Damsel in Disguise (38 page)

“You didn’t know about this, did you?” he whispered.

She shook her head. Would he believe her? She wasn’t sure. He turned back to the scene before them and watched as the metal box was brought into full view.

“Hand that here,” Dashford directed.

The man glared from Dashford to Papa. Oddly enough, Papa nodded. The man seemed displeased by that but nodded in return. Grumbling, he relinquished the box. Dashford seemed to be doing his own grumbling, but he took the box and placed it on the washstand beside him for study.

“What’s in it?” he asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” the man replied.

Julia wondered if Papa could say the same. His face was unreadable, which usually meant he was hiding something. But what?

“How does it open?” Dashford questioned after a moment or two of looking at the box from various angles and frowning.

Julia leaned closer to try to see, but Rastmoor was blocking her view. The more she tried to see around him, the more he seemed to stand in front of her. Drat the man! Did he think she would attempt to steal the treasure right out from under the noses of Dashford and all these gold-hungry men? Ridiculous.

She was not even convinced there really
was
a treasure. The man with the pistol, for instance, didn’t seem the least concerned about Dashford’s inquisition or the eager eyes leering at him. He simply shrugged. “You need keys,” he announced. “Two of them—specially made.” Before anyone could ask, he continued. “I don’t have them.”

“Who does?” Rastmoor demanded. He looked directly at Papa.

The room was silent. So was Papa. Julia could feel the tension starting to mount. If there really
was
treasure in that box, and someone here really
did
have the keys to open it, then something was clearly just about to happen. And it would probably not be good for Dashford. Even with Rastmoor to back him up, the man was hopelessly outnumbered.

Oh, what on earth had Papa gotten involved in?

“I don’t know who has them,” the man replied smoothly. “That’s why I tried to shoot it open. Didn’t work.”

“Idiot,” Papa grumbled. “You could have damaged it.”

“Where are the keys?” Dashford repeated.

“I don’t know!” the man snapped. “They may have changed hands over the years.”

“But you have a reasonable idea that you can find them, don’t you?” Dashford asked.

The man merely gave an unconvincing shrug, so Dashford continued. “Unless perhaps you plan to take a hammer to it and risk destroying whatever is inside. Hmm, perhaps we should do that right now?”

“No!” both the gunman and Papa chimed together.

Well, that answered one question. Papa obviously knew what was inside, or at least he seemed to have a good idea what might be there. Botheration, why had he not told her he’d learned of a treasure hidden in an abandoned cottage? Heavens, if she’d known, perhaps she could have done more to keep Rastmoor and Dashford from finding them here.

“I think you should do it, Dash,” Rastmoor said. “Surely we can find something heavy around here to bash it. It’s your house, so whatever’s in that box is yours, too.”

Dashford contemplated this. “Actually, it’s my wife’s. This house—and everything in it—rightfully belongs to her. I should probably take this back to Hartwood so we can bash it open in her presence.”

“Yes, excellent idea,” Rastmoor agreed.

Julia did not agree. The dark look the gunman was sending to Papa hinted that he, also, did not agree. Rightful owner or not, it was obvious he had no intention of letting Dashford take the treasure and leave. But just what lengths would he go to in order to get the box away from Dashford? And would Papa help him? Lord, she hoped not! The law did not look favorably upon commoners who acted with violence against the peerage.

Dashford let the tension in the room build for just another heartbeat, then he tucked the box under his arm and straightened his coat. “Well, Rastmoor, shall we be off, then?”

“No!” the man shouted.

Things happened quickly. Before Julia even had time to blink, the man had leapt past Dashford and was grabbing poor Mrs. Bixley. Something flashed at her throat. Good heavens! The man had a knife!

“Stop, or she starts bleeding,” the man warned as Rastmoor and Dashford together turned on him.

Thankfully, they stopped. Mrs. Bixley was wide-eyed and shocked into silence. That in itself was alarming. Julia had never known the woman to be silent. Ever.

“No!” Papa suddenly bellowed.

