Damsel in Disguise (6 page)

“Don’t take all night about it, Clemmons,” Rastmoor said. “Unless perhaps you already know Sophie faces no real danger?”

Oh, the man and his ugly suspicions were damnable. She placed her foot up in the stirrup like she’d seen her father do hundreds of times and pulled herself up into the saddle. By God, it was almost graceful. She glared at Rastmoor.

“Shall we, then?”

“Which way?” he asked.

She frowned.
Which way?
How was she supposed to know that?

“Which way did your friend Lindley go?” she asked.

“South, I believe,” he said.

“Then we should go south.”

He didn’t bother to discuss it but simply spurred his horse into motion. Lovely, they were to do this at a fast clip, it appeared. Julia clung on as best she could and kicked her mount into the same quick pace Rastmoor had set.

He didn’t bother to look back and make sure she was following, but she was glad for that. This gave her time to accustom herself to this unusual riding posture. She was glad to find, in fact, it was not nearly so impossible as she’d imagined. True, she didn’t have the benefit of the usual leg prop, but she was pleasantly surprised to find much more control seated this way. Indeed, before long she felt confident to urge her horse a bit faster. She was beside Rastmoor in no time.

“Are you certain this is the way Lindley came?” she asked, happy to show off her new talent. Not that Rastmoor seemed to notice anything unusual about a man sitting atop a horse. Still, she was quite proud of herself.

“The groom said he saw someone go this way, and it was Lindley’s intent to follow. I didn’t actually see him, but I’m going to assume the man did as he said.”

“So, for all we know, we could be going in exactly the wrong direction.”

“Are we?”

Julia fumed. “Look, I did not have anything to do with this! I don’t know who took Sophie, but Lindley would appear to be our best suspect. Who else knows about her connection to this Dashford person?”

“You tell me.”

“I did tell you! I didn’t know about this—I don’t think Sophie did, either. Certainly, she never made any mention of it to me.”

Rastmoor eyed her. She ripped her gaze from him and tried to tip her face into shadows. It wasn’t clear how much longer this disguise might last under his scrutiny.

“How well do you know your young wife?” Rastmoor asked.

“Well enough,” she said quickly.

He simply laughed at her. “Oh, I truly doubt that. Tell me, did you take her from that brothel out of the goodness of your heart, or has she promised to make it worth your while?”

“I didn’t take her from a brothel,” Julia snapped. “I don’t know why you insist on talking about her that way.”

“Because it’s the truth. The girl’s nothing more than a cheap whore, and you know it.”

“No! She was working as a respectable maid in Fitzgelder’s house when I met her. He blackened her eye one day because she was nothing like the cheap whore you keep calling her.”

“And so you married her?”

“She needed to get away from there.”

“I’m sure she did. But just exactly what were you doing there? Your obvious intimacy with the likes of Fitzgelder doesn’t do much to make me trust you.”

“Believe me, there was no intimacy there,” Julia assured him. “I told you; I was there professionally. Our troupe had been hired to perform at a private party. I met Sophie that evening, and I could see the difficult position she was in. I asked my father to give her employment with our troupe.”

“How very noble. So she’s an actress as well.”

“No, a seamstress, and very good at it.”

“I’m sure she’s been a real asset. How lucky for your father you found her and . . .”

His voice faded, and Julia knew he was looking at her again. She could almost feel the tension in the air rising up around them. Evening was gone and darkness was settling in, but she knew he could still see her. Had he at last figured it out?

“Your father is the leader of your troupe?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes.” She held her breath, waiting for the storm.

It arrived slowly, with Rastmoor letting out a long, slow growl.

“My God. Your name’s not really Clemmons, is it?”

Her legs began to tremble, and she tried desperately to pretend she hadn’t heard him. He pulled his horse up and grabbed the bridle on hers, bringing them both to a stop in the middle of the moonlit road.

“Is it?” he demanded again.

“No,” she admitted in an embarrassingly tiny voice.

“It’s St. Clement,” he finished for her.

