Damsel in Disguise (40 page)

“Er, your grandmother, my lady?”

She gave him a cold frown. “Yes. Do you have any problem with that?”

“Certainly not!” D’Archaud replied and sent St. Clement a questioning glance.

“My wife’s heritage is none of your damn business!” Dashford barked at the man, taking one menacing step forward.

“I’m afraid you are wrong, monsieur,” St. Clement said.

Rastmoor couldn’t help but roll his eyes. What was wrong with these men? Were they mentally deficient? Anyone could see they were in no position to argue with Dashford—especially about such a sensitive subject as his wife!

“You see, the Lady Dashford’s heritage is very much our business. After all, her—”

And of course they were interrupted by the butler entering to announce the arrival of Fitzgelder. As if the man were some far-off dignitary come for tea. Dash the man, he strode in with the air of one who owned the place. From the looks on the faces of the other men in the room, however, it was clear he did not.

When Fitzgelder laid eyes on the newcomers, his expression soured. Rastmoor was rather pleased to see it.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said, aimed at D’Archaud.

“Where the hell is my daughter?” D’Archaud shot back.

Really, the man ought to take better care of his daughter. Leaving her with the likes of either Lindley or Fitzgelder was certainly not the mark of brilliant parenting.

“I told you where she was,” Fitzgelder said. “If you didn’t find her there, ask Lindley. He had her.”

He let his snarky smile give additional meaning to that last phrase. D’Archaud very nearly had steam coming out his ears.

“I’ll murder you along with him!” the furious father hissed.

“Gentlemen,” Dashford interrupted. “There will be plenty of time for arguing and murder later. Right now, we have this other matter at hand.”

He pointed to the box. “Open it.”

“Is that it? You’ve got it?” Fitzgelder said, his eyes wide as he took in the box on the table. Rastmoor could see his hands clenching with the itch to grab it.

St. Clement ignored him with a sigh of frustration. “We can’t open it. We need the keys.”

“You said you believed Fitzgelder to be in possession of at least one of the keys by now,” Rastmoor reminded him.

Fitzgelder scowled. “I was supposed to be in possession of
both
of the damn things by now. As it is, I’m sorry to say I have neither.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Dashford asked. “These men claim your wife held one of those keys. Can it be that somehow you knew about this treasure business, yet when your wife passed away you didn’t manage to keep track of such an important object?”

Fitzgelder growled a bit.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Giuseppe here—or whatever the hell his name is—told us your dearly departed wife had one of the keys,” Dashford went on, taunting the man.

Rastmoor would have been happy to join in, if only things were the way Dashford assumed them to be. He, unfortunately, was not privy to all the facts. Clearly, Fitzgelder was. At least, most of them. The look in his eye was pure evil.

“Hell, that little bitch I got tricked into marrying had something I thought was the key, but it sure as shit wasn’t the right one.” Fitzgelder’s lip curled back at the memory, and he gave a feral snarl as he turned to St. Clement. “Giuseppe, is it? Lying bastard! Go ahead, why don’t you tell your friend Dashford here just where that other key
really
is. I’d like to hear that, myself.”

“I don’t think his lordship is quite ready to consider himself my friend,” St. Clement said.

“That’s not the point!” Fitzgelder yelled, pounding his fist against the nearest object, which just happened to be a spindly legged tea table that very nearly crumbled under the abuse. “You know where it is because you gave it to . . .”

His voice trailed off when his wild eyes settled on Julia. Rastmoor could sense her body tensing, cringing under his gaze. He readied himself for what was to come.

“Her!”
Fitzgelder fairly shrieked. “That’s
her
, isn’t it?”

He jabbed a wicked finger into the air, pointing at Julia. If it had been a dagger, he’d have impaled her with it. As it was not, all he could do was slide his hateful gaze up to meet Rastmoor. “God damn it, but you were in on this all along, weren’t you, Cousin?”

The idea seemed to give Fitzgelder so much agony that Rastmoor was perfectly content to let the man go on believing it. Indeed, nothing would please him more than to rob Fitzgelder of the perverted glee he’d found in ripping out Rastmoor’s heart. Well, nothing except, perhaps, ripping out Fitzgelder’s heart. That was assuming, of course, the creature had one.

