Then the lady turned her smile onto her husband, and it was obvious that was where the real warmth existed. Julia was simply being a fool. Was she honestly jealous of Rastmoor? She must be soft in the head.
“What in heaven’s name have you been up to, Anthony?” the lady asked, wrinkling her nose at Rastmoor’s clothing. “My, but you smell like a chimney!”
Anthony? And just how long had this viscountess been on a first-name basis with her husband’s good friend? Julia clenched her fists. Well, at least that would appear manly, should anyone notice. No one did. Lady Dashford easily monopolized their attention.
“I’m afraid we had a bit of difficulty on our journey,” Rastmoor said. “Please excuse our appearance. There was a fire in the inn where we stayed last night.”
Lady Dashford’s bright eyes widened. “Heavens! Thankfully you survived it. Although, where is Lord Lindley?”
Rastmoor sent a quick glance at Julia, and she wondered exactly what he meant by it. Probably he was afraid she’d go and upset the lovely Lady Dashford by blurting out the traitorous truth about Lindley. Well, she was not so callous as all that. This lady was Sophie’s cousin. Julia was not about to give her any more reason to fret than was necessary. Even if it was tempting to see that creamy complexion damaged by dark circles and worry lines.
“Lindley was not with us at the time,” Rastmoor said. “He’s taken another route to London.”
“Another route?” Lady Dashford asked. “Has there been some news, then?”
Her husband interrupted. “Hold up, my dear. We should let our guests have a moment’s peace after their ordeal before we run them through an inquisition, don’t you think?”
She looked embarrassed. “Oh, but of course. Forgive me!”
Now she turned to Julia and directed one of her generous smiles her way. “So you are a friend of Lord Rastmoor’s?”
Again, Rastmoor jumped in before Julia might speak for herself. “This is Percival Nancey, a friend I met along the way. He’s rather worse for the event, I’m sorry to say. Too much smoke from the fire has irritated his throat. The poor chap can’t so much as utter a word.”
“Oh, my!” the lady gasped. “How dreadful! Randolf, we must call for the physician right away.”
“Already suggested and already rejected, my dear,” her husband replied. “It seems our friend Rastmoor had the foresight to take care of simple details like that. All Mr. Nancey needs at this point is a fresh shirt and a place to lay his weary head.”
Julia was left with nothing to do but nod dumbly. Lady Dashford quickly looped her arm in hers and began leading the way up the broad staircase. Their hostess seemed only too eager to lavish concern and compassion, and to be truthful, Julia was glad to accept it. She could certainly do with a little kindness right now. She wasn’t planning to stay here long enough to get used to it, though.
“By all means, gentlemen. Mrs. Kendall will see to all your needs,” the lady said as they ascended. “What a dreadful ordeal you must have had! I’m sure you will tell us all about it when you can, Anthony. And Mr. Nancey, feel free to rest here as long as needed. If there are any persons who should be notified of your situation, we’ll be only too happy to post correspondences for you. Heavens, but your family must be quite worried. I’ll send paper and ink up to your room so you may write. You may communicate in writing with the servants, as well. They will surely welcome the opportunity to assist you in any way possible. Gracious, but I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be to lose one’s voice so unexpectedly.”
No, Julia was sure she couldn’t. Lady Dashford seemed to rely heavily on the use of hers. Well, at least Julia would be afforded the privilege of consigning all her curses for Rastmoor to pen and paper. She might even find that more satisfying than a simple, verbal rant.
“I’m afraid Mr. Nancey’s written English is not so good,” Rastmoor said suddenly. “He is, rather, Italian.”
Julia glared at him. Italian? Was he serious?
“In his homeland he is known as, er, Signor Nancini. He sings with the opera.”
“Ah, Nancini the Italian opera sensation. Perhaps I’ve heard of you, sir?” Dashford said with just a touch of skepticism.
Was he mocking her? She couldn’t be certain, and it was uncomfortable to study his unreadable expression. Instead, she occupied herself glaring daggers at Rastmoor. Damn the man twice for subjecting her to this!
