Temptress in Training (11 page)

How could Miss St. Clement be so foolish to rush out there as she had? Was her concern for Lord Rastmoor so great that she'd rather die with him than stay back here and live? The woman was mentally unstable.

Still, Sophie knew women often did foolish things when they let their hearts become captive by some man. Madame had warned her of such things. She'd seen it for herself during her years at the brothel. Indeed, her friend Annie was a perfect example.

Poor Annie, such a sweet girl from such a tragic background. Annie had done what she could to help her impoverished family feed ten hungry children, but it was never enough. Somehow she'd ended up working for Madame Eudora. She was pretty and had learned her manners well enough that she'd caught the eye of gentlemen and was doing quite well, earning a fair amount and able to pay her keep with Madame and still have some to send home to her family. She and Sophie had become fast friends.

But then Annie fell in love. She lost her heart to one of her usual callers and began to beg and plead for Madame not to ask her to see any others. Well, Madame could hardly agree to that, could she? Everyone in her household simply had to earn their keep. Unfortunately, Annie had no special skill with a needle as Sophie had. If Annie's favored gentleman had not been willing to pay an exorbitant amount to keep Annie all for himself, Madame would have forced her to continue her usual labors.

But Annie's lover managed to scrape up enough to keep her. Madame moved her to share a room with Sophie to make room for another girl and to keep things as economical as possible while allowing the man to be Annie's only visitor. He was always very discreet, Sophie never so much as laying eyes on him.

But before long, Annie announced she was with child.

Madame raged that this was the penultimate foolishness. Annie could have had a promising career, could have found a protector with deep pockets and one day have gotten a house of her own and fine clothes. With her pretty face and innate elegance, she could have been a great courtesan. To give all that up for love was more than unimaginable, as far as Madame was concerned.

Sophie was tempted to agree. What sort of life could Annie give her child, relying solely on the good grace of some randy, never-present gentleman? It was no life Sophie envied, that was for certain. In fact, it was then Sophie realized she must do more to take charge of her own life. So she left.

And look where that had gotten her—mauled by Fitzgelder, running for her life, and now hiding under a chair. Two chairs and a table, actually.
What a coward.

Cautiously, she pulled herself out from under the chairs and rose up onto her knees. The posting house had gone silent. Everyone seemed to have rushed outside after the commotion, either to escape or to find out what was going on, she supposed. She glanced around and saw nothing.

She did hear something, though. Rising and creeping slowly to the door, she peeked out into the hallway. It was very dim, the nearby stairway blocking the lamplight from the common room. What had she heard? A floorboard creak? Someone on the steps? She moved forward to get a better view.

A man's hand was suddenly covering her mouth, and she was pulled roughly into his embrace. She was too shocked to scream—couldn't have, anyway, from the tight hold he had on her—but managed to wriggle and kick against him. Why oh why didn't she stay under that chair?

Her first thought was perhaps Lindley had come back, yet it was not him. Every one of her senses screamed that loudly. Lindley was not here—he was nowhere around to either save her or be a part of whatever plan this new stranger had for her. No one was here. She was on her own again.

Yet, as she struggled against him, the man whispered in her ear.

“Chut, ma
Fifi.
Calme-toi. Calme-toi. C'est moi.”

She froze. She knew the voice. She knew the words. She knew the private name he called her. She knew this man.

Yet it could not be him.
He was dead.

“Papa?” she mumbled the word beneath his grimy hand.

Slowly his grip released.
“Oui,
Fifi.
C'est moi.”

She didn't move, so he turned her to face him. It took a moment before she could make herself look up into his face.
Papa. It truly is him.

“But it cannot…You can't…You were…”

He shushed her again. “There will be time enough for explanation. We must hurry now; leave this place.”

“But Lord Lindley…”

Now Papa grabbed her shoulders again. “What did he do to you,
ma fille
?”

“Nothing! Nothing, Papa, but someone shot at us and Miss—”

“Yes, thank heavens they missed,” he interrupted before she'd been able to mention her traveling companion. “That damn Clemmons fellow you are traveling with is no good for you, Fifi. You must trust me on this! He has brought you here where Lindley could find you.”

“But Papa, he's not—”

“Listen to me,” he said, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were the same silvery gray she always remembered, but they looked older, more tired now. “Lindley is a dangerous man. You can never trust him, Fifi.”

“But Papa—”

“And I know you are not truly wedded to Clemmons, either. Now you must come with me right away or become trapped in their web.”

“Trapped in their—”

“Shh, they are coming back. We must hurry!”

He took her elbow and began leading her up the stairway. It appeared he had just come down that way. What on earth was Papa doing upstairs at this posting house? Her emotions were a jumble and she feared she could not think straight.

