Temptress in Training (9 page)

But Eudora merely shrugged and turned coolly to the tea tray that had been set up beside her. “A woman of her stature will hardly end up being used for anything other than that, my dear Richard. I would have certainly never forced her into it, but why should I stand in the way of letting the girl profit from the good looks the Almighty himself saw fit to give her? Oh, don't glare at me that way. I was not the one making use of her at Fitzgelder's house last night.”

“Nor was I, let me assure you.”

She allowed him a sideways glance, that familiar smirk on her beautiful face. “That's not what Fitzgelder seemed to believe.”

“He was misinformed. Purposely.”

Now she raised an eyebrow to go with that dubious glance. “Oh? If you thought claiming you'd marked the girl as your own would somehow discourage his attentions toward her, I daresay you only succeeded in the opposite. Even when quite swimming in his cups last night the man seemed fully intent on seeking her out the very moment he returned home.”

“Well then, he must have been sorely disappointed. She was long gone by the time he returned.”

This actually produced something other than the coy expression that generally graced Eudora's face. “Oh? Gone where?”

“I don't know.” And it was true, at the moment, at least. Surely by now Miss Darshaw and her companion were on the mail coach and traveling north. Somewhere. “She was planning to leave town.”

This left Eudora looking positively surprised. “Leave town? How? The girl has barely a penny to her name. And she certainly won't get far traveling alone, not with her pretty face and hopelessly naive disposition.”

“She wasn't alone,” he was most happy to inform her. “She has a husband now.”

If Eudora seemed surprised before, she was absolutely flabbergasted now. He supposed he ought not dangle her this way, but for some reason he didn't quite trust her with the truth where Miss Darshaw was concerned. Not now that he'd learned the older woman had tried to talk the girl into a life of depravity with the rest of the girls in her stable. Sophie Darshaw was above that. Not much, but certainly a tiny step, at least. Just as Eudora should have been.

“She and her new husband were leaving, putting the girl's past behind them and starting anew,” he announced.

Eudora met his eyes with a straight, steady gaze. “Where?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where are they going?”

“How do I know that? I'm certainly not the girl's keeper. That's up to her husband now, I suppose.”

“What's his name?”

He supposed he should have just dashed off the obviously false name the actress had been using, but something gave him pause. Overall, he trusted Eudora, of course, but somehow he just couldn't bring himself to divulge this. The woman was just a mite too eager for the information. Lindley hedged.

“I don't know that she mentioned it.”

“She told you she married yet she didn't tell you the fellow's name?”

“I didn't ask her, I suppose. It's not as if Miss Darshaw…or rather, Mrs. Whoever-she-is-now…and I spent hours in lengthy conversation. I merely greeted her by her maiden name and she simply informed me she'd become married.”

“And you didn't question her?”

“Contrary to what you apparently believe, my interest in Miss Darshaw…or whatever…is not all-consuming. I wished her well and promptly put the matter from my mind.”

“Not entirely, it would seem,” she drawled, coy again, “as clearly you found time to indicate to Fitzgelder that you'd been on the most friendly of terms with the newlywed. You knew he'd be ragingly jealous.”

“I knew he'd be easily misled. I'd been found out exploring a room in the man's house where I had no business being. You know my suspicions of him; you know I could ill afford to have him question my presence there. So, I concocted a reasonable story.”

“That you had been in that room shagging the seamstress.”

“Yes.”

He defied her to doubt that. After all, it was every bit the truth.

“Well, then. I suppose we should be thankful that he believed you.”

“If, in fact, he did. I cannot be entirely certain with him.”

She nodded, allowing agreement. “He is cagey, indeed. Yet he is a man, and men are simple creatures. Surely he'll become obsessed with the girl now that she's gone and you claimed to have succeeded with her while he was left wanting, so to speak.”

“Plus the fact that he's taken the notion she absconded with something of his.”

Her brow furrowed, a thing vain Madame generally would not allow to happen. “What, Sophie stole something? I cannot believe it.”

“No, nor do I. But he seemed quite convinced.”

Eudora actually laughed aloud at that. “And just what on earth would he say she stole from him?”

“Jewelry, he says.”

“What? She would never. The girl is as honest as…er, what sort of jewelry?”

