“Yes, well, apparently the generous people in our office of the interior were paying him more to work for them.”
“You mean Lindley has been investigating you?” Rastmoor said it, but even the very question sounded incredible.
“It would appear so, the Judas Iscariot. I thought he was my friend!”
“No, he’s nobody’s friend,” D’Archaud announced. “He’s a damn spy hunter, and he doesn’t much care who gets punished for what crimes.”
“Papa! Does that mean Lindley has been investigating you, too?” Julia asked.
“Well, if he has, I’m sure he’s been disappointed, ma belle. I’m afraid I’ve never been so adventurous as to engage in any of those goings-on. No, life in the theater has been adventure enough.”
Julia glanced back at Fitzgelder. “You said that Papa . . .”
“Lies again, Miss St. Clement!” the bastard said, mocking her. “Really, for such an accomplished little trollop, you’re hopelessly naive. But all this distracts me from my purpose. Tell me where I might find that locket! One of you switched it. Was it you, D’Archaud? You, Rastmoor? Or even our sweet Julia? Tell me, or she dies!”
They all just looked at each other. Rastmoor wondered if that was because no one had an answer, or if someone was simply risking Julia’s life for his own personal gain. He watched them all closely, especially Fitzgelder. Unfortunately, the man was becoming more and more unhinged by the minute. With that gun trained constantly on Julia, there was no telling what might happen.
He had to do something about that.
“Did you think to ask Lindley about it before you bashed in his head?” Rastmoor asked, inching away from Julia and hoping Fitzgelder—and the gun—would follow. “Did it ever dawn on you that he would have had the most opportunity as well as the most reason to switch that?”
“Of course I asked him,” Fitzgelder said. “He claimed he didn’t know—he thought I had it.”
“Oh, and he couldn’t possibly have been lying, could he? I say we go up and ask him, if he’s not dead already. All of us, right now. We could force the truth out of him.”
“Look, I’m the one deciding what we do,” Fitzgelder said, his voice rising.
Rastmoor continued his slow creeping away from Julia, separating himself from the group. “Are you? I don’t hear much deciding, Cousin. All I hear is complaining about how everyone else isn’t doing things the way you like it. If you’re really the one in charge here, why not be decisive. Go to the one who has your answers.”
“No, stop it! I know what you’re trying to do,” Fitzgelder was waving the gun wildly now. “You always think you can tell me what to do; always the head of the household. Just because your damn father was married to your mother, you think that makes you better than me. Well, it doesn’t. I know things about your father! I know what he did—things Lindley would love to know about, too—things I’ve got proof of all neatly tucked away in that locket.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ha! Why do you think your father had that locket to begin with? It belonged to D’Archaud, didn’t it? Well, he gave it to your father—gave it to him as insurance that your father wouldn’t do anything to upset the applecart, as they say. It was a reminder that D’Archaud knew things that your father wouldn’t want made public, and vice versa. I guess neither of them counted on your poor papa sticking in his spoon quite so early, did they?”
“I think you’d do well to shut up right now, Cousin,” Rastmoor warned.
His cousin, of course, paid him no mind. “But he did die, leaving D’Archaud in a bit of a bind. How was he going to get his precious little locket back now? Rastmoor’s widow wasn’t likely to let something like that get out into the world. Poor, poor D’Archaud. All he could do was get drunk and wallow in his own self-pity. He left his wife and brat and went off with the only people who seemed to care about him: actors. That’s how I came to know of it. Dearest mother was rather a friend of his . . . for a time. Now, isn’t that ironic?”
Fitzgelder laughed, although Rastmoor didn’t find any of this very funny. “Can you imagine?” the bastard rambled on. “I learned the secret to your ruin, my dear, legitimate cousin, from my own unsainted mother. An actress! Yes, by God, my mother was a filthy little actress. Good enough for my father to bed and breed, but not to make her a decent offer. I’m a bastard, Rastmoor, because my frigging mother was a bloody actress, but this ruddy bastard over here told her about the locket! Ah, but that’s poetic justice, isn’t it?”
