Damsel in Disguise (45 page)

Ah, sensible girl. So that’s why she was allowing his advances. Julia always did have a good head about her. He glared at Fitzgelder. “Where’s the other locket?”

His cousin shook himself back to consciousness and actually had the nerve to smile. “I don’t know. I just told her I knew so she’d let me climb on top of her. It worked, now, didn’t it?”

“No, bastard, it didn’t work. Instead, you got me climbing on top of you. Now, where’s the other locket?”

“I tell you, I don’t know!”

The door at the other side of the little room opened up, and suddenly Julia’s father and D’Archaud burst in. One look around at the floured floor and Rastmoor’s aggressive position, and it was clear they had an idea what had been going on. St. Clement ran to his daughter, while D’Archaud observed things from the doorway. It appeared there was something in his hand . . .

“Watch yourself!” Rastmoor heard his mother cry out. Bloody hell, did she give up on Penelope and decide to come in here now to critique his actions?

“Mother, I think I can handle things—” he began, only to be silenced by his mother’s insistent pointing.

But she was staring past him, waving a finger toward D’Archaud. “He’s got a gun!”

Sure enough, Rastmoor peered over his shoulder to find his mother was correct. D’Archaud had a gun. Wonderful.

For a moment, the Frenchman looked confused, but after a quick glance and a nod from St. Clement, he stood up taller and held the gun toward Rastmoor.

“Yes,” he said. “I do have a gun. And I’m not afraid to use it.”

“I say, see here now, D’Archaud . . .” Rastmoor said, torn between turning around to negotiate for his life and staying right were he was to rob Fitzgelder of his.

“Just say the word, Rastmoor, and I’ll blow off his
stupide
head for you,” D’Archaud went on. “He’s nothing but a worthless bag of worms.”

Julia wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “So that’s what it was,” she muttered.

Her father was horribly concerned. He was fussing over her, and she turned her head just enough that Rastmoor noticed the blood. Damn it, this bastard had hurt her!

Julia must have noticed their stares and felt the boiling rage in the air. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m fine. I, er, distracted him, and he dropped the knife. I’ve got it here.” She stepped sideways and pulled up her skirts. Sure enough, there was a cold, deadly little knife right there on the floor.

That must have been what Rastmoor heard dropping. By God, he knew there had to be some reasonable, rational excuse for Julia to be kissing the man like that. She was simply preparing to jab him with a knife. That made perfect sense.

“I truly was going to use it,” she said, glaring at Fitzgelder.

Rastmoor threw the man back against the wall and stepped away, brushing flour from his coat. No sense further mussing himself if D’Archaud and his pistol had Fitzgelder firmly under control.

Unfortunately, he didn’t.

Fitzgelder took advantage of his momentary freedom to leap up to his feet and lunge across the small room toward D’Archaud. He knocked the man backward, sending him staggering out the door and the pistol flying out of his hands. Fitzgelder caught it with unexpected grace.

He smiled and turned to the group. “All right, now who’s got the upper hand? Everyone over there, in that corner. Now! Or Miss St. Clement gets a hole in her chest to go along with that little scratch on her neck.”

They complied. Even Rastmoor’s mother was forced to gather with them, helpless in the corner while a very angry, very twitchy Fitzgelder took pleasure in every moment of his authority.

“Well, since you’re all here, and I’ve got such a lovely target standing right in front of me, perhaps one of you can give me what I need.”

“I’ll give you what you need . . .” St. Clement mumbled before dropping into some very impolite French that even Rastmoor wasn’t sure he’d heard before.

“I’ll tell you what I need. I need the location of that other locket. Tell me, and I’ll let Miss St. Clement live. Don’t tell me, and she dies.”

“How can we tell you what we don’t know?” D’Archaud argued.

“It’s a trick,” Julia said. “He already knows where it is. Lindley told him.”

Fitzgelder shook his head and laughed. “No, he didn’t. I lied to you, Miss St. Clement. Honestly, did you really think Lindley would ever do anything to help me?”

“But I saw him! He broke the lock on your door . . . he said he had something you’d be interested in,” Julia said, her eyebrows crinkling adorably.

