Damsel in Disguise (33 page)

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rastmoor asked.

“He’s bringing her—and the locket—right where I want her. And when I get that damned locket, you can have your precious little whore,” Fitzgelder said and actually had the nerve to laugh in Rastmoor’s face. “Although what you’d do with her I can’t imagine. Seems you’re content enough with this half of the happy couple you’ve already got.”

His condescending glance toward Julia was hardly necessary. Rastmoor knew what the man was implying, and it was not meant as a compliment. Still, he couldn’t help but smile. The bloody bastard fool still thought Julia a man, did he? He obviously hadn’t misinterpreted their relationship, but he thought Julia was a ruddy male. That was rich—Fitzgelder had been duped again. The woman deserved an award.

He’d see what he could do about showing his appreciation for her talents. Later.

“What sort of danger have you dragged Sophie into, Fitzgelder?” Dashford asked. “How much has she had to suffer just so you can reclaim this contemptible locket?”

“She’ll be fine. Once I’ve got the locket, you just might be able to make it worth my while to tell you where she is,” Fitzgelder said with a smug leer. “I don’t care if she does have well-heeled connections or a limp-wristed little husband. That chit owes me.”

“No, Cousin,” Rastmoor said. “
I
owe you.”

Julia could have done without the tension filling the air and constricting her chest. The longer she stayed here, suffering Fitzgelder’s demeaning sneers and probing glances, the more inevitably she’d be found out. Fortunately, the Dashfords were far too distraught over their concerns for Sophie to give her a second thought, but how much longer could that continue? Her nerves were frayed, and it was just a matter of time before she’d forget the role she played and say something or do something to ruin it.

Fitzgelder’s conceited posturing didn’t help matters, either. If someone didn’t shut him up soon, she’d be likely to slap him. Although, from Rastmoor’s expression, it appeared he was only too eager to shut the man up—permanently—and Julia knew she really ought not condone that.

“So it would seem you won’t have the satisfaction of tossing me out on my ear tonight, Cousin,” Fitzgelder said, still smiling at Rastmoor. “I’m sure our gracious host would much rather offer me one of his luxurious beds than run the risk that I might not return with news of his dear Sasha.”

“Sophie,” several of them corrected together.

Fitzgelder shrugged and turned to Julia. His eyes narrowed. “Of course you are most eager to have the girl returned safely, Clemmons.”

Julia nodded.

“Odd that she never mentioned anything about having a child, though,” Fitzgelder went on. “Seems the sort of thing a husband ought to know, doesn’t it? But then again”—here he turned to Rastmoor—“I suppose every couple has their little secrets. I know my wife—God rest her—certainly hid a few things from me. For a while.”

It was something like pure hate that Julia saw in his eyes. Oh, but Fitzgelder must have raged when he realized Kitty had duped him, that they had
all
duped him. He’d made Kitty pay for it, too, just as he’d make Papa pay, if he ever found him. Lord, but Julia prayed she’d find a way to get her letter to him in time.

Fitzgelder turned his attention back to Julia. “Maybe you’re not the sort to be bothered by such things, Clemmons, but most men don’t enjoy being lied to by their wives. Then again, you don’t appear to be like most men, do you? But I suppose my cousin, here, counts that a positive. Just exactly how have you been passing the time while your darling wife has been missing?”

The fool was purposely baiting them. Did he hope to push Julia into revealing herself? Or was he simply reveling in the thrill of humiliating Rastmoor in front of his friends? Likely that. She wouldn’t entirely blame Rastmoor if he did defend himself by explaining things, though she truly hoped he wouldn’t.

She doubted she’d be so well received by the lord and lady if they learned the truth. She was lucky they were tolerating her even now, after discovering her ruse as Nancini. What must they think of her, of her relationship with Rastmoor?

Surely they’d already had some unpleasant suspicions; now Fitzgelder’s words were just fuel on the fire. Indeed, Rastmoor seemed fairly ready to murder the man. His jaw, however, was set, and Julia knew he forced himself to keep quiet. He would not expose their subterfuge, though he must be aching to do so. Did any part of that owe to his concern for her? She was probably a fool for wishing it. He had much at stake on his own; he didn’t need to keep quiet simply to protect her.

Either way, though, she was glad he did.

“If there is nothing you can tell us about Sophie,” Rastmoor said after drawing a long, calming breath, “then we have no reason to keep you from that borrowed luxurious bed you are so keen to employ.”

Dashford took the hint and summoned his butler. “Indeed. I’m sure we are all ready to retire for the evening. I’ll have someone take you to your room immediately, Mr. Fitzgelder. And don’t worry that you might be disturbed during your rest. I’ll see to it my best footmen are placed to keep watch over you. All night.”

The butler appeared and was instructed to look after Mr. Fitzgelder. He seemed to quite understand that Dashford’s instructions involved more than simply seeing to the man’s comfort. Good. Julia would rest easier knowing someone was to guard his every movement. If she found herself able to rest at all.

Dashford also made certain his butler understood that word should be sent to him immediately if any messenger arrived for Fitzgelder. That was also a good thing. The two viscounts would learn anything about Sophie before Fitzgelder did. The unwilling prisoner, of course, grumbled over such treatment, but there was nothing he could do. He’d made it plain he was not interested in being civil, so why should the others waste any further time with him tonight? The footmen appeared, ready to escort him away.

“Your hospitality is too much, my lord,” Fitzgelder drawled.

Dashford allowed him a gracious bow. “Oh, but it is the least I can do for such a guest as yourself, Mr. Fitzgelder. Let us hope it is enough.”

“For your sake, Fitzgelder,” Rastmoor added, “let’s hope Mrs. Clemmons is being treated nicely—wherever she is.”

