Damsel in Disguise (27 page)

“And just what wrong sort of attention has Penelope been attracting, may I ask?”

As if he believed for one moment that Penelope had foolishly let herself fall into impropriety. He knew his sister better than that; she was too smart, too determined for that. The last thing she would allow was her brilliant season to be ruined by some hint of scandal. His mother was clearly trying to heap on guilt for the way he’d managed to avoid their little soirees and, no doubt, the marriage traps. Indeed, he had no delusions about the woman’s ulterior motive for insisting his presence was necessary for Penelope’s social success. She was planning to get both her offspring carted off to the parson this year.

Well, she’d just have to settle for one. Provided, that was, Rastmoor was able to settle this with Fitzgelder, and Penelope could safely go back to Town to finish out her season. Attracting the wrong sort of attention, indeed. No doubt she’d turn up her nose at any inappropriate suitor and settle for nothing less than a duke.

“She’s been positively indiscriminate in her attentions toward admirers,” his mother announced.

“Mamma, honestly!” Penelope said with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t help it if gentlemen find me so irresistible.”

Her mother simply sniffed in response. “Indeed? Well, you at least should not find each and every one of
them
so very irresistible.”

Rastmoor had made the mistake of stuffing a crust of bread into his mouth. He very nearly choked on it. By God, what had Penelope been up to?

“Well, how am I ever to select one of them for a husband if I can’t so much as carry on a conversation?”

“If only conversation were all you carried on,” their mother muttered under her breath.

At least, it’s what Rastmoor thought she had said. Had she said it? He pinned his gaze on the innocent-looking Penelope. Had she been idiot enough to let some of those knock-minded pups in London lure her into disgrace? The last thing he needed right now was to learn that his sister had not been circumspect in her relationships.

No, that was not entirely correct. He glanced over to catch Penelope eyeing Julia with a coy smile. Holy hell. Now
that
was truly the very last thing he needed.

No, that was not entirely correct, either. Penelope’s next words hinted at what was, indeed, the
very
last thing he needed right now.

“Well, how was I to know our cousin is an evil cretin who would never bother to marry me?”

Silverware clattered. Rastmoor’s mother dropped her fork.

“This is not something we are discussing right now, Penelope,” she declared.

Rastmoor found his voice to disagree quickly. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’d rather like to discuss this right now, if you don’t mind. Penelope, precisely which cousin did you have hopes of marrying?”

“Cedrick, of course,” Penelope said with a mournful shrug of her shoulders. “But it turns out he’s dreadful.”

“By God, I’ll say he’s dreadful!” Rastmoor fumed, shooting a furious glare at his mother. “How in heaven’s name did Fitzgelder come to be among my sister’s pool of suitors?”

His mother merely gave a martyred shrug and had the nerve to reply, “I begged you to join us in London. There’s no telling what a girl might encounter there in her debut.”

“Well, she should certainly not have encountered someone like Fitzgelder. Good Lord, Mother, where were you when that snake was oiling his way up for an introduction?”

“I can’t be everywhere at all times, Anthony,” she snapped back. “And I highly suggest that if you have anything further to say on this subject, we wait until after dinner.”

She was damn right to imagine he might have a few more choice things to say about this subject, but blurting them out here in front of Julia and the uncomfortable-looking Dashfords was probably not the best way to go about it. All right, he would wait until later when he and his family could meet alone. But, by God, he’d have plenty of words for them then!

The awkward meal continued in silence for several minutes. Servants bustled in and out with various courses, and they must have felt the tension in the room, too. None of them seemed the least bit interested in lingering. Rastmoor didn’t blame them. What was the world coming to when his own sister might find herself romantically inclined toward the likes of Cedrick Fitzgelder?

He risked a quick glance at Julia. She was watching him. He supposed he could have expected a smirk, but instead he read concern on her sober face. Yes, that was to be expected. Julia might not care a fig for him beyond what he could do for her in the bedroom, but she wasn’t entirely heartless. She wouldn’t want an innocent like Penelope to be inflicted with the sort of misery Fitzgelder could provide. Dear God, if that story of her friend Kitty and her untimely demise was true, Rastmoor had best take this Fitzgelder threat a bit more seriously. It was no longer merely his own life that was in danger, so it would appear.

