“I say, Fitz, why didn’t you bother to tell me the festivities had begun already? You know how I deplore coming in late on the entertainment.”
LORD LINDLEY CURSED HIMSELF AS HE PROWLED THE deserted halls of Fitzgelder’s garish town house. Marble statuaries peered at him from the crowded alcoves built to showcase them. Reproductions, of course, but still they represented a great deal of investment. Even upstairs the walls were lined with expensive silks and gilded tapestry. All in all the effect was quite overwhelming, but even the casual observer would have to wonder where a shiftless bastard like Fitzgelder came up with the blunt to furnish his home in such lavish fashion.
Lindley was convinced he knew the answer. Oh, for a while Fitzgelder tried to pretend his wealth was inherited from his father, but Lindley knew this not to be the case. He’d spent the last year conjuring a friendship with Fitzgelder’s legitimate cousin and learned some intimate details of the family’s situation. Fitzgelder was a bastard whose father had seen little use for him. He’d died without heir and left his wealth and his title to his brother. Upon the brother’s death, the Rastmoor wealth passed even further from Fitzgelder’s grip to his younger cousin. This current Lord Rastmoor was not inclined to share.
Yet somehow Fitzgelder did quite well for himself. By all appearances, his bills were paid and he could afford the lascivious life he led. In all his prying, Lindley had found little explanation for this. Clearly, then, that was its own explanation. Fitzgelder was his man.
Frustrating as it was, he couldn’t yet move on it, though. Captain Warren would want details, names, places, and proof. Lindley had none of these, nothing more than suspicions and a deep, churning sense in his gut that told him Fitzgelder was rotten. Just how rotten, he was determined to find out.
He supposed another night spent in carousing and in false friendship with the man would likely not kill him. Then again, it would probably give him a strong headache in the morning and another load of guilt to carry around. But he was getting used to that now. No matter of guilt for a few lies here and a liaison or two there would ever come close to comparing to the loss that still festered in his soul. If Fitzgelder was his man, by God he’d do what it took to catch him.
Then he’d see him hanged.
First, though, he’d have to find him. Where had the bloody bastard gone? They’d only just returned from that dreadful reading of erotic poetry one of Fitzgelder’s tasteless friends had arranged. What a waste that had been.
At least, he hoped it had been a waste. Had the man met with his contact in the dark secrecy of the event? Damn, he hoped not. He’d hung on Fitzgelder like a horse bur for the last two weeks but still he was no closer to confirming his intuition about the man. It would be a shame if he had to put up with all this only to miss out on catching Fitzgelder in the act.
So where was the man now? They had returned to Fitzgelder’s home to find a parcel waiting for him, delivered by messenger. Lindley had seen the delight written on Fitzgelder’s face, yet he’d not gotten any clue who had sent the parcel. Fitzgelder deposited a frustrated Lindley in the drawing room and instructed him to wait, saying he was off to refresh himself but would return momentarily and they might resume their evening plans.
Well, Lindley wasn’t about to let Fitzgelder go off to deal with that secretive parcel alone. By God, if this was the evidence he’d long been looking for, Lindley was going to find it. He had quietly followed the man upstairs but promptly lost him.
So where the devil was he? And what was in that bloody parcel?
A commotion from farther down the hallway snagged his attention. It seemed to be coming from behind a narrow door, probably a closet or cupboard. Lindley heard the low drum of Fitzgelder’s voice, and the panicked high pitches of a female. Well, it would appear he might yet catch Fitzgelder in the act, although sadly this was far from the act he was hoping for. Apparently the parcel had turned out to be less enthralling than Fitzgelder expected.
Really, Lindley knew he ought to leave the man to his efforts. He’d worked hard to insinuate himself into Fitzgelder’s confidence. A good friend would never interrupt a gentleman—or rather, in Fitzgelder’s case, a ruddy lecher—from availing himself of an opportunity for a little tussle with a willing maid. An interruption just now might actually sever what measure of trust that had been established between the men. Was Lindley prepared to sacrifice that?
Yet the female’s protest and the sounds of struggle were obvious. She was clearly—and not surprisingly—unwilling. Lindley decided he was not game for heaping that guilt upon his shoulders along with all the other. He’d no doubt kick himself for it later, but right now he must certainly intervene.
