you at the table and purposely lost you to me. Oh, but the old man was livid. Threatened to kill me if I tried to claim that purse, as I recall.”
She was silent. The conversation was taking a dangerous turn—she was certain Fitzgelder would not like to be reminded of what happened next, when Kitty approached him and claimed to be Julia.
“That’s why he sent that actress, wasn’t it?” Fitzgelder said. “He thought if he appeased me with her, then perhaps he could still snag Rastmoor for you. Silly man. He should have realized Rastmoor is a gentleman. He could never really take a wife like you, a common slut from the gutter, no matter how charming and delicious.”
“Yes, we found that out. Papa was furious about that, too,” she lied.
“Your father must not know human nature, Miss St. Clement,” he said, his voice lulling her as his grip relaxed.
Yes, this was what she wanted. She let herself lean into him; listen as if the sun and moon hung on his very words. Years of experience on the stage came in rather handy right now as she let go of her disgust and willed her body to react to his nearness. She even gave out a tiny sigh as he let one finger trace the edge of her jawline.
“Rastmoor is a man of stature, a peer of the realm,” he went on. “When he can take a wife with beauty, breeding, and a healthy dowry, why would he settle for one with merely beauty? Your father overestimated your charms, my dear.”
“I did the best I could,” she whimpered. “In the end, he wouldn’t have me.”
She felt him exhale, the moist air prickling the back of her neck. He was bending into her, caressing her. He spoke, and his voice took on the tone of a lover. “Rastmoor is a fool. I am not. I will have the woman of beauty and I’ll have the treasure.”
“Can you get it? Do you have the missing locket?”
“Yes,” he said, kissing her neck where the blade of the knife had cut her. “Our friend Lindley was kind enough to tell me where I might find it.”
“Then all you need is the other locket, and you can get the treasure!”
She didn’t bother to mention the fact that the box was probably locked away somewhere under Dashford’s care, and it would likely take more than a scheming Lindley to get his hands on it.
“And that other locket rests with your father, d
oesn’t it?”
“I know where he keeps it,” she said. “I can get it.”
“Can you? Can I trust you, Miss St. Clement?”
“As you say, Mr. Fitzgelder,” she said, letting her voice drop low and her lips angle up toward his, “we all have our price.”
His kiss was vile. His touch made her skin crawl. She turned in his arms to help him, though, as he sought to possess her mouth. She managed to keep from vomiting by focusing on the knife. Slowly, she felt the harsh metal leave her skin and trail harmlessly down her back to withdraw entirely just before she heard the sound of metal clattering on the cold stone floor.
Ever so gingerly, she edged her foot out behind her until finally she felt the hilt of the knife under her slipper. Carefully, she slid the knife in closer, letting Fitzgelder ravage her mouth with his awkward kiss and enduring his hands as they ranged over her body. Eventually the entire knife was safely under her foot, concealed by her gown and waiting for just the right opportunity.
She’d killed once. She could do it again.
“IT’S DOWN THIS WAY,” RASTMOOR SAID, GUIDING HIS mother down the narrow staircase toward the kitchens located in the lowest level of Hartwood.
“I don’t even want to know why you are so familiar with this area of Dashford’s home,” his mother said with an imperious harrumph.
“When we’d come visiting years ago, you and Father would be abovestairs discussing very adult things with Dash’s parents,” he explained for her. “Dash and I would come down here and do very adult things with the scullery maids.”
She didn’t even bother to slap him as he’d half expected. “I’m going to assume you’re teasing me.”
He just shrugged. “Assume whatever you like.”
Well, at least she was speaking to him. He supposed that was something to be grateful for. He’d have to come up with more outlandish lies, however, if he hoped to produce a chuckle. Clearly she was even more upset about Julia than he’d expected. He wondered how Julia was going to take it.
“It’s just through here,” he said, indicating the wide opening that led from this section of the house to an older one.
Raucous laughter was filling the corridor. His mother rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“It sounds as if your sister is developing similar tastes in entertainment as you. Honestly, Anthony, I don’t know what to do with either of you. I’m almost afraid what we’ll find in there.”
Hmm, maybe she had a point. Perhaps it would be best if he went ahead of her.
“Mother, it is a kitchen,” he said in his gentlest voice ever. “It might be rather warm in there and may not smell quite right. Perhaps I ought to go in and bring Penelope out here to you. Look, there’s a little room over here where you can wait.”
He pushed the door open to a storage room and smiled at his mother, hoping she’d take his advice. But she didn’t. Instead, she gaped into the room as if Napoleon himself were in there. Rastmoor’s head jerked around as he heard something metallic clatter against the floor.
His mind couldn’t even fathom what his eyes were seeing. Julia? Kissing Fitzgelder? It couldn’t possibly be. Could it?
He must have stared forever. She seemed to be inching ever closer to the man, allowing him to paw all over her like some drunken letch, and she was doing absolutely nothing to stop it. He blinked a couple times just to be sure the vision was real.
“See? Just what I told you. She’s a whore!” his mother announced.
Rastmoor barely heard her. All he could think of was getting Fitzgelder away from Julia. So he did. He dove for the man, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him against the wall. A bag containing flour toppled over and sent up a white, dusty cloud. Julia shrieked, then coughed.
Fitzgelder probably would have been coughing, too, except that Rastmoor had him by the throat and was in the process of strangling him.
“You are going to wish you hadn’t done that, Fitzgelder,” Rastmoor growled.
