Temptress in Training (7 page)

Lindley's anticipated meeting with Miss Darshaw would simply have to wait. He could certainly use his time to plan an attack, however. Indeed, he would contemplate long and hard the many things he might do to encourage the girl to talk. Among other things.

Sophie was too tired to even speak. They'd managed to get away from Mr. Fitzgelder's house, but the night had been long and nerve-wracking. Sophie simply could not get over the feeling someone was following them, lurking in every shadow around them, though of course it could not be. Miss Sands promised her they were quite safe, taking refuge in the storeroom of a shop belonging to a couple who she claimed were friends of the family.

Unfortunately, these friends had gone home for the night. Miss Sands and Sophie were trespassing. It was a most dreadful, anxious feeling.

But even worse was the feeling Sophie had when she pulled her aching foot up onto her lap to rub it. Something fell from the pocket of her apron. Something metal. Something shiny. Something very much like the locket she had seen Mr. Fitzgelder holding when she mistakenly walked in on him in the linen cupboard that evening.

“What's that?” Miss Sands asked, seated on a box of potatoes and trying in vain to yank off her left boot.

“Mr. Fitzgelder's locket!”

“What? His locket? By heavens, you
did
steal jewelry from him!”

Sophie grabbed up the glinting object and balled it into her fist. “No! I swear, Miss Sands, I don't know how it came to be here.”

Her companion merely laughed at her panic. “I'm not condemning you, Sophie. I think it's marvelous, actually. Serves the ogre right.”

“But it's true, on my mother's grave! I didn't take it. It must have fallen into my apron on accident when he…when we had a disagreement.”

“When the rutting brute blackened your eye, you mean.”

Sophie couldn't help but put her hand to the place. It was still tender. “I must look a sight.”

“It's fading,” Miss Sands assured her. “Clearly he's inept even at abusing women. But now that you've taken his locket—”

“I didn't take it!”

“Now that you've
ended up
with his locket,” Miss Sands corrected, “you'd best be extra careful that he doesn't find you. I doubt he'll be so understanding.”

Sophie shuddered. “Locket or no, I have little intention of letting him find me. He's a murderer!”

Miss Sands scowled, her boot finally sliding off her foot. “Not yet, let us hope.”

“You truly believe we can get there in time to warn your friend, this Mr. Rastmoor?”

Miss Sands rather grunted. “He's hardly my friend, nor is he a mister. He's a highborn lord.”

“Oh! Heavens, do you think he knows Lord Lindley?”

“Likely. They do seem to run in packs, these worthless noblemen.”

“Still, you don't want Lord Rastmoor to die.”

Now Miss Sands sighed. “No, I don't.”

“And you are certain you know where he is? Where this wedding is being held?”

Miss Sands nodded. “Yes, I'm quite certain. He has a close friend just north of Warwick, and I read that gentleman is about to be married. Rastmoor will be there.”

“I hope you're right, and that we get there in time.”

“You mean you hope that
I'll
get there in time.”

“No, I'm going with you.”

“I can't ask you to do that, Sophie.”

“You've made that very clear, Miss Sands. But you helped me escape Mr. Fitzgelder. I owe you what little assistance I can give. Besides, you offered me a position with your father's troupe. If I let you go on and get yourself killed, how will I ever locate your father again? I'll starve with no honest living.”

She hoped Miss Sands would not take offense, and she didn't. She smiled.

“Well, then, I suggest you find someplace to curl up and get a couple hours of sleep. Lord knows we must have walked clear across town tonight, and we'll undoubtedly have a goodly walk tomorrow to catch the mail coach. I hope Mr. Fitzgelder isn't hunting for us in this neighborhood. I hope he will assume we've gone to the theater district.”

“Even
I
don't know precisely where we've gone,” Sophie admitted, stifling a yawn.

“Good. Perhaps Fitzgelder doesn't either.”

It was very late, indeed, and her whole body ached from nerves and more than an hour of walking, on alert at every step to avoid anyone. Every approaching carriage could have carried one of Mr. Fitzgelder's men. Every creaking door or skittering rat could mean the approach of danger. Sophie was simply worn-out. It would be heavenly to curl up and rest, as Miss Sands suggested.