“So what’s this my maid tells me of travelers camping at Loveland?” Lady Dashford asked, breaking the silence with a dramatic change of subject. “Are they gypsies, perhaps?”

Her husband shook his head. “Gypsies? No, they would appear to be actors, my dear. A farmer from outside Findutton came by earlier to inform me what he’d seen. It doesn’t appear anything to worry about. I’ll send someone out to roust them.”

“Actors?” Penelope said, all brightness and curiosity despite the tension around her. “Do you suppose they’re in the area to give performances?”

“I’m sure they’re just passing through,” Rastmoor grumbled in answer. “And I doubt any of them are your type.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I only wondered if we could perhaps find a bit of entertainment, that’s all.”

“It would appear more entertainment is the last thing you need.”

Dashford spoke before further sibling hostilities could erupt. “I can’t imagine they’d be up to London standards, Miss Rastmoor,” he said. “Given the fact that they must trespass to find lodging, I’d guess they’re nothing more than a ragtag group of transients, sorry to say.”

“How odd for actors not to approach us and offer their services in exchange for the lodging,” Lady Dashford noted, her soft features pinched in contemplation. “Perhaps they simply don’t know Loveland is attached to Hartwood. They might be a reputable troupe, after all, on their way to the theater at Stratford, perhaps.”

Rastmoor saw no reason to think this at all. The news they’d gotten earlier from that man, Thatcher, gave no indication that the troupe was in any way known in these or other parts. Instead of outright saying so, though, Dashford had the good sense to treat his wife’s suggestion with sensitivity. By Jove, the man had become a veritable mollycoddle when it came to that woman. Just one more reason Rastmoor needed to make sure his romps with Julia didn’t become a habit.

“I suppose they could be on their way to Stratford, my dear,” Dashford said. “But I doubt they are people we should wish to have into our home. Most likely a group of hacks, if you ask me. Certainly I’ve never heard of the Great Giuseppe and his Poor Players.”

Julia choked on her wine. No one else seemed to notice, but Rastmoor had. She didn’t look up from her plate, though, so he could not be quite certain if it was a simple matter of accident or if it was a reaction to Dashford’s words.

“Is that what they call themselves?” Lady Dashford was asking her husband.

“Indeed, so says our farmer friend who informed me of them,” Dashford replied with a chuckle. “I wonder just how prophetic that title is, though. The Great Giuseppe is auspicious enough, but His Poor Players leave one fearing they might be exactly that.”

“But Giuseppe is Italian,” Penelope announced. “How wonderful! Please, don’t roust them without inviting them here to perform for us. Imagine—Mr. Nancini could have the pleasure of being with some of his own countrymen. Wouldn’t that be delightful, Mr. Nancini?”

Rastmoor couldn’t miss the worry in her eyes as Julia raised her head to meet the expectant gazes of the others. She seemed suddenly pale, too. Of course he couldn’t blame her—one minute face-to-face with real Italians, and everyone present would know she was not one of them. He’d have to be very sure no invitation was extended to the group of actors camped at Loveland.

But suddenly Julia broke into a smile. She nodded most profusely for Penelope, holding her hands to her heart in some exaggerated expression of joy. By God, what was Julia up to? Surely she knew Dashford would never be so cruel as to deny Mr. Nancini something he believed he wanted. Julia was playing it too rich! Dashford would send for the actors immediately.

Unless, of course, that was what Julia wanted. Was it possible she knew this Giuseppe and his Poor Players? Bloody hell, that was clearly the case. She recognized the name when Dashford announced it. But just exactly what were the chances friends of hers might have shown up so near Hartwood completely by coincidence?

None, he’d wager.

“See? He’d love that very thing!” Penelope chirped. “Oh, please, my lord, do invite them to come perform for us. It would mean so much to poor Mr. Nancini.”

“Penelope,” their mother scolded. “Lord Dashford is certainly free to do as he sees fit with regards to these vagabonds. I’m sure Mr. Nancini has no wish for unsavory strangers to be forced upon him just because they might possibly share a slight connection to the same geography.”

