Damsel in Disguise (14 page)

“Don’t touch me.”

She jerked her arm from his and left the small dining room. He let her go.

The sun was just an orange ball resting atop the trees on the horizon. Rastmoor had found no trace of Sophie—living or dead. He supposed that was good, but it didn’t do much for telling him what to do next.

He knew what he wanted to do, but that had nothing to do with rescuing Sophie or getting that damned locket back before Fitzgelder got his grimy hands on it. He wanted to go curl up in bed with Julia.

He’d checked on her twice this afternoon, just to reassure himself she was still there. He’d been half afraid she’d disappear or that Fitzgelder might find her. Or that maybe he’d just imagined the last twenty-four hours, and she’d never been there to begin with. But she was.

Each time he’d checked, she was sleeping soundly, tucked neatly into the bed he’d procured for her. To judge, the woman was dead to the world. It must have been a long while since she allowed herself to rest. He found himself ridiculously glad to have been able to afford her this luxury. He was a fool.

He still loved her, didn’t he? God, he’d never admit that to anyone, most especially not to himself. Best to spend his time thinking about that locket.

He spent the afternoon hunting around the alleys and side streets near the Steward’s Brake, alternating between searching for Sophie’s cold, mutilated body and checking on Julia’s warm, inviting one. He spent a fair amount of time remembering last night, too, but that was another thing he preferred not to admit to himself. The hours ticked by, and he let Julia sleep. Thankfully, he did not find Sophie’s body. It seemed Lindley had other plans for the girl than a quick demise.

So just what was Rastmoor going to tell Dashford? He’d promised his friend he’d find the girl, but he never dreamed it would entail all of this. And what if he failed? How could he explain this to his friend? Well, perhaps Dashford wouldn’t be overly shocked. They all knew Sophie had not led a charmed life. Perhaps she did not truly want the rescue Lady Dashford so firmly believed she needed.

It would be a great disappointment to them though. Even despite the fact that Sophie had spent the last several years in a brothel, Dashford and his new bride were more than eager to locate their cousin and welcome her into their embrace. Ridiculous, of course, to think such a person could ever be accepted into society, but Rastmoor supposed he understood. He hadn’t exactly been thinking of society’s intolerance when he himself had become engaged to an actress, had he? Of course, he hadn’t known right away the full truth of who—and what—Julia was, but in the long run, it hadn’t mattered to him. He’d been only too happy to plan a future with her, right up until she ran off with Fitzgelder.

Damn, but he was a fool to let his mind wander over such things. Finding that locket was all that should matter to him right now, and so far, he still had no idea where it was. It seemed Lindley could have taken any number of roads out of town, and Rastmoor was without a clue.

More frustrated than ever, he turned his horse over to the ostler and headed back into the inn. There was still no sign of the return of this Jeb fellow who supposedly might have additional pieces of information, though the stable hands assured him the man was expected anytime. Basically, the entire day had been wasted.

Weary, he made his way up to Julia’s room. He’d simply check on her again then leave her be. There was no sense waking her when he had no information to share. He supposed when she did wake, they might as well simply head to London and hope to meet up with Lindley there. It would surely be too late to prevent Fitzgelder from getting the locket, but perhaps Lindley could at least give them news regarding Sophie.

The door latch shifted easily, and he stepped quietly into the room. It was dim, the worn curtains blocking most of the last golden rays of sun. Julia still slept peacefully, curled like a kitten in the center of the large bed. He’d made sure the proprietor gave her the best room he had.

She was every bit as beautiful now as she’d been that first time he’d ever laid eyes on her. He should have known when their eyes locked in that crowded ballroom that no one who appeared that beautiful, that perfect, could possibly be all she seemed. But he was completely taken in, believing every lie she told him about a privileged life and a fabricated pedigree. He’d been a complete dupe for her.

By the time he learned the truth, he had already published the announcement of their betrothal. He felt a bit foolish that she hadn’t confided in him, but he thought he could understand. He was heir to a title; surely she’d been ashamed to admit she was nothing more than an actress. He quietly forgave her and ignored anyone who tried to reason with him. Julia St. Clement would be his wife, actress or not.

And then she’d met Fitzgelder. Even as she planned her wedding to Rastmoor, she conducted a clandestine affair with his devious cousin. She must have assumed Rastmoor would never marry her once he found out. Foolish woman. Rastmoor had been such a sap, it probably would have been worth her while to at least beg him for forgiveness. Easily he would have given it.

Damn, but he’d been her fool right from the start. Even now, years and lies later, he was captured by her soft features. Where were the harsh lines of guilt or the haggard marks of shame? She was still as fresh and peaceful as a child. He studied her as she slumbered, seeing again the glowing woman he’d danced with those long years ago.

They’d met in London, at a ball. Ridiculous that he allowed himself to still remember it so well, but he did. She’d worn a silk gown in pale, silvery blue. It made the chestnut warmth of her hair stand out in the crowd, and her enormous dark eyes drew his attention. The graceful and ample curves of her tempting body would not let him ignore her, but she was so enthralled by the opulent luxury around her, she hardly seemed aware of her own loveliness.

He quickly mistook her for one of the giddy debutantes that swarmed the room, but still he was not deterred from making her acquaintance. No one he knew was able to provide an introduction, so he simply waited until he saw her wander off alone. He cornered her in a hallway.

But their meeting had been all innocence. In fact, she made him feel perfectly at ease, and he’d been happy to simply discuss with her the row of portraits that lined the hall. He’d never in his life found portraiture or hallways so damned absorbing. When she declared it was time to go and that her father would be looking for her, he fairly begged her to meet him the next day. She agreed.

