by Tessa Candle
Three Masks and a Marquess
A Steamy Regency Romance (Parvenues & Paramours, Book 3)
Tessa Candle
Three Masks and a Marquess
Book 3 in the Parvenues & Paramours series
EPUB Edition
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Copyright © 2018 by Tessa Candle. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, now known or hereafter invented, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a critical article or book review.
Three Masks and a Marquess is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of well-known historical figures and places, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-77265-024-2
Three Masks and a Marquess
or The Lord Who Kissed Hermit the Fraud
is dedicated to you, my true reader. You enjoy a good steamy romp with some naughty nobles and a witty heroine—and you only cringe slightly at my horrid puns. Perhaps most importantly, you are an early supporter of my Parvenues & Paramours series. Thank you.
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Contents
Also by Tessa Candle
Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
A Letter to the Reader
Also by Tessa Candle
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tessa Candle
Three Abductions and an Earl, Book 1 in the Parvenues & Paramours series. Get it on all major online retailers.
Three Abductions and an Earl, audio book, as read by the author. Get it on these online retailers.
Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke, Book 2 in the Parvenues & Paramours series. Get it on all major online retailers.
Writing as T.S. Candle:
Accursed Abbey, a Regency Gothic Romance, Book 1 in the Nobles & Necromancy series. Get it on all major online retailers.
Or get links to all my books on all major online retailers.
Glossary
annals: historical record, ch. 71.
bit of muslin: one of many Regency terms for a female prostitute, ch 12.
bounder: a Regency era insult meaning a person of low character and/or uncouth behaviour, ch. 10, 16, 26, 52, 56, 60, 64, 68.
blaggard: scoundrel ch. 25, 63.
complacence: self-satisfaction, ch. 20.
expostulation: in depth description and explanation, ch. 33.
festering: infected and producing pus; or figuratively, growing worse and worse over time, ch. 15.
first water: of the first water is a Regency era term for something first class, perfect. It is probably a metaphor based on a perfect pearl, so it is often used to describe magnificent beauty, ch 46.
follow my leader:an earlier name for the children's game now called "follow the leader", ch 23.
foxed: a Regency era term meaning intoxicated, ch 77.
game pullet: one of several Regency era terms for a prostitute, ch 23.
gaol: an old spelling of jail, 10, 38.
give you a green one: to give a girl a green dress was a Regency era euphemism for making love to her al fresco (i.e. in the grass), ch 77.
iniquitous: wicked, especially in the sense of unjust, ch.44.
loose Screwe: the term loose screw, in Regency times, meant someone of low quality, character, or behaviour. Frobisher is making a word play, here, ch. 10.
majesty: literally greatness; it can be a term of address for a monarch, but can also be used informally to indicate a high degree of power, authority, or grandeur. In this instance, Rutherford is using the term sarcastically to disparage the ineffective legal system, ch. 10, 26.
make a cake of himself: a Regency expression meaning to make a faux pas, or make a fool of oneself, ch. 40.
monomania: obsession with a single thing, to the exclusion of all other considerations, 118.
pantaloons: a type of close-fitting pants (trousers) worn by gentlemen of the Regency era, ch. 46, 71.
peaked: sickly, 202.
The Quality: a regency term, usually used by the lower classes, to refer to upper class, often noble folk, ch 13, 60.
retrenchment: retreat, concession (especially in a military campaign, or something figuratively comparable to a campaign), ch. 28.
rivulet: a stream, ch. 66.
smoky: a Regency era term meaning unsavoury, of low character, or up to no good, ch 26, 60, 69.
taken in: deceived, ch 12.
ubiquitous: ever-present, seen everywhere ch 2.
Chapter 1
Rosamond was warm after the long walk from Blackwood to Brookshire Park. She removed the indifferent-looking wool shawl that she had knit from Blackwood homespun yarn and stuffed it into her bag as she rounded the final bend.
The house came into view and a faint gasp escaped her. Even after several clandesti
ne visits, to look at it still filled her with a surge of joy, followed by a stab of heartache.
She had been living within ten miles of the place, but only come to see it occasionally. It was enough to be nearby, to know that it was within her reach. Well, it was not enough, if she were honest, but she made it enough. Even staying in the neighbourhood was dangerous. Venturing forth to loiter around Brookshire itself was far too dangerous. Yet Rosamond had important business to attend to, and it could not be put off any longer.
