Damsel in Disguise (34 page)

He stopped her there, though.

“Careful, my dear. We should save some things for upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” she asked.

“Of course. You don’t think I mean to tumble you here on Dashford’s desk and be done with it, do you?”

“You don’t?”

He smiled and gave her a sweet, gentle kiss on her lips. “No. You deserve so much more than that, Julia. I’m going to take you to your bed and keep you there until they send someone to find us.”

Oh, but his words reminded her what she ought to be focused on. She didn’t want anyone to find them! And indeed, if she didn’t do something, Papa would soon turn up here to be found by Fitzgelder. Drat, but she could not afford to spend her night wrapped up with Rastmoor in the soft, expansive bed upstairs. She had to save Papa.

And now that she’d found this map, she stood a chance of doing just that. It was far too late to hope to get her note carried there by Dashford’s grooms, but she could find the way herself now. All it would cost her was this one last night with Rastmoor.

Oh, but she hated that. If only they could work around it . . .

“But how can you get into my room upstairs, Anthony?” she said, reaching to toy with the fastenings on his trousers again. “Dashford put guards to keep watch over Fitzgelder. Someone would surely see you.”

“Let them. The truth will eventually come out, Julia.”

That’s what she was afraid of! “It doesn’t have to come out, Anthony. No one need ever know about us. We can be discreet. In fact, I’ve got an idea you might like.”

She slid from the desk and went down onto her knees. She’d seen this in that amazing little book she’d found in the library. Indeed, if Sir Cocksure could be believed, this was something highly favored by most gentlemen. She unfastened one side of his fly.

Again, he stopped her. “Good God, Julia!”

She stared up at him, confused by what she heard in his voice. Had she shocked him? Was he disgusted, even?

“Is this what you think I want? You servicing me like some paid-for whore?”

“Shh! Keep your voice low,” she said. “You don’t want this? But I thought most men—”

And now he was furious. He pulled her up to her feet and glared at her. “What do you know of most men?”

“Well, I, er . . .”

She didn’t know what to say. Had she done something wrong? Apparently so. Her gaze flicked back to the map—a reminder of what she should have been doing instead of getting carried away.

Rastmoor was watching her. He growled and stepped away.

“You’re right,” he said. “We can’t be found out. You’d better just get on up to your room. We’ve got a lot to sort out tomorrow. You need your sleep.”

“But we could—”

“No, we can’t. This was a bad idea, Julia. Go to your room.”

She tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. What did one say when something ended that never really existed at all?

“Good night, Anthony.”

She gave the map one last look and left the dark, masculine study. Rastmoor said nothing more. She wondered if he realized he’d never see her again. She refused to let herself wonder if he’d care.

HE WATCHED HER GO. DAMN, BUT HE WANTED TO call her back so badly he physically hurt. And not just because what had started out as a passionate moment had ended. He ached because he knew deep down that what he wanted with Julia could never be. She was making love to him, but her mind was elsewhere. He hadn’t known where until he saw that map.

It wasn’t just a map of Dashford’s estate, but it showed Loveland, as well. Those damn actors were there—that Giuseppe person who brought such a smile to her face. Was he Julia’s current lover? No wonder she was so curious about Loveland. Her body might be here, but her heart was there.

She’d made a valiant attempt to cover it, but he’d seen through it. She’d been simply going through the motions with him, hesitant to commit to a night in his arms. Her hopes rested elsewhere, apparently.

Oh, he had no doubt she’d enjoyed their energetic trysts, but tonight’s display had been proof that she thought of him as nothing more than just one man in a string of many. Sadly, he had no one to blame but himself. He could have married her three years ago and made sure she belonged to him alone. Now it was too late. Julia had moved on.

But she’d left something behind. Not just the heartbreak and painful memories, but a thin, folded paper. It lay before him on the floor, just where Julia had been. He bent to retrieve it.