“What sort? I haven't the foggiest. Look, Eudora, I'm sure it's to her credit that the girl made such a favorable impression on you during her years here. I'm happy that you care so much for her well-being. But if you don't mind, I truly must be on my way. I'm late as it is.”

She sighed as if he were little more than a tedious child. “And what on earth is it that cannot wait but has the great Earl of Lindley rushing off this way?”

“A wedding,” he replied simply. “Out of town.”

“A wedding? How quaint.”

“Yes, so if you can possibly spare me for a few days, I must be on my way.”

She nodded as if she were graciously dismissing him. He'd already begun to rise with or without her permission.

“Very well, Richard, but do let me know if you should happen to learn anything of our dear Miss Darshaw's whereabouts.”

How on earth did she expect him to learn anything about that? He would, of course, but he truly could not see how Eudora should expect it of him.

“Of course,” he said with a simple bow to her. “Good day, Eudora.”

“Come see me the moment you're back from Warwick, my dear Richard.”

“As you wish.”

He gave a mild smile and let himself from the room. He cared a great deal for Eudora; loved her, he supposed. She was one part of his life he would never regret—he knew that for a fact. But by God, he also knew he had never told her where the wedding he was attending would be held.

Sophie was only too happy to stand up straight and stretch her limbs. She wasn't at all certain which had been worse, the ride from London to Oxford in that awful, cramped cabinet or today's journey from Oxford on the overly crowded mail coach to…well, to wherever it was they were. She stretched her arms painfully over her head and grimaced at Miss St. Clement.

“Surely we must be near Warwick by now,” she mumbled, noting the small size and shabby nature of the posting house they had stopped at.

Miss St. Clement frowned. “No, the driver claims this is some place called Geydon. Warwick is nearly an hour north of us.”

Sophie managed to hold back the curses she felt creeping onto her tongue. Despite what Miss St. Clement seemed to feel, Sophie was an adult and perfectly permitted to adopt such language should she so desire. Trouble was, right now such language would draw the wrong sort of attention. For the last leg of this journey she'd been the demure Mrs. Clemmons, riding in sweet silence beside her dear husband.

“If Warwick is only an hour away, why on earth are we stopping here?” Sophie asked.

It appeared Miss St. Clement was every bit as frustrated as Sophie. “The driver claims there is something wrong with one of the horses we took on at Banbury. I, however, believe it is more likely the driver has some sort of arrangement with the owner of this dilapidated establishment. I suppose we will be prevailed upon to dine here, or perhaps even spend the night and finish the last leg of our journey tomorrow.”

For shame.
How unfair to take advantage of weary travelers like this, not to mention the Royal Mail that would be delayed due to such tactics. Then again, Sophie did have to admit she was a bit hungry. And certainly a night's sleep sounded like a slice of heaven to her. Miss St. Clement knew her well enough to recognize what Sophie had hoped did not show on her face.

“You wish to see about supper, don't you?”

Sophie nodded, sheepishly. “If it is only an hour or so more before we find your friend…”

“Very well. I daresay I could do with something to eat, as well. The driver assured us we have time.”

“Of course,” Sophie said, already dreaming of a plate full of something warm. “He and the innkeeper could hardly turn much of a profit if the coach was set to leave again before we all had time to purchase a meal.”

“Come along, then.”

Sophie followed her friend—who was still carrying on her charade as a now very rumpled young man—into the posting house. It was dim inside though the sun was just now beginning to set for the day. The sooty windows let in very little of the orange glow from what appeared to be a lovely evening. Pity they could not be spending it in activity any more pleasant than hiding from their pursuers.

Although, since climbing into that farm cart a day and a half ago they had not seen any signs of being followed. It had been a stroke of luck to find that big, empty cabinet. If Lindley's boy had come down that alley looking for them, he hadn't thought to check inside. The simple men who had been hired to haul the cabinet didn't think to look in it, either, through their daylong journey. Aside from a rather jarring, rumbling ride all the way from London to Oxford, Sophie could hardly complain about their manner of escape. It seemed most efficient.

They'd arrived in Oxford yesterday at just about this time in the evening. Hungry and exhausted from the constant worry that their drivers would notice them, they were only too eager to climb out when the wagon finally stopped. Oh, certainly the drivers had stopped several times along the way, to eat their lunch, look to their horse, and whatnot, but always it appeared they were out in the middle of nowhere. At that final stop, when Miss St. Clement pushed that heavy door up and they chanced to peek outside, they recognized the familiar safety of civilization.

