Damsel in Disguise (19 page)

The lane was every bit as wide as the road they’d been traveling, yet obviously it was a private drive. This, no doubt, was the entrance to someone’s grand estate. They’d apparently reached their destination.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Hartwood,” he replied.

“That tells me nothing,” she grumbled. “What is Hartwood?”

“The home of a friend.”

“Lindley?”

“No. I said a friend.”

“A friend
like
Lindley?”

“No. A friend who doesn’t generally try to murder people.”

“Generally?”

“You’ll be safe here.”

She was momentarily distracted by the expanse of manicured lawn around her and the glory of dawn reflected off the still waters of a lake just to their right. Then his words sank in, and she turned to glare at him.

“I’ll be
what
?”

“This belongs to my friend Dashford. You’ll be safe here.”

They rounded a stand of trees, and an enormous house appeared before her. No, it was more of a palace. Huge, rambling, well-tended, and luxurious; whoever this Dashford was, he certainly did well for himself. A person could get lost in a house this vast. Apparently that was exactly what Rastmoor had planned.

“You think you’re going to leave me here, don’t you?” she said, her voice remarkably controlled for the sudden rage that was welling up.

“I
am
leaving you here,” he replied. “And you’re going to be polite about it.”

“I most certainly am not!”

“You are. Dashford and his new lady are friends of mine, and they’ll keep you safe. I can’t introduce you as Alexander Clemmons—they’ve heard that name and think you’re Sophie’s husband, for God’s sake. So we’d best come up with another pseudonym. How about, oh, I think Percival Nancey should do nicely. You’ll make a convincing Mr. Nancey, I should imagine.”

“I will not! If you believe for one minute that I’ll stay here while you go and get yourself killed, well, you . . .”

“You
will
stay here until I send word it’s safe for you to leave. This is not a matter open to discussion, Julia. You are staying with Dashford, and under no circumstances will you reveal your true name or your gender to anyone. Is that clear?”

“Oh, it’s clear enough,” she said with clenched teeth.

By God, she could scarcely believe her ears. He was leaving her here? Expecting her to quietly agree to his preposterous commandments? He was a fool.

No,
she
was the fool. How on earth had she not seen this coming? Of course Rastmoor hadn’t needed to hurry his nag or question passersby along the way. He’d known since the very start that Lindley did not come this way. By God, he’d been bringing her here to dump her off like yesterday’s refuse all along! He knew Lindley had done the logical thing and taken Sophie south, down to London. All this way Rastmoor had simply been bringing Julia up here to abandon her, to get her out of his hair.

The opportunity to fume at him was lost as footmen darted out of the huge house to greet them. Rastmoor handed the horse over to them and let Julia clamber down from the gig under her own power. He gave her a dark look of warning then strode comfortably up the wide steps to the broad front door. More servants appeared and greeted him. It seemed Rastmoor was recognized and loved by everyone, although Julia felt more than a few curious stares directed her way as she trailed Rastmoor into the expansive foyer.

“How nice to see you again, my lord,” the Dashford butler said, hurrying to welcome them.

“Thank you, Williams,” Rastmoor replied, handing his sooty hat and gloves over to a curtsying maid. “Forgive our sudden invasion, but as you might assume, we’ve encountered some difficulties in our travel.”

“Indeed?” Williams replied, valiantly ignoring their ragged condition. “I’m sure his lordship will be eager to know of your arrival.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will. If you would be so kind as to let him know I’ve brought along my good friend, Mr. Percival Nancey.”

Julia cringed. Damn him. The very least he could have done was let her choose her own alias—something a bit more, er, masculine. How was she to keep her gender a secret while prancing around with a name like Nancey?

The butler went off to inform his master of the arrivals, while Rastmoor and Julia were led by a Mrs. Kendall—the housekeeper, she assumed—into a cozy room to await their host. The house seemed to be bursting at the seams with curious servants, and in no time a tray of muffins and tea was brought in for them. Surrounded by such luxury and opulence, Julia felt supremely self-conscious.

Soot clung to her every inch, so she dared not sit on the furniture. Rastmoor, too, she noted, stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room. His face was lined, even more so thanks to the dirt and grime he’d not quite been able to wipe off. The man needed rest. She hoped his friend Dashford—if indeed the man was a true friend—would convince him to refresh himself before attempting the ride to London. If Rastmoor was to survive any further attempts Fitzgelder might have waiting for him along the way, he’d need to be wide-awake and in full control of all his faculties.

Besides, if Rastmoor could be prevailed upon to stall his departure, that might give Julia time to contrive a way to accompany him or at least to escape Dashford and follow at an undetected distance. But stay here with ruddy strangers? As Percival Nancey, no less? She thought not.

“You’re awfully silent,” Rastmoor said at length.

“I’m plotting,” she admitted.

“Well, stop it. When I tell Dash he is to keep you here at all costs, I assure you he’ll do just that.”

“He might certainly try.”

Rastmoor took an angry step toward her, and she had to force herself not to cringe. “Damn it, Julia, I’ll not let you—”

But the door opened and interrupted whatever furious demands Rastmoor had been about to make. It was just as well—she’d not have paid heed to them, anyway, considering her attention was immediately drawn to the tall, disheveled man who entered.

He was dark, long-limbed, and striking. His hair was thoroughly tousled, and he carried his coat thrown over one arm. His shirt, Julia noted, was only partially tucked into his trousers, while the shirt points hung limp at his neck with no cravat in sight. Clearly his lordship—she had no doubt this was Dashford himself—was only just roused from bed to greet them. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Even by country standards it was, after all, still very early in the morning.