Heavens, but Papa was alive! Over four years now she'd thought he was dead, leaving her and Mamma alone to fend for themselves. Where had he been? What could have kept him away for so long, even after Mamma died? She was overjoyed and furious at the same time.

He took her up to a room and quietly ushered her in. She hoped he might pause now to give her some idea what was going on, calm her rattled nerves with some explanation. He didn't, though. Instead he merely went straight to the window that hung open.

“Come, quickly,” he said, stepping outside.

She cried out but then realized the window opened onto the roof of a lower part of the building. Papa was leading her out there. Should she follow? What of Miss St. Clement and the others? But then again, this was her father, who she'd mourned for so many long, lonely years! How could she not follow him?

She did, her dress catching but slightly on the sill. She managed to loosen it, and in no time she was trailing after him, up to the crest of the roof, carefully around the chimney, and then over to the other side. Thankfully, the pitch was not too steep and she had no trouble following him. They must have been over the kitchens, and directly next to the roof was a high stone wall that surrounded the tiny garden where vegetables and herbs were growing.

Papa climbed off the roof and walked carefully along the wall, glancing back with a look to tell her she was expected to do the same. Well, he seemed to know what he was doing, so she followed. The stone wall was sturdier than it appeared, she was glad to find. She tiptoed along it like a circus performer until they came to a smaller building.

Papa turned and took her hand, helping her up onto the roof of the building, where she was surprised to find a gable with an opening. Without so much as a pause, they were able to step right into the loft of what turned out to be a laundry house. The smell of lye was strong, but not overwhelming. With evening heavy on them, the little building was empty of people. She and Papa had the whole place to themselves.

Except for the horse happily munching on a shirt down below them on the ground floor.

Papa smiled at her unspoken question. “Yes,
ma chérie
, that is my horse. I hid it here. Now come, as soon as things are clear, we must be off. I have my gig hidden nearby, and you will be safe.”

“Papa, truly, you must imagine how confused I am, and…”

He put his fingers to her lips and shushed her again, but so gently she could not complain.

“
Sans bruit, ma belle
,” he whispered. “Keep silent until we are gone.”

“But Papa, I…”

“You must trust me, Fifi. I know I have little right to ask it after all these years, but for your own sake, please trust me just now.”

He was so earnest, so desperate looking, so wonderfully alive that she could do nothing but comply. None of it made sense, but she did trust him. She hoped to God it was the right thing to do.

The shooter was gone. Lindley had found a pair of grooms who'd been working in front of the house, preparing the coach for departure. They'd heard the gunfire, sure enough, then noticed a lone man ride off, heading south. Clearly he'd made no attempt not to be seen. Lindley felt he could assume, then, that he was supposed to follow. It was a trap, most likely. Well, no other way to get to the bottom of this.

He took a groom with him, then went around the back of the posting house. He found Rastmoor and told him what the men had seen.

“No one they recognized, I suppose?” Rastmoor asked.

“Sorry, milord,” the groom said. “I didn't get a good enough look. And anyway, lots of folk were here just then, drinking and such. They mostly all took off when they heard the shooting. The gent I saw might have just been one of those. You might do better to ask the folks inside what they saw.”

Lindley knew they'd not get any information that way, but he thanked the groom for his trouble and handed him a few coins just the same. The mail coach was eager to get back on the road, and it would accomplish nothing to delay it by further questions. The groom trotted off back to his work, and Lindley contemplated what to do next.

“You don't by any chance know who was supposed to get shot tonight, do you?” Rastmoor asked, rather unexpectedly.

“To tell the truth, no,” Lindley replied, deciding that was a deuced perceptive question from the man. “But I do know it's not safe around here for you, Rastmoor, with Fitzgelder stirring up trouble, and all.”

“That's why I'm on my way back to London now to deal with it.”

“Might be better to wait, all things considered,” Lindley cautioned.

“
All things?
And what would those things be?”

Hellfire, where did the man get his sudden suspicions? Obviously Rastmoor needed something to distract him from worry. “Look, you shouldn't stay here tonight; it's too dangerous. Why not head back out to Dashford's and take our long-lost Sophie with you?”

“And you?”

“I'll head after that man the groom saw.”

“He said he wasn't sure that was our shooter.”

“Who else would it be? You just get yourself to Dashford's.”

Rastmoor nodded. “And take Mr. and Mrs. Clemmons with me.”

“Right. And if there's any chance of losing the mister along the way, that's what I'd propose.”

That actress was not to be trusted. Lindley would love to stay here and unravel this masquerade, for Miss Darshaw's sake, but he could only handle one deadly near miss at a time. Right now finding that shooter was his first priority. He'd just have to trust that Rastmoor would look after the girl. But not
too
well.