But Lady Dashford didn’t seem to notice the tension around her. “Opera!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful! But all the more reason we simply must call for the physician. Oh, it would be tragic if you could not get your voice back—especially as it is your livelihood.”
“He’ll be fine, just so long as he rests the throat,” Rastmoor said with authority. “You will help us see that he is undisturbed and is not tempted to speak? At all?”
“Oh, but of course,” Lady Dashford agreed quickly. “I’ll inform the servants. Fear not, Mr. Nancini. I’ll see to it no one bothers you or causes you to further damage your vocal abilities.”
Well, so much for that. Rastmoor had seen to it she’d be left alone and ignored. Wonderful. Likely even the servants would avoid her, fearful of incurring their mistress’s wrath should they provoke the great Signor Nancini into speech. Damn damn damn.
“I’m sure he’s very thankful, my lady,” Rastmoor said. “You can see how he’d love nothing better than to tell you himself just what your support of his prolonged silence means to him.”
He was damn right she’d love nothing better than to tell them all a thing or two! But best to let Rastmoor think he’d won this time. Really, all he’d done was succeed in giving her ample time alone to plan the next course of action. Indeed, she’d use Rastmoor’s own scheme against him. No way he was leaving this estate on his own. If Rastmoor was going off to face Fitzgelder’s thugs on the road, Julia was bloody well going to be there.
Right now she wasn’t entirely sure whose side she’d be on, either.
Lady Dashford consulted with the housekeeper, and they decided on two rooms for their guests. Unfortunately, Julia’s room was right on the central hallway—no sneaking away in dark corridors—and entirely too close to Rastmoor’s for comfort. They were right next door to one another. She’d been hoping for a separate wing.
Lord Dashford had initially appeared to be leaving them with the housekeeper, but when his wife had made her appearance, he continued up the stairs with them all. Now he was speaking low with Rastmoor, and Julia could not hear what was being said. Drat, she would need to know Rastmoor’s plans if she was to know when he would be leaving here.
Well, perhaps having her room right next to his would be a good thing, after all. She would hear when he left to go downstairs. It would be the simplest thing just to follow. She’d merely have to make sure she washed and dressed quickly, that’s all.
With one searing look at Rastmoor, Julia let the housekeeper usher her into her room. My, but it would be heavenly to scrape off the soot and slide into some clean clothes. Her hair could use a good washing, of course, but she could wait for that. The most important thing was to be ready to follow Rastmoor at a moment’s notice.
She couldn’t help hoping, though, that it would be a nice long moment. The room she was offered was fresh and tidy and full of a huge, soft bed that practically screamed out to her. Perhaps it would be safe just to rest on it for a moment while Mrs. Kendall collected some clothing. Just a few moments relaxing there would be like heaven.
It had been a long night, after all. A short rest would be good to clear her head. She nodded her thanks to the housekeeper and Lady Dashford, then sank down into blissful comfort as the door closed behind them. Yes, this truly was like heaven.
For half a minute she wondered if the bed in Rastmoor’s room was just as comfortable, but then gave in to the overwhelming urge to close her eyes for just a moment. Or two.
RASTMOOR’S HAIR WAS STILL DAMP AS HE MADE HIS way into Dashford’s office. His friend
was seated there behind his enormous desk. He looked up and smiled.
“You still look like hell.”
“I feel like hell,” Rastmoor admitted. “What’s it been since I left here, three days? It feels like three weeks—and I haven’t slept much.”
“Fitzgelder?”
“Yes, and Lindley’s with him.”
“What? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Rastmoor assured him and sank into a nearby armchair. “Jul—er, Nancini saw them together in London and came to warn me. I didn’t believe him, but then someone shot at me and tampered with the axle on Lindley’s carriage and sent highwaymen out to waylay us and finally tried to burn me in my bed. Yes, I believe him now.”
“Good God, what the devil is he up to? Murdering you won’t gain him anything. Fitzgelder is a damn bastard, and everyone knows it—he can’t inherit a penny he hasn’t already gotten. Why would Lindley be helping him? The man’s a bloody earl, for heaven’s sake.”