And he was glad that he did.
Light from the many sconces in the hallway poured into what turned out to be a linen cupboard. Fitzgelder, startled, struggled to right his clothing. Lindley politely averted his gaze. What his gaze landed on made him temporarily forget his disgust, his guilt, and his mission to implicate Fitzgelder.
Sophie Darshaw. Hell and damnation, it was she who had been struggling with Fitzgelder. By the looks of it she’d been giving the man quite a fight, too. Her clothing was in dreadful disarray, her fair hair was mussed and tangled in clumps, and were those droplets of blood spattered on her pretty, ashen face? By God, he’d kill the man.
No, he couldn’t. He’d come too far and had too much at stake. Sophie Darshaw was just a minor player in this, and Lindley reminded himself he wasn’t even entirely sure yet what part she played. He’d interrupted and that was enough. He would not give in to ridiculous sentiment when there might still be a chance to salvage things.
He wiped all trace of loathing from his face and carved out a disgruntled pout.
“I say, Fitz, why didn’t you bother to tell me the festivities had begun already? You know how I deplore coming in late on the entertainment.”
“Bloody hell, Lindley,” Fitzgelder growled. “What in damnation are you about, tearing in while a fellow’s readying to plug himself a little laced mutton?”
Lindley simply shrugged and allowed a lengthy—and welcome—look over Miss Darshaw’s disheveled person. It appeared he’d come just in time. The girl was shaking and as pale as the crypt, but he was pleased to see a healthy spark of defiance left in her crystal blue eyes. She’d done well for herself, all things considered. Fitzgelder sported a bloody lip while she was merely untidy.
“Well then,” Lindley said, unbuttoning his coat and placing his hand as if to begin unfastening his trousers. “If the mutton’s willing, I might fancy a go at her myself.”
“The mutton most certainly is not willing!” Miss Darshaw announced firmly.
She shoved Fitzgelder and pushed her way out of the tiny room. Lindley stood aside to let her. He could well do without a bloodied lip tonight and Miss Darshaw seemed every bit capable of giving him one. Hell, if he hadn’t interrupted when he did, poor Fitzgelder might have ended up singing soprano. The way Miss Darshaw glared murder at them both, he wasn’t entirely convinced she had needed his intervention after all. The girl showed ferocity enough to do serious damage.
But Fitzgelder was a fool and paid no notice. He brushed past Lindley and made as if to follow the hellcat. Lindley latched on to his arm.
“Oh, let her go,” he advised, careful to seem unconcerned. “She’s not but a little slip of a thing, Fitz. Hardly woman enough for men like us. Come, what more creative pleasures do you have scheduled tonight? It is Thursday, after all.”
Miss Darshaw shot him a hateful glance before scurrying up the hall and disappearing around a corner. Fitzgelder watched after her, steaming. Indeed, he was too proud to admit his frustration but Lindley knew this matter was not settled. As long as Miss Darshaw chose to remain in this household—whatever her reasons might be—she was going to be her master’s choice prey. Clearly this was not something she wished, but at the same time she did not disdain it enough to leave. That, of course, must mean something.
If only he could discern what.
“I swear, that minx needs a good thrashing to put her in her place,” Fitzgelder was muttering.
“Thrash her later, old man. I’m nearly bored to death after that abominable poetry party tonight. Why ever did you drag me to such a gathering of stiff-rumped nobs? In faith, I could have enjoyed myself more with my Methodist grandmother. You know I come to you, Fitzy old man, to save me from such dreariness.”
He glanced back into the cupboard behind them and noticed the wrappings from Fitzgelder’s parcel lying discarded on the floor. Damn! Whatever had been in it, the man had already taken possession of it. But perhaps there was some clue in that abandoned wrapper. He’d have to get a look at it.
In hopes of distracting his friend, he stepped aside to allow Fitzgelder to leave the cupboard and join him in the hallway. The man did. Lindley casually shut the cupboard door behind them.
“So where shall we be going next?”