God, he wished he hadn’t. There, in Julia’s own hand, was a note. Addressed to Giuseppe. The words were cryptic, but he could make out the meaning. Julia was warning her love—in French, no less—that she was here and that she was with the “troublesome gentleman from London.” He supposed that must refer to him. Did she think by stating it that way her lover would not be jealous?

Well, this lover was very jealous. And troublesome, indeed. He decided to go right after Julia and spend the rest of the night wiping that damn Italian actor out of her mind. But he didn’t. What would it gain him? He’d already been with Julia for three days, and still her eyes sparkled when Dashford announced Giuseppe was close by.

If he really did care about her at all, he’d let her sleep tonight. Alone.

“Giuseppe, you damn well better deserve her,” he muttered as his eyes fell on the collection of decanters Dashford kept prominently on the table behind the desk.

Thank God for good, stiff libations.

 

IT WAS FAR TOO BRIGHT THIS MORNING. RASTMOOR’S head ached and his legs felt none too steady. Coming down here to the breakfast room had been a mistake. What on earth made him think food might help? His stomach turned at the mere sight of it there, laid out on the buffet table. No, miserable or not, he should have stayed in bed.

Or better yet, he should never have finished off that bottle of whiskey—all of it. But what else could he do to numb that gnawing agony inside him last night? It had been more than he could bear. He’d as much as declared himself to Julia, and she’d rejected him.

And the worst of it, he couldn’t blame her. After the way he’d doubted her, left her, treated her badly, it was no wonder she found it impossible to care for him as she once had. Hell, despite the throbbing in his head and the squinting, blurred vision, he could see it all so clearly. She had loved him once, and he’d betrayed her—by listening to Fitzgelder, of all people! Damn. He deserved the way he felt this morning.

“Good heavens, Anthony,” Penelope shouted, stomping into the breakfast room and pounding over to the window. “It’s so dark in here! Heavens, I feel like a mole. Let’s open these drapes, for goodness’ sake.”

She actually seemed prepared to do just that. He risked splitting his head in two by speaking to her.

“Do it, and I’ll give you the whipping you desperately deserve.”

Despite his valiant effort, Penelope was less than deterred. She continued in her goal, and the drapes were rudely pushed aside, sunlight streaming in. Rastmoor groaned.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Anthony,” she said, tsking and clicking her tongue loudly. “You’ve made yourself bog-headed today, haven’t you? Stayed up drinking half the night, no doubt. Likely you dragged poor Mr. Nan . . . er, Clemmons, into your debauchery, too. Shame on you, leading the poor, injured man into your vices, and after you assured him you’d turned over a new leaf! Well, perhaps that explains why there was no answer when I tapped at his door.”

“You tapped at his door?” Rastmoor roared. The room took a quick turn around him.

“Yes, but the poor man must be dead to the world. Poor, poor Mr. Clemmons. He might as well be dying up there for all you seem to care. And him about to become my fiancé, and all.”

“Good God, he’s not about to become your fiancé, Penelope.”

“Oh? But you can’t expect me to believe what Fitzgelder said about him being already married to Lady Dashford’s cousin. He just doesn’t seem the type to be married to that girl. Does he?”

Lord, he did not have the strength for this today. What on earth had gotten into Penelope? He never recalled her being so blasted annoying. What could Fitzgelder have possibly done to the girl to turn her into this . . . this raving shrew?

“I thought you wanted me to let you marry Fitzgelder.”

Penelope simply shrugged. “I find I don’t really like Mr. Fitzgelder anymore. I much prefer Mr. Clemmons. Don’t you?”

Hell, yes he preferred Mr. Clemmons. “No. I prefer that you leave off any further talk of fiancés.”

“Jealous?”

“What?”

“That I should find someone I wish to marry while you still grieve that actress.”

“I’m most certainly not jealous.”

