Damsel in Disguise (21 page)

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 understand. 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.

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.

She studied the effect in her reflection. Not bad, for a slightly rounded, smooth-faced, effeminate young man. Was the disguise enough to keep the household convinced? Oh well, this was the best she could do.

She yanked the door open and hurried out into the hallway. It wasn’t until after the fact that she realized she’d half expected to find herself locked in—it would be so like Rastmoor to come up with an excuse for such a thing. The fact that he hadn’t done so struck her as rather ominous. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to secure her in her room. Perhaps he was already long gone. How many hours had she slept? He could be miles from here by now!

Not sure what to expect, she kept her footfalls as silent as possible when she made her way down the stairs. How on earth did gentlemen spend their lives clomping around in these heavy, noisy boots? When this was all over and done, she would never again begrudge any of her fussy female apparel.

There had not appeared to be any sign of Rastmoor upstairs, so she thought she’d best go down. Hadn’t Dashford said something about Rastmoor meeting him in his office? Yes, but where on earth was his lordship’s office? She had no idea how to find her way in this enormous house. Did she dare risk uncovering their lie and actually speak to someone to ask for directions? Before she could do that, she’d first have to find someone, wouldn’t she? That, too, could be problematic.

Well, what could it hurt to do some of her own investigating? That blasted office had to be somewhere, didn’t it? She made it to the bottom of the stairway and realized she had two options: one archway opened onto a wide corridor that led to the small drawing room they’d initially been ushered into, and one archway opened to a narrower corridor that snaked around toward the back of the house. Likely the office was along one of these.

She peered first around one archway then the other. Each corridor held several doors that likely opened into music rooms, libraries, retiring rooms, or whatever else one needed a room for in a giant house like this. Clearly Dashford had rooms to spare in this place. But which way would take her to the man’s office?

Voices caught her attention. She peeped back around the first archway. The door to the one drawing room she had been in was only partially closed, and she could distinctly hear voices inside. Not Rastmoor’s, though. These were female voices. Well, surely they’d know where to find Rastmoor, wouldn’t they? She tugged her coat into place and headed for the doorway.

Then she remembered she couldn’t speak. Rather, she wasn’t
allowed
to speak. Lady Dashford would likely intend to enforce that, as concerned for her guest’s well-being as she’d appeared to be. And, of course, Julia’s written Italian was rather lacking. Indeed, it was nonexistent. Rastmoor would have known that, of course, drat his ruddy hide.

She paused outside the doorway, wondering what to do. Her silent pondering gave her accidental snatches of the conversation inside. Rastmoor’s name came through particularly clearly, trilled on the tongue of some youngish female. More precisely, his
Christian
name was trilled on the tongue of some youngish female. And spoken with a fair measure of affection, as a matter of fact.

Julia leaned in toward the door to accidentally hear more.

“Yes, Anthony can be quite vexing at times,” the female trilled on with a wistful sigh. “But I do love him, of course.”

“Of course you do,” what was likely Lady Dashford’s voice replied. “He was merely surprised to have you arrive here, that’s all.”

“Well, he needn’t have been so cross with me when we arrived!” Trilling Female Voice said, sounding far less affectionate and rather more petulant. “What did he expect, that I would stay back in London and wait? He was supposed to have come to us a month ago.”

“It must be very frustrating for you,” her calmer, less petulant hostess said. “But Dashford and I were so glad Anthony could be with us for the wedding.”

“I was supposed to be planning my own wedding already, if Anthony had done as he should by me.”

“Of course. And I’m sure Lord Rastmoor will see to making that happen just as soon as he can,” Lady Dashford said.

Her voice continued, soothing the obvious irritation in the first lady. Julia could not tell if she was successful or not, but she did detect a rather distinctively unsoothed irritation in her own person. And she didn’t like it.

So, Anthony was getting married, was he? She hadn’t heard that. She shouldn’t be surprised, of course. She’d always known he’d marry someday; it was inevitable. The man had his duty to think of. Indeed, there was a title and entailments and that ridiculous wealth that needed an heir. Of course Rastmoor would feel the need to marry, if not the urge. Then again, if the petulant triller behind the door was even halfway attractive—and Julia expected she was—Rastmoor likely felt the urge.

And this, of course, explained why Fitzgelder was suddenly so motivated to rid the world of Lord Rastmoor. If Rastmoor married, it would only be a matter of time before the world was riddled with more little Rastmoors, and each one of them would put Fitzgelder just one step farther away from getting his greedy hands on any more of the unequally distributed Rastmoor money. It made perfect sense. Rastmoor was to marry.