She found a clear spot in a corner and pulled up a rug to lay out on the hard floor. It wasn't comfortable, exactly, but as tired as she was, it would do. Miss Sands seemed to be quite content with the spot she had made for herself on those potatoes. Not Sophie's first choice, but each to her own, she decided.

“I'll stay awake and watch for any sign of trouble,” her friend announced.

“But you must be every bit as worn-out as I am!”

The woman shook her chestnut head. “No, I haven't been working as a housemaid for a monster. There is no question you must be the exhausted one.”

“Seamstress,” Sophie said against another yawn.

“What?”

“I'm actually a seamstress. I only worked for Mr. Fitzgelder because his house is on such a fine street. I hoped I might meet the sorts of respectable people who could help me work my way into a proper shop, or something.”

Miss Sands nearly snorted. It seemed ridiculous to Sophie now, too. She'd gone to Mr. Fitzgelder in hopes of meeting respectable people? How foolish.

“Well, Papa and I may not be the upper ten thousand, but we'll treat you a damn sight better than Fitzgelder has. Here. You can use this.”

Sophie caught the blanket Miss Sands tossed to her. It was rough, but it was warm and showed no signs of vermin.

“What will you use?”

Miss Sands simply leaned against her potato box and pulled up the bolt of burlap that had been lying at her feet. “See? We'll both be snug and warm.”

“All right. I'll keep the blanket then.”

“Good. Now get some rest so you're not cranky in the morning.”

Sophie did her best to get comfortable on her rug with her rough blanket. “I will. And thank you, Miss Sands.”

The dark storeroom was quiet. The sounds of the town around them were distant, muffled. The occasional dog barked here or there, and somewhere on the next street a carriage clattered slowly along. For the first time all night Sophie thought perhaps Miss Sands was right. They might possibly be safe here.

“No, not Sands,” the young woman spoke, interrupting the silence.

Sophie started. “What?”

“My name isn't Sands.”

“It isn't?”

“No. I've been using that name for a while now, avoiding Fitzgelder.”

“Oh. What is your name?”

There was a pause before she answered. “Julia St. Clement.”

“That's very pretty.”

“I miss it. But, I'd miss a whole lot more if Fitzgelder ever found us out. So, Papa and I use assumed names and try to avoid London. It was just by chance we were passing through this week. We shouldn't have.”

“Yes, but I'm rather glad you did. And I'm sure your friend will be, too, once you've saved his life and everything.”

Miss Sands…er, rather…Miss St. Clement actually laughed out loud for that. “Well, I suppose we'll see about that, won't we?”

Sophie recognized that as rhetorical, so she didn't bother with a response. Yawning was just about all she could do at this point, anyway.

“Thank you for telling me your real name, Miss St. Clement,” she said as her eyelids drooped.

“Yes, but we need to remember it's Clemmons now. We'll be traveling under that name, both of us. You can still be Sophie, but I'll be Alexander.”

Sophie shifted to lie on her side and tucked her hands up under her cheek. She realized she still clutched the troublesome locket. Bother, what a mess things had become.

“So much fuss and fabrication,” she said with a weary sigh. “I wonder how you can keep it all straight, Miss St. Clement.”

“One learns, Sophie. You will, too.”

Sophie had energy for just one more yawn. She hoped Miss St. Clement was right. About everything.

 

“T
HEY'RE STILL IN TOWN, MILORD
,” F
EASEL SAID AS
Lindley battled an unruly cravat and a heaviness from lack of sleep. “We kept an eye on them all night.”

“And Fitzgelder's men?”

“Still sniffing around, but that chit in the trousers is a wily one. She outfoxed them, taking your Miss Darshaw off clear to the other side of town.”

“And you're sure they weren't followed?”

Feasel grinned over the shaving basin. “'Course they was followed. By
us
. I left Tom there to make certain they didn't run out. Spent the night in the back room of some little shop, they did.”