Why, by everything holy, couldn’t the girl keep her mouth shut this morning? She seemed particularly unaware of his discomfort and continued. “Pity she had to die, though, wasn’t it, Anthony?”

He saw absolutely no need to respond to that whatsoever.

But Penelope went on. “She did die, didn’t she, Anthony? I mean, what a miracle it would be if she turned out to still be living somewhere.”

The miracle was he didn’t turn the little brat over his knee at that point. What a thing to say! What could she be thinking to bring up such a subject? By God, could she actually have an inkling of the truth?

Surely not, not given the way she’d been acting around Julia last night. Lord, but if Mr. Clemmons truly had been a mister, Rastmoor was fairly certain he’d have had to call the bugger out today. Thank heavens he wasn’t, and Penelope was just a naive little girl who had no idea the game she was playing.

He rubbed his throbbing head. “You were hardly old enough to know anything about my affairs three years ago, Penelope.”

She sniffed. Somehow she managed to do it loudly. “I was fifteen, and I’ve never been stupid, Anthony. I knew what people whispered about, that you had gone and gotten engaged to a lowly actress. I heard all about how horrible she was to run off with our cousin and then have the nerve to die a few months later.”

“Then I should think you’d know enough to put a person like that far from your mind.”

“Yes, as should you. Yet you didn’t. So I assumed there must be more to the story, more to her.”

“Don’t assume things, Penelope. It’s not wise.”

“Assuming as in judgments or as in identities?”

“Either,” he replied swiftly. “No more talk of things that are over and done.”

“Are they?”

“I said no more, Penelope.”

“But Anthony, you don’t—”

Her words were interrupted as Lady Dashford came hurrying into the room. She seemed relieved to find them here. She had an odd look of concern on her face.

“Ah, here you are,” she said. “Have either of you seen Mr. Clemmons this morning?”

Rastmoor didn’t like the sound of that. “No, I haven’t.”

“I knocked at his door, and he didn’t answer,” Penelope said.

Lady Dashford merely frowned. “The servants say he is not in there. In fact, I was told it appears his bed has not been slept in. I thought perhaps . . .”

She glanced at Rastmoor then looked away quickly. He had a fair idea what she might have been thinking and was quick to properly inform her.

“The last I saw of Mr. Clemmons was last night, very shortly after our discussion in the study. He took his leave, and I assumed he was retiring for the night.”

“Then where on earth could he be?” Penelope asked.

Rastmoor’s jaw clenched nearly as tightly as the fists held tightly to his sides. “Fitzgelder.”

But Lady Dashford shook her head. “I had the butler check. No one has been in or out of there all night. Mr. Fitzgelder was left quite uninterrupted. Alone.”

“Perhaps Mr. Clemmons went for a morning ride?” Penelope suggested.

“But he doesn’t know the area,” Lady Dashford said. “Wherever would he go?”

Damn, but thanks to that map in the study Mr. Clemmons did have a passing knowledge of the area. Rastmoor suddenly had an idea just where their frustrating Mr. Clemmons might go—and why.

“Has Dashford received word yet from that troupe of actors?” Rastmoor asked.

“I don’t know,” the viscountess said with a shrug. “But why—”

Penelope broke into an excited little squeal. “Mr. Clemmons has run off with Signor Giuseppe and his Poor Players!”

 

 

JULIA SLEPT SURPRISINGLY WELL. OF COURSE, THAT could have been due to the brisk hour-long walk she took to find her way to the little cottage known as Loveland, but she also knew she must credit the surprisingly soft—if not a bit musty—bed she’d curled up in. Indeed, someone had once lived quite luxuriously here.

After leaving Rastmoor last night—a feat that had been far more difficult than it ought to have been—she left Hartwood. It had been easy to leave unseen, as most of the servants had been instructed to keep their eyes open for strangers trying to get into the house or for Fitzgelder trying to get out. As she was neither of these things, she simply strolled out into the garden and kept right on going. That map in the study had been a godsend.