“Really, that’s kind of pathetic,” Rastmoor admitted.
“Don’t patronize me! And don’t think I’ll let you live to marry this damn, filthy actress of yours.”
Suddenly Fitzgelder was coolly in control again. He leveled the gun squarely at Rastmoor. His eyes said he’d fire it, too. Well, Rastmoor had to confess this visit to Hartwood was proving even more adventurous than the last.
“Come, Miss St. Clement,” Fitzgelder called to her, his eyes and his pistol never leaving Rastmoor as he backed toward the doorway. “I think you and I should be on our way.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you!” Rastmoor declared.
“Oh, but she is. Unless, of course, she wants to see you dead. Aw, hell. Maybe I’ll just kill you anyway.” His arm straightened, and the gun rose just a bit, just enough so that the barrel was pointed directly at Rastmoor’s heart.
“No!” Julia cried and leapt in front of Rastmoor.
It was at this very moment that Penelope finally decided to respond to her mother’s earlier bellowing. She came tripping through the doorway and plowed right into Fitzgelder.
The gun in Fitzgelder’s hand exploded, the loud crack echoing in the tiny storeroom. Females shrieked, and Rastmoor threw himself into Julia, desperately hoping that bullet could rip through his own body and not touch hers. Engulfing her, he fell to the cold floor.
Rastmoor was conscious of activity around him. Feet scuffled, and he heard St. Clement’s angry cry, followed by a thud with moaning in the general vicinity of where the bastard had been standing. Penelope was screeching for someone to tell her what had just happened, and his mother was somewhere nearby, shushing her.
But none of that mattered. All Rastmoor could think of was Julia. Dear God, but she’d been right there, right smack between that damned pistol and his heart. He moved himself away from her and was almost afraid of what he’d find when he gazed down into her lovely face.
Her eyes were closed. No, hell no! She couldn’t be . . . no, he would not let her be. He propped himself up and eagerly scanned her, looking for any evidence of a scarlet-soaked wound that he might quickly bind it and save her. He found nothing.
“Julia . . . Oh God, Julia! Are you all right?” he murmured as he ran his hands over her, frantic in his search for the injury that might be, even now, draining her life from her.
Suddenly she dragged in a deep gasping breath, and her eyes flew open. Thank heavens. She was still with him.
He knelt over her and cupped her face in his hands. “Darling, where are you hurt?”
Her brows knit together, and she bit her lip, seemingly confused. The poor thing, she was in shock. But he would save her.
“Tell me, where does it hurt, Julia?”
She thought about it for a moment then winced as he shifted slightly to get a better look at her.
“Oohh, my hand!” she groaned weakly.
That was unexpected. “Your hand? You got shot in the hand?”
She shook her head, cringing in pain. “No! You’re kneeling on it.”
He jumped back and quickly she pulled up her hand, cradling her fingers.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, taking those fingers and kissing them gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. But what of you? Are you hurt, Anthony?”
He mentally checked himself. “I’m fine. God, if you’re alive, I’m fine.”
She smiled at him. Indeed, she looked healthy enough. He
pulled her to him and nearly crushed her in his embrace. Never again did he ever want to lose this woman.
How odd, then, that he should hear St. Clement laughing. Did he not realize he could have just watched his daughter die? Rastmoor did not see how this was any time for laughter.
“Of course you’re fine, my boy,” the man said.
Rastmoor looked over to see him standing with Fitzgelder sprawled at his feet. D’Archaud was crouched beside him, holding the knife to Fitzgelder’s throat. A happy sight to be sure, but still not quite an excuse to laugh.
“It wasn’t loaded,” St. Clement went on. “The gun; it was a prop for a spectacle to entertain the servants. To be sure, it’s loud, but there was no ball inside. Fitzgelder could have never harmed anyone with it. The fool.”
St. Clement kicked the man just for good measure. Fitzgelder started to curse him, but D’Archaud silenced him with a warning flick of the knife.
“Thank God,” Rastmoor heard his mother breathe in amazement from the corner where she hovered over a still inquisitive Penelope. “It wasn’t loaded!”