Julia jolted. So did the others. She glanced around the room, taking in the range of emotion swirling around. There was desperation in the eyes of the man with the knife, fear on Mrs. Bixley’s face, and an eager anticipation on the two actors who had accompanied them. Dashford seemed tense and ready to move, while Rastmoor was deadly calm. She noticed that he’d managed to slide himself between her and the others—again—and she wondered if perhaps she’d been too hasty to interpret that as mistrust on his part.

Could it be, rather, that he was protecting her? That was kind of sweet, actually. What a pity this was hardly the time for her to revel in such a show of affection.

“Enough violence,” Papa announced, glaring ice at the man with the knife. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Release her this instant!”

“But he’s going to take the box!” the man protested.

“Let him bloody have it!” Mrs. Bixley wheezed, obviously somewhat recovered from her initial shock.

“It’s not worth this,” Papa went on.

“It is! You don’t know, but I need it. I need all of it,” the man declared.

“The only thing you’re getting is a visit to the hangman if you cause that woman any injury whatsoever,” Dashford said.

“That, and I’ll give you a swift kick in the gooseberries,” Mrs. Bixley assured her captor.

Papa sighed. “She’ll do it; trust me. Just let her go and give it up.”

“What, so he can bash it open? You think I’m going to let that happen? You know good and well it will be useless if he destroys it.”

Papa sighed again. “I know. I won’t let that happen. Lord Dashford, if you will refrain from bashing the box, I will tell you who has the keys.”

“No!” the man protested.

His hands fell limp to his sides, and the knife clattered to the floor. Mrs. Bixley stood motionless for half a second, then quickly made good her word and nailed her attacker with a swift kick to the, er, gooseberries. He crumpled to the floor.

“That’ll teach you, worthless mongrel!” she said over her shoulder as she scurried to stand beside Papa.

Dashford kicked the knife to Rastmoor who scooped it up, lest anyone else get ideas. Julia let herself relax, but only slightly. The danger seemed momentarily averted, but there was still an awful lot she did not understand.

“All right, then,” Dashford said. “I won’t bash the box. But I need some answers! To start with, tell me who has the keys.”

The man on the floor moaned. Julia didn’t think it was entirely due to his injury. The greedy thing, he really did not want Papa to give up so easily.

“One belongs to an actress, my lord,” Papa said, his silly, affected accent long gone. In fact, the only vestige left of Signor Giuseppe was, well, his vestment. Other than the insufferable clothing, Papa was very much his old self. No one seemed the least interested in this recent transformation, however.

“Which actress?” Rastmoor asked.

“Julia St. Clement,” Papa replied with just the hint of an ironic smile.

“Hellfire,” Dashford swore. “She’s been dead three years! Her bloody husband likely took everything she left and sold it.”

Julia was no less surprised than the others, though obviously for other reasons. What was Papa talking about? She didn’t own any mysterious key. He must be fabricating this simply to buy some time. Good grief, was he planning to cross Dashford? She’d love to tell him that was likely not a very good idea.

She glanced at Rastmoor. No surprise, he was eyeing her with a questioning quirk in his brow. She spared him a slight, confused shrug. He turned back to Papa.

“Who’s got the other key, damn it?” Rastmoor asked.

Papa winced. “Well, I’m afraid that gets a little bit tricky. I’m not sure who has it right this moment.”

“Guess,” Dashford ordered.

This time Papa deferred to the man with the gun. “Well?” he said, expectant.

The man frowned and dragged himself up off the floor. “I told you, I don’t know. But if I had to guess, I’d have to say, er, what time is it?” The man made a great show of pulling up his watch to check. “Well, by now it’s probably made its way to our dear friend, Mr. Fitzgelder.”

Now it was Papa’s turn to groan. Rastmoor joined him.

But Dashford simply nodded. “Well, then. I’d say we ought to go have a talk with dear Mr. Fitzgelder.”

“Or something like that,” Rastmoor grumbled.

“But if he knows where—” the gunman started, only to be cut off by a sharp word from Papa.

“We go with Dashford,” he said, leaving no room for discussion. “You’ll get what you need after we deal with Fitzgelder.”

What on earth did Papa have going here? Julia found Rastmoor glaring at her. She tried to convey her own bewilderment, but it was impossible to know if he got the message. Likely he wondered if she was a part of whatever this was. She couldn’t very well blame him for being suspicious. Drat it, but she was suspicious, too. Of her own father, for heaven’s sake! Was he actually in league with such a slug like Fitzgelder?