Fitzgelder finally took his focus off the direction Miss Darshaw had gone and brought out a handkerchief to dab his lip. “Well, I’m afraid tonight’s entertainment might seem a bit tame for your lordship’s high standards,” he said.
“Nothing aimed to better my mind, I hope.”
At last Fitzgelder lost a bit of his anger and made a sound that was likely akin to laughter. “No, nothing like that. I’ve had my man engage a theatrical troupe to present for us. They should be already preparing down in the blue salon and our other guests should be arriving presently. I suppose we can expect the odd Shakespeare scene, a tableau or two, and the usual buffoonery. Personally, though, I’m quite looking forward to it. Why don’t you go do some damage to my brandy while I find my man to put me in a fresh cravat, eh?”
“By all means,” Lindley said. “But see that the man ties it with both hands this time, Fitzy. All evening long it’s looked wretched, like someone strapped a wet cat around your neck, or what.”
Fitzgelder laughed at him. By faith, the stupid man actually seemed to enjoy the ridicule Lindley found all too easy to heap on him.
“I’ll tell the man you said so,” Fitzgelder assured. “He’ll be mortified, of course, so perhaps you’ll encourage the sluggard to do better. There’s no better judge of the complicated knot than the Earl of Lindley, after all.”
“Precisely,” Lindley agreed.
Fitzgelder left him then, still chuckling—presumably—over the amusing image of a wet cat around his neck. Honestly, the man thought himself quite the fashion plate when really he was a complete simpleton. Lindley watched him go. So just what was the muttonmonger up to? Was he really off to attend his neckcloth or to conduct secret business without Lindley’s watchful eye? Or perhaps the bastard was planning to hunt down Miss Darshaw and finish what he’d started.
Lindley would see that it was not the latter. But first things first. The minute Fitzgelder was out of sight, he ducked into the cupboard and retrieved the wrappings. He didn’t dare examine them here, but shoved them quickly into his pocket and left the cupboard. Should Fitzgelder come back to look for them, with luck he might assume a dutiful servant had removed them and not suspect Lindley.
Calm and casual, Lindley took himself down to the ground floor. Miss Darshaw was nowhere in sight, so he headed to the room where Fitzgelder indicated the actors would be. He couldn’t help but wonder how the hell a theatrical troupe fit into things. Mangled Shakespeare or pirated French farce was a bit tame for Fitzgelder—hardly the usual fair offered at his frequent routs. Could this simply be a cover for something more furtive? Would he be meeting with someone in regard to that parcel? Or were tonight’s theatrics to be of a tawdry nature simply to feed Fitzgelder’s insatiable appetites? It was hard to say with the fellow. Lindley could only hope he hadn’t ruined any hope of uncovering the truth of that parcel by thwarting Fitzgelder’s efforts with Miss Darshaw.
Whatever was to come, though, Lindley could not regret rescuing the girl. Surely she was not party to the worst of her master’s sins. She must have some simpler, less sinister reasons for being in the man’s employ. Perhaps she might not even know the full extent of his treachery. The sooner he learned Fitzgelder’s secrets, the better.
And perhaps along the way, he’d learn Miss Darshaw’s secrets as well.
SOPHIE DID HER VERY BEST TO PRETEND THE LAST FEW minutes in that insufferable linen closet had not happened. She was blissfully anonymous here in her master’s busy blue room, surrounded by bustling actors and the hectic preparations for tonight’s entertainment. She could make herself useful here, blending safely into the hustle and forgetting what had very nearly occurred—and who had fortunately interrupted it.
Heavens, but what was Lord Lindley doing here? Not that she cared a fig for where the man was or wasn’t; it simply surprised her, that was all. Just because he’d seemed a decent sort certainly did not mean he was. He’d been in company with Madame frequently, after all. What sort of upstanding fellow would do that? And now here he was with Mr. Fitzgelder. Clearly she’d been grossly mistaken regarding his character.
How ridiculous that she should waste one ounce of brain matter contemplating one of the dissolute blackguards from her former life. Indeed, she’d left her previous situation to prove she could be better than all that, to become better than that. She may not have been able to find work for anyone more respectable than Mr. Fitzgelder, but she fully intended to use this as a step in the right direction. She would have that dress shop one day. It merely appeared it would take a bit longer than she’d first envisioned.
