Damsel in Disguise (25 page)

She shoved him toward the door, positioning him carefully off to the side where he would be completely hidden when it opened. Hopefully. If the person in the hall decided to make an uninvited entrance, it wouldn’t do to have them find him here in his present condition.

 

 

JULIA DID WHAT SHE COULD TO TIDY HER APPEARANCE and opened the door. Rastmoor gave her one last, pitiful look that clearly begged her to be quick about this. He was rather cute, huddled there in the corner behind the door with his clothing, desperately trying to conceal what was really and truly far too huge to conceal. Quite flattering, actually, but certainly not something she envied having to explain to whomever was at the door.

As it turned out, their guest was none other than Lady Dashford.

“Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nancini,” she said politely, although her expression said she was more than a bit surprised to find her guest so disheveled.

Julia yawned, hoping she would get the idea he’d been doing nothing more sordid than taking a peaceful afternoon nap. Partially dressed. After having just woken from a nap barely one hour ago.

But if the viscountess noted anything amiss, she was too generous to point it out. “I just wanted to be sure you had everything you needed and to remind you that we keep country hours. Dinner will be early, if that isn’t too much trouble for you.”

Julia shrugged, shook her head, smiled, bowed, nodded, and did whatever else she could think that might assure her ladyship all was well. Lady Dashford’s dewy green eyes swept the room and seemed content that all was as it should be. Julia yawned again.

“Very well,” the lady said. “I see you have fresh linens. Shall I have the maid bring you water to wash as you dress for dinner?”

Julia nodded. Indeed, a bit of a wash was not at all a bad idea.

The hostess smiled warmly. “Fine. We’ll see you at dinner.”

Julia smiled her away and nearly heaved a sigh of relief when Lady Dashford turned to go. But suddenly she turned back to her.

“It will probably take the maid a full half hour to bring the water, Mr. Nancini. I’m quite sure the upstairs staff will be put to other tasks until that time, in fact. The hallway will likely be empty of everyone. I do hope that isn’t, er, inconvenient for you?”

Julia shook her head. Why ever would Lady Dashford see the need to discuss the actions of her upstairs staff, unless . . . And then she noticed the darting glance Lady Dashford gave to a spot on the floor just behind Julia. It was the spot, incidentally, where Rastmoor had left their boots.

Good heavens, there were two pairs of men’s boots! And one pair was conspicuously larger than the other. Drat everything.

But the lady simply smiled and left. Did she know? Had she figured them out? Did she see through Julia’s disguise? Or worse, did she
not
see through Julia’s disguise? Oh, poor Rastmoor! How on earth was he going to explain this to his friend?

She shut the door and stood near it, listening for Lady Dashford’s soft footfalls to fade away. Finally she glanced up at Rastmoor. Yes, without the door to block his view, his gaze had wandered over to the double pair of boots, too.

“Shit,” he said with understated passion and dropped his pile of clothing.

Julia carefully held back the laughter. It probably wouldn’t do to laugh at the man when he must realize what their hostess clearly suspected. If she told her husband, poor Rastmoor would be humiliated. Or worse. Then again, clearly he wasn’t that upset. His cravat had not exactly reached the floor with the rest of the clothes. It had been, conveniently, caught. Waving like a white flag, it hung there, tantalizing her.

“You know,” Julia said, catching her breath. “She did say no one would be around for at least half an hour.”

 

 

RASTMOOR LET THE DOOR SHUT NOISELESSLY BEHIND him. He hoped their hostess had been correct, and no one was prowling the hallway. It could very well have been past that half hour she gave them, though. God, what Julia could do to a man!

He was glad dinner would be early. He needed sustenance.

“Patch things up, did you?”

The voice startled him, and Rastmoor was surprised to find Dashford waiting at the head of the staircase.

“Beg pardon?”

“Did you patch things up with Nancini there?” Dashford asked slowly. “When you brought him up here, you seemed a bit put out. Now I see you’re smiling.”

“Am I?” He quickly remedied that.

Good God, had Lady Dashford mentioned anything to her husband? Damn it, now how was he going to explain himself without giving Julia away? Indeed, Dashford could be trusted, but even the walls had ears, and as long as Fitzgelder might have honest reason to hate Julia, Rastmoor just couldn’t take any chances.

“He’s an odd pup, that Nancini,” Dashford went on, blocking the stairs so Rastmoor was forced to stand in the hall and have a conversation. “Wherever did you dredge him up?”

“I told you, we met in London a while ago.”

“Yes, you told me, but I thought I’d go ahead and ask again. Thought possibly I’d get a different answer.”

“You won’t.”

“Fair enough.” Dashford shrugged. “It just seems you might like to tell me who the pretty little bloke really is.”

“The
bloke
is a bloody opera singer. If this isn’t acceptable to you, then I suppose we can send for a carriage and be out of your hair before dinner.”

“No need for that. Dash it all, Anthony, is it just this Fitzgelder thing that’s got you so off balance, or is there something more? I’d like to think you consider me trustworthy if there’s something more plaguing you.”

“There’s nothing plaguing me,” Rastmoor said sharply. Even he thought it sounded decidedly plaguey. “I just didn’t expect my mother and sister to turn up, all mixed into the situation.”

“No, I would have expected Penelope to be enjoying her first season, not running away from it. They sent their regrets for the wedding, you know. How odd they’d show up three days after it.”

“Yes, isn’t it? The quicker we can get back to town to see what my ruddy cousin’s up to, the better.”

“But could it be possible that . . .”

Here Dashford paused. The butler stood at the bottom of the stairs and cleared his throat. Dashford glanced over his shoulder at the man.

“Yes, Williams?”

“Sir, there is a Mr. Thatcher here to see you,” the butler announced.

Dashford frowned. “Thatcher? Do I know him?”