But what was his fiancée doing here? It didn’t seem as if Rastmoor had expected her. The girl said he’d been cross. Well, Julia didn’t wonder. He’d no doubt been more than a bit surprised—not to mention uncomfortable—to learn that his former and current fiancées were suddenly ensconced under the same roof with him. The whole thing could be really humorous, actually. If, of course, Julia didn’t feel so utterly wretched clear down into her bones.

How could Anthony possibly be marrying that little twit? And did this mean he had run even more swiftly from this place, or did this new circumstance mean he was bound to extend his stay? Julia would not relish seeing him fawn over his dearest intended. No, at this point she rather hoped he had gone already. She’d be the one to follow him, not insipid trill girl.

First, however, she’d have to deal with the throat-clearing personage who just materialized behind her. Bother, she’d been caught eavesdropping, hadn’t she? Slowly, she turned.

A stern-faced matron stood there, glaring expectantly.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked.

Julia had no idea who this was, but the woman’s regal bearing and feathered turban convinced her immediately she was not one to trifle with. Unfortunately, trifling was all Julia could do at the moment. Her throat was dry, and she made a rather odd sound when she tried to come up with some logical reply.

“Well?” the woman said, obviously taking pleasure in Julia’s discomfort.

Julia’s throat gurgles and the woman’s impatient foot tapping must have been enough to alert the ladies behind the door that they had company. The door swung open to reveal Lady Dashford. She smiled at Julia and then at the turbaned mother superior.

“Ah, Mr. Nancey . . . or would you rather that we call you as they do in your homeland, Nancini? I trust you had a nice rest. Lady Rastmoor, this is our guest, Mr. Nancini. He’s a friend of Lord Rastmoor’s, from Italy.”

“How nice.” The lady pinned Julia with her stare. “And do you always make it a habit of listening at doorways, Mr. Nancini?”

Julia couldn’t help but stare back. This was Rastmoor’s mother? The poor man had his current fiancée, his former—and disturbingly recent—lover, and his
mother
all converge on him at once? Indeed, she was quite sure he must have gone at the earliest possible moment. And she really couldn’t blame him, either.

“Poor Mr. Nancini cannot speak, my lady Rastmoor,” Lady Dashford said kindly, opening the door and stepping aside to invite Julia in. “I’m afraid he was overcome by smoke in a fire recently and is under strict orders not to use his voice until his throat heals. You are a singer, are you not, Mr. Nancini?”

Julia nodded and bowed, trying to be as manfully gracious as possible in the hope that Lady Rastmoor would stop glaring at her. Good heavens, she’d sooner face six Fitzgelders than one Lady Rastmoor who might determine her true identity!

Then her eyes caught on the real terror in the room.

A young woman perched primly on a sunny settee near the window—she was nothing short of stunning. By God, this creature was the epitome of gentle breeding. She turned compassion-brimmed, doelike eyes in Julia’s direction, and her expression held not only concern and purity, but there was depth and intelligence, as well. She was everything Julia had once aspired to be. No wonder she had failed miserably.

“Oh, how dreadful!” the young lady said with honest sweetness. “How distressing for you, Mr. Nancini. Surely the doctor has given every hope you’ll soon regain your voice?”

Julia hated her. Never in a hundred years, not with all the theatrics in the world, could she herself have become the mixture of beauty and sincerity and innocence that was Rastmoor’s future bride. Indeed, the man had done remarkably well for himself. She hated him, too.

And she hated this ruddy cravat. Standing here, surrounded by silk wall coverings, ornate furniture, and three cultured, noble-born ladies, Julia felt more out of place than she had ever been. She tugged at the cravat and wished to God she’d stayed up in her room. And to think, this was the world she would have entered to become Anthony’s wife! What a fool she’d been.

“Rastmoor assures us he will heal,” Lady Dashford said. “But only if we are careful to insist he not strain himself. No, you mustn’t speak, Mr. Nancini. Perhaps you can use gestures if there is something you must tell us.”

“Yes, please do!” the stunning one said brightly. “It will be most amusing. Almost like a game!”

Julia rejoiced to see the girl’s halo tarnished by a smidgen of insipidness.

“If Mr. Nancini has something to say, can he not simply draft us a note?” Lady Rastmoor suggested.

“No, I’m afraid he only writes in Italian,” Lady Dashford explained. “It is your native tongue, is it not, Mr. Nancini?”

Julia nodded, hopeful no one would test her in this. Italian was as native to her tongue as ancient Sanskrit.

“Pity,” Lady Rastmoor said with a frown. “I’m afraid my Italian is incomplete. I should love to hear all about this dreadful fire my son claims was hardly more than a spark from the stove. Odd that a simple spark should cause you so much pain, isn’t it, Mr. Nancini?”