Damsel in Disguise (5 page)

“Clemmons,” Rastmoor called. “Get out here.”

She couldn’t come up with any reason to argue, so she staggered out from behind the shrubs. A wayward branch nearly ripped off her mustache, but she managed to get it to stick back in place. Bother, but she must look an absolute sight.

“I take it you heard that?” Rastmoor asked as she emerged, dusting herself off as best she could.

“I did. The man cannot be trusted.”

“He wasn’t exactly threatening me.”

Dear heavens! Was it possible the mutton-headed dullard was still choosing to trust Lindley? Unbelievable.

“I’m telling you, he’s in on it!” she said. “He was helping Fitzgelder plan your murder!”

Rastmoor just gave her a cold glare. “I don’t believe you.”

“So, what are you going to do? Drag Sophie and me off to this Dashford person, where Lindley probably has a trap set for you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you or your wife,” Rastmoor said.

“Really? His lordship seemed to suggest otherwise. Lose me along the way, will you?”

“He was funning.”

“I didn’t find it humorous. Nor would Sophie.”

“Look, it’s not my first choice, but Lindley was right. We do need to get Mrs. Clemmons safely to Dashford’s home. And you, too, I suppose.”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort. My wife and I have nothing to do with this Dashford, and it’s likely just a ruse to get you killed.”

“Nothing to do with Dashford? Do you think I’m a fool? I told you I already know all about Sophie Darshaw and where she comes from.”

“Then you know more than I, sir,” Julia said, hoping the little bit of truth she dared share with him would be enough to convince him. “As far I was aware, Sophie worked as a house-maid in Fitzgelder’s home, and the man used her abominably. She left with me as a means of escape.”

“You know nothing about her connection to Lord Dashford?”

“
Lord
Dashford? I swear, if Sophie wished to claim any connection to one of your ruddy lords, don’t you think she would have done so? Maybe he kept her before Fitzgelder; I don’t know, and I don’t care. But if Sophie doesn’t wish to associate with the man, then who are you to drag her back there?”

“He wasn’t her protector, damn it,” Rastmoor growled. “He’s her cousin. So is his new wife. Lady Dashford has been looking everywhere for the girl, and she practically begged me to lend a hand in the search. They want to help the chit, not abuse her some more.”

Julia studied him. Could this be true? Sophie had a family? Good, decent family who cared about her? It was hard to believe. Since Lindley was keen on reuniting Sophie with her family—and getting Rastmoor there as well—Julia figured she likely shouldn’t believe it. Or trust anyone.

“We’ll ask Sophie if she knows about this,” Julia declared, careful not to let Rastmoor meet her eyes. “If she says this cousin is someone she can trust, then perhaps we’ll go there. But if your Dashford is friends with Lindley . . .”

“I’d trust my life to Randolf Dashford,” Rastmoor announced.

“You might be doing just that,” Julia cautioned, falling in step behind Rastmoor as he strode up to the back door.

The innkeeper was swearing under his breath as he swept up the broken glass. Rastmoor glanced around the room where he’d been nearly killed just minutes ago, but it was clear that no further clues could be gained. Not that he needed them. He knew Fitzgelder was behind this.

There were a couple things he didn’t know, however. One was whether Clemmons could be trusted about Lindley’s involvement. The other was a bit more immediate.

Where the hell was Sophie?

“She was right here just a minute ago!” Clemmons announced, pushing Rastmoor aside and hurriedly examining the room.

“Weren’t nobody in here just a minute ago when I came in with my broom,” the innkeeper said. “Damn mess you people made in here, though.”

“We didn’t make the mess,” Rastmoor grumbled. “We got bloody shot at here in your fine establishment. Now where is Mrs. Clemmons?”

“Pretty little thing with the yellow hair?” the man asked, scratching his greasy head. “Don’t know. Guess I figured she went off with you.”

Rastmoor could feel the tension rising in Mr. Clemmons. Indeed, he had a bad feeling about this. The posting house wasn’t that big. They’d just come through the common room, and Sophie wasn’t there. She hadn’t been with Lindley, either. If she wasn’t there and she wasn’t here, where in God’s name was she?

And just why the hell did the scrawny fool Clemmons leave his wife alone when someone was going around shooting at people?

Unless maybe that was part of the plan. Damn it, maybe that shooting incident didn’t have anything to do with Fitzgelder’s attempt at revenge. Maybe it was simply a distraction—directed by none other than Clemmons himself.

“You left her alone in here, Clemmons? With a gunman running loose?”

Clemmons was all twitchy and uptight. His gaze darted around the room, out into the hall, through the broken window, anywhere but at Rastmoor. He had guilt written all over him.

“Where’s Sophie, Clemmons?” Rastmoor asked.

“I don’t know!” the man exclaimed.

Finally he looked up at Rastmoor and, by God, those almost looked like tears in his sensitive eyes. Hell, he sure could play a part. Rastmoor wasn’t buying, though. It was too convenient. Clemmons showed up to warn Rastmoor that Fitzgelder was after him, just as Sophie mysteriously disappeared? What a perfect way to set up a kidnapping—a fake kidnapping for the purpose of extorting money from Dashford.

Rastmoor eyed the young man. Damn, those eyes were disturbing. What did they make Rastmoor think of? Hell, he hadn’t seen eyes like that since . . . he couldn’t place it. Clemmons looked away.