“You never deserved a woman like Julia St. Clement,” Rastmoor said after a long, tense pause. “And you never had her.”

“He never deserved Kitty, either,” Julia said under her breath.

Rastmoor began to understand some of the guilt Julia must have carried all these years, knowing that her friend had sacrificed herself with a monster like Fitzgelder and Julia had been the benefactor. He wished somehow he could simply make it go away, though he knew he could not. He had been a part of the horror; he had believed evil of her and left her to survive as best she could. His guilt in all this was twice what Julia’s was.

“Hold up,” Dashford said, although it was not really necessary. The sudden revelation seemed to have sent everyone into stunned silence. “Do you mean to say,
this
is Julia St. Clement?”

It was obvious to whom he referred. Rastmoor could only be glad his mother and sister weren’t here. As it was, Dashford’s reaction was difficult enough.

“You brought her
here
, Rastmoor?”

“Dashford, there are some things you don’t fully understand. I—”

“You brought your lying, scheming whore
here
, into
my
home?”

“By God, Dash, you will not speak of her that way!”

Dashford threw his hands up and paced in tight circles. “The St. Clement bitch, right here, alive and well! Damn it, Rastmoor, are you touched in the head? After all the torment she put you through? Hell, I think you
must
be insane. One minute you’re cavorting around with that Nancini pup, and now you’ve gone and—”

His wife put her hand on his arm as he made a pass near her chair. “Dearest, I believe we may have been wrong about Nancini.”

He huffed. “Clemmons, then. Whatever it was.”

Her ladyship pursed her lips and gave a sideways nod toward Julia. “Miss St. Clement, I believe.”

Dashford was momentarily at a loss, but eventually his wife’s hinted implication sank in. “What? Good God, are you telling me . . . oh, hell. Rastmoor, is this true?”

“I couldn’t very well tell you who she was, could I? Besides, we had this mongrel chasing after us,” Rastmoor explained, gesturing—impolitely, of course—at Fitzgelder.

“Wait a moment,” Fitzgelder piped up. “Are you saying that Clemmons lout was
her
?”

“A fine little actress I raised there!” the senior St. Clement said with fatherly pride. A bit misplaced, given the situation, but glowing, nonetheless.

“Clemmons? Do you mean that worthless little fool who went around telling folks he was married to my daughter?” D’Archaud asked.

“Your
daughter
?” Lady Dashford said. “Do you mean Sophie Darshaw is your
daughter
?”

“Indeed she is!” D’Archaud announced. “And that makes me your uncle, doesn’t it?”

“This is your uncle?” Dashford asked, clearly unimpressed.

“But I thought you were dead!” Lady Dashford exclaimed. “And so did Sophie!”

“So you can imagine her shock when I caught up with her at that posting house in Geydon. I followed from London so I could save her from an unfortunate elopement. Funny, you’d think she would have mentioned to me her new husband was actually a female!”

“So you’re the one who took Sophie from the posting house in Geydon that night when someone was shooting at us?” Julia asked. “But I was sure it was . . . er . . .”

“You thought it was me, I know,” Lindley finished for her.

“Well, it would have been you, bastard, if I hadn’t gotten her first,” D’Archaud said. “You didn’t waste any time following us to Warwick and beating me half to death. What did you do with her? Where is she, Lindley?”

“You mean you
did
kidnap Sophie?” Rastmoor asked, frowning at Lindley.

“I
rescued
her!” Lindley defended himself. “That ass”—here he pointed at D’Archaud—“was dragging her into this, endangering her. He’s been in Fitzgelder’s pocket for years!”

“And you haven’t?” Rastmoor asked with obvious skepticism.

“Of course not,” Lindley replied. “Entirely too crowded in there for my taste.”

D’Archaud launched into a string of French profanity.

“So where is she?” Rastmoor asked, pinning Lindley with an expectant stare.

He fidgeted slightly. “I don’t know. She, er, got away from me.”

Dashford threw his hands up. Again. D’Archaud’s French became even more colorful. Only Fitzgelder laughed.

“I say, you didn’t by any chance think to get that key off her while you had her, old man?” he asked.

