Damsel in Disguise (26 page)

This blasted house had rooms and doors and hallways at every turn, it seemed. How ever had Lady Dashford learned her way around? She’d seemed perfectly comfortable here, yet Rastmoor said the viscount and his lady had been wed just a few days. Then again, likely the new viscountess came from a house very much like this. These well-bred blue bloods arrived on the planet knowing about such things as gargantuan estate homes and flocks of servants. It would surely have taken Julia more than a few days to adjust to being lady over such opulence. Just as well, then, that she would never be faced with that particular hardship.

Thank Providence for small favors, she supposed.

She heard sounds from the room several steps ahead of her but immediately knew it could not be Rastmoor. It was those women again. As much as she’d enjoyed their company, now was not the time. She needed to find Rastmoor and learn about this acting troupe. But the ladies’ voices appeared to be heading for the hallway. Seeing her best hope of escape, Julia ducked into the nearest doorway, realizing at the last moment that she had no reason to believe this room was any less crowded than the hallway was about to be.

Nervous, she glanced around and found herself blissfully alone in the library. Books lined every wall and filled several low shelves placed here and there about the area. The room itself was oddly shaped, with alcoves and corners in unpredictable locations. Indeed, if one wanted to avoid detection, this would be the place. Could it be she’d actually gotten lucky? She tucked herself around the corner and held her breath as the women’s voices got louder in the hallway outside.

“But what do you think of him?” Penelope was asking. “So beautiful and delicate, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose some would describe him as such,” her mother replied.

“He’s hardly the type my brother usually keeps as friends,” Penelope went on.

Oh Lord, were they talking about her? Rather, about Mr. Nancini? Julia was not at all pleased to hear high praises from Penelope. Bother! She’d hate for Rastmoor to be proven right.

“Yes, he is at that,” Lady Rastmoor said, agreeing with her daughter.

She did not sound particularly enthusiastic about it, though. What was that chilly edge to her voice? Perhaps she, like Rastmoor, had suspicions that Penelope might indeed be growing a bit too fond of this odd Mr. Nancini. Or worse, perhaps Lady Rastmoor was worried that it was her son who harbored a secret tenderness for the delicate gentleman. Well, on that point the lady could rest perfectly assured. At least, partially assured.

“I like him exceedingly,” Penelope declared. “And I daresay he’s quite a positive influence on my brother. I shall hope we see much more of him.”

“He’s an affable sort, indeed,” Lady Dashford said with hesitant agreement. “But we should remember that once he recovers from his vocal troubles, he must be back at his career. I’m sure we cannot depend on having him much underfoot, my dear.”

The voices seemed to stop just outside the library door. Julia held her breath and crept farther away from the door, inching closely against the shelf-lined wall.

“Oh, but surely Anthony will take me to the opera to see him. Perhaps I might even visit him backstage!”

“Absolutely not,” her mother announced. “I’ll not have my daughter carousing with an opera singer!”

“It doesn’t seem to bother you that your son is, though,” Penelope pointed out.

“My son is a grown man. Whom he chooses for friends is his own business.”

“Well, I’m an adult now, too,” Penelope replied. Julia could practically hear her pouting. A silent tension filled the air, and Julia wondered if the mother and daughter were going to argue over her right there in the hallway.

But Lady Dashford was the perfect hostess and diffused the situation with a polite suggestion.

“Ladies, here’s the library,” she announced in an airy tone. “My husband keeps an excellent collection. Perhaps you’d like to select something to take up to your rooms as we dress for dinner?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Julia scurried to hide behind a low bookshelf. She had to drop down and sit on the floor to be sure she was not visible behind it. It was a foolish attempt, though. All it would take was for the women to walk into the room and make one curious turn around the shelf to find her there in this unusual position. However would she explain herself then?

Once again she was in a most uncomfortable situation, and once again she had the viscount Rastmoor to thank for it. Well, she supposed if she were honest, not all of the positions the man had put her in had been uncomfortable—especially not that rather interesting one upstairs not so very long ago. But goodness, she’d best not dwell on that! She could feel her face flushing already. Indeed no—she needed to spend her mental energies on thinking up some logical excuse for what she might be doing here in case she was detected.