Rastmoor ran his hand through his hair and tugged at his too-tight cravat. “I know; it makes no sense. But Fitzgelder’s got something, something damning against my family. Maybe he’s got something on Lindley, too. Besides, we all know Lindley’s sire played fast and loose with the family fortune.”
Dashford frowned. “True. But what sort of thing could he have to drag a cove like Lindley into criminal activities?”
“Who knows? For me, it’s information I found in my father’s things. And a locket. Presumably, there’s something inside, though he never mentioned it to me. I believe my mother knows what it is, but she won’t say. Just that we’ve got to get it back before Fitzgelder can use it against us.”
“That hardly seems worthy of murder. So you’ve got some scandal in your family history—who doesn’t?”
“All I know is Mother’s more than a little concerned. She really didn’t even want me to stay here for the wedding; she said they needed me in London. That letter she sent here just before the parson arrived didn’t say, but I wonder if what Fitzgelder has planned might involve Penelope.”
“Your sister? She’s hardly old enough to have any great scandal to hide. What could Fitzgelder possibly have to hold over her?”
“She’s eighteen now, Dash, and Mother’s been trotting her out to the marriage mart this season. She’s furious I’m not there to do my duty as elder brother and all that rot, as a matter of fact. But it seems to me if Fitzgelder got me out of the way, then Penelope would be a very wealthy young woman without a sturdy protector. If he’s got some terrible family secret tucked up in that locket, I daresay he might be able to convince Penelope to do pretty much whatever he wants under threat of exposure.”
“And of course he’d want her to marry him and hand over the Rastmoor fortune.”
“Of course he would, and if that secret is bad enough, she might think she had to.”
“That’s rather far-fetched, Anthony.”
“Yes, to you and me, because we’re rational people. But Fitzgelder? It might seem perfectly logical to him—he’s more than eligible for Bedlam and has been for years, if you ask me. I’m not prepared to gamble my life—or my sister’s—on Fitzgelder’s capacity for rational thought.”
“I see your point. But wasn’t your mother able to give you any better notion of what this scandalous element is that Fitzgelder is dangling over her head?”
“She can’t write that in a letter, and I haven’t seen her. We didn’t exactly get as far as London.”
Dashford contemplated this, then nodded. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have had time to get that far and come back. So where did you go?”
“South of Warwick. That’s when things started going badly. We spent the night in Geydon then headed back to Warwick and spent the next night there.”
“That’s hardly a full day’s ride. What held you in Warwick?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie? My Sophie? You actually found her?”
Here Rastmoor sighed. He wasn’t about to confide in Dashford anything concerning Julia, but he needed to tell the man his fears where Sophie was involved.
“Yes, she was traveling this way.”
“On her honeymoon?”
“No,” Rastmoor confessed. “Sorry, Dash, but that Clemmons fellow isn’t really her husband. They were just posing as husband and wife.”
“That blighter! Well, I’ll force him to do right by her. She’s a Dashford by birth, and I’ll see that he . . .”
“Wait. There’s more to it. Sophie has the locket.”
“What? Your locket? I thought Fitzgelder had it.”
“Apparently he doesn’t have it anymore. Somehow it came to be in Sophie’s possession. I’m still unsure how that happened, by accident or by purpose, but now Lindley has abducted Sophie—unless she’s gone with him willingly—and they’re on their way to London to return the locket to Fitzgelder.”
“Good God, do you know what you’re saying?”
“That everyone I know is conspiring against me? Yes, that’s pretty much what I’m saying, I suppose.”
“Well, I’m not conspiring against you. Evaline and I had no idea Sophie was involved in anything like this—I still can’t quite believe it.”
“I’m not lying to you, Dash.” At least, not the parts about Sophie.
“I never suggested you were. So what do we do? Why did you come here?”
“Nancini. He needed a safe place, so I brought him here.”
“Yes, so you did. And just who the hell is this Signor Nancini, anyway?”
