The whole concept of matrimony hadn’t exactly worked out very well for him and, to be honest, he was still not convinced any man ought to put much stock in the institution. From what Rastmoor had seen so far, women were an untrustworthy lot. He hoped Dash wouldn’t have to learn that the hard way.
Rastmoor sighed as they plodded along. Damn, but with Dashford trussed up and married now, Rastmoor would likely have to settle for Lindley’s persnickety company more often. Oh well. For a game here or there at the club or a visit to the races, no one could fault Lindley’s sportsmanship or his overall entertainment value. But if Rastmoor had to have one more discussion about where to find the best gloves or which bloody knot would look best in his cravat . . . Honestly, what could Dashford have been thinking to go and get leg shackled?
“You know what I’m thinking?” Lindley said after they’d walked in silence quite a while, the horses plodding nervously along behind them.
He hated to imagine. “No. What?”
“There’ll likely be women at this posting house.”
“Probably so.”
“That suits me just fine. With luck, there’ll be a couple for both of us. Which do you prefer, the blonds or the brunettes?”
“The ones who do their job and disappear before daylight.”
“I reckon that’ll be all of them,” Lindley declared with a hopeful laugh. “I think I’d favor a blond tonight. Unless of course there’s only one available, and blond is your preference, then naturally I would—”
“No, thank you. Have any woman you want. I think I’ll just sleep tonight.”
“What? But you’ve been stuck up there at Hartwood for nearly two months, and I saw the sort of guests they had—not exactly fresh and accommodating, as they say. Surely now that you’re getting out and about again, you’d want to prime the old pump handle, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, damn it,” Rastmoor grumbled. “But I’m not interested, all right? Good luck to you and your pump handle, but I’d rather sleep. Alone.”
Lindley frowned as if that was a foreign concept. “Alone? But you’re not ill, are you?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound—blue deviled. My God, but you can’t possibly still be pining after that girl? That little French actress of yours—St. Clem, or something, wasn’t it?”
“St. Clement,” Rastmoor corrected before he caught himself. The last thing in the world he wanted was to discuss Julia right now. “And I’m not pining. I’m just not interested in some dirty whore at a posting house, all right?”
Lindley gave a slow whistle. “You are still pining! Dash it all, Rastmoor, that was years ago. And didn’t she end up marrying your cousin or something?”
“Yes.”
By God, what would it take to not have this conversation? Was he going to have to use that pistol on Lindley?
“That’s right, and then she died in childbed, didn’t she?” Lindley went on.
Rastmoor gritted his teeth. “That’s what I heard.”
Oh, he’d heard the story, all right. Then he’d gone and gotten roaring drunk. Dashford’s father had taken ill and died some short time thereafter, and the two of them were roaring drunk together. Things hadn’t gone so well for them after that, as he recalled.
Eventually, Dashford pulled himself together, and Rastmoor had simply learned to pretend. He supposed, in a way, it had been easier for Dash. He’d been mourning a devoted father, a man who left behind fond memories and warm emotions. Rastmoor, however, had been grieving something altogether different.
When Julia St. Clement died, all she left behind were bitter wounds and heartbreak. It was hard enough knowing she’d left him for another man, but with time he might have recovered. It cut deeper than that, though. Julia left him a scar that would never go away. The whore may have died in Fitzgelder’s bed, but the child she’d taken to the grave with her had been Rastmoor’s. She’d carried his child and still left him for another, passing the child off as Fitzgelder’s.
How did a man ever recover from that?
“I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE THIS LORD RASTMOOR’S FACE when he meets you again,” Sophie was saying as they finished their supper.
Julia cringed. “Hopefully that will never happen. With luck, we’ll find he’s safely at Lord Dashford’s home, and I can simply send a warning message. He’ll find out what Fitzgelder is about, and you and I can be off to meet Papa.”
“You don’t want to see him again?”
“Heavens no!”
“We’ve come all this way, and you’re not even going to see the man?”
“Exactly.”
Sophie was downcast. “That’s so sad. I was hoping the two of you might . . .”
