Temptress in Training (2 page)

Sophie Darshaw.
Hell and damnation, it was she who had been struggling with Fitzgelder. By the looks of it, she'd been giving the man quite a fight, too. Her clothing was in dreadful disarray, her fair hair was mussed and tangled in clumps, and were those droplets of blood spattered on her pretty, ashen face? By God, he'd kill the man.

No, he couldn't. He'd come too far and had too much at stake. Sophie Darshaw was just a minor player in this, and Lindley reminded himself he wasn't even entirely sure yet what part she played. He'd interrupted and that was enough. He would not give in to ridiculous sentiment when there might still be a chance to salvage things.

He wiped all trace of loathing from his face and carved out a disgruntled pout.

“I say, Fitz, why did you not bother to tell me the festivities had begun already? You know how I deplore coming in late on the entertainment.”

“Bloody hell, Lindley,” Fitzgelder growled. “What in damnation are you about, tearing in while a fellow's readying to plug himself a little laced mutton?”

Lindley simply shrugged and allowed a lengthy—and welcome—look over Miss Darshaw's disheveled person. It appeared he'd come just in time. The girl was shaking and pale as the crypt, but he was pleased to see a healthy spark of defiance left in her crystal blue eyes. She'd done well for herself, all things considered. Fitzgelder sported a bloody lip while she was merely untidy.

“Well then,” Lindley said, unbuttoning his coat and placing his hand as if to begin unfastening his trousers. “If the mutton's willing, I might fancy a go at her myself.”

“The mutton most certainly is
not
willing!” Miss Darshaw announced firmly.

She shoved Fitzgelder aside and pushed her way out of the tiny room. Lindley stood aside to let her. He could well do without a bloodied lip tonight, and Miss Darshaw seemed every bit capable of giving him one. Hell, if he hadn't interrupted when he did poor Fitzgelder might have ended up singing soprano. The way Miss Darshaw glared murder at them both he wasn't entirely convinced she had needed his intervention after all. The girl showed ferocity enough to do serious damage.

But Fitzgelder was a fool and paid no notice. He brushed past Lindley and made as if to follow the hellcat. Lindley latched onto his arm.

“Oh, let her go,” he advised, careful to seem unconcerned. “She's not but a little slip of a thing, Fitz. Hardly woman enough for men like us. Come, what more creative pleasures do you have scheduled tonight? It is Thursday, after all.”

Miss Darshaw shot him one hateful glance before scurrying up the hallway and disappearing around a corner. Fitzgelder watched after her, steaming. Indeed, he was too proud to admit his frustration, but Lindley knew this matter was not settled. As long as Miss Darshaw chose to remain in this household—whatever her reasons might be—she was going to be her master's choice prey. Clearly this was not something she wished, but at the same time she did not distain it enough to leave. That, of course, must mean something.

If only he could discern what.

“I swear, that minx needs a good thrashing to put her in her place,” Fitzgelder was muttering.

“Thrash her later, old man. I'm nearly bored to death after that abominable poetry party tonight. Whyever did you drag me to such a gathering of stiff-rumped nobs? In faith, I could have enjoyed myself more with my Methodist grandmother. You know I come to you, Fitzy old man, to save me from such dreariness.”

He glanced back into the cupboard behind them and noticed the wrappings from Fitzgelder's parcel lying discarded on the floor.
Damn!
Whatever had been in it, the man had already taken possession of it. But perhaps there was some clue in that abandoned wrapper. He'd have to get a look at it.

In hopes of distracting his friend, he stepped aside to allow Fitzgelder to leave the cupboard and join him in the hallway. The man did. Lindley casually shut the cupboard door behind them.

“So where shall we be going next?”

Fitzgelder finally took his focus off the direction Miss Darshaw had gone and brought out a handkerchief to dab his lip. “Well, I'm afraid tonight's entertainment might seem a bit tame for your lordship's high standards,” he said.

“Nothing aimed to better my mind, I hope.”