She nodded.

“Albert St. Clement is your father,” he went on, and she nodded again.

He was quiet, and she concentrated on staying in the saddle. She counted the heartbeats—eleven. Why didn’t he say something? He could yell or curse at her or call her all manner of foul names. Anything would be better than sitting here in silence, afraid to look at him but wondering what on earth was going through his mind.

Finally he spoke. “Julia was your sister?”

What was that?
Her sister?
Good heavens, could it really be he still didn’t know? It was a miracle! Her chest heaved as she was finally able to draw a deep breath.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I should have guessed. You favor her.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment. She was a whore, too.”

Well, that was painful. She deserved it though, she supposed. She hadn’t been exactly truthful three years ago. It was only natural he might not have a very high opinion of her, considering all that had transpired.

Rastmoor urged his horse forward again. Julia followed quietly.

“You’re not going to defend her?” he asked after several moments.

“I’m sure she had her reasons for doing what she did,” she said.

“I know she did,” he replied. “That’s what made her a whore. But I suppose it pains you to hear me speak ill of the dead.”

“Yes. It does.”

“Then I won’t. She gave enough offense while she lived; no sense in allowing her any more now.”

All was silent save the hoof steps again. Julia risked sliding a quick glance over at Rastmoor and found his face hard, cold, and unreadable. A shiver of concern ran down her back. He was a different man than the one she had known. This Anthony Rastmoor could be capable of just about anything. What would he do if he ever found out the truth?

She didn’t want to know.

A loud crack rang out through the still night, and Julia practically jumped out of the saddle. Her horse shied and danced sideways. Rastmoor was struggling to keep his from bolting at the unexpected sound.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Gunfire.”

Cold dread filled the pit of her stomach. “Sophie!”

She couldn’t move. Part of her wanted to prod the horse forward, to rush ahead around the next bend to see what had happened. The other part of her—the sensible part—warred to turn tail and run.

“Come on,” he was saying, grabbing her horse’s head again and pulling them off the side of the road.

It made sense—whatever was ahead held danger. They had to hide. She followed Rastmoor’s lead and hurried her horse off the road, into the thick forest that lined it. Rastmoor slipped out of his saddle and motioned for her to do the same. She did. Her desperate descent was not nearly so graceful as her careful ascent.

They moved farther into the safety of the woods, pulling the unwilling beasts along with them. It was noisy, and Julia hoped that whoever might come along would not hear them. She needn’t have worried. When the gunfire was repeated it was much closer, but it was also accompanied by the noise of a thundering carriage and several shouts.

Their horses snorted in nervousness when Rastmoor finally stopped. He fixed the reins to a tree, and Julia followed suit. Hopefully they would be safe here, off the road and out of sight. But what of Sophie? What were the chances this gunfire had nothing to do with all that happened at the inn tonight?

Holding his fingers to his lips and motioning for her to follow, Rastmoor began moving slowly back toward the road. Drat. He was intending to go out there, wasn’t he? Julia’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t too keen on being shot at, but of course if Sophie was in trouble, they had to go and help. She had no choice but to follow Rastmoor toward the danger.

They made their way quietly. Soon the sounds and voices were directly in front of them, no longer moving along down the road. The noisy carriage had stopped rumbling, and Julia could make out men’s voices. They didn’t sound too happy, either.

“Damn it, wrong carriage!” one of them called out.

Another man swore loudly, and there was the sound of a scuffle. The carriage horses stamped and whinnied. Then Julia heard a baby cry. A baby?

A woman’s voice called out, “Don’t touch my baby!”

The baby’s crying turned more to whimpers. Julia could scarcely believe her ears. She pushed up into the thick undergrowth, desperate to see what was happening. Rastmoor was beside her and motioned for her to keep silent.

“What the hell are we going to do with this?” one of the men said.

Julia could barely make him out. He wore a dark coat and a mask over his face. Highwaymen! Two of them, it appeared. They had stopped the carriage and apparently killed—no, injured—the driver. He lay slumped on the ground, groaning.