“She might have gone to use the necessary,” the innkeeper suggested.

While her husband was off doing battle with a would-be murderer? Not likely, Rastmoor decided. And surely if this really were a well-orchestrated ruse and the girl had gone off to hide, she would know that might be the first place searchers would check. Then again, he couldn’t very well discount anything just yet.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll look around.”

That took all of about five minutes. Sophie was not on the premises. Clemmons was making a valiant show of being distraught, however.

“She’s just not here! Someone must have taken her!” he spouted, pacing.

It was too much. They were in the yard where the mail coach had just left—after Rastmoor had made a thorough check for the missing girl. She wasn’t in the coach; she wasn’t in the necessary; she wasn’t in the stable; she wasn’t in any of the upstairs rooms; she wasn’t in the kitchen or the pantry or the cupboard with the lard. She just plain wasn’t anywhere.

“What are we going to do? We’ve got to find her!” Clemmons ranted.

Rastmoor took him by the shoulders and gave a good shake. Damn it, they didn’t have time for theatrics.

“What did you do with your wife, you shifty-eyed weasel?”

But still Clemmons didn’t look at him. The man was touched in the head, or something, the way he simply refused to look in one direction long enough to make eye contact. Rastmoor grabbed his face and pulled it up so Clemmons had no choice but to meet his eyes. And he did.

God, there it was again. The minute Rastmoor’s gaze caught on those warm brown eyes, something kicked him in the gut. Disturbing, most disturbing. What the hell was it Clemmons reminded him of? Someone he’d known, perhaps? Someone like . . .

Shit, he almost said her name.
Julia
. Damn it, but Clemmons’s eyes were just the same mellow shade of nut brown, just the same shape. Staring up at him the way she did that last time they’d . . .

Hell, that was three years ago. And Julia was dead now.

Clemmons broke from his hold. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again, Rastmoor.”

Rastmoor was brought to reality. There were red marks on the man’s smooth face where Rastmoor’s fingers had been. He hadn’t meant to grab on to him quite so firmly. Lord, but the man was soft. How old was this Mr. Clemmons, anyway? Rastmoor was only too glad to accommodate his “no-touching” rule.

He wasn’t, however, ready to give up the Sophie issue.

“Is this your doing, Clemmons?” Rastmoor demanded. “You think Dashford will pay handsomely to get his cousin back from some hired kidnapper?”

“No!” Clemmons insisted. “You’re wasting time. Someone took her—your friend Lindley, I’ll wager.”

“Lindley’s got better things to do than dabble at kidnapping. Your little wife may be an attractive tart, but I assure you she’s safe from Lindley.”

Clemmons slapped him.
Slapped him?
Indeed, the man could use a lesson or two in more manly arts.

“Don’t talk about her that way,” Clemmons ordered. “Anything she may have done in the past is hardly your concern. She’s not a tart.”

“You going to call me out, Clemmons, or are you going to tell me where your wife is?”

“I don’t know where she is, and we’re certainly not going to find her standing around here. If you think your Dashford would care so much about her, then maybe you ought to quit accusing me of things and start helping me find her.”

With that, the man turned on his heel and started off toward the stable. Rastmoor shook his head and followed. But following was uncomfortable. The man walked like a girl. If Sophie Darshaw had married Clemmons to escape the unwanted attentions of men, she’d likely been quite pleased in her decision. There was nothing manly about Alexander Clemmons. In fact, the man’s coloring, shape, and bearing reminded him of . . .

Rastmoor shuddered. God, but he must be getting desperate.

Julia did her very best to ignore Rastmoor. It wasn’t easy. She’d been burning from his touch since the minute he’d laid his hands on her. Heavens, how could he still have this hold over her?

He couldn’t. She simply wouldn’t let him. Right now the only thing that mattered was finding Sophie. Whether Rastmoor liked it or not, he was going to have to help her find the girl.

She’d just have to be extra careful to keep up her guard around him.

“I need a conveyance,” Julia said to the first stable hand she could find.

The man just looked at her, so she repeated herself.

“A carriage, or something! Hurry! My, er, wife has been abducted.”

Rastmoor came up behind her, and the stable hand looked at him as if for confirmation. Blast it, apparently just posing as a man wasn’t enough. She should have made sure her costume identified her as a man of means and importance.

“You heard the man,” Rastmoor said.

She was inclined to be grateful for his support. Not too grateful, though. The stony set to his jaw said he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her.

“Sorry, sirs,” the stable hand said with a shrug. “There’s nothing to be had. Half our hands have been sent up the road to bring in a gig with a broken axle.”

“Damn,” Rastmoor said. “Horses then. Surely you have a few of those for hire?”

“I can scrounge something up for you there, sir. They won’t be winning no derby, you understand.”

“Fine. Just saddle us the best you’ve got, and we’ll take those.”

Julia swallowed hard. They were to be riding? It would be interesting to see how that worked out. She’d never been astride, and she absolutely could not think up any reasonable excuse for Mr. Clemmons to request a sidesaddle.

Rastmoor handed the man some coins, and suddenly he became almost enthusiastic about finding them decent mounts. Two grooms rushed about readying two horses, and before long Rastmoor swung himself up into the saddle of a large bay. Julia was presented an enormous chestnut gelding that she would have sworn was a close relative of the elephants she’d once seen depicted in a book. The thought of hopping all the way up there under her own power was quite daunting.