Damsel in Disguise (39 page)

“He’s planning to have you arrested,” Rastmoor said when St. Clement was near enough to hear clearly.

Julia and her female companion exclaimed in surprise, but St. Clement merely shrugged. “Of course he is. Wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if he lets vandalism and violent threat go unpunished, would he?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on,” Rastmoor said. “Then perhaps I can figure out some way to help you.”

“We don’t need your help,” St. Clement assured him.

“I believe you do. Tell me what’s in that box.”

The older woman clicked her tongue. “Don’t tell him anything, Albert. He just wants it for himself.”

“I don’t give a fig for your bloody treasure,” Rastmoor declared. “But I might be able to keep you out of prison.”

“As if we should trust the likes of you,” the woman said.

“Mrs. Bixley, please,” Julia said finally. “We can trust him. Rastmoor is . . . he’s my friend.”

“Is that true?” St. Clement said, leaning forward to meet Rastmoor eye to eye. “Are you her friend?”

Rastmoor hardly thought
friend
was adequate to cover just what it was he felt toward Julia. “I assure you, St. Clement, I will do whatever it takes to protect Julia
and
her family.”

St. Clement didn’t break off his unnerving stare. He was studying, contemplating Rastmoor’s face. Thankfully, the man kept his thoughts to himself.

“You might find yourself regretting that commitment, monsieur,” the man said.

“True, but you might be surprised by the level of my commitment, sir,” Rastmoor responded. Hell, he was surprised himself by the solid resolve in his gut. St. Clement may not trust him—may not even like him—but no way in hell was Rastmoor about to let Julia down by seeing the man sent up on charges, deserved though they might be.

“Very well,” St. Clement said, sighing as he turned to study his daughter. “I see there is no reasoning. I suppose you might as well know what’s in the box. It isn’t what you . . .”

But his words trailed off as the sudden rumble and pounding of hooves distracted him. Heading fast toward them was a carriage. It was elegant and gleaming, the gilded scrollwork flashing in the sunlight and the brightly painted wheel spokes a blur of fashionable yellow. Dashford didn’t even need to see the driver to recognize the striking phaeton.

Lindley. By God, what was he doing here? And what was that cloud of dust following behind him? No, not dust. It was two riders in Dashford’s familiar livery, that’s what it was. Was he imagining it, or where they pursuing the phaeton? Rastmoor winced. Indeed it appeared that way. Given the speed all three were going, it could be fairly well assumed this was not good news galloping toward them.

“By Jove,” Dashford exclaimed, pulling his horse up to a halt. “Is that Lindley?”

“Is that your men, chasing him?” Rastmoor asked in reply.

“Oh no!” Julia said with a precious little gasp.

“Who the hell is Lindley?” St. Clement asked.

“And how the hell is he going to stop that blasted gig in time to keep from running us over?” Mrs. Bixley cried.

Rastmoor had to admit, all of these were excellent questions.

 

 

FORTUNATELY FOR THEM ALL, LORD LINDLEY WAS AN excellent driver. Somehow—and Julia wasn’t at all sure how—he managed to pull up his horses in time to finish his approach at something like a leisurely pace. Indeed, the frustrated creatures blew and stamped, but Lindley seemed not the least rattled. He greeted Dashford almost cheerfully.

“I say, Dash,” Lindley said. “What on earth has gotten into your men back there?”

They weren’t “back there” long, though. In moments two of Dashford’s sturdy grooms came pounding up on their mounts, clearly having ridden hell-for-leather and even more clearly with intent of overtaking Lindley.

“Watch it, sir, he might be armed!” one of them called to his master.

Julia glanced up at Rastmoor, who was poised atop his horse, just on the other side of Papa. He eyed the situation suspiciously. Julia had to admit she was glad he was this close. With Lindley in front of their little caravan and that strange man they’d found at Loveland sitting in the wagon behind them, it was good to have the security of a capable man so close by. Not that she wouldn’t have trusted Papa and the other actors to look out for her, but right now she wasn’t entirely sure where exactly Papa stood. Was he somehow involved in things that connected him to the likes of Lindley? She shuddered at the thought.

“What’s this about, Lindley?” Dashford questioned.

“I stopped at Hartwood to see you and was told you were out here,” Lindley replied.

One of the grooms added to that. “When he left, her ladyship thought it might be a good idea if we came along, too.”

“Did she now?” Dashford said.

“I say, is something going on that—” Lindley stopped short when his eyes fell on the man in the rear wagon. “You!”

The man seemed no less thrilled at the sight of the new-comer. “Lindley, you dog. What in the bloody hell have you done with my daughter?” he shouted, scrambling to get out of the wagon. Three of Papa’s actors worked to restrain him.

“I was hoping to find her here with you, D’Archaud,” Lindley replied calmly. “Am I to take it she’s missing?”

“I’ll murder you!” the man, apparently someone named D’Archaud, announced loudly. “What have you done to her?”

“I see you’ve been busy making friends wherever you go, Lindley,” Rastmoor said.

“And just what, exactly, did you do to this man’s daughter?” Dashford asked.

“I tried to keep her out of the mess this man is making of his life! Watch him, Dash, he’s not to be trusted,” Lindley replied.

“Oh?” Dashford responded. “Some would say you aren’t, either.”

“He’s not,” Papa said suddenly. Julia whipped her face around to look at him. “He’s after the treasure.”

“Hellfire,” Rastmoor breathed under his breath. “Not another one.”

“I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wait your turn with it, Lindley,” Dashford said. “Your friend D’Archaud back there got his hands on it first, but I claim right of ownership for my wife.” He patted the metal box that he held securely in his lap. “And just what claim do you have on this?”

“That’s the treasure?” Lindley asked.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Rastmoor warned.