One highwayman held the lead horse, his gun trained on the driver while the other man grasped a young woman by the hair, poking his pistol at the crying bundle she clutched desperately. Julia clenched her fist. What monsters, to threaten an innocent babe like that! By God, if Rastmoor didn’t do something pretty soon, she would.

“This was supposed to be ’is lordship’s carriage,” the man at the horses said.

“Well, it ain’t,” the other replied. “We must have missed him. Damn. The boss ain’t goin’ to like that.”

“What are we going to do?” the first man asked. Even from this distance, Julia could see his gun hand shaking.

“What do you think we’re going to do? His nibs likely don’t want no witnesses.”

The woman with the baby made a frightened little squeak, and now another woman appeared in the window of the carriage. She let fly a string of words Julia had never heard come from a woman—she was quite impressed by it, really—until the man simply reached through the window and smashed his fist into the woman’s face. The tirade stopped immediately, though the baby’s mother made more squeaking sounds. Her child began crying again.

“He’s going to kill them!” Julia hissed to Rastmoor, glad for the baby’s distracting cries.

“No. Here’s what we’ll do,” Rastmoor said, leaning in very close so that his voice was hardly a whisper. “I’ll take the man at the horses. You step out and aim this at the other man.”

From somewhere he pulled out a gun. It looked huge and heavy and frightening. He handed it to Julia. She shook her head violently.

“No, it’s too dangerous!” she protested.

“You’d rather stand back and watch innocent people die?”

“No.”

“Good. Can you handle a pistol?”

“No!”

“Of course not. All right, I’ll set it to ready for you. Now, damn it, be careful where you aim, then pull the trigger.”

“All right,” she said, but it sounded more like she was being strangled than preparing to boldly overpower the enemy.

He growled out a sigh. “Miss Darshaw certainly got a bargain with you, didn’t she, St. Clement?”

“You have no idea,” she replied, but wasn’t sure he heard.

Rastmoor was already moving away, pushing slowly and silently through the bushes. Julia didn’t want to, but she followed. The minute he stepped out into the open, he’d have two guns aimed at him, and as far as she could tell, he’d just handed her his only weapon. If she didn’t get herself out there and convince those bloodthirsty highwaymen she knew what she was about, Rastmoor would soon be shot full of holes.

Likely they’d all end up that way.

Rastmoor made his move. Julia had no idea a highborn gentleman could move so fast or so silently. Almost before she knew what was happening, he leapt out of their cover and dove at the first highwayman. They tumbled to the ground. Julia was vaguely conscious of the encouraging fact that there was no immediate responding gunshot, but she couldn’t get too hopeful. There was still another man with an evil-looking pistol nearby, and she’d better do something to subdue him.

“What the hell?” the man near the carriage yelled as Rastmoor grappled with his friend.

Julia watched as he leveled that evil pistol in Rastmoor’s direction, and she tried to replicate his quick and stealthy movement. Crouching to make herself less visible—not to mention a smaller target—she scurried out of the brush.

And managed to trip over her own ungainly boots.

With an unmanly cry, she crumpled to the ground. Drat, she was mucking this up already! Rastmoor would likely curse her up one side and down the other. If he lived long enough to curse anyone, that was.

Her clumsy actions had one unaccounted benefit. Both highwaymen were immediately distracted. This gave Rastmoor the opportunity to gain the advantage and take possession of his opponent’s gun. In an instant he was on his feet, the weapon aimed squarely at his foe.

The downside of this was that now Julia found herself thrashing in the dirt, her pistol uselessly flung somewhere several feet ahead of her in the overgrown weeds. The man nearest her grinned. She could see his yellowed teeth in the moonlight. Very unsavory. His eyes fell on her just long enough to realize she was no threat. Mostly his attention was on Rastmoor.

With practiced skill he raised his gun. Julia could already imagine it firing, the bullet lodging somewhere in Rastmoor’s body and sending him to the ground. It was all too obvious what would happen after that.