In the background he could hear his mother bellowing. Strange, but she was not crying out in concern for her battling son or even for the trauma of having witnessed such a frightful scene as the octopus Fitzgelder pillaging poor Julia. She was hollering at the top of her lungs for Penelope.
“Miss Penelope Rastmoor, you get yourself here to me at once,” she roared. “This instant, young lady! Cavorting with theater persons? Not in this lifetime!”
The distant laughter stopped, and presently Rastmoor was aware of the rumble of approaching footsteps. Good. They could deal with his mother. He already had his hands full with the still somewhat living Fitzgelder.
“Anthony, stop,” Julia said.
He had to pause for a moment in his murderous endeavor to glance over at her to make sure he’d heard right. “Stop?”
“Don’t kill him until he tells you where the other locket is,” she instructed.
Ah, sensible girl. So that’s why she was allowing his advances. Julia always did have a good head about her. He glared at Fitzgelder. “Where’s the other locket?”
His cousin shook himself back to consciousness and actually had the nerve to smile. “I don’t know. I just told her I knew so she’d let me climb on top of her. It worked, now, didn’t it?”
“No, bastard, it didn’t work. Instead, you got me climbing on top of you. Now, where’s the other locket?”
“I tell you, I don’t know!”
The door at the other side of the little room opened up, and suddenly Julia’s father and D’Archaud burst in. One look around at the floured floor and Rastmoor’s aggressive position, and it was clear they had an idea what had been going on. St. Clement ran to his daughter, while D’Archaud observed things from the doorway. It appeared there was something in his hand . . .
“Watch yourself!” Rastmoor heard his mother cry out. Bloody hell, did she give up on Penelope and decide to come in here now to critique his actions?
“Mother, I think I can handle things—” he began, only to be silenced by his mother’s insistent pointing.
But she was staring past him, waving a finger toward D’Archaud. “He’s got a gun!”
Sure enough, Rastmoor peered over his shoulder to find his mother was correct. D’Archaud had a gun. Wonderful.
For a moment, the Frenchman looked confused, but after a quick glance and a nod from St. Clement, he stood up taller and held the gun toward Rastmoor.
“Yes,” he said. “I do have a gun. And I’m not afraid to use it.”
“I say, see here now, D’Archaud . . .” Rastmoor said, torn between turning around to negotiate for his life and staying right were he was to rob Fitzgelder of his.
“Just say the word, Rastmoor, and I’ll blow off his stupide head for you,” D’Archaud went on. “He’s nothing but a worthless bag of worms.”
Julia wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “So that’s what it was,” she muttered.
Her father was horribly concerned. He was fussing over her, and she turned her head just enough that Rastmoor noticed the blood. Damn it, this bastard had hurt her!
Julia must have noticed their stares and felt the boiling rage in the air. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m fine. I, er, distracted him, and he dropped the knife. I’ve got it here.” She stepped sideways and pulled up her skirts. Sure enough, there was a cold, deadly little knife right there on the floor.
That must have been what Rastmoor heard dropping. By God, he knew there had to be some reasonable, rational excuse for Julia to be kissing the man like that. She was simply preparing to jab him with a knife. That made perfect sense.
“I truly was going to use it,” she said, glaring at Fitzgelder.
Rastmoor threw the man back against the wall and stepped away, brushing flour from his coat. No sense further mussing himself if D’Archaud and his pistol had Fitzgelder firmly under control.
Unfortunately, he didn’t.
Fitzgelder took advantage of his momentary freedom to leap up to his feet and lunge across the
small room toward D’Archaud. He knocked the man backward, sending him staggering out the door and the pistol flying out of his hands. Fitzgelder caught it with unexpected grace.
He smiled and turned to the group. “All right, now who’s got the upper hand? Everyone over there, in that corner. Now! Or Miss St. Clement gets a hole in her chest to go along with that little scratch on her neck.”
They complied. Even Rastmoor’s mother was forced to gather with them, helpless in the corner while a very angry, very twitchy Fitzgelder took pleasure in every moment of his authority.
“Well, since you’re all here, and I’ve got such a lovely target standing right in front of me, perhaps one of you can give me what I need.”
“I’ll give you what you need . . .” St. Clement mumbled before dropping into some very impolite French that even Rastmoor wasn’t sure he’d heard before.
“I’ll tell you what I need. I need the location of that other locket. Tell me, and I’ll let Miss St. Clement live. Don’t tell me, and she dies.”
“How can we tell you what we don’t know?” D’Archaud argued.
“It’s a trick,” Julia said. “He already knows where it is. Lindley told him.”
Fitzgelder shook his head and laughed. “No, he didn’t. I lied to you, Miss St. Clement. Honestly, did you really think Lindley would ever do anything to help me?”
“But I saw him! He broke the lock on your door . . . he said he had something you’d be interested in,” Julia said, her eyebrows crinkling adorably.
“Yes, the bastard, he did have something for me, but nothing I wanted. He came to show me a letter he had from the Home Office implicating me in some rather unsavory activities over the past few years. He thought I’d just gladly fill him in on the missing details, maybe give him the names of my associates. Ha! He got nothing from me. Nothing but a bump in the head.”
“What have you done to Lindley?” Rastmoor asked.
“I left him locked in my room. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s dead. Yet.”
“But I thought you said you were paying him to work for you?” Julia asked.
Damsel in Disguise Page 33