As soon as the driver and his companion left the cart to go to the door of the modest home that must have been their destination, Sophie and Miss St. Clement took their chance. They clambered out of the cabinet and made a dash for the next street. She could not be sure if anyone even noticed them. They ran and ducked around corners and buildings until they were certain anyone following at that point must be lost. It was rather exhilarating, as a matter of fact. Sophie was becoming quite proud of herself.

But the inn where they had stayed last night and the cost of their coach fare today had certainly drained what little resources they had. Lunch had been a sparse, economical thing, and likely dinner would be the same. She supposed she'd do well to make the best of it. Should they encounter any trouble getting word to Miss St. Clement's friend once they arrived in Warwick, likely they'd have to choose between paying for an extra night's lodging or a seat on the coach to Gloucester to find her father.

Nodding politely to several of the other passengers who'd shared their coach, the two women made their way into the building. The unkempt proprietor was all too eager to serve them. They took seats at a table toward the rear of his dim little common room and settled in. Miss St. Clement rejected the man's suggestions of mutton or bacon but conceded that soup was just what they wanted. Sophie tried to pretend that was so. Grumbling, the innkeeper scuttled off to collect their measly—and inexpensive—soup.

And it was measly, too. The vegetables were limp, and Sophie supposed she could hunt all day and not find a morsel of meat in it. Oh well, it was the best they could do. She would not complain—much.

At least she didn't have to eat her soup through a mustache as poor Miss St. Clement had to. The woman seemed positively miserable. Well, Sophie supposed that was to be expected. They'd had an uncomfortable journey, and there was the constant concern that all of it was in vain. They had no way to know whether Fitzgelder's men had already made it to their destination and carried out their dreadful plans. The man Miss St. Clement was hoping to save might already be lost.

It was too tragic to contemplate. Sophie decided she'd do well to try and cheer her friend.

“I can't wait to see this Lord Rastmoor's face when he meets you again.”

The actress cringed. “Hopefully that will never happen. With luck we'll find he's safely at his friend's home and I can simply send a warning message. He'll find out what Fitzgelder is about, and you and I can be off to meet Papa.”

“You don't want to see him again?”

“Heavens no!”

“We've come all this way and you're not even going to see the man?”

“Exactly.”

Sophie could hardly believe she'd heard right. After all this, Miss St. Clement did not even wish to so much as see him? But surely that couldn't be. It was obvious to anyone that Miss St. Clement had more than a friendly interest in this Rastmoor. It just couldn't end without them meeting again!

“That's so sad. I was hoping the two of you might…”

“Sorry, Sophie. That only happens in novels.”

She changed the subject by launching into a discussion of their plans. She expected to simply leave a message in Warwick to be delivered to her friend and then be off directly to Gloucester. Indeed, she sounded quite determined there would be nothing more to it. The excitement she feigned at the prospect of Sophie joining their troupe and perhaps even laying down her needle in favor of actually treading the boards with them was almost convincing.

“Acting?” Sophie nearly laughed aloud. The idea of taking up the path that had once fully consumed her parents was more than a trifle ridiculous. Why, Mamma had been beautiful, extraordinary. She was elegant and sophisticated and charmed her audiences wherever they went—this is what Sophie recalled of actresses. She could never measure up to the likes of that.

“Oh, I'm sure I could never be so very good at that. All those lines I'd have to memorize!”

“You've been playacting the part of a blushing bride for three days now, and so far the audience seems quite enthralled,” the actress said, sweeping her arm wide to indicate the patrons of the posting house.

Sophie wasn't impressed with such high praise. “I believe our audience would be no less enthralled were I simply a chicken tucked under your arm. They've hardly taken note of us at all.”

“There, you see?” Miss St. Clement said with a wide smile. “You've played your part to perfection. Who's to say you might not make a memorable Juliet or Ophelia or—”

But Sophie had stopped listening. Her full attention was caught by the broad, elegant figure in the doorway.
Good heavens!
Could he possibly have found them already?

“Lord Lindley!” she gasped.

“Lord Lindley? I don't believe we have any scripts with Lor—”

By then Miss St. Clement must have seen the look on Sophie's face. Her voice trailed off. Or perhaps it was simply drowned out by the pounding of Sophie's heartbeat.

