Damsel in Disguise (22 page)

Julia wasn’t certain how to answer that. What did the lady suspect? Did she suspect Julia’s ruse, or was she aware of Fitzgelder’s scheme? Likely she had no idea her son’s life was in danger. Should Julia give up this pretense and warn her? Would any of these fine people believe her? More likely they’d be appalled by her lies and throw her out on the street.

Curses on Rastmoor for putting her through this. He should never have brought her here. They should be on their way to London right now, rescuing Sophie and getting that dratted locket back.

“I think fires are perfectly terrifying,” the young lady in the settee said with a sigh that hinted she could do with a bit more terror in her well-ordered life. “Now I wish I had learned Italian instead of all that useless French. Pity you don’t write in French, Mr. Nancini.”

Yes, pity she didn’t. Except that she did. As a matter of fact, Julia’s French was every bit as good as her English, spoken
or
written. Indeed, Rastmoor had said nothing about French, had he? Perhaps Mr. Nancini had just found his voice after all.

Julia nodded profusely for them. Her lips formed a rather exaggerated
Oui
.

“
WE?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN,
WE
?” RASTMOOR ASKED his friend, glaring across the mahogany desk in Dashford’s private study.

“I mean
we
will leave for London in the morning,” Dashford replied, studying the whiskey he’d just poured himself. “I discussed it with Evaline while you were catching up with your mother. She agrees that you need me more than she does right now.”

“That’s not exactly what one wants to hear from one’s new bride, Dash,” Rastmoor chided. “I can handle Fitzgelder on my own.”

“Perhaps, but I’m going with you just the same.”

“Likely you’re simply looking for an excuse to leave this house full of women.”

“I do seem to be outnumbered—my mother will be most disappointed she left when she did and missed all this excitement. Then again, there is Nancini to keep me company . . .”

“No! You assured me he’ll be left alone. Dash, it’s very important no one interferes with his rest.”

“And no one will. By God, you’re on edge. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I just wasn’t expecting my mother and Penelope to show up here, that’s all.”

“Yet here they are. That proves things are worse than we thought, which is why I’m not letting you go back to London alone.”

“But . . .”

“The matter is settled,” Dashford said with convincing determination. “I’ve already dispatched men. They’ll see what they can find out about Lindley’s involvement and then wait for us at my town house. You can gain nothing more by charging off before morning.”

“Dash, I appreciate it, but this doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course it does. My unfortunate young cousin and my thick-headed friend are both involved, so I’m concerned. End of discussion. If you’d like to explain this Nancini person to me, however . . .”

Rastmoor was about to inform him there was nothing further to discuss about Nancini when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. A footman appeared.

“Excuse me,” he said with a bow. “Lord Rastmoor asked to be informed if Mr. Nancini left his room.”

Dashford sent Rastmoor a questioning look, but Rastmoor ignored him. He tried to remain calm as he questioned the footman. “Has he?”

“He’s gone to the drawing room, sir, with the ladies. I was only just made aware of it, but Mrs. Kendall says he’s been in there half an hour.”

Hellfire. What was Julia up to? He did not need this right now.

“Thank you, Hal,” Dashford said.

The footman excused himself with another bow and pulled the door closed behind him. Rastmoor gripped the arms of his chair and wished he hadn’t already downed his whiskey. He needed a drink. Damn, but he’d like to get his hands on Julia right now and . . . No, it would not be helpful at all to think about what he’d like to do to Julia right now. Best to think about whiskey, instead. Just as soon as he figured out what to do about what must be happening in the drawing room.

“So, shall we adjourn there?” Dashford said after an uncomfortable pause.

Rastmoor nearly leapt from his seat. He really needed to work on being more subtle, but right this moment, all he cared about was getting to Julia and finding out what damage she’d done. If she’d given his mother and sister greater cause for worry, why he’d . . . he’d . . . well, it wouldn’t involve anything that required him to lay hands on Julia’s person. Somehow every punishment he dreamed up involving hands and physical contact ended with her in his bed wearing nothing but a satisfied smile.

He followed his friend out into the hall, through the grand entrance area, then under another archway into the hallway that led to the drawing room. Why in heaven’s name couldn’t the man walk faster? This damned enormous house made it impossible to get anywhere in a timely manner. There was no telling what Julia might be saying. Dash it all, if she gave his mother reason to suspect her true identity . . . well, he might be walking into a catfight, the likes of which the world had never seen.

The nearer they came to the drawing room, the more he was convinced this must be exactly what was occurring. Female screeches issued from the partially opened door. Dashford glanced at Rastmoor with a raised eyebrow, and Rastmoor pushed him out of the way. He bowled through the door prepared to dodge anything from flying bric-a-brac to fainting matrons.

He found neither, however. It was much worse.

Julia, he discovered, was cleaned, combed, trousered, and disguised in immaculate linen and a well-tailored waistcoat. She was behind the settee, fairly leering over a cow-eyed, giggling Penelope. The other two ladies cackled from their perches at either side of his sister, blinking with adoration at the dandified young man Julia appeared to be. Bits of scrawled handwritten paper were scattered about them and clutched in their hands. The women’s mirthful rumpus silenced just long enough for them to glance up and take in Rastmoor’s blustering presence. Then, with sidelong glances at Julia, their hilarity started all over again.

By God, were these women laughing at
him
?

“What the devil is all this?” Dashford asked.

“Hello, my dearest,” Lady Dashford replied in her sweetest tone. “Mr. Nancini has been very kindly telling us how he and poor Rastmoor survived that terrible fire.”

Somehow “poor” Rastmoor had a feeling Mr. Nancini must be embellishing the truth somewhat. From his recollection, there had been nothing funny about that damned fire. What the devil was Julia doing? She was supposed to be tucked safely away in her room. Mute.