“No, but this one is,” a new voice said from the doorway.
Well, damn it to hell. Lindley. And he had a gun, which most likely really was loaded.
He also had a goose-egg-sized lump on the side of his head and a surly demeanor. This did not bode well.
Chapter Twenty-two
Julia sat up, glad for Rastmoor’s nearness. Her eyes found Papa’s across the crowded storeroom, but she couldn’t quite read his feelings. That meant he wasn’t exactly sure what Lindley was up to. Drat. She was getting rather fatigued of all the worrisome excitement.
“I suppose you can kill him if you want to,” Lindley said to D’Archaud in a tone far more commanding than his usual. “But I’d really much rather turn him over to some people I know who have excellent ways to extract information. I’m sure Mr. Fitzgelder still holds a few secrets my friends would be very interested in hearing.”
Oh, dear. She knew what that meant. Fitzgelder would be tortured into revealing all he knew about Papa . . . and the previous Lord Rastmoor.
“No!” she said, scrambling up to her feet. “Please, let him go. Make him leave the country or whatever you wish, but please don’t turn him over to your, er, friends!”
Lindley raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, Miss St. Clement. I can appreciate your compassionate soul, but this is taking mercy just a bit too far, don’t you think? This man just tried to kill you.”
Rastmoor, for some reason, agreed. “Julia, I think in this case, we should let Lindley do his duty and take Fitzgelder to the proper authorities,” he said in his kindest tone.
She practically snarled at him. Didn’t he realize what this might do to him, to his family’s honor? She flashed her eyes emphatically, hoping he would understand. She decided to use the voice she’d use on a small—and very thickheaded—child. “But Anthony, dearest, think about it. They might be cruel toward your poor cousin. They will want him to tell them the things—all the things—he knows about this business with the spies.”
Ah, now he got it. “Yes, I see what you’re saying,” Rastmoor agreed and turned to Lindley. “Indeed, Lindley, this man is my cousin. You don’t think for my sake you could make an exception this time? The war’s over, after all. I doubt Fitzgelder can be much of a threat to the Crown at this point.”
But Lindley’s grim expression didn’t change. “Oh, he’s still a threat, unfortunately. But don’t think you need to worry, Miss St. Clement. My friends know all about your family. Rest assured, they are not our targets.”
“But what about Rastmoor’s . . .” she caught herself, but not in time.
“Rastmoor’s what, Miss St. Clement?”
Rastmoor sighed, and she realized he was going to tell. Drat, but she’d left him little choice, had she? She tried to stop him.
“I meant Rastmoor’s poor cousin, of course,” she said quickly. “He’s had a difficult life already, and we wouldn’t want—”
“No, Julia,” Rastmoor interrupted her, laying his hand on her arm. “No more lies. We’ve had too many already.”
She was going to speak again, try to make him see reason, but he boldly went on.
“Fitzgelder claims he has proof that my father was involved in funding the French efforts against our king,” Rastmoor said.
He looked so secure, so sure of himself as he spoke those damning words. She hated to hear him say it, but Julia had to admit it was most attractive. Imagine, a man of wealth and position who was willing to risk his social standing just for the sake of honesty and truth. My, but how appealing. In fact, she found she rather wished they were alone together here in this storeroom just now. Although of course the irony was that if they were alone here, the very trigger for her sudden craving would not exist.
Then again, as long as Rastmoor was present, she was fairly certain that would be trigger enough.
Lindley, however, didn’t seem nearly as smitten with Rastmoor for his confession. He frowned at Rastmoor then turned back to Fitzgelder. “What the hell are you talking about? Damn it, Fitzgelder, is there no end to your lies?”
“It’s no lie,” Fitzgelder said, his words muffled and slightly slurred by the way his face was pressed into the floor as D’Archaud sat on him, knife still in hand. “The proof is there—it’s in the locket.”
“Which locket?”
“The one that got switched, you lobcock,” Fitzgelder said. D’Archaud eased up on him just enough to make speech easier. “And you know where it is, don’t you?”
“As if you even deserve an answer to that.”