“Wait a minute,” Julia suddenly spoke up. “You believe Sophie had a key?”

“Of course she did,” Fitzgelder growled back. “She took that damn locket from me when we scuffled, the sly little bitch.”

“Do you mean to say the key is in the locket?” Dashford asked, although Rastmoor would have done it if he hadn’t.

How on earth could his father’s locket be in any way involved with all this?

“Not quite,” Fitzgelder said simply. “The locket
is
the key.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Dashford grumbled.

Rastmoor would have said something a bit more colorful, but he decided to let this suffice. Instead he turned to Lindley. “You knew about this?”

Lindley smiled. “Of course I did. And, yes, I also had the good sense to think of getting the locket from her before she, er, escaped. Again.”

He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a cloth. Unfolding it, he gently pulled out a gold locket and held it, dangling into space, for all to see. A small golden locket on a delicate chain.

“Aha! That’s the very one!” Fitzgelder cried. “Go ahead, Lindley. Open it. I think everyone will be more than interested in what you find. Rastmoor, especially.”

Rastmoor realized this could very well be the first honest phrase ever uttered by his abhorrent cousin.

 

 

“NO!” JULIA EXCLAIMED.

There must be some mistake. This locket couldn’t be the key to some strange, Dashford family treasure. This was the locket that held something dreadful, something that Rastmoor felt would ruin his family. Something so horrid he feared his own sister would sooner marry Fitzgelder than let the contents become known. This had to be some trick, some scheme of Fitzgelder’s to destroy poor Rastmoor.

And Lindley must know this. Surely, if he’d had the locket since he was last with Sophie in Warwick he’d had ample time to investigate its contents. He must know why Fitzgelder wanted it so very badly.

And he was going to open it. She had to do something to stop him!

“Wait! I believe that locket belongs to the Rastmoor family,” she said, hoping Dashford would care enough about his friend to listen. “I think Rastmoor should be allowed to examine it first.”

She could feel Rastmoor’s eyes on her, but the ones that mattered most right now were Dashford’s. She kept her focus only on him and thought she recognized a slight hint of understanding cross his features. With any luck, Rastmoor had mentioned Fitzgelder’s threats, and Dashford would realize the danger of opening that locket in front of everyone like this. Surely he’d protect his friend.

But instead, Dashford simply turned to Lindley. “What’s in the locket?”

Lindley shrugged. “I haven’t had time to look.”

“If that’s true,” Rastmoor said, “then I’d very much appreciate it if the locket is returned to me. Unopened.”

Lindley seemed surprised by this, so Rastmoor continued.

“Now, if you please.”

“Well, it is yours, I suppose,” Lindley said with a shrug. Carefully, he handed the locket over to Rastmoor.

“No, it isn’t!” D’Archaud cried. “It’s mine! I gave it to his father for safekeeping!”

“What?” Rastmoor asked.

“Your father,” D’Archaud continued, “was a good man. He helped me out when I needed it. He said he’d keep the locket safe when there were men who would have killed me for it.”

“You knew my father?” Rastmoor couldn’t help but question.

Julia was not at all pleased to hear that. D’Archaud wasn’t exactly the fine, upstanding sort who would aid Rastmoor in defending his family from whatever slanderous scheme Fitzgelder might have in mind. Likely he was a part of the scandal, in fact.

“Your father was my friend,” D’Archaud said simply.

“Well, he never said anything to me about this locket,” Rastmoor said. “All I know is that when he died, it was among his things. Left to me with instructions never to lose track of it and to continue sending monthly payments to a certain party I assumed was associated with it. And that party was most assuredly not you.”

D’Archaud shook his head. “No, it was for Sophie. Your father sent money to help support my Sophie after her mother died.”

“I’m not as gullible as you think,” Rastmoor assured him. His dark expression said he’d had very nearly enough of this whole business.

“I can prove it’s mine!” D’Archaud declared. “I can tell you how it opens the box.”

That seemed to pique Rastmoor’s interest. “Oh?”

“I will have to admit,” Dashford said, “I am a bit curious about what’s in there.”

“Then let me show you,” D’Archaud coaxed. “I know the secret. And . . . and I won’t even need to open it.”