Fitzgelder was able to smile at that. “Oh, don’t worry on her account. I assure you she’s been in very good hands. And so has that lovely little locket.”

“That locket—and whatever is inside it—belongs to me,” Rastmoor reminded him.

“You have no idea the value of that little bauble, do you?” Fitzgelder said. “None of you do, I’ll wager. Ironic. All these years, it’s been right under your nose . . . Well, after tomorrow, Rastmoor, if you ask me very nicely, perhaps I’ll let you have the bloody thing back. I’ll have no need for it.”

Nothing more was said as Fitzgelder took his smug leave and let the footmen show him to his room. Julia thought the air in the room was suddenly a bit easier to breathe. Rastmoor, however, seemed little eased at his cousin’s exit.

Just what did Fitzgelder mean by all that ramble about the locket’s value sitting right under Rastmoor’s nose? Nothing, quite likely. Words from Fitzgelder were nothing more than a waste of syllables. It was useless to give credit to anything coming from that man’s mouth. She’d be better off to forget him and just be thankful Lord Dashford had such healthy—and menacing—servants.

Lady Dashford seemed to be of the same mind. She glared after Fitzgelder when he left, then turned back to her guests and sighed. She declared herself fatigued and suggested they all make an early evening. Julia could hardly blame her. The poor woman was wed only a matter of days, and yet she’d been invaded by this houseful of troubled strangers. It was a wonder she was putting up with any of them.

Rastmoor readily agreed with his hostess’s sentiment and urged Dashford to see to his wife. Dashford, Julia noted, didn’t need a second invitation. He bade a good night to Rastmoor and “Mr. Clemmons,” tucked his wife’s hand in his, and led her away. At the doorway she paused for one quick look back at Julia, and for a moment it seemed she would speak. She didn’t, though, and with a silent nod, Lady Dashford followed her husband into the hall.

Julia was relieved. She knew she must be playing a very poor husband indeed to show so little concern for Sophie in the face of Fitzgelder’s offensive tone, but she just didn’t have it in her to put forth her best performance. She was tired, and the strain of it all was taking a toll.

The sounds of footsteps and human activity faded in the hallway. Once again, she and Rastmoor were alone. Oddly enough, the tension in the room only increased.

“I can’t believe no one’s separated him from his vitals,” Rastmoor said through tightly clenched teeth. “Damn him for what he’s done!”

“To your sister? Did he . . . did he hurt her?”

He shook his head. “She claims he’s done nothing but court her, although I find that difficult to believe. She’s not acting herself.”

“Yes, when she found me in the garden she was acting a bit, er, strange.”

“Oh? You did nothing to instigate that?”

“Certainly not!”

Rastmoor chuckled at her. “I know. Your tastes lie elsewhere, don’t they?” he said, moving to wrap her into his arms.

She wanted to melt into his comforting warmth, but how could she? Fitzgelder was here. He was scheming, plotting, and at any moment he could realize who she was. He could find Papa. She pried herself away.

“I’m worried for what people will think of
your
tastes,” she said, glancing around the room, letting her eyes linger on anything but him.

“There’s nothing at all wrong with my tastes,” he said, not letting her escape him so easily. “How about if we see how you taste tonight?”

He pulled her back into his arms and nuzzled her neck. She felt the warmth of his tongue tracing the edge of her earlobe. She shuddered and desperately tried to remember why she should not be doing this.

“But what if Dashford should find us this way?” she said in feeble argument.

“Dashford is escorting his wife to bed. I highly doubt we’ll see either of them until morning.”

Yes, he was probably right about that. But what of Papa? She still hadn’t sent word to Papa that Fitzgelder was here and had men roaming about. Oh, but she couldn’t let herself get so distracted she forgot about Papa, could she?

Then Rastmoor’s hands were sliding her coat aside, slipping beneath it to skim the thin fabric of her shirt. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt her body strain against the binding fabric she used to disguise herself. Oh, how she longed to be out of this disguise! But she couldn’t . . . not now, not while Papa might be in danger.

“My, but how ancient some of the furnishings are in here,” she said, desperate for a distraction that might keep her from being so distracted.

“And how soft the skin is here, just below your ear,” Rastmoor was saying as he kissed that very spot.

Oh, bother. However could she think straight while he was doing this to her? She blinked furiously to keep her eyes from sinking shut. Fortunately, her gaze caught on something that did manage to keep her attention.

“Look, that appears to be an old map of the entire estate.”

Rastmoor mumbled something but didn’t bother to take himself away from the task that occupied him. At this present moment, it seemed he was working his way past her cravat. She swallowed, sighed, and forced her eyes to focus on the map.

“And is that Loveland?” she said, realizing that it, indeed, was.

Yes, the finely drawn map that Dashford had hanging beside his desk showed quite clearly the lay of Hartwood estate. The road to Loveland seemed quite prominent.

“I’ll show you far better things than Loveland, my dear,” Rastmoor said in a low, rumbling tone. She knew he could very well make good on his promise, too.

Her cravat was askew, and her shirt gaped open. Rastmoor pulled her tightly to him, then hoisted her up to seat her trousered bottom on Dashford’s desk. He leaned forward to brush kisses on the heated skin of her chest. She drew a long breath and cursed the tight binding cloth.

“I’m surprised it is so close,” she said, her words coming out slurred. “At dinner I assumed it was much farther.”

He made no reply to this and seemed to be ignoring her completely. He’d managed to push the tight fabric aside, and at last his lips found the tip of her eager breast. She couldn’t help but lean into him, arching her back to present an easier target.

She sighed and was easily lost in the sensation Rastmoor’s touch always brought her. His hands moved over her body, and she allowed hers to do the same to him, tugging and untucking his shirt so she could contact his heated skin beneath. He nipped her lightly, and she moaned, gloriously mindless. She reached for his trousers.