The gentleman didn’t seem to mind guests at such an hour, though. He appeared altogether cheerful and alert when he moved to clasp Rastmoor by the hand.

“Anthony! What the devil brings you back here so . . .” Then he paused, taking in Rastmoor’s muddled condition. “Good God, man! You look like hell.”

“Don’t worry, we haven’t mucked up the upholstery,” Rastmoor said. “Sorry about dragging you from bed so early, though.”

Dashford shrugged. “No trouble. I was awake. But tell me, what on earth happened to you?”

Julia reminded herself to play her part as Dashford’s curious gaze scanned over her filthy attire. She held up her chin and tried to look manly. It wasn’t easy. Compared to these two gentlemen, she must certainly look a poor example of masculinity if not a sham entirely.

“This is my friend, Nancey. Percival Nancey,” Rastmoor announced.

Julia had the presence of mind to bend at the waist rather than curtsy, but Rastmoor continued before she had opportunity to greet their host.

“You’ll have to forgive him; he doesn’t speak. He can’t.”

What? Blast the man! Now he was taking away her ability to speak? Oh, she could simply choke him. Perhaps Dashford would leave them soon, and she might have opportunity to do just that.

Dashford, however, seemed perplexed by Rastmoor’s words, so the ruddy liar continued. “There was a fire in the posting house. Nancey took in too much smoke, unfortunately. Likely it’ll be days before he can find his voice again.”

Curse him! Oh, she’d find her voice again soon, indeed. He could be sure of that.

“Dash it, I’m terribly sorry,” Dashford said with conviction. “A fire, you say? Were there any other . . . Say, where the duce is Lindley?”

“Don’t worry, he survived. The scoundrel is halfway to London by now, I suppose,” Rastmoor said. “These last two days I’ve been traveling with Mr. Nancey.”

Now Dashford frowned and gave her a suspicious look. At least, it felt to Julia like a suspicious look. She gave extra effort to a masculine pose. A quick glance at Rastmoor told her she was not succeeding. He rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps we might have the opportunity to refresh ourselves,” Rastmoor said, drawing Dashford’s attention again. “I’m sure Mr. Nancey could use some sleep, but if you’re not too busy this morning, Dash, I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

Dashford nodded. “Of course. I’ll call for someone to show you up to your rooms.”

Well, at least she would have her own room in this expansive home. With luck it would be far, far removed from Rastmoor’s. With a heavy lock.

Dashford moved to the bellpull, and Julia took advantage of his distance to scowl at Rastmoor. He smiled innocently. The snake.

She gritted her teeth and muttered so he alone could hear, “I’m not about to let you leave me here—mute of all things!”

“Hush, Mr. Nancey, don’t strain your voice. Just think how that could ruin your opera career,” Rastmoor said loudly.

Dashford frowned again, watching her. She feigned a sniffle and wiped her nose against her sleeve. There, was that manly enough? Apparently not. Rastmoor rolled his eyes again.

“That’s rotten luck about your voice, Nancey,” Dashford said after summoning his staff. “I’ll call for the physician right away.”

Oh, that was all they needed! Julia glared daggers at Rastmoor. Didn’t the idiot realize his kindhearted friend would insist on medical care when he decided to make her a victim?

“No, really, there’s no need,” Rastmoor said quickly. “I assure you, Nancey was seen before we left Warwick. All he requires is a bed. For sleeping.”

Julia glared harder, subtly pointing to her sooty, sagging clothes. Rastmoor got the hint.

“And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I suppose we could both use another change of clothes. I’m afraid we’ve been rather separated from our bags.”

“Of course,” Dashford said politely.

The housekeeper arrived, and Dashford explained that the guests would need rooms for rest and refreshing, as well as fresh apparel. Julia tried not to blush as Mrs. Kendall surveyed her, obviously wondering where in the world to find men’s clothing to fit such a peculiar body type. For Rastmoor it would be simple—he could likely wear some of Dashford’s garments. For Julia, however, the staff would have to be more creative. Indeed, far more creative than they knew. She hoped she could keep it that way. At this point it would be far more troublesome to explain a change in gender than to simply keep up with the ruse they’d already started on.

Drat Rastmoor for his voiceless opera singer, though. If she thought for one minute she would be trapped here after he left, she’d be completely furious. As it was, she could do little but bide her time and choke back her anger. He’d get his tongue-lashing soon enough. And it would not be the pleasant kind, either.

Mrs. Kendall led them back through the grand entrance hall, and Dashford instructed Rastmoor to meet him in the office at his convenience. Julia hoped she was glowering enough that Rastmoor might get the idea he was not to leave this house without her. Stupidly, he seemed not to notice.

He did notice the figure floating down the stairs toward them, though. Julia glanced up and couldn’t help but stare. For one minute she thought it was Sophie, but of course it was not. The hair was a somewhat darker shade of blond, and the eyes were very alike, but this person was a stranger. It must, of course, be the new Lady Dashford.

“Ah, here is my wife now,” Dashford said, confirming Julia’s expectation.

Lady Dashford met their group at the foot of the stairs and welcomed Rastmoor warmly. Too warmly. She threw her arms around him like some long-lost brother. He didn’t protest, Julia was quick to notice.

Not that she cared, of course. Drat, she scolded herself for caring. It was none of her business whom Rastmoor let kiss his cheek or hang on his arm. But did Dashford not see the comfortable smiles the two shared?

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?”