His friend contemplated Lindley's suggestion, then agreed. “Fine. That's what I'll do.”

“Good. You go collect the Clemmonses and I'll see if I can get myself a fast horse.”

“You'll go off on your own, Lindley? Isn't it a bit dangerous?”

“Don't worry. I can handle it.”

Rastmoor seemed to think that a bit doubtful, but he gave a shrug and didn't question Lindley any further. Just as well, since Lindley had no intention of giving him any answers. The man did not need to know the axle had been tampered with or that the shooter could have just as easily been after Lindley as after Rastmoor. Fitzgelder might be focusing his malicious intent on Rastmoor just now, but were he to learn a few things about Lindley there was no doubt the man would just as soon see his friend murdered as his cousin. Perhaps more so, since Lindley was close to possessing information that could utterly destroy Fitzgelder.

With luck, though, Fitzgelder would remain clueless, and Lindley would finally have the names they needed to see the man hang. Justice would be served. True, a swifter vengeance might be more satisfying, but he'd promised to work within the law. For now, at least.

His boots crunched on the ground as he left Rastmoor and headed to the stable behind the posting house. The buildings were old, thick with plantings, but served their purpose. The dampness of evening was setting in, and night birds gave up their lonely calls. Things were settling down after the excitement.

Lindley grabbed the first groom he found and ordered a horse be saddled immediately. If that truly had been their shooter the grooms had seen fleeing in such an obvious way—and he suspected it was—he'd best not dawdle. That man was probably on his way now to contact his employer. Lindley was determined to find out just who that might be.

The groom bustled about his business, and Lindley tapped his foot impatiently. It was not his foot taps he heard out in the yard, though, so he peered out the doorway. By God, what was this? From somewhere a horse appeared behind the posting house. Some unidentified rider spurred the horse away and it took off on a hearty canter, clods of dirt flying up at its hooves.

But the damaged landscape was not the main reason Lindley stared. His eyes were pinned on the rider. More accurately, his eyes were pinned on the young woman propped tenuously in the lap of the unknown rider. Lindley swore beneath his breath. He did not get a close look at the man, but he certainly recognized that woman.

Sophie.

And she was most noticeably not calling out for help or struggling to escape as the man guided their horse out of the yard and onto the road. Going north. Lindley's plans changed right there and then.

To hell with the shooter who rode off to the south—Feasel was nearby. He could handle that. If Sophie Darshaw was riding north with some man, then Lindley was, too.

 

P
APA HAD BEEN RIGHT.
H
IS GIG HAD BEEN CONCEALED
in a thicket not half a mile from the inn. They'd ridden there and Papa hastily harnessed the horse and got them back on the road. His patient nag seemed to care little whether she was bearing riders or pulling a gig, and Papa's gentle way with her was strangely comforting.

Perhaps she had done right by coming with him like this. The Papa she recalled was a kind man, and so far this stranger gave no indication that aspect of him had changed. If only she could be so convinced he was honest.

“Do you suppose anyone saw us?” Sophie asked, forcing herself to relax into the worn upholstery of Papa's creaking gig.

“I didn't notice anyone. I think we are safe now, Fifi. I'll look after you.”

It was an absurd thing for him to say after all these years. He would look after her? Where had he been when she and Mamma had been forced to give up their modest house and go to live in a brothel? Where had he been when she was fending off Mr. Fitzgelder's pawing attentions for the past weeks? How on earth could she possibly expect him to look after her now when he'd so clearly avoided doing just that for so long?

But she couldn't bring herself to ask. There were simply too many questions, too much to say. In truth, she hardly knew this man, and certainly he could not know her. She was barely more than a child when he left, when they'd been told he died. Indeed, he was a stranger, and here she was entrusting her life to him.

“You are so quiet, my dear,” he said softly.

“What would you have me talk about?” she asked.

“Well, it's been a long time since we've spoken,” he said with annoying cheerfulness. “Perhaps you could tell me some of what I've missed.”

“Let's see,” she began, matching his cheerfulness with an angry intent. “The puppy you gave me ran away because I couldn't feed it, we lost our home and were forced to live in a brothel, and…oh yes, Mamma died.”

“
Oui.
I know,” he replied, the cheerfulness gone. Perhaps his had been as much a sham as hers. “Life has not been very easy.”

“No, it has not. I wonder why you did nothing to make it any better for us?”

“Sophie, please…there are things you know nothing about.”

“I know about Mamma's suffering. Her heart was broken and then the rest of her failed, too. Still, she worshipped you to the very end.”

He was silent. Was she hurting him with her words? She hoped so. Somehow it was simply not fair that he was alive now while Mamma was gone.

“We buried her in the rain. It was a Monday.”

“I know. You were very brave and did not cry.”