Clearly she needed to find a different position. She could be a ladies maid, for instance. That was a fine, respectable occupation, and the pay would no doubt be higher and put her that much closer to her dream. All she needed was a bit of experience and a reference. Perhaps she could start on that very thing today. It appeared the acting troupe Mr. Fitzgelder had hired did include a lady or two.
She approached the middle-aged woman who was clearly one of the actors and offered to be of assistance. The woman eyed her curiously, then jabbed her thumb in the direction of a young woman who was just now entering the room.
“There you go, miss, that’s the lady you need to be presenting yourself to,” she said with a smile. “That’s our, er, Miss Sands. She’ll know what to do with you.”
Sophie curtsied, thanked the woman, and hurried over to this Miss Sands. She was young and pretty and gave every appearance of being horribly respectable. At least, as respectable as an actress could be. Sophie knew a thing or two of actresses. Hopefully she could use that to her advantage and make a favorable impression on this one.
“I was told you might be needing some help dressing for the performance, Miss Sands,” Sophie offered with a cheerful smile.
She watched the young woman bustle about, selecting her wardrobe and giving instructions to other troupe members as they hauled in the various paraphernalia needed for Fitzgelder’s entertainment. Thankfully, there was not a single thing of it that suggested “orgy.” Good. If she could impress Miss Sands with properly attentive service, perhaps this might be just the opportunity she needed to secure a decent enough reference to move on.
Nervously, Sophie smoothed her apron and patted her hair in place. Everyone knew a proper ladies maid needed to be properly turned out.
“Thank you,” Miss Sands said, her focus clearly torn between the lovely blue silk gown she held in one hand and the more elaborate golden one in the other. “I suppose if our host tonight favors the more classical pieces I ought to go with the embroidered neckline, but I do so prefer the blue. Tell me, is your master a great lover of Shakespeare or will he be more inclined to request . . .”
And now the lady finally turned to look at her. Oh, bother. By the look on Miss Sands’s face it would seem Sophie’s hasty attempts to put herself to rights after that dreadful episode upstairs had failed dismally.
“Good God!” the actress exclaimed. “You poor dear! What in heaven’s name has happened to you?
”
Sophie stared at the floor. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t realize I, that is, I should go tend to my appearance.” She curtsied and tried to leave, but Miss Sands would have none of it.
“Gracious! Are these bruises at your wrists? And there’s blood on your apron! Who did this to you, girl?”
Sophie knew it would be the height of impropriety to lie to her mistress, but since Miss Sands was really only a guest in the house, she supposed it was a forgivable offense this time. Besides, Mr. Fitzgelder would likely not take kindly to having his dirty secrets aired for these entertainers.
“No one, miss,” Sophie replied. “I fell.”
It seemed Miss Sands had brains as well as beauty. “My arse, you fell. Come, my girl, I recognize the print of a man’s hand when I see it. Who did this to you?”
“It’s nothing at all, miss. I managed to get away.”
“Not before he welted your eye!”
“What?” Sophie’s hand shot up to her face. Indeed, her eyelid felt puffy and tender. Bother, but when she slammed Fitzgelder with her forehead she must have also succeeded in bruising herself.
“Come,” the actress ordered, pulling Sophie over toward a row of chairs against the wall.
“Truly, I’m quite fine,” Sophie began, politely trying to fend off the other woman’s examination.
“This is very fresh, isn’t it? Heavens, we’ll have to put something on it immediately.”
“No, really I don’t need—”
Miss Sands cut her off by turning her to face a lovely round mirror that hung on the master’s wall. Sophie had no other option but to stare at her own face and catch her breath at the ugly red welt that showed quite plainly at her swollen eyelid. It throbbed. Merciful Lord, how would she ever hide this from the other servants? They would not need to question who had done such a thing—or why.
And they would not be pleased about it, either. If Mr. Fitzgelder was in a foul mood after this—and of course he would be—he’d naturally take it out on the staff. As far as they would care, this injury would be undeniable evidence of her insolence while they would be the ones paying the price. Unsurprisingly, they’d take it out on her.
Damsel in Disguise Page 37