The ladies would surely think her a sight, crawling on the dusty floor as she was. She could only hope she’d chosen to conceal herself behind a bookshelf that saw very little use.
Oh please don’t let the novels of gothic romance be shelved here! Surely that would be Penelope’s first choice.
Julia quickly scanned the leather spines of the books beside her.

Thank the heavens. This corner appeared to shelve nothing more than abandoned miscellany. Why, on one shelf in particular a large medical treatise was upside down and haphazardly shoved between two volumes of poetry. In another place a thin and particularly well-worn book with no lettering on the spine was literally crammed between the shelf and the wall. Shame on Dashford for letting things go so out of order.

If she wasn’t in mortal fear of discovery, she would have dug that little book out and found a proper shelf for it. Books were a luxury not all could afford; they deserved to be treated with better care. The footsteps at the doorway, however, reminded her to ignore her righteous indignation and stay still.

“I already have something to read, thank you,” Penelope said pertly. “I saved all of Mr. Nancini’s notes.”

Lady Rastmoor grumbled something under her breath, and though Julia couldn’t quite make it out, she had a fair notion of its meaning. Rastmoor had been correct after all—his sister was smitten. Dinner was shaping up to be regrettably awkward.

“Come along, then, Penelope,” Lady Rastmoor demanded. “I suppose we should refresh ourselves.”

The footsteps padded off, leaving Julia to breathe a sigh of relief as she heard the ladies’ voices trail down the hallway and out toward the grand staircase. Thank heavens she’d been spared an awkward encounter. With Penelope safely upstairs, perhaps Julia could resume her search for the men.

First, however, she’d do the decent thing and right Dashford’s bookshelf.

She had to work her fingers tightly into the space between the shelf and the wall before she could grip the worn volume tucked in there. Slowly, she worked it out. The words embossed on the binding were faded, so she casually flipped the cover open. There inside she read the book’s rather intriguing title:
My Hours With the Fairer Sex: the informative notations of a Particular Gentleman.
For further clarification, it went on:
An Illustrated compilation of the memoirs of an English Gentleman. His most congenial relations carefully recorded and illuminated for instructive purposes.

Congenial relations?
Did that mean what she rather assumed it meant? Indeed, this gave her pause. Of course she should have been rushing off to find Rastmoor and learn more about those mysterious actors, but instead she cracked the book open to a page roughly in the middle. There, carefully engraved, was the detailed illustration of a certain unmentionable activity she and Rastmoor had engaged in not more than a half hour ago. Dear heavens!

She slammed the book shut and peeped up over the shelf to make sure no one had heard. No one was there, and no footsteps sounded in the hallway. Thank goodness.

She sank back down onto her knees and slowly opened the book again. It was purely to convince herself she could not have possibly seen what she thought she saw, of course. She couldn’t, could she? What sort of book was this?

Indeed, it was
that
sort of book. And hers were not the first eager eyes to appreciate it, either. The pages were worn at the edges, and some careless scribbles appeared here and there at random places. Odd scribbles, she had to admit. They almost appeared to be intentional lettering, although certainly they were not from any language she had ever seen. Someone must have just been idly making marks as they pored over the contents.

And it was easy to see how the scribbler might have been too distracted to realize what he was scrawling. The book was fascinating! She read the title for chapter five, “in which a Gentleman comes upon the Key to rise beyond his peers.”

Timidly, she turned pages to investigate just exactly how one could achieve such distinction.

Oh. By gracious! Each page gave detailed description—with the corresponding informative drawing—of certain things this Gentleman might do to ensure his, er, “Key” did indeed rise beyond his peers.

