Damsel in Disguise (37 page)

He did not, however, agree with what he noticed behind him. Julia was there, trotting along beside her father as the whole group from the yard rushed toward the cottage. By God, what was the woman thinking? Someone in there was unexpectedly shooting! She ought to be running the other way, the suicidal ninny.

He purposely stopped in his tracks. She crashed into him from behind. It was not altogether an unpleasant experience.

Rastmoor took full advantage of her momentary loss of balance. He rounded on her, taking hold of her soft, slender shoulders, quite determined not to let go any time soon. He willed her into meeting his eyes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

She blinked in surprise. Did she honestly think he’d just stand by and let her run into a house with random gunfire? She obviously didn’t know him very well.

“Stay out here, where it’s safe,” he ordered. He could see plainly she had no intention of obeying.

Especially when the next noise they heard was loud, feminine screeching coming from the same general direction as the gunshot.

“Mrs. Bixley!” she exclaimed and nearly shook herself free from Rastmoor’s grip.

Now, he had no clue who this Mrs. Bixley was, but if she was important to Julia and if she was in mortal danger, he knew, of course, Julia would not let a little thing like his demands keep her from rushing in there. Julia would be joining them indoors.

“Damnation,” he said and released his hold on her shoulders. “Very well, come with me. But stay behind me.”

Fortunately, there hadn’t appeared to be any repeat of the gunfire, and as they drew closer to the house, it was obvious the screeching was not the weakening death cry of some helpless victim. It was, he quickly realized, the angry scolding of an angry woman. She certainly did not sound as if her life was in any immediate danger. Now, whoever she was yelling at, however . . .

The good thing about having taken that pause to make his vain attempt to keep Julia from rushing into the cottage was that now they were well and safely behind the others. Dashford led the way in through the front door, St. Clement followed, then came two actors before Rastmoor and Julia at last made it into the building. The screeching had stopped, and the ancient cottage resounded with footsteps clomping up the staircase. Rastmoor fell into step, careful to keep himself directly in front of Julia should their mysterious shooter suddenly appear from above.

He didn’t really expect that he’d particularly enjoy being shot, but he knew he’d enjoy the alternative much less. Having already lost Julia once through betrayal, once through death, and once to the imaginary Giuseppe this morning, he was in no hurry to lose her to a crazed gunman right now. Besides, in that god-awful peacock coat, St. Clement made a much more obvious target.

He trailed the group of concerned men into what he recognized as the master bedroom of the home. As expected, there was a fuming woman in there, foot tapping and fists dug into her hips. She was none other than the burgundy nightmare from earlier. Her anger, it appeared, was directed toward a middle-aged man who stood across from her. He was the one holding the gun.

“What the devil?” St. Clement shouted in a voice that was surprisingly—and blessedly—devoid of Italian accent.

“He’s tearing up the bloody house!” the woman shrieked.

Her clothes made St. Clement’s seem pale in comparison, and a wilted ostrich feather bobbed in her turban. She was not altogether an unattractive woman of a certain age, though by her wardrobe it appeared she’d worked hard to conceal that. Rastmoor wondered what part she was supposed to be playing. He watched St. Clement carefully for anything he might learn from the man’s expression, but it turned out to be a waste of time. The only hint of emotion on St. Clement’s face was a slight quirk to his left eyebrow. Rastmoor decided he’d have to categorize that as a display of mild curiosity.

Well, at least that indicated St. Clement felt the danger here was minimal. Rastmoor could stand relieved that his chances of taking a lead ball while throwing himself in front of Julia were slim. He appreciated those odds. Still, it did all leave him a bit confused. What on earth was going on?

The ostrich feather flounced violently as the turbaned woman graciously enlightened them all. “This damn fool sneaks in here while the rest of us was out in the front. He thinks no one sees him, but I do. I see him and follow him up here, whoever the hell he is. He comes in here and goes to ripping out those floorboards! I swear, I told him not to.”

“Of course you did, Mrs. Bixley,” St. Clement said in a remarkably soothing voice.

She was not soothed. “I told him there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t stop, but I guess he thought it was just fine that we’d be the ones getting in trouble for his mischief, the useless jackanapes. He wouldn’t pay me no mind. He just went on yanking up those boards, and then he pulls out that bloody pistol and starts shooting at something he finds under there!”

An odd story, yet indeed, someone had quite truly ripped out several floorboards just near the foot of the bed. A shame, really. The cottage may be in need of certain repairs, but overall it still held quite a bit of charm. Dashford could not be pleased to find it so rudely vandalized. What must this mutton-headed gunman be thinking to make such a mess, right in broad daylight?

Rastmoor watched him. Like St. Clement, the puzzling housebreaker showed very little emotion. If anything, he seemed nothing more than peeved by the woman’s ranting. Odd, considering that if she was to be believed, then he would soon find himself in a good deal of trouble. At any rate, it appeared he had just the one gun. Plus, he was thoroughly outnumbered. If he did get peeved enough by the accusations that he suddenly developed the urge to reload and put the ostrich feather out of its obvious misery, he’d be taken down long before a second shot could ring out.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing here?” Dashford asked, taking a step closer to the gunman and examining the hole in his floor.

The gunman glanced from Dashford to St. Clement and raised his eyebrows as if in question. St. Clement sighed.

“This is his lordship, Dashford,” he said with a casual nod in Dashford’s direction.

The gunman seemed to understand and nodded in reply. Still, he said nothing.