“Just someone I met once in London,” he said, drifting into half-truths. “He risked his life to come tell me about Fitzgelder’s plot, so I owe him, that’s all. But he’s got to stay here. I can’t take him with me.”
“No, that I can understand. But how do you know he’s not actually working with Fitzgelder?”
“He warned me, didn’t he?”
“Did he?”
“Look, I need you to promise he’ll be safe here. I know you and Evaline would probably rather be alone here right now—hell, you probably only just got rid of your wedding guests and your mother—but there’s nowhere else for him to go. Tell me he can stay here, and that you’ll leave him alone. Let him rest and don’t pester him with questions, all right?”
Now Dashford was staring at him intently. Perhaps he’d been a bit too forceful with his instructions. Perhaps he made it sound as if he cared a bit too much about the strange, female-shaped man. Blast, Dashford would wonder about all of it. He wasn’t stupid; he’d know things were not all Rastmoor declared them to be.
Or maybe it was still too early in the morning for Dashford to be his usual perceptive self. With a heavy shrug, Dashford simply turned the conversation away from his mysterious houseguest. Apparently he decided a mute opera singer merited no further discussion, thankfully.
“All right, he’s safe here. But what are you going to do?”
“I’ve got to head for London,” Rastmoor answered.
“Not until you’ve gotten some sleep, my friend.”
“They’ve already got a half day’s head start over me.”
Dashford didn’t seem to care. “I can understand you want to end this, but going off half-cocked won’t help anyone. Take some rest. I’ll get necessities together for you; horses, a dozen or so sturdy footmen . . .”
“I don’t need all that. I just need to know Nancini will be safe here.”
Dashford chuckled. “Hell, that’s the least of your worries. Of course we’ll keep the pup safe. How hard could that be? But who the hell’s going to look after you?”
Rastmoor had to admit his friend had a point. Odd, he really wasn’t worried about himself. It was these dashed women in his life—he needed to know they were protected. He needed to know his mother and sister would not suffer some horrible scandal, or that Fitzgelder would never again get his filthy hands on Julia. Damn, he wished he could confide the whole bloody story to Dashford. Dash would understa
nd. No matter what happened to Rastmoor, Dash would look out for Julia if he was asked to.
But he couldn’t very well ask him, of course. He still wasn’t sure for himself how much Julia was involved. Saddling Dash with her for anything more than this very short-term situation could easily be putting him and his new bride in danger. Rastmoor would never do that to them. Someone on this blasted planet deserved to live out a happy ending, didn’t they? It sure as hell wasn’t going to be Rastmoor.
Chapter Eleven
Julia’s arm had gone numb. It felt clumsy when she moved it; then she understood why. She’d fallen asleep literally where she’d tipped over from exhaustion onto this beautiful, comfortable bed. Her arm had been bent in an awkward position beneath her, and now it tingled and twinged as if coming back to life. She rubbed and worked it carefully. Drat, but she hadn’t meant to doze off like that.
Judging from the sunlight streaming through the window, it was now much later in the day than when she’d been directed to this room. How long had she slept? Dear Lord, had she let Rastmoor make good on his plans to abandon her here?
She leapt to her feet, discovering that one leg was also sleeping. It crumpled beneath her, and she was forced to clutch the bedpost for support. This was awful! What if while she’d been blissfully slumbering away, Rastmoor had slipped into clean clothes and ridden off to his doom? She could have kicked herself—if she’d been able to control the useless muscles in her twitching leg that is.
It took several minutes of stomping around her room before her various limbs felt normal again. What an idiot she’d been to drop off that way! And still in her filthy clothes, to make matters worse. Now Lady Dashford’s fresh counterpane smelled of smoke and two days’ travel. Lovely.
At some point the servants had brought in fresh water and a change of clothes, so she quickly made use of them. It felt a bit odd, pulling on trousers that had come from God knew where, but miraculously they fit and gave every impression of being clean. She simply chose to concentrate on fretting over Rastmoor’s possible departure rather than let her mind dwell on the past life of her new outfit. She did her best to look—and smell—presentable and even put an extra knot in her cravat.
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