“Yes, the bastard, he did have something for me, but nothing I wanted. He came to show me a letter he had from the Home Office implicating me in some rather unsavory activities over the past few years. He thought I’d just gladly fill him in on the missing details, maybe give him the names of my associates. Ha! He got nothing from me. Nothing but a bump in the head.”

“What have you done to Lindley?” Rastmoor asked.

“I left him locked in my room. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s dead. Yet.”

“But I thought you said you were paying him to work for you?” Julia asked.

“Yes, well, apparently the generous people in our office of the interior were paying him more to work for them.”

“You mean Lindley has been investigating you?” Rastmoor said it, but even the very question sounded incredible.

“It would appear so, the Judas Iscariot. I thought he was my friend!”

“No, he’s nobody’s friend,” D’Archaud announced. “He’s a damn spy hunter, and he doesn’t much care who gets punished for what crimes.”

“Papa! Does that mean Lindley has been investigating you, too?” Julia asked.

“Well, if he has, I’m sure he’s been disappointed,
ma belle
. I’m afraid I’ve never been so adventurous as to engage in any of those goings-on. No, life in the theater has been adventure enough.”

Julia glanced back at Fitzgelder. “You said that Papa . . .”

“Lies again, Miss St. Clement!” the bastard said, mocking her. “Really, for such an accomplished little trollop, you’re hopelessly naive. But all this distracts me from my purpose. Tell me where I might find that locket! One of you switched it. Was it you, D’Archaud? You, Rastmoor? Or even our sweet Julia? Tell me, or she dies!”

They all just looked at each other. Rastmoor wondered if that was because no one had an answer, or if someone was simply risking Julia’s life for his own personal gain. He watched them all closely, especially Fitzgelder. Unfortunately, the man was becoming more and more unhinged by the minute. With that gun trained constantly on Julia, there was no telling what might happen.

He had to do something about that.

“Did you think to ask Lindley about it before you bashed in his head?” Rastmoor asked, inching away from Julia and hoping Fitzgelder—and the gun—would follow. “Did it ever dawn on you that he would have had the most opportunity as well as the most reason to switch that?”

“Of course I asked him,” Fitzgelder said. “He claimed he didn’t know—he thought I had it.”

“Oh, and he couldn’t possibly have been lying, could he? I say we go up and ask him, if he’s not dead already. All of us, right now. We could force the truth out of him.”

“Look, I’m the one deciding what we do,” Fitzgelder said, his voice rising.

Rastmoor continued his slow creeping away from Julia, separating himself from the group. “Are you? I don’t hear much deciding, Cousin. All I hear is complaining about how everyone else isn’t doing things the way you like it. If you’re really the one in charge here, why not be decisive. Go to the one who has your answers.”

“No, stop it! I know what you’re trying to do,” Fitzgelder was waving the gun wildly now. “You always think you can tell me what to do; always the head of the household. Just because your damn father was married to your mother, you think that makes you better than me. Well, it doesn’t. I know things about your father! I know what he did—things Lindley would love to know about, too—things I’ve got proof of all neatly tucked away in that locket.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ha! Why do you think your father had that locket to begin with? It belonged to D’Archaud, didn’t it? Well, he gave it to your father—gave it to him as insurance that your father wouldn’t do anything to upset the applecart, as they say. It was a reminder that D’Archaud knew things that your father wouldn’t want made public, and vice versa. I guess neither of them counted on your poor papa sticking in his spoon quite so early, did they?”

“I think you’d do well to shut up right now, Cousin,” Rastmoor warned.

His cousin, of course, paid him no mind. “But he did die, leaving D’Archaud in a bit of a bind. How was he going to get his precious little locket back now? Rastmoor’s widow wasn’t likely to let something like that get out into the world. Poor, poor D’Archaud. All he could do was get drunk and wallow in his own self-pity. He left his wife and brat and went off with the only people who seemed to care about him: actors. That’s how I came to know of it. Dearest mother was rather a friend of his . . . for a time. Now, isn’t that ironic?”