“Sorry, Sophie. That only happens in novels.”
It was a shame to disappoint the poor girl, but better she get such foolishness out of her mind now before she started expecting grand romance for her own life. Indeed, women like them should harbor no such hopes—Julia had learned that the hard way. Perhaps the truth would come easier for Sophie.
“We’ll be done with this before you know it,” Julia went on, hoping her light tone and warm smile would both encourage and distract her young friend. “Then we’ll find Papa, and you’ll become a part of our troupe. You’re quite a hand at sewing, but perhaps we can coax you into acting, as well.”
“Acting? Oh, I’m sure I could never be so very good at that. All those lines I’d have to memorize!”
“You’ve been playacting the part of a blushing bride for three days now, and so far, the audience seems quite enthralled,” Julia said, sweeping her arm wide to indicate the patrons of the posting house, a few of whom had traveled this last leg of the journey on the mail coach with them.
Sophie looked around the dim room and frowned. “I believe our audience would be no less enthralled were I simply a chicken tucked under your arm. They’ve hardly taken note of us at all.”
“There, you see? You’ve played your part to perfection. Who’s to say you might not make a memorable Juliet or Ophelia or—”
“Lord Lindley!” Sophie said suddenly.
“Lord Lindley? I don’t believe we have any scripts with Lor—”
And then Julia glanced up to realize what Sophie meant. The doorway was filled with the elegant form of a man they had briefly met in London just as they were making their hasty escape. Lord Lindley—a good friend and confidante of the evil Fitzgelder.
Sophie’s eyes were huge and terrified, and Julia wanted to slide under the table. Good heavens, if Lindley recognized them, he’d notify Fitzgelder of their whereabouts! They had to hide, to get out of here this very instant.
But there was nowhere they could go, nowhere in the room to hide. They were trapped. Julia’s pulse pounded, and she struggled to think up some scheme to protect them. What could she do? Where could they . . . ?
Suddenly all coherent thought ceased.
A familiar broad-shouldered form appeared behind Lindley. Julia’s lungs contracted, the air squeezed out of them in a whimper. Around her, the world disappeared, and she was aware of only one thing: Anthony Rastmoor was still alive.
Thank God she wasn’t too late! Fitzgelder’s men hadn’t succeeded in their plan. Anthony still lived and breathed and wore that smile of half amusement, half boredom she’d come to know so well three years ago. Three long, painful years ago.
He was alive, and he was beautiful. And he was cold. When his gaze fell on her, she recoiled, both inwardly and out. The chill that emanated in his hazel eyes was as unfamiliar as the image that had been greeting her in the mirror since she and Sophie had taken up this masquerade. Indeed, the Anthony Rastmoor who followed Lindley into the poorly lit common room was a man much changed from the man who had taken Julia’s virtue—as well as her heart.
His gaze didn’t last long on her, though. Quickly it moved on, as if she were of little importance to anyone. This surprised her more than even the f
act that she was seeing him again. How could she be struggling for air, feeling as if the universe itself would collapse around her, and yet his gaze simply swept over her as if she’d been nothing more than furniture? It was unthinkably hurtful.
Then his gaze did linger, but not on her. She had to physically turn her head to see what he was seeing. The air swept back into her lungs and burned like fire.
He was gazing at Sophie.
Her brain began functioning again. Mostly her thoughts were torn, though. Should she gouge out the man’s eyes or grab up a dull knife and castrate him here? God, but how he was staring at Sophie! The nerve of him!
Funny, Julia had never contemplated how fetching the girl must appear to those of the male persuasion. Yes, Sophie was pretty, she supposed. Gentlemen would notice that, of course. But, by God, what was that charming expression forming on Sophie’s fresh, youthful face? Why, the little tart was actually smiling at Anthony Rastmoor!
Julia’s stomach roiled, and she put an involuntary hand up to her mouth. Damn, but there was soup in the mustache there. She hated the itchy thing all the more. Of course Anthony would not look at her in the same way he was ogling Sophie—soup-stained gentlemen were hardly his type. Gullible little misses like Sophie were. Just as Julia had been, once.