“You were there?”

“I was, Fifi.”

It was too much to accept. “I didn't see you.”

“You weren't meant to.”

Now just what did the man mean by that? Honestly, how could she be expected to believe it? And truly, if he had been at Mamma's funeral, how could he have not let her know? How could he have seen such sorrow and not offered any shred of comfort? Moreover, how could she possibly be expected to forgive him?

“Then you knew we were living in a brothel, didn't you?”

“I did. I was sad to see you there, but Eudora was good to you. She did not force you into her trade. You and your dear
maman
were safe.”

“You know Madame Eudora?” This gig was getting even smaller and less comfortable. If Papa knew so much of her life, how could he have possibly kept himself from her all these years?

“But of course I know her,” he replied and even smiled. “We are…friends.”

Sophie shuddered to think what Papa might be implying by that. She knew what sort of “friends” Madame kept. He knew where she and Mamma were forced to live and had not done anything about it? Poor Mamma had suffered so when they'd been told he was killed in that accident. Through all this time, how could he have possibly stayed away? They'd needed him desperately. Why had he abandoned his wife and child?

Unless Madame was the reason.

“You and Madame Eudora were…close friends?”

He grunted—or perhaps it was a laugh. “No, Fifi. There was nothing like that. I did not leave your precious
maman
for another woman. No, it was much more than that. Someday I will tell you.”

Someday.
Why not now? What was he concealing from her? Should she ask? No, probably not. She wasn't certain she was ready for whatever his answer might be. These last few days had held far too many unexpected revelations for her already.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Papa noticed.

“Not far, I promise,” he said. “Soon you will ride in high style. Eudora has brought her carriage. We will meet her.”

Again, another surprise. “Madame is out here? She has left London?”

“She knows you are in danger. She said we should find her waiting in Warwick.”

“She's waiting for us?”

“
Oui
, Fifi,” Papa said with a paternal chuckle. “She has missed you so much.”

“And I've missed her, and the other girls,” she had to admit.

“You wish to go back with her?”

She felt her soul cringe inside but was careful not to let it show. She hated that life, stitching for Madame all day long, sleeping alone at night in her cot while she knew one floor below her friends were doing all manner of sordid things with Madame's clients. No, she did not want to go back to that. Yet she couldn't very well go back to Fitzgelder and the abuse she was living with there, either.

“It's not as if I have any other home,” she replied, happy to realize the harsh words must implicate him.

“No, Fifi, you have me now,” he replied.

“Somehow, Papa, I cannot see how that truly helps me at this point.”

He was silent, contemplating his sins, she hoped. She felt the slightest twinge of guilt for cruelly enjoying his discomfort, but so many years of fending for herself managed to assuage most of it. If Papa did not die those years ago, he should have helped her then. She really doubted he could help her now.

 

I
T WAS WELL AFTER DARK, BUT
W
ARWICK WAS STILL
awake. Two inns faced each other across the main road, and a few people moved about. Sophie's body ached from her uncomfortable ride, though she wasn't certain her evening here would be any more pleasant. The longer she'd had to think about it, the more she'd begun to question the wisdom of running away with Papa like this.

Poor Miss St. Clement, left back there with the likes of Lindley and that Lord Rastmoor. Sophie should never have left her. True, the actress gave every impression of being a woman who could take care of herself, but she'd been a good friend. There was no telling what might happen to her now, and Sophie would be partially to blame.

Papa guided his gig toward one of the inns and brought them to a halt. Sophie should have waited for his help before getting herself down onto the ground, but she would not give him the satisfaction of allowing him to offer it now when for so long he had not. As worn and exhausted as she was, her knees very nearly gave out under her. She managed to catch herself, though. Just as she always had.

“Hmm, I was not expecting two inns like this,” Papa said, dismounting to stand beside her. “I will have to find out which one Eudora is staying at.”

She studied the old, whitewashed façade of the nearest building. The sign hanging above the door read “Steward's Brake.” If they had clean linen and passable beds, she'd be happy enough at either of these places, whether Madame was here or not. Perhaps a good rest would help to clear her mind and give her some idea what she should do tomorrow—go back to find Miss St. Clement or trust Papa?

“Where the devil is a groom?” Papa grumbled, glancing around and finding no one to look after their horse.

Sophie stretched her limbs and regained her balance. “Here, I'll hold the horse. You go make sure this is the right place.”

He hesitated just long enough to make her wonder if he knew he had good reason to worry she might not be here when he came back. That seemed proof of a guilty conscience as far as Sophie was concerned. But she reassured him anyway.

“I'll stay here.” She sighed. “I'm too tired to leave. Besides, my backside is appalled at the idea of getting back into this sad conveyance and riding for even another five minutes tonight.”