“You do know! Ah, I see. You already found the locket and are determined to protect dear old Rastmoor. That’s how it works for you damn gentlemen, isn’t it? Justice only when it suits you.”
“You’d better hope justice isn’t what I give you, Fitzgelder! By God, you need to be praying we do find that missing locket,” Lindley said.
“Is this really all about that silly locket?” Penelope suddenly chirped from her corner. “The one Fitzy asked me to give him?”
“Yes, Penelope,” Rastmoor replied. “That’s the one. You caused quite a lot of trouble, you know. That locket was fairly important, and now someone switched it.”
Julia almost felt sorry for the girl; she seemed so calm amid this disaster. Once she finally figured out exactly what it was she’d done, she was going to feel terribly low. Rastmoor was not likely to go easy on her about it, either.
“Yes, I know,” she said, obviously still clueless.
“No, you don’t, Penelope. There was something in that locket.”
“Yes, I know,” she repeated.
“And someone switched it, so we don’t know where it is!” Rastmoor explained, becoming exasperated.
“Yes, I know.”
“No, you don’t, Penelope!” he nearly shouted at her. “You don’t seem to know what you’ve done!”
“Yes, Anthony, I do,” she replied, sounding a bit snippy. “I know exactly what I’ve done. I switched the locket; therefore, I know where it is.”
“You what?” several disbelieving voices chimed together. Julia’s was not one of them. She was struck speechless.
“I switched the lockets,” Penelope explained carefully and slowly. “You don’t really think I was fool enough to be taken in by Fitzgelder’s ridiculous sweet talk, do you? I assumed that if he wanted that locket so badly, there must be something to it. So, I took the locket out of Mamma’s things—sorry, Mamma—and investigated.”
“And you found something inside it?” Lindley asked.
Penelope nodded. “I did. There is a note inside it. And more! If you turn the ring on the top just right, the back opens into the most unusual shape. Well, I knew better than to let Fitzgelder get his smutty hands on something like that. I simply gave him another. He’d never seen it, so he wouldn’t know.”
Rastmoor was shaking his head in disbelief. “Amazing. And you still have t
his locket?”
“Of course not,” Penelope said, to the great sighing and consternation of others. “It’s packed safely upstairs with Mamma’s things. I put the locket right back in her jewel case after I looked at it, and she brought that case with her.”
“It’s here? At Hartwood?” Rastmoor asked.
“Dashford can open the box!” Julia exclaimed.
“After I take a look at what’s inside that bloody locket,” Rastmoor amended.
Julia glanced at Papa. He was, understandably, smiling. “Well, D’Archaud,” he said to his friend with the knife. “It seems our lockets will be reunited at last.”
“Wait, did you just say, D’Archaud?” Penelope asked. “Is that man’s name D’Archaud?”
“Yes . . .” St. Clement replied, hesitant.
“Well, that’s the name on the note inside the locket. It says—” she said.
Julia cringed, and Rastmoor tried to interrupt her, but she rattled on anyway.
“—for Sophie D’Archaud with deepest love,” she recited. “And it’s signed, simply, Papa. I never knew what that meant.”
D’Archaud smiled through misty eyes. “I left that there for Sophie, in case something happened to me. I was in a bad way back then, fallen in with a bad crowd and down on my luck. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I met your father, Rastmoor, when I tried to rob him on the street.”
“You vomited on his boots, if the stories I’ve heard are true,” St. Clement said with a wry chuckle.
“Then fell in it,” D’Archaud replied, wincing. “Still, your father chose to help me. He got me sober and helped me escape the men I’d been forced to work for. To be safe, I left the locket with him. He promised he’d look after Sophie for me . . . in case of the worst.”
“Oh, that’s so very sweet,” Penelope said.
“Wait.” Lady Rastmoor disrupted their warm moment. She glanced from her daughter to her son and then on to D’Archaud. “You mean, you are the father of Sophie D’Archaud?”
“I am, and quite proud of the woman she grew into, I might add, despite the fact that she never seems to stay in one place very long.”
Damsel in Disguise Page 34