“Why, Mr. and Mrs. Clemmons,” Lindley said, noticing them and coming their way.
Julia had given the false name at the spur of the moment as they were leaving London. It had seemed convenient to use as they’d traveled, and now she was glad they had. No one would think it amiss to see the quiet Clemmons couple being greeted by an old acquaintance here, and no awkward explanations would have to be given at mistaken names.
Anthony, too, would likely not recognize the name.
Or maybe it didn’t really matter. He’d likely forgotten her altogether, judging by the way his attention was now given entirely to her companion. Indeed, why should he so much as spare a second glance to Julia’s severe haircut and soupy mustache, while Sophie was sitting there in front of him, all blond and dreamy and feminine? Damn his eyes.
“How odd to run into you here,” Lord Lindley said when he reached their table. “I had no idea you were traveling this way, else I would have invited you to share my carriage.”
He, too, had his eye on Sophie. What pigs these men were. Didn’t they realize Sophie was supposed to be a married woman? How dare they stare like this! If it kept on, Julia feared she’d end up having to call at least one of them out or risk exposing herself as a fraud. What husband could sit calmly while virtual strangers drooled over his wife? Shame on them. How on earth had Julia ever thought Anthony Rastmoor to be a decent, worthwhile human being?
“We had a rather sudden change of plan,” Sophie was saying. “Didn’t we, Mr. Clemmons?”
Julia cleared her throat. “Er, yes. We came this way rather spur of the moment.” She worked at keeping her voice low and hoped Anthony might not recognize it.
She needn’t have worried. His focus was all on Sophie, to the point the poor girl must have noticed and was finally starting to appear uncomfortable.
“Forgive me,” Lindley said, at least trying to tear his eyes from Sophie and act respectably. “Everyone has not been introduced. Lord Rastmoor, this is Mr. Alexander Clemmons and his lovely wife, Mrs. Sophie Clemmons. We met a few days ago in London.”
Rastmoor made a polite bow and allowed Julia a quick nod before turning his attention back to Sophie. It had been highly unnecessary for Lindley to recall Sophie’s first name, but obviously he had. Sophie was looking decidedly anxious now. The girl might be too pretty for her own good, but at least she appeared to have some sense. She knew enough not to trust the flattery of blackguards.
“How do you do,” Julia said, not pausing long enough for Rastmoor to speak before directing her next question to Lindley. “Will you gentlemen be staying for the night here?”
Lindley sent a quick look toward his partner, and Rastmoor gave the reply. His voice sliced Julia to the heart. Odd that a voice could have so much power.
“We’re undecided as yet, Mr. Clemmons. Will you be staying?”
Julia fixed her eyes firmly on her soup bowl. Mr. Clemmons . He still hadn’t recognized her. Lord, but that, too, hurt far more than it should have.
“We haven’t entirely decided that, my lord,” Julia replied. It was true. If she found the men would be here, she’d simply leave a note of warning for Rastmoor with the innkeeper then get herself and Sophie back on the road and far away from the lusty lords.
But Sophie had her own ideas. She smiled brightly for the men. “The roads have been so very difficult, though. I do truly dread getting back in that coach to be jostled along to the next posting house. Perhaps if Mr. Clemmons knew some of his gentlemen friends were to be staying here tonight, I could stand a better chance of convincing him.”
Julia gaped at her friend. What was she doing? Now that Lindley was here, they needed to leave, not settle in for the night! He was the one who could unmask them! Maybe Sophie didn’t have so much sense, after all.
Lord Lindley gave a rumbling chuckle and turned his gaze onto Julia. “Shame on you, Mr. Clemmons, forcing your young bride to travel under these conditions.”
His attention was short-lived. He returned his focus—and a disgustingly warm smile—back on Sophie. “Rest assured, Mrs. Clemmons, if it will gain you a few hours’ respite from the torment of travel, Rastmoor and I will do our best to persuade your husband to obtain a room for the night. In fact”—here Lindley smiled at Rastmoor, who gave a slight nod—“I’ll go see to making arrangements with the proprietor. Don’t worry, Clemmons, tonight will be at my expense.”