Lindley contemplated this. It would seem Miss Darshaw intended to remain in company with the costumed actress. Well, he wasn't sure he could commend her for taking up with these shifty theater persons, but it did appear that the actress had been wise in assuming a masculine disguise. So long as she could carry it out for a prolonged time. Two women traveling alone would certainly garner some measure of unwanted attention, but a woman traveling with a woman dressed obviously in men's clothing would make them an absolute spectacle. That, indeed, would not go well.

“I'm not entirely certain this actress person is to be trusted. What did you find out about her?”

Feasel shrugged. “Not a great deal, I'm afraid. No one seems to know any actress named Sands. I can't find anyone who's seen or heard of her here in London.”

“Then perhaps she's not generally from London,” Lindley suggested, ripping his cravat apart and starting over. “Question some of the servants at Fitzgelder's house. If we're in luck, one of them might know how he came to be in contact with the troupe. It was very plain last night that he was expecting this Sands woman.”

“I've already got someone over there. We'll see what she finds out.”

“She?”

“My sister's oldest girl. She's a sweet-faced young thing. She'll get herself well into the good graces of some of the staff there. If there's anything to be found out, she'll find it, sir.”

“Your niece, Feasel? Are you certain you wish her to be in that man's house?”

Feasel snuffed as if offended. “There's not a one of my kin that can't handle himself—or
herself
—when backed into a corner, milord. Sally's a good girl. She'll manage, all right.”

“I suppose you know best. But let's hope she can learn something soon. The quicker we discover where Miss Sands comes from, the quicker we get an idea where she might be going.”

“Already know that, sir,” Feasel said, casually reaching to dust a speck of lint off his master's coat.

“Well, where is it, man? How did you find out?”

“We heard them talking last night, sir. They're planning to catch the mail coach this morning.”

“Good work, Feasel. So where are they headed from there?”

“You likely won't approve, sir.”

“I don't approve of you being so cagey. Where are they bound?”

“To Warwick, sir.”

“Warwick?”

“To try and warn Lord Rastmoor before Fitzgelder's mongrels sink their fangs into him. I heard the one girl make mention of it.”

Lindley ripped at the cravat again. “Oh, hell. Bloody hell.”

Just how was he supposed to go about looking after Miss Darshaw and her foolhardy actress friend if they didn't have the sense to run the other way from murder?
Bloody hell
was right.

“Don't worry, sir—” Feasel began, but he was cut off by a knock at the dressing room door.

It was the butler, bearing a note. Apparently the man thought it was important enough to carry it himself. Lindley sighed. He supposed he ought to take a moment or two to see what this was.

He needed even less than that. He knew the handwriting immediately.
Eudora.
Blast, but what did she need? It could only be trouble if the woman was up writing notes already after the late night she'd spent pretending to enjoy Fitzgelder's, er, company.

It took but a moment to identify the purpose of the note, but frustratingly there was no clue as to its reason. Eudora was quite abrupt, as a matter of fact. She declared that she simply had to see Lindley before he did anything today. Period.

Now she was the one to order him about, was she? Well, he supposed she had her right. Whatever this was, it must be important. He'd stop for a visit before leaving town.

If, that was, he didn't strangle himself with this bloody cravat first. He growled as his latest attempt resulted in dismal failure. Feasel sighed and stepped forward to rescue the proceedings. Lord, but once this whole business with Fitzgelder and the rest was finished, Lindley had half a mind to retire to his country home and never so much as look at a starched cravat again.

 

“I
SAW HIM AGAIN
,” S
OPHIE WHISPERED AS SHE AND
Julia made their way along the streets, blending in as best they could with the locals who bustled about their business so early in the morning.

“Are you certain?” Miss St. Clement asked.

“Yes. It was the same boy I saw on the last street. Now why would he be here?”

“Perhaps he's simply going in the same direction we are.”

Sophie wasn't convinced. “I believe he's following us.”

“Well, there's one way to find out.”

Miss St. Clement took Sophie's arm and suddenly ducked into an alley. They were certainly not in the best part of town, and Sophie shuddered at the thought of what—or who—might be in the alley, but she had to admit it would indeed be a fair test of whether or not that boy was following them. Except that she really did not need to test her theory. She knew in her heart it was no coincidence she kept seeing him. He was following them, and had been since last night.