Rastmoor ran through his memory but couldn’t think of any Thatcher that might have anything to do with his current troubles, so he decided this must be a legitimate matter for Dashford. Good. Last time the butler announced arrivals, it was Rastmoor’s uninvited family.

“He comes from Findutton.”

Yes, that was most certainly a business matter for Dashford. Findutton-on-Avon was a tiny village just upriver from Hartwood. Much of the property surrounding it was a part of the Dashford estate except, of course, for Loveland. That neglected heap was an old cottage, held dear by Lady Dashford because it once belonged to her grandmother. Oddly enough, though, that cottage was intended for cousin Sophie. Dashford and his wife were hoping to locate the girl and turn the title over to her.

Ironic, however, that Sophie was most likely going the opposite direction, on her way to London in the probable employ of Fitzgelder and that traitorous Lindley. Damn. Things were beginning to overlap. Perhaps Rastmoor ought to be concerned about this Thatcher fellow, after all.

Dashford, however, seemed to be waiting for more information. He simply stared down at his butler until the man finally gave further explanation.

“Mr. Thatcher was passing by the cottage, sir,” Williams continued. “He says someone was there. He fears treasure hunters again, sir.”

“But everyone knows there was no treasure,” Dashford replied. “What makes Mr. Thatcher so suspicious he’d come all the way over here to warn me?”

Rastmoor had an odd, sinking sensation. Damn and damn again! Last time something was going on at that blasted cottage, he’d thought he’d lost his best friend. But all of Dashford’s troubles were solved weeks ago. Who on earth could be pillaging Loveland this time? Unless, of course, it was someone in league with Fitzgelder; someone stalking him, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

By God, couldn’t they at least have chosen a new location this time?

“He says it looks like it might be a troupe of actors, sir,” Williams went on.

Dashford seemed no less surprised than Rastmoor.

“Actors?” they said in unison.

“Yes, sir,” the butler confirmed. “Perhaps if you would like to speak with the man yourself, he can give you details.”

“Yes, all right,” Dashford said. “Have him sent to my office.”

That seemed a simple enough request, but the butler cleared his throat again.

“Yes, Williams?” Dashford asked.

“Thatcher is a farmer, sir.”

“Is he?” Dashford asked, clearly wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Yes, sir,” Williams confirmed. “Pigs, sir.”

“Ah, well, my condolences for Mrs. Thatcher. Now please show the man in to my . . .”

The butler cleared his throat again. By Hades, was the man consumptive? Dashford really ought to look to better care of his servants’ health.

“Yes, Williams?”

“He’s coming from his yard, sir,” Williams announced. “His pig yard, sir. The place where he keeps his pigs, sir. Several of them, by the smell of it.”

Ah, now the butler’s lung trouble made more sense.

“So you’re saying Thatcher has brought bits of his labors with him, are you, Williams?” Dashford chuckled.

“Indeed, sir.”

“So perhaps conferring with him out of doors might be the best course, eh, Williams?”

The butler gave a great sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. If you don’t mind, sir. The staff would have a devil of a time removing that from your carpets, sir.”

“Then by all means, for the sake of my carpets, let’s go meet with Mr. Thatcher outside,” Dashford said with a smiling glance at Rastmoor. “Care to join me? I can’t imagine a troupe of vagrant actors would hold any interest for you, yet . . .”

“Yet then again, it might,” Rastmoor finished for him.

Indeed, Dashford knew his past history with actors. Well, with one particular actress and her scheming father, to be more specific. Likely he, too, was wondering what this manifestation might have to do with whatever Fitzgelder had simmering.

Yes, Rastmoor would most certainly care to join him in the yard with the aromatic Mr. Thatcher. It would be interesting to see what they could find out about these mysterious actors who appeared out of the blue to take up residence in Sophie’s former home. He was more than a little interested, also, to find out if perhaps Julia knew anything about it.

 

JULIA SLID THE DOOR SHUT AS THE TWO MEN DISAPPEARED down the staircase at the end of the hallway. She’d poked her head out after Rastmoor left, curious as to where he would go. Of course she couldn’t help but listen when Dashford practically announced his suspicions about her, and Rastmoor’s gruff responses could have done nothing to ease Dashford’s mind. The man was a horrible actor—out of the bedroom, anyway.

But what on earth was this? Someone had been speaking to them from the bottom of the stairs. The butler, she’d deduced, and it seemed he was talking about—had she heard it right?—a pig farmer. Well, that certainly was less than interesting.

But something else captured her attention. Actors. Both men had said “actors,” and the way they said it convinced her there was some measure of importance. Someone was bringing word of actors.

Well, this could mean nothing, but then again, it could mean everything. Papa and his troupe should be safely in Gloucester, shouldn’t they? Yet if Fitzgelder had found out about them, there was no telling what could be occurring. She simply had to find out what this was.

She quickly readjusted the binding that wrapped tightly around her chest, fussed with her clothes, and peeked out into the hallway again. Empty. Good.

It had sounded as if someone was here to speak to Dashford about these actors, and of course the likely place for that would be his office. Julia would sneak her way down there and, with luck, shamelessly eavesdrop outside the door. Hopefully this had nothing to do with her.

From the tension she’d heard in Rastmoor’s voice when he agreed to accompany his friend to talk to whomever they were meeting, she didn’t feel there was strong hope. Rastmoor appeared to believe this did have something to do with her. And the way her life had been going, it probably wasn’t something good.

So, where the devil was that man’s office? She’d hunted it earlier but found the drawing room, along with three chatty women. She’d rather avoid them just now, so she headed in the opposite direction this time. An elaborate archway beyond the grand staircase led her down a hallway she’d never been in. Well, there was no sign of Rastmoor or anyone, so she wandered.