At last Fitzgelder lost a bit of his anger and made a sound that was likely akin to laughter. “No, nothing like that. I've had my man engage a theatrical troupe to present for us. They should be already preparing for us down in the blue salon, and our other guests should be arriving presently. I suppose we can expect the odd Shakespeare scene, a tableau or two, and the usual buffoonery. Personally, though, I'm quite looking forward to it. Why don't you go do some damage to my brandy while I find my man to put me in a fresh cravat, eh?”

“By all means,” Lindley said. “But see that the man ties it with both hands this time, Fitzy. All evening long it's looked wretched, like someone strapped a wet cat around your neck.”

Fitzgelder laughed at him. The stupid man actually seemed to enjoy the ridicule Lindley found all too easy to heap on him.

“I'll tell the man you said so,” Fitzgelder assured. “He'll be mortified, of course, so perhaps you'll encourage the sluggard to do better. There's no better judge of the complicated knot than the Earl of Lindley, after all.”

“Precisely,” Lindley agreed.

Fitzgelder left him then, still chuckling—presumably—over the amusing image of a wet cat around his neck. Honestly, the man thought himself quite the fashion plate when really he was a complete gaby. Lindley watched him go. So just what was the mutton-monger up to? Was he really off to attend to his neckcloth or to conduct secret business without Lindley's watchful eye? Or perhaps the bastard was planning to hunt down Miss Darshaw and finish what he'd started.

Lindley would see that it was not the latter. But first things first. The minute Fitzgelder was out of sight, he ducked into the cupboard and retrieved the wrappings. He didn't dare examine them here, but shoved them quickly into his pocket and left the cupboard. Should Fitzgelder come back to look for them, with luck he might assume a dutiful servant had removed them and not suspect Lindley.

Calm and casual, Lindley took himself down to the ground floor. Miss Darshaw was nowhere in sight, so he headed to the room where Fitzgelder indicated the actors would be. He couldn't help but wonder how the hell a theatrical troupe fit into things. Mangled Shakespeare or pirated French farce was a bit tame for Fitzgelder—hardly the usual fare offered at his frequent routs. Could this simply be a cover for something more furtive? Would he be meeting with someone in regards to that parcel? Or were tonight's theatrics to be of a tawdry nature simply to feed Fitzgelder's insatiable appetites? It was hard to say with the fellow. Lindley could only hope he hadn't ruined any hope of uncovering the truth of that parcel by thwarting Fitzgelder's efforts with Miss Darshaw.

Whatever was to come, though, Lindley could not regret rescuing the girl. Surely she was not party to the worst of her master's sins. She must have some simpler, less sinister reasons for being in the man's employ. Perhaps she might not even know the full extent of his treachery. The sooner he learned Fitzgelder's secrets, the better.

And perhaps along the way, he'd learn Miss Darshaw's secrets, as well.

 

S
OPHIE DID HER VERY BEST TO PRETEND THE LAST FEW
minutes in that insufferable linen closet had not happened. She was blissfully anonymous here in her master's busy blue room, surrounded by bustling actors and the hectic preparations for tonight's entertainment. She could make herself useful here, blending safely into the hustle and forgetting what had very nearly occurred—and who had fortunately interrupted it.

Heavens, but what was Lord Lindley doing here? Not that she cared a fig for where the man was or wasn't; it simply surprised her, that was all. Just because he'd seemed a decent sort certainly did not mean he was. He'd been in company with Madame frequently, after all. What sort of upstanding fellow would do that? And now here he was with Mr. Fitzgelder. Clearly she'd been grossly mistaken regarding his character.

How ridiculous that she should waste one ounce of brain matter contemplating one of the dissolute blackguards from her former life. Indeed, she'd left her previous situation to prove she could be better than all that, to
become
better than that. She may have not been able to find work for anyone more respectable than Mr. Fitzgelder, but she fully intended to use this as a step in the right direction. She would have that dress shop one day. It merely appeared it would take a bit longer than she'd first envisioned.

Clearly she needed to find a position better than this one. She could be a ladies' maid, for instance. That was a fine, respectable position, and the pay would no doubt be better and put her that much closer to her dream. All she needed was a bit of experience and a reference. Perhaps she could start on that very thing today. It appeared the acting troupe Mr. Fitzgelder had hired did include a lady or two. Well, a
female
or two, at any rate.