But Julia was still making dramatic motions with her hands, wringing them, waving them, and holding them up to her face to display surprise and delight. It was disgusting. She certainly hadn’t been that excited when she ran into
him
at that posting house two nights ago.

“Mr. Nancini, can it be you actually know this Giuseppe person?” Lady Dashford asked.

Julia nearly broke her neck nodding so profusely. Her eyes sparkled, too.

“How lovely!” Penelope said, giggling like a child. “Then we simply must call him to bring his troupe. Oh please, Lord Dashford, do let us invite them!”

Rastmoor caught Julia’s eyes then simply rolled his.

“Very well, ladies,” Dashford said, as spineless as jelly. “I’ll send word to the troupe that we should like them to entertain us on the morrow. Shall I inform this Giuseppe that he can expect to find you here, Nancini?”

Rastmoor took at least a tiny morsel of pleasure from the quick hint of confused discomfort that swept over Julia’s face, but then it was gone and replaced by a secretive smile. She shook her head and put one finger to her pursed lips. How any man could for one minute not realize those were the lips of a woman, Rastmoor had no clue. He did, however, have a clue why Julia wished Dashford to keep Nancini’s presence a secret; whoever this Giuseppe was, he certainly had never heard of the newly invented Nancini.

Dashford simply shrugged. “All right, old boy, we’ll keep that as a surprise. Are you content with this arrangement, my dear?”

His wife gave him one of her dazzling grins. “I can’t wait. If this Giuseppe is a friend of Mr. Nancini, I’m sure we can trust him and his troupe to treat Loveland with care while they are lodging there. Indeed, it will be nice to have some drama around here, won’t it?”

Personally, Rastmoor felt there’d been entirely too much drama already. What the hell
had
Penelope been up to with Fitzgelder? And, by God, Rastmoor would see to it there was drama tomorrow if that Giuseppe person showed up and thought he could lay a finger on Julia. He’d heard about those damned randy Italians.

 

GIUSEPPE AND HIS POOR PLAYERS. IT WAS PAPA!

Julia could barely contain a giddy smile. The others at the table had gone back to making small talk, carefully avoiding any mention of Fitzgelder and just muddling through the meal until at last they could all excuse themselves. Rastmoor’s expression was dark—obviously he was planning out what he’d have to say to his sister once they were alone.

Well, Julia couldn’t let herself worry over their situation. She had her own to worry about. Papa was here, on this very estate! Oh, but this was wonderful.

A bit confusing, too. What was he doing here? And why on earth was he using that silly name, the same one he’d used several years ago when they were first hiding from Fitzgelder? It could only mean Papa and their troupe must be in some sort of danger.

But what sort of danger? Had Fitzgelder learned the truth? Had he discovered Papa in London? But she was sure he hadn’t. Papa had disguised her and hurried away the minute they discovered the man was to be in their audience that night. The performance had gone on as planned; Fitzgelder enjoyed the entertainment and believed she was a young gentleman. It seemed he would have completely ignored her altogether if it hadn’t been for that incident with Sophie.

The poor thing. Julia had noticed the maid’s bruises as she bustled around before the performance, helping the actors to dress and organizing the few props they had brought into the home where they’d been hired to entertain. If only they’d known whose home it was! But somehow her disguise had gone undetected and they’d escaped. Thank heaven for that.

It had been close, though. At one point after they had overheard Fitzgelder’s plan to murder his cousin on the road it seemed Lord Lindley might have discovered them. Fortunately, the man had not realized they’d overheard. He let them go without raising an alarm.

Likely he regretted his error later. It seemed Fitzgelder had not realized his precious locket was gone until she and Sophie were nearly gone. He’d raged about it but they made it out of the house and disappeared into the night without her identity ever being known. It had been nothing short of a miracle, actually.

The plan then was to go north to warn Rastmoor, then go to meet Papa at a friend’s home in Gloucester. Then she would forget this had ever happened. Fitzgelder would never know how close he’d been to the family that made a fool of him three years ago. Very simple. Yet Papa was clearly not in Gloucester. What in heaven’s name were Giuseppe and his Poor Players doing out here now?