Fitzgelder laughed, although Rastmoor didn’t find any of this very funny. “Can you imagine?” the bastard rambled on. “I learned the secret to your ruin, my dear, legitimate cousin, from my own unsainted mother. An actress! Yes, by God, my mother was a filthy little actress. Good enough for my father to bed and breed, but not to make her a decent offer. I’m a bastard, Rastmoor, because my frigging mother was a bloody actress, but this ruddy bastard over here told her about the locket! Ah, but that’s poetic justice, isn’t it?”

“Really, that’s kind of pathetic,” Rastmoor admitted.

“Don’t patronize me! And don’t think I’ll let you live to marry this damn, filthy actress of yours.”

Suddenly Fitzgelder was coolly in control again. He leveled the gun squarely at Rastmoor. His eyes said he’d fire it, too. Well, Rastmoor had to confess this visit to Hartwood was proving even more adventurous than the last.

“Come, Miss St. Clement,” Fitzgelder called to her, his eyes and his pistol never leaving Rastmoor as he backed toward the doorway. “I think you and I should be on our way.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you!” Rastmoor declared.

“Oh, but she is. Unless, of course, she wants to see you dead. Aw, hell. Maybe I’ll just kill you anyway.” His arm straightened, and the gun rose just a bit, just enough so that the barrel was pointed directly at Rastmoor’s heart.

“No!” Julia cried and leapt in front of Rastmoor.

It was at this very moment that Penelope finally decided to respond to her mother’s earlier bellowing. She came tripping through the doorway and plowed right into Fitzgelder.

The gun in Fitzgelder’s hand exploded, the loud crack echoing in the tiny storeroom. Females shrieked, and Rastmoor threw himself into Julia, desperately hoping that bullet could rip through his own body and not touch hers. Engulfing her, he fell to the cold floor.

Rastmoor was conscious of activity around him. Feet scuffled, and he heard St. Clement’s angry cry, followed by a thud with moaning in the general vicinity of where the bastard had been standing. Penelope was screeching for someone to tell her what had just happened, and his mother was somewhere nearby, shushing her.

But none of that mattered. All Rastmoor could think of was Julia. Dear God, but she’d been right there, right smack between that damned pistol and his heart. He moved himself away from her and was almost afraid of what he’d find when he gazed down into her lovely face.

Her eyes were closed. No, hell no! She couldn’t be . . . no, he would not let her be. He propped himself up and eagerly scanned her, looking for any evidence of a scarlet-soaked wound that he might quickly bind it and save her. He found nothing.

“Julia . . . Oh God, Julia! Are you all right?” he murmured as he ran his hands over her, frantic in his search for the injury that might be, even now, draining her life from her.

Suddenly she dragged in a deep gasping breath, and her eyes flew open. Thank heavens. She was still with him.

He knelt over her and cupped her face in his hands. “Darling, where are you hurt?”

Her brows knit together, and she bit her lip, seemingly confused. The poor thing, she was in shock. But he would save her.

“Tell me, where does it hurt, Julia?”

She thought about it for a moment then winced as he shifted slightly to get a better look at her.

“Oohh, my hand!” she groaned weakly.

That was unexpected. “Your hand? You got shot in the hand?”

She shook her head, cringing in pain. “No! You’re kneeling on it.”

He jumped back and quickly she pulled up her hand, cradling her fingers.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, taking those fingers and kissing them gently. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. But what of you? Are you hurt, Anthony?”

He mentally checked himself. “I’m fine. God, if you’re alive, I’m fine.”

She smiled at him. Indeed, she looked healthy enough. He pulled her to him and nearly crushed her in his embrace. Never again did he ever want to lose this woman.

How odd, then, that he should hear St. Clement laughing. Did he not realize he could have just watched his daughter die? Rastmoor did not see how this was any time for laughter.

“Of course you’re fine, my boy,” the man said.

Rastmoor looked over to see him standing with Fitzgelder sprawled at his feet. D’Archaud was crouched beside him, holding the knife to Fitzgelder’s throat. A happy sight to be sure, but still not quite an excuse to laugh.

“It wasn’t loaded,” St. Clement went on. “The gun; it was a prop for a spectacle to entertain the servants. To be sure, it’s loud, but there was no ball inside. Fitzgelder could have never harmed anyone with it. The fool.”

St. Clement kicked the man just for good measure. Fitzgelder started to curse him, but D’Archaud silenced him with a warning flick of the knife.