 

T
HIS WAS A BLOODY WASTE OF TIME.
S
OMEONE HAD
tampered with Lindley's carriage and weakened the axle. Not surprisingly, it had broken.

Now he was forced to delay his return to London and stop at this godforsaken posting house and hope they had someone available who could make adequate repairs. He supposed he should be thankful no one had come along to murder them on the road, helpless as they were with a lame carriage and twilight full upon them. The only explanation he had for it was that Fitzgelder's henchmen could not have guessed precisely where that axle would have given out. If he and his companion had waited with the carriage in hopes of snagging a ride with someone, they might very well have been exactly where Fitzgelder wanted them.

But how had Fitzgelder's men gotten to his carriage? He had gone straight from London to his friend Dashford's wedding, stopping for the night and then driving all day. Nothing appeared wrong with his carriage at that point, and he arrived just in time to witness the vows.

It was a nice wedding, as far as weddings went, but he had to admit the bride held an unexpected interest for him. Her uncanny resemblance to Sophie Darshaw was most disconcerting.
Most
disconcerting.

For a frightening hour or so, he'd begun to fear he was obsessed with the London seamstress, finding her features on even strangers' faces. True, he'd long found Sophie Darshaw more than just passably attractive, but surely there was nothing more to it than that. Was there? Still, as Dashford stood at the altar to pledge himself to his blushing bride, all Lindley could see was Sophie. Truly, it was quite horrifying.

Thankfully, though, the mystery had been mercifully solved. Immediately following the ceremony, Lindley attached himself to Rastmoor. Indeed, his friend was alive and well; Fitzgelder had not yet accomplished his goal. When the unsuspecting target announced that he would be rushing back to London to deal with some family troubles, Lindley was conveniently there to offer his conveyance and companionship. He did not let Rastmoor refuse.

And this was when he happened on an interesting bit of information. Lady Dashford, it would seem, had charged Rastmoor with a task. When he returned to London, he was to locate her missing cousin, a young woman named Sophie Darshaw.

Well, this had been quite more of a coincidence than Lindley expected, but it did explain why the ladies bore such a striking resemblance to one another. Things were increasingly complex. Lindley had some knowledge of Miss Darshaw's background, but he had not realized Dashford's new wife figured into things. He would have to give thought to this and wonder what it all meant.

Eventually they left the happy couple and went on their way. For the first leg of their journey the axle gave no trouble at all. They took a break for a midday meal and got back on the road. That must have been when the criminals took their opportunity to tamper. They would have known a damaged axle would surely break on these roads, still heavily rutted from an unusually wet spring.

So here they were, two gentlemen with deadly enemies, stranded at a posting house in some unknown place called Geydon; victims despite all his care and planning. Clearly he'd let his guard down or allowed himself to become somehow distracted. He would not let it happen again.

Lindley stabled his horses and arranged for his carriage to be hauled in and repaired. Like it or not, they'd be spending the night here. He wasn't hungry, but it would draw suspicion if he did not act like the dandy he'd become accustomed to portraying. He declared himself ravenous and flirted with the young serving maid who opened the door as they entered the posting house. He forgot her face the moment he walked past her.

The common room was dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was dusk and yet the lamps had not been lit inside. He led Rastmoor in and was scanning for a table where they might be alone and yet not too far from the doorway should a hasty exit be required.

Instead of an empty table his eyes fell on one occupied by a young couple. A young couple he recognized.
Miss Darshaw and her female husband.

She appeared to see him at the same moment he noticed her. The girl's eyes grew huge and terrified. He watched as her lips formed his name. The actress with her turned suddenly, and her expression changed from mere surprise to absolute horror.

Lindley stepped farther into the room, allowing Rastmoor to get a full view of the couple. He noticed Miss Darshaw immediately, as Lindley had no doubt any man in the room would have done. Despite her travel-worn apparel and the weariness in her eyes, she was lovely. And so far, she was safe from Fitzgelder. Even her bruises were gone.

But now her glance moved from him and shifted to Rastmoor. She glanced back and forth between him and her pretend husband. Why on earth did that actress seem so pale and alarmed? And what was this little smile that crept over Miss Darshaw's pretty face? Did she actually smile at Rastmoor? No, she was simply nervous at the way he stared.