The turbaned woman made up for his silence. “I swear, it wasn’t none of our troupe that did that there, my lord, sir. We’re respectable people, we are. I don’t know who this ruffian is or what he’s trying to accomplish, but he’s got nothing to do with us, and that’s a fact.”

No, it wasn’t. Rastmoor had been witnessing a very telling display of silent communication between St. Clement and the other man. He had no clue what any of it meant, of course, but the nods, eye movements, and subtle gestures the two were making could not possibly be misinterpreted. They most certainly
did
have something to do with each other.

Dashford crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the gunman. “It’s the treasure, isn’t it?”

Aha! A trace of recognition stole across the man’s face. So Dashford had struck a nerve, had he? Well, the fool ripping up the floor would be in for some disappointment. Rastmoor knew something about treasure.

Apparently Julia did not. “Treasure?” she asked.

If Dashford noticed the fact that she, too, was suddenly minus one ridiculous accent, he gave no indication. Instead, he chuckled. “The Loveland treasure, Miss, er, Mignonette. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

She shook her head. Great. Dashford just loved telling the story of his grandfather’s mistress who’d been installed here at Loveland years ago and the rumors that had circulated for decades about a treasure hidden nearby. No doubt they’d all be forced to listen to it. Again.

“There’ve been stories around the countryside for years that some magnificent treasure was hidden here by smugglers,” Dashford said, thankfully giving them the shortened version of the tale. “But I’m sorry to tell you we’ve once and for all put that rumor to rest. What treasure there was has already been discovered.”

Now, that brought actual surprise to the gunman’s features, while both of St. Clement’s eyebrows twitched. Julia seemed no more shocked or confused than she already had been. Rastmoor decided that was a good sign. He’d remember to point it out to Dashford if his friend took it upon himself to prosecute the looters.

“You mean to say this fool is up here trying to steal treasure that’s already long gone?” the older woman asked with a self-righteous sneer, her feather dancing overhead.

“Yes, unfortunately. That poor floorboard has suffered in vain,” Dashford replied.

“The treasure’s been found?” St. Clement asked. “How? By whom? And where is it now?”

Now Julia appeared somewhat more surprised. She completely forgot herself and turned to gape at her father. “Papa? You knew about this treasure?”

This time it was Dashford’s turn to appear surprised. He refocused his gaze from the men onto Julia. “
Papa?
You mean Signor Giuseppe is your father?”

No one replied, so Dashford turned to St. Clement. “You’re not really Giuseppe, are you?”

No one replied to that, either, so the man with the gun spoke up. “Who the hell is Giuseppe?”

St. Clement groaned and rolled his eyes. Whatever game the men—and Julia—had been playing was clearly not well-organized. It was falling apart right before their eyes. Rastmoor wondered just exactly what he’d learn as he watched it unravel. Then again, perhaps he ought to think of what Dashford would learn as things unraveled. All it would take was one person, one actor or one feather-headed matron, to call Julia by her real name, and Dashford would figure it all out.

He’d probably try to rescue Rastmoor from his own stupidity by having St. Clement’s whole bloody troupe—Julia included—incarcerated for housebreaking and vandalism. Rastmoor didn’t relish trying to untangle that mess. It seemed that the best thing to do, under the circumstances, was to take sides with the woman in the turban.

“I think it’s obvious our housebreaker here doesn’t even know these good people,” Rastmoor announced. “Perhaps now that he knows the treasure is gone, he’ll apologize for all the trouble and make the appropriate repairs to the floor. Then no harm done, right?”

“But it’s not gone,” the man said simply. “It’s right here.”

He pointed down into the hole he’d made in the floor. Hell. This was certainly going to slow down the process of extricating Julia from the muddle. He had a fair notion the only thing to be breaking loose any time soon was, well,
all hell
.

What in heaven’s name was treasure doing buried under Dashford’s abandoned floorboards? More importantly, how on earth did Papa know about it?

Oh yes, Julia had no doubt Papa knew about that treasure. Whether that was a part of his motivation to come here or whether he really had made his way to Loveland in an effort to be near her, she wasn’t entirely certain. She’d like to believe it was the latter, but something about the glances he’d been shooting back and forth between that strange man with the pistol gave her doubt.

She recognized the man. She didn’t know his name, but she’d seen him. Not quite two weeks ago, in fact. She’d seen him with Papa outside the home where they’d stayed in Oxford before their disastrous visit to London. She’d asked about the man—they’d seemed so deep in conversation and so hushed in their tones—but Papa explained he was merely an actor looking for work. She’d thought nothing more of it, although now she realized it had been precisely after that meeting that Papa had announced they’d be stopping in London before going on to an engagement in Gloucester.

Now, she’d never claimed to be a scholar of geography, but she knew enough to recognize that London was not anywhere near the route they would normally take from Oxford to Gloucester. It was, in fact, quite the opposite direction. Clearly their trip had not been a simple little detour.

What had this man said to Papa to make him divert their whole troupe as he had? Given how tight their finances had been lately, she couldn’t deny the mention of treasure might have done the trick. Had Papa been plotting something with this reckless vandal all along? But why go to London—where they’d accidentally encountered Fitzgelder and been forced to embark on this recent debacle—instead of coming directly here?

She couldn’t make sense of it. If only she had the opportunity to ask him. It was plain to see, however, that Lord Dashford was not about to allow for private conversation. His lordship eyed them all with heavy suspicion. That hole in his floor did not make him happy, nor was he glad to see a stranger reach into said hole and pull out a fairly large metal box: a metal box that gave every impression of being built to hold—and protect—a treasure.

She looked up at Rastmoor and found his eyes. He leaned toward her.