By Jove, this book was a primer! Sir Cocksure—if that indeed was the author’s true name—had provided complete illustrations and descriptions of the most intimate things a gentleman might wish to know. Why, right here on page 75 was his suggestion regarding a narrow tube and some form of suction involving water pressure. Indeed, if the Gentleman had wished to “rise beyond his peers,” this certainly seemed to do the trick quite admirably, although the more Julia studied the drawing, the less certain she was it could be considered entirely safe. She must remember to be thankful that Rastmoor did not employ such tactics. The man certainly had no need to endanger himself to, as it were, stand out among the crowd.

Then again, she really didn’t have much of a crowd to compare him to, did she? She seemed to have rather been waiting for him all her life and then could not bring herself to consider anyone else once he was gone. It was actually quite unfair to assume all others were his inferior, wasn’t it? Indeed. So, for the sake of fairness, she really ought to scan another page or two, oughtn’t she?

Of course she should. Perhaps by comparison she might learn that Rastmoor was not nearly so special as she had always thought him. Perhaps he was really no better than average. That information would be good to know! It would certainly help to secure her resolve to push the man—and his damn “key”—out of her mind forever once this dreadful Fitzgelder business was over.

Two chapters and twenty pages later, Rastmoor still retained a high place of honor in Julia’s memory. Heavens, how did she let herself get so distracted? Then again, how could she not? Sir Cocksure’s book was certainly a page-turner. Illustration after enlightening illustration convinced her that the gentlemen depicted here in this book had absolutely nothing Rastmoor could be envious of. Fresh on her mind as he was, Julia could be quite certain her estimation of Rastmoor’s abilities were not exaggerated.

Drat. Unless Sir Cocksure’s primer was very incomplete, Rastmoor was every bit as extraordinary as she’d always thought him. Plus, he seemed to have mastered every applicable page here. Julia’s traitorous body, however, was only too eager to continue the man’s education. Oh, but she should have shoved this book back on the shelf the moment she realized what it was!

The first page claimed it was “valuable to all Gentlemen who endeavor to gain some measure of a most useful carnal knowledge.” Bother! All it seemed to have been useful for was to make her wish beyond all reason that she was
not
hiding in men’s clothing and sneaking around in hopes of learning about actors who might in fact turn out to include her father, which would mean she must, with all haste, leave this place—and Rastmoor—to go off again into obscurity. And a cold bed.

Damn. She’d much rather locate Rastmoor and devote further mutual study to chapter six. She had the suspicion he would be inclined to agree. In fact, this titillating little primer might come in very handy, should she discover she needed something to distract Rastmoor if he decided it was time to abandon her here and take himself off to London.

Yes, this was just what she needed. Sir Cocksure was just small enough to fit nicely into her shirt—she could cart him back to her room and tuck the volume away for later. It was a lucky find indeed!

Of course, it had kept her from finding the men and learning what they’d been up to. She’d have to find a way to question Rastmoor later. For now, though, she’d best get herself ready to survive what was bound to be a most interesting dinner. Yes, she really ought to go freshen up for that. She’d certainly have to be in rare form. With Lady Dashford’s obvious suspicions, Lady Rastmoor’s motherly concern, and young Penelope’s constant swooning, it was bound to be a taxing evening.

Pity Cocksure didn’t have a primer for dealing with that sort of interaction.

 

 

RASTMOOR TRIED TO DROWN IT OUT BY CHEWING loudly, but his sister’s endless prattle was not to be ignored. It was nearly enough to ruin his appetite for the hearty spread Dashford’s fine cook had prepared tonight.

“. . . And if you had been there, I daresay you would have needed to call him out, the way Mr. Brumpton stared at my very best fichu all that night long,” she boasted lightly. “Three times he begged me to dance, after I’d already stood up with him twice!”

“Am I to assume you make it a habit of dancing repeatedly with the same gentleman at any given ball?” Rastmoor asked, sliding his mother a none-too-subtle look of frustration.

“Don’t glare at me,” his mother snipped at him, cutting delicately into her trifle. “It’s not as if I haven’t told her what’s appropriate and what isn’t. Perhaps if you’d joined us in London this season as a responsible brother, your sister might not have attracted so much of the wrong sort of attention.”