From then on, he’d been lost.

Even when he’d learned about her background, found out she’d merely been posing as a gentlewoman and had not even been invited to that blasted ball, he was determined to marry her. He didn’t tell her he’d learned the truth. So what if she was, in fact, an actress? He didn’t care. She was his, and that was all that mattered.

He leaned over her and touched her hair. She still felt like his.

She stirred in her sleep, and his heart felt like lead. She’d been his, she’d carried his child, and she’d gone off to marry Fitzgelder instead. What a stupid bastard he’d been. Any man who could still love something like that deserved what he got for it.

He left the room. She’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome there, and he ought to thank her for that. He had better things to do with his evening. He had to figure out which direction Lindley must have gone. He had to contemplate ways to circumvent Fitzgelder’s schemes. He had to worry how this all affected his mother and sister. He had to think of places he had not yet searched for Sophie’s body.

Mostly, though, he thought he’d just rather get thoroughly drunk.

 

 

JULIA WOKE WITH A START. WHAT TIME WAS IT? SHE had no way of knowing. Her room was dark. It took several moments before she even remembered where her room was.

Of course, she was at the Steward’s Brake. But where was Rastmoor? She was alone. How long had she slept? Good heavens, it must have been all day!

She’d slept in her clothes and now scrambled to her feet and tucked her shirt hurriedly. Drat that man, he promised he’d come and tell her when he found something! Had he found something? Surely that Jeb fellow from the stables had returned. Had Rastmoor gotten information from him?

What if he had? Blast him, what if he learned where Lindley had taken Sophie, and he’d left her here to go off after them? By God, she never should have let herself fall so soundly asleep. But it had been so long since she and Sophie left London, barely ahead of Fitzgelder’s men, and she’d not dared let herself fully relax until now.

She yanked on her boots, horrible things. They were heavy and noisy and uncomfortable. No wonder men were so often in foul moods. They wore such dashed unpleasant clothing. She ran to the rusted mirror in the corner to do what she could with her hair. Hopeless, she decided, even for a man. No wonder Rastmoor had left her alone all afternoon.

But what if he hadn’t come to tell her what he’d learned because he hadn’t been able to? What if while she’d been sleeping, Fitzgelder had caught up with him? Good heavens, what if he’d been hurt—or worse! She gave up on her appearance and threw her coat over her shoulders. Lord, she’d never forgive herself if she’d slept through Rastmoor’s murder.

She had to find him. She tore the door open and charged into the hall. Something blocked the threshold, though, and she tumbled down on top of it. It was hard, and lumpy, and it groaned. By God, it was Rastmoor!

“What the devil . . .” he started.

“Anthony!” she exclaimed, clambering off of him and studying him over for injuries. “Are you all right? Have you been hurt?”

He pushed himself up into a seated position, and his eyes narrowed at her. The light was burning at the top of the stairs nearby, and though he looked a bit shaggy, the man was happily whole.

“Julia?” he asked. “What in God’s name are you doing out here in the hall?”

His words were slurred. He smelled like whiskey. Indeed, she’d been around enough actors in her life to recognize the symptoms. Rastmoor was staggering drunk.

She smacked his chest and pushed away from him. “Here I am thinking you’ve been murdered by Fitzgelder, and really you’ve just fallen down drunk in the hallway.”

His brows furrowed. “I have not fallen down. I sat down here for the express purpose of avoiding falling down.”

She sat back on her heels. “So this is what you’ve been doing all day? You’ve been sitting around drinking while Lindley does who knows what to poor Sophie?”

“Face it, m’dear, anything Lindley has been going to do to poor Sophie he’s done it already. For my part, I’ll wager he’s shagged her good but left her none the worse.”

She smacked him again. Harder. “Don’t talk that way!”

He had the gall to laugh at her; then he was fool enough to think she’d actually allow him to help her up once he got himself into a standing position. True, he looked fairly sturdy there, but she had no use for him. She managed to stand just fine on her own. She wasn’t the one who’d been swigging back whiskey all day.

“I take it you had a good nap?” he asked.

“Yes, but I was expecting you to come tell me when you’d found Sophie.”

“I didn’t find her, which you should be glad of, since I did everything but drag the river. I’m fairly convinced she’s still alive.”

“And being shagged by Lindley,” she said, making sure her smirk was obvious.

The floor in this inn was remarkably dusty. Julia’s trousers were a sight, and she stooped to pat as much of the dust off them as she could. Rastmoor tried to help, but she slapped his hands away.

“Just making myself useful,” he said, matching her smirk.

“You’d do better to make yourself sober.”

He shook his head. “No, then I’d realize how damned uncomfortable it is sleeping out here against your door.”

“Well, don’t think I’m going to invite you in,” she assured him.

“I wasn’t trying to get in. I was trying to keep anyone else out. I doubt you’d like a repeat of your visitor from last night.”

Last night? Heavens no, she didn’t want anything that happened last night to be repeated, that was certain. So is this why she found him out here, slumped on the dusty floor? He thought he was protecting her? That was actually very sweet. At least, it would be sweet if she could believe it.

She didn’t. More probably the man was simply on his way to rouse her for another tumble when the whiskey got the better of him, and he passed out. Given how things stood between them, the idea that Rastmoor would sacrifice his comfort for her personal safety was more than a bit unlikely.

“I don’t need you watching over me,” she declared. “You ought to be this concerned about Sophie.”

“I was never engaged to be married to Sophie. Besides, all Fitzgelder really wants from her is that locket. Lindley could have had that off her in five minutes, yet we had a report he’d been seen with her all the way up here in Warwick, didn’t we?”