He glared at her. “Mr. Nancini is not supposed to be speaking. He’s supposed to be resting his voice. Upstairs. Alone.”

“Don’t be such a worrier,” his mother said, waving away his concern with a flick of her fan. “Mr. Nancini has been very careful with his voice. He’s written it all on paper.”

He narrowed his eyes at Julia in case she hadn’t yet noticed how angry he was. “Oh? But Mr. Nancini cannot write in English, if he might recall.”

“English isn’t the only language on earth, you know,” Penelope announced. “Mr. Nancini has been writing in French. And very prettily, I declare. He’s kept us well entertained this half an hour. Did you know he’s a poet as well? He wrote me a sonnet! In French!”

“Oh, did he, now?” Rastmoor clenched his fists and stepped back to rest his weight on one leg. His jaw twinged where he ground his teeth to keep from saying just exactly what he thought of Mr. Nancini’s decision to become French.

But his fury was apparently lost on these women. Penelope burst into more giggles, and she actually had the nerve to point one long finger at him.

“Look, Mr. Nancini,” she cried. “He’s doing it, just as you showed us! And there’s that little tic in his jawline, just as it always is when he’s very upset. My, but you have such a talent for pantomime.”

Julia dared bow in appreciation of Penelope’s praise. Rastmoor unclenched his jaw and straightened his stance. He did
not
assume this pose whenever he was upset, and he
never
had a tic, despite what all the ladies in this room seemed to think.

“Indeed,” Lady Dashford said, equally smitten with Julia’s apparent talent. “I had no idea a life in the opera could develop such observational skill. No wonder Lord Rastmoor has been so gracious to sponsor you in society and promise your introduction to the London stage.”

Now Rastmoor’s eyes widened in surprise. He had been doing
what
?

His mother smiled at him. “I’m proud of you, Anthony. You should have told me you’d become so interested in the arts.”

“And that home for orphans!” Peneloped chimed. “How generous! Please say you’ll take me there someday so I can bring gifts to the poor little children you support.”

He wasn’t sure he heard that right. “What?”

Dashford literally choked. “By God!”

“Oh, I know you’re too modest to brag,” his mother said, beaming. “But Mr. Nancini told us all about it. How you’ve turned your back on the usual pursuits of privilege and earthly pleasure—it’s quite commendable, Anthony. And now you’ve become a temperate! Indeed, a mother can be proud. I’ll see to it all strong drink and temptation are removed from Rastmoor House the minute I go home.”

“You certainly will not!” Rastmoor announced. “What the devil has Mr. Nancini been saying to you?”

“Not saying, dear,
writing
,” his mother corrected. “But I understand you don’t wish to discuss it. He explained how you’ve been simply trying to assuage the plaguing guilt over your treatment of a certain young lady some years ago, but we will say no more on
that
tender subject.”

“He said
what
?!”

Julia just smiled demurely, while Dashford’s laughter drowned out the oaths Rastmoor muttered under his breath. By God, he’d murder the devious, storytelling female! How was he ever going to live any of this down? Obviously, based on the adoring way his mother and sister were ogling him and the rugged back-patting he was getting from Dashford, he wasn’t.

“I had no idea you were such a philanthropist,” Dashford was saying and seemed to find the whole notion more than a bit amusing.

“I’m a bloody victim, that’s what I am,” Rastmoor muttered. He tried to pin Julia with another killing glare, but she had become too distracted with fluffing her cravat to notice.

“It’s impressive, all these upstanding things you’ve been doing, Anthony,” Penelope said with a hint of sisterly skepticism. “I can nearly understand why Mr. Nancini was willing to put aside all thought of his own safety and plunge into that fire to save you—even if you were completely ape drunk.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rastmoor could hardly do more than gape at his sister. Never mind the fact that this was completely fabricated information, where in God’s name did Penelope learn a phrase like that?

“Oh, he didn’t mean to insult you,” Penelope went on, blushing. “We had to beg him to tell us all about that dreadful fire.”

“And now I wish we hadn’t,” his mother added. “It’s just awful to think what might have happened if Mr. Nancini hadn’t been there!”

“But he was,” Penelope reminded her. “And now he’s here. Our hero.” She twisted in her seat to flutter her lashes up at Julia, and Julia did not have the good sense to appear in the least ashamed of her actions. Some hero.

Enough was enough.

“Indeed, I owe Mr. Nancini quite a debt,” Rastmoor said, finally catching Julia’s truthless eye. “And I’ll start repaying him by reminding everyone he desperately requires rest and solitude.”

He moved to Julia’s side and dropped his hand down onto her shoulder. He felt her muscles tense, and she subtly cringed. Good. She ought to cringe.

“Come, Nancini,” he said. “You must be completely fatigued.”

Of course there was nothing she could say. She sure could glare, though, and she did. With a vengeance. He didn’t care. Like it or not, he was in charge here, and for her own good Julia was going to do what he said. It would only put her in danger if anyone suspected her true identity. How did he know Dashford’s servants wouldn’t talk or carry the tale of a disguised woman into the nearest town? All it would take was a hint of that to get back to Fitzgelder or Lindley or any number of people who might have reason to hold a grudge.

He had too many other things to worry about to be distracted by that concern.

“Oh, but Mr. Nancini seems perfectly healthy to me,” Penelope protested. “Except, of course, that he simply can’t talk.”

“Now, dear, if Anthony seems to think our new friend needs to rest, perhaps we ought to let him. I’m sure that was a harrowing experience for both of them last night.”

“Of course it was,” Lady Dashford said, rising to play the part of hostess. “Let me send for someone to attend you, Mr. Nancini.”