Lindley made a showy bow then went off in the direction the innkeeper had last been seen. Blast, what had Sophie done? It was true the small purse Julia had on her at the time of their departure was growing a bit thin right now, but certainly she couldn’t allow Lindley to assume their expenses. Even more certainly, she couldn’t spend the night under the same roof as Anthony Rastmoor! What if the man tried to engage her in conversation? How long could she expect her disguise to hold out if Rastmoor ever did decide to take his eyes off Sophie long enough to question Mr. Clemmons’s bizarre mustache and feminine voice?
But so far Rastmoor hadn’t reached that point. He was still staring at Sophie and smiling in delight as he called out to Lindley, “See about getting us a private dining room, as well. I’m sure the Clemmonses will wish to join us in a quiet supper.”
Oh, Lord. What next?
Lindley nodded and disappeared into a back hallway where the innkeeper had last been seen to go. Julia glanced nervously at Sophie. The girl just batted her wide blue eyes and shrugged. Well, Julia would just have to find a way to get them out of this.
“There’s no need for a private room, sir,” she protested. “Mrs. Clemmons and I have just finished our meal, as you can see, and now we’d like—”
“Oh, but dearest,” Sophie interrupted, innocent and darling. “Surely that little bowl of soup was barely enough for a strapping man such as yourself. Why not join your friend Rastmoor over a hearty meal?”
Ah, so that was Sophie’s angle. The chit was meddling. Julia would put a quick end to that. And just what on earth did the little hussy mean by calling Julia “strapping”?
“I assure you, my precious, that soup was quite adequate for my frame,” Julia said. “We have no need to remain here any longer. I simply need to give a note to our innkeeper, if you recall.” Now she gave Sophie a glare that should have wiped the pink smile from her rosebud lips. It didn’t.
“What’s our hurry, dear? Surely you can think of something interesting to discuss with these fine gentlemen,” Sophie suggested.
“No, actually, I’m sure I can’t,” Julia assured her.
“Fear not, Clemmons,” Rastmoor said, leaning casually against a nearby table and leering down at Sophie. “I’m sure we’ll find plenty to occupy our time. In fact, a private room will be jus
t what we need. There is a particular matter I’m certain you’ll be most eager to discuss.”
Now, that erased the pink smile. Sophie slid a nervous glance at Julia. What was Rastmoor hinting at with that glinting eye and ominous tone? Had he found them out? Preventing any hasty escape Julia may have contrived, Lindley returned with the proprietor.
“Yer in luck,” the innkeeper said with an eager grin. “I got a nice room just waiting for ye, and my wife’ll bring a good, healthy stew.”
Julia tried to demur, but Lindley gracefully swooped in to loop Sophie’s hand through his arm and assist her up from her chair. When Julia glanced over at Rastmoor, she found him, at last, looking her way.
“Come, Clemmons,” he said. “I doubt you’ll want to miss this.”
Indeed, from the way he spoke, she was fairly certain she did want to miss it, whatever it was. She was fairly certain, too, he was not about to let her. Helpless, she followed Anthony Rastmoor through the big, safe common area into a private dining room off the dark corner under the stairs.
Chapter Two
Rastmoor was even more uncomfortable in the small room Lindley had obtained than he had been in the common. This Clemmons fellow was one odd duck. He fidgeted incessantly, and his doelike eyes seemed to stare everywhere but at Rastmoor. Sophie perched at the edge of her chair with hands wringing in her lap like a scolded child. Every now and then she’d catch her husband’s eye, and she’d shrink a little more. It was more than enough to convince Rastmoor things were not quite as they should be with this couple.
Not that he’d expected any different. He knew who this Sophie Clemmons was. Just days ago he’d promised his friend Dashford he’d find her. He hadn’t been exactly relishing the task, either, especially since he and Dash both knew the likelihood of his efforts producing nothing more than bad news. From what Dashford and his new wife, Evaline, had said, their cousin Sophie Darshaw had fallen in with a dangerous crowd and was likely long lost.
Damsel in Disguise Page 2