Lindley frowned. “That’s the treasure? Odd. I rather thought it would be bigger. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Those French . . . they always exaggerate.”

Dashford picked up on this. “French, you say? The treasure is French?”

“Indeed. I know little about it, but I do know it’s French,” Lindley said.

Julia frowned. Well, that did nothing to exonerate Papa. True, just because he and this so-called treasure shared the same country of origin hardly proved his involvement in anything sinister. Still, she couldn’t like the fact that he hadn’t seen fit to mention it to her. That had to mean something.

Rastmoor glanced at Julia then slid his gaze to Papa. He must be piecing it together, too. Did he believe she’d known of this? She hoped not, but honestly, there was no reason for him to doubt her involvement. Especially when Papa said she’d possessed a key and that the other was with Fitzgelder. Truly, he must be losing faith in her by the minute.

“Well, no matter,” Dashford went on. “Our friend here”—he gestured toward Papa—“has graciously informed us of where we might find at least one of the keys needed to open the box. Since the box was hidden in my wife’s property, and since the holder of one of these keys is currently a guest at Hartwood, we are headed back there to see about opening it. Perhaps it did indeed come from France, but it’s in England now.”

“You already have one of the keys?” Lindley asked.

“Not quite,” Rastmoor interjected. “It’s en route to Fitzgelder, we believe.”

“Are you certain of that?” Lindley asked.

“Not at all,” Dashford replied.

“Well then, who has the other? Two are required, I believe?” Lindley questioned.

No one asked where he had come by this information, although Julia thought it might be important to know that.

“Sadly, that one belonged to an actress,” Dashford said. “One Julia St. Clement.”

Lindley looked from Dashford to Rastmoor, his left eyebrow arching prominently. “Then this would mean it is already in Fitzgelder’s possession, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dashford said.

“No,” Rastmoor said.

Everyone looked at him, but he offered no explanation.

“At any rate,” Dashford went on, “Fitzgelder is in my possession. Lindley, what do you say to returning with us to Hartwood? My grooms, of course, will see that you encounter no difficulties on the way.”

Everyone recognized that for what it was—Dashford’s warning to Lindley. The man, like everyone else, would be watched carefully. The grooms would watch Lindley, Papa and his actors would watch D’Archaud, D’Archaud would watch Dashford, Dashford would watch Papa, and Rastmoor—it seemed—would watch her. Not that she really minded that, but she just wished she could know he didn’t condemn her as he watched. She certainly hoped, for everyone’s sake, that when they arrived at Hartwood at least one of those dratted keys would turn up.

Rastmoor breathed a bit easier when they finally made it back to Hartwood. Dashford’s footmen were only too glad to help monitor the new guests, and the new Lady Dashford was only too glad to see her husband whole. For some reason she was convinced something grave had happened to Clemmons, and when Lindley showed up, then set off to follow Dash to Loveland, she feared the same horrible fate awaited her husband. It was going to be quite a chore to convince her Clemmons was well, and no one else was in any immediate danger.

Especially since he couldn’t entirely be sure of that last part. Just who was this D’Archaud, and what was the connection between him, Lindley, and St. Clement? Where did Julia fit into it all? And how, in God’s name, did Fitzgelder fit into the picture?

He certainly was looking forward to an explanation. He scanned the group as Dashford ushered them all into the large formal drawing room just off the great entrance hall. Rastmoor doggedly positioned himself beside Julia when she took a seat next to her father on a silk-covered divan. The other four members of his troupe made themselves comfortable wherever they could, Mrs. Bixley taking care to stay clear of D’Archaud. Lindley stood against the wall near the doorway. Was he planning a hasty exit, or making sure no one else did?

Of course Lady Dashford insisted on joining them, which of course forced Dashford to secure two extra footmen. Just in case. It was a motley gathering, and Rastmoor could hardly wait to see how it played out. Oh, he was about to hear plenty of explanation; he was sure of that. He just wondered how much of it would be credible.

“I’ve sent for Fitzgelder,” Dashford announced.

Rastmoor groaned. Indeed, of course they must invite Fitzgelder. He held vital information and certainly the man’s presence would add to the festive atmosphere. Clearly things were just about to get interesting.

The actors, for the most part, glanced around the room with worried, confused expressions. Rastmoor was ready to believe that of the troupe, only St. Clement and D’Archaud really knew anything about what was going on. But then he reminded himself that they were, after all, actors. This could truly be an elaborate scene they’d rehearsed beforehand.

Except that he was inclined to believe Julia’s ignorance. Perhaps it was gullibility on his part, but he simply couldn’t dismiss the shock and dismay on her face every time her father volunteered some unexpected information. He also could not overlook the hurt.

Damn that man! Had he lied to his own daughter? Had he set her up to be used, to be dragged into this mess so he could take advantage of her relationship with Rastmoor and now the Dashfords for some tasteless plot to steal wealth? If Rastmoor thought for one minute Julia would allow it, he’d give the man a thorough thrashing. And enjoy it.

But it was clear she would not. She adored her father; it was plain on her face. Even as she sat here, surrounded by scheming strangers, her concern for her father’s well-being was evident. Rastmoor’s anger faded. Blast it, but he’d vowed to protect St. Clement, and he’d live up to that—for Julia’s sake. He doubted very much he’d particularly enjoy it, though.

“Now, where did you say you found this box?” Lady Dashford said, leaning forward in her chair to gaze at—but not touch—the metal box as it sat on the narrow table that Dashford had dragged to the center of the room.

“It was under the floorboards in the master bedroom,” Dashford replied.

The viscountess nodded, then glanced over to D’Archaud. “And you were the one they found tearing up my grandmother’s floor?”

D’Archaud seemed surprised by this. Indeed, Rastmoor was quite unprepared for the blatant shock that took over the man’s face.