She approached a middle-aged actress and offered to be of assistance. The woman eyed her curiously, then jabbed her thumb in the direction of a young woman who was just now entering the room.

“There you go, miss, that's the lady you need to be presenting yourself to,” she said with a smile. “That's our, er, Miss Sands. She'll know what to do with you.”

Sophie curtsied and thanked the woman, then hurried over to this Miss Sands. She was young and pretty and gave every appearance of being horribly respectable. At least, as respectable as an actress could be. Sophie knew a thing or two of actresses. Hopefully she could use that to her advantage and make a favorable impression on this one.

“I was told you might be needing some help dressing for the performance, Miss Sands,” Sophie offered with a cheerful smile.

She watched the young woman bustle about, selecting her wardrobe and giving instructions to other troupe members as they hauled in the various paraphernalia needed for Fitzgelder's entertainment. Thankfully, there was not a single thing that suggested “orgy.”
Good.
If she could impress Miss Sands with properly attentive service perhaps this might be just the opportunity she needed to secure a decent enough reference to move on.

Nervously, Sophie smoothed her apron and patted her hair in place. Everyone knew a proper ladies' maid needed to be properly turned out.

“Thank you,” Miss Sands said, her focus clearly torn between the lovely blue silk gown she held in one hand and the more elaborate golden one in the other. “I suppose if our host tonight favors the more classical pieces I ought to go with the embroidered neckline, but I do so prefer the blue. Tell me, is your master a great lover of Shakespeare or will he be more inclined to request…”

And now the lady finally turned to look at her.
Oh, bother.
By the look on Miss Sands's face it would seem Sophie's hasty attempts to put herself to rights after that dreadful episode upstairs had failed dismally.

“Good God!” the actress exclaimed. “You poor dear! What in heaven's name has happened to you?”

Sophie stared at the floor. “I'm sorry, miss, I didn't realize I, that is, I should go tend to my appearance.” She curtsied and tried to leave, but Miss Sands would have none of it.

“Gracious! Are these bruises at your wrists? And there's blood on your apron! Who did this to you, girl?”

Sophie knew it would be the height of impropriety to lie to her mistress, but since Miss Sands was really only a guest in the house, she supposed it was a forgivable offense this time. Besides, Mr. Fitzgelder would likely not take kindly to having his dirty secrets aired for these entertainers.

“No one, miss,” Sophie replied. “I fell.”

It seemed Miss Sands had brains as well as beauty. “My arse, you fell. Come, my girl, I recognize the print of a man's hand when I see it. Who did this to you?”

“It's nothing at all, miss. I managed to get away.”

“Not before he welted your eye!”

“What?” Sophie shot her hand up to her face. Indeed, her eyelid felt puffy and tender. When she slammed Fitzgelder with her forehead she must have also succeeded in bruising herself.

“Come,” the actress ordered, pulling Sophie over toward a row of chairs against the wall.

“Truly, I'm quite fine,” Sophie explained, politely trying to fend off the other woman's examination.

“This is very fresh, isn't it? Heavens, we'll have to put something on it immediately.”

“No, really I don't need—”

Miss Sands cut her off by turning her to face a lovely round mirror that hung on the master's wall. Sophie had no other option but to stare at her own face and catch her breath at the ugly red welt that showed quite plainly at her swollen eyelid. It throbbed. Merciful Lord, how would she ever hide this from the other servants? They would not need to question who had done such a thing, or why.

And they would not be pleased about it, either. If Mr. Fitzgelder was in a foul mood after this—and of course he would be—he'd naturally take it out on the staff. As far as they would care, this injury would be undeniable evidence of her insolence while they would be the ones paying the price. Unsurprisingly, they'd take it out on her.

“Oh” was all she could say as she stared back at her reflection.

“Don't worry, I'll help you,” Miss Sands said. “What is your name?”

Her first instinct was not to trust this stranger, not to give any information that could somehow be used to further damage her place in this household. But as she cautiously met the actress's gaze she wondered if perhaps she could indeed trust Miss Sands with something as innocuous as her name. After all, what more did she have to lose?