“Come along, then,” Dashford said.

He had the metal box tucked safely in his arm, and strode purposefully past them all out the door. Rastmoor gripped Julia’s elbow and made as if to follow.

“You’re coming, too, mademoiselle,” he said.

Dashford whirled on them. “Indeed, you’re
all
coming. I have the feeling I’ll think of questions that even Mr. Fitzgelder won’t be able to answer.”

Julia shuddered, but there was no way out of it. Papa shrugged in her direction but seemed perfectly content to trail along after Dashford. So the man would be asking questions, would he? Indeed, this was bound to be just a little bit too enlightening. For all of them.

 

 

“YOU REALIZE, OF COURSE,” RASTMOOR TOLD HIS friend as they rode the way back to Hartwood with the actors following behind in their wagons, “you’re not forcing them to do anything they don’t actually wish to do. If Giuseppe and his partner there had not decided to give you the box and accompany you back, there was nothing you could have done to make them.”

“Yes, I do realize that,” Dashford replied. “Lucky for me there’s something valuable enough inside this box that Giuseppe—or whatever his name happens to be—is willing to risk it in favor of cooperation.”

“You don’t believe he’s really Giuseppe?”

Dashford angled his head and raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

Of course it was pointless to lie. “No. I don’t.”

“I didn’t think so.” They were silent, save for the sound of their horses’ plodding hoofbeats and the creaking of the ancient wagons. “So who is he?”

“What?”

“You’ve obviously had dealings with the man before. Last night when I mentioned he was nearby, I noticed your friend Clemmons wasn’t the only one who had a reaction. And I noticed, too, that once you saw Giuseppe for yourself, you suddenly weren’t nearly so concerned for your missing friend. I can only take that to mean you know more about what’s going on here than you’ve seen fit to discuss with me. Am I right?”

“Dash, are you suggesting I was somehow involved in vandalizing Loveland?”

“No, I’m suggesting you know more than you’ve let on. So spill. What is your involvement with this Giuseppe person and his ever so charming little mistress?”

“She’s not his mistress!”

“Oh? She truly is his daughter, then? Well, perhaps I begin to see your involvement. But what of Clemmons?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Likely he’ll turn up somewhere.”

“I don’t know. I think perhaps I’ll contact the magistrate and warn him that these actors are up to no good—that they might have done something nefarious to poor Mr. Clemmons.”

“Really, it’s not necessary.”

“I’ll exclude the women, of course. You may have your little actress; you do seem to love them so.”

“They are not criminals!”

“They certainly were acting like it, tearing up my property and holding hostages at knifepoint!”

“I don’t know who that man is. He acted alone.”

“He acted under Giuseppe’s control, if I’m not mistaken. I cannot in good conscience let these sorts of men run the countryside, can I? No. The minute we get to Hartwood, I’ll have my footmen take them into custody, I’ll notify the magistrate, and we will see about getting to the bottom of this bloody treasure box.”

Oh, but Julia was not going to like this. She’d likely throw a fit and end up getting herself locked away, as well.

“Let me talk to them,” Rastmoor suggested. “Perhaps I can get them to explain, to tell us the truth of what they were doing at Loveland. It could very well turn out to be innocent.”

“He held a knife at a woman’s throat, Anthony,” Dashford reminded him. “That can hardly be considered innocent, no matter the explanation.”

He had a point there. Still, for Julia’s sake, he wouldn’t give up. “At least let me try.”

Dashford sighed but nodded. Rastmoor pulled up his mount to allow the trailing wagons to catch him. Julia was in the first, wedged between her father and the turbaned lady on a bench that rocked back and forth with the sway of the old conveyance. It was, by far, too precarious, and Rastmoor had half a mind right now to swoop her off of there and plant her safely in his saddle with him. He doubted St. Clement would let him.

The older man glared at him as they approached. Rastmoor had heard the quiet whispers between the three of them, but they were deadly silent now. He had no doubt that whatever they’d been discussing had not been for his ears. It was probably just as well. Rastmoor already knew enough curses; he had no need of picking up more.