She stayed within the shadows of the trees and surveyed the house. A thin trail of smoke rose up through the foremost chimney. It was from the kitchen hearth, one of her favourite spots. She and her nanny played games and read stories by that fire in the winter evenings of her childhood. It was a busy area of the house, but it was always warm and smelled like fresh baking or delicious roasting things.
Rosamond knew, even at that young age, that her nanny was trying to distract her from the fact that she could not go see her consumptive mother, and from the endless parade of doctors who came and went, each as unsuccessful as the last.
The nanny had been kind. And even the governess that her father found for her after her mother died, before the symptoms of his own illness became apparent, had been caring and affectionate. She was a young widow with a child. Rosamond liked them both—at least for the short while they were acquainted.
The old nanny had passed away, yet if Rosamond could find the governess that would at least be something. But it was hopeless. She had been dismissed by Cousin Peter as soon as he became Rosamond’s guardian. Rosamond did not even get to say goodbye. If that were as far as his cruelty had gone, however, she might not have run away from Brookshire Park.
Even when she was running cons with Andrews, Rosamond never gave up searching for the governess in whatever part of England they found themselves situated—but to no avail.
Cousin Peter had once caught sight of her while she was following up a lead. Rosamond still remembered the evil gleam in his eye as he took aim at her with his pistol. But he missed.
After that her efforts to find the governess had become more furtive. Perhaps the woman had remarried and was living under another name now. She laughed darkly at the thought. How many names had Rosamond lived under? If the governess had ever looked for Rosamond, she would never have found her.
Rosamond forced herself to focus and watched for any movement around the house. The chimney smoke was the only sign of life. No servants worked outdoors, and the curtains remained drawn. It seemed all but abandoned, which was sad but suited her immediate purposes.
She took a breath and walked out of the concealment of the trees, following the trail to the rear grounds. As she approached, she could smell the faint scent of smoke from the hearth fire—the aroma she most associated with her notion of home. It teased up a yearning in her heart, but Rosamond had years of practice at pushing such feelings down. Attachments and sentimentality could only get you caught or killed.
When she reached the gate at the entrance to the east garden, she paused to pull out an oil can from her bag.
Rosamond knew only too well the sound the gate's hinges made. It had been the warning screech that announced the entry of Peter, when he came to introduce himself as her new guardian on that first day. And what an accursed day it proved to be.
She should have listened to the hinges. Under her hand the gate always sang three notes, like a rusty little bird song. Under his grasp the gate song altered, as though it were a cry of despair.
Rosamond would miss the gate’s voice, but she could not afford to have the hinges betray her presence. She applied the oil liberally, musing that it was like the fairytale her nanny had told her, where Catherine evades the detection of her wicked aunt, who turns out to be Baba Yaga, herself.
In the centre of the garden was a disused well. It had been sealed, no doubt to prevent Rosamond from falling into it when she was a child. She grinned. That had been a wise decision, for she had been too adventurous at times. It could have got her killed when she was small, but as a young lady, it was precisely this personality trait that kept her alive.
And because she had also been a child who loved hiding treasures, Rosamond could now uncover a much-needed cache. With luck, she would soon reach her twenty-first year, and when that day came, the things she hid away when she was twelve would be her only hope.
Rosamond found the darkest rock on the westernmost side of the well and counted the stones around counter-clockwise. She pulled a sturdy knife from her bag and began to pry the seventh stone loose.
The sound of a carriage rolling along the drive behind the yard startled her, and she nicked her finger. Swearing under her breath, she crouched low. Could they see her over the stone fence? Surely not from the drive. But once whoever it was entered the house, they would be able to spy her from any of the east windows.
Who could possibly be arriving now, of all times? Cousin Peter owned the estate, but did not appear to care for country life and rarely returned to it. He had never been there before when she checked in on Brookshire Park.
Timing! She whispered another curse and continued to work frantically at loosening the rock. Being discovered could be fatal, but she dared not leave without what she had come for. It was her last and only chance.
Chapter 2
Frobisher, the Marquess of Fenimore, winced as the debutante du jour curtseyed low and gave him a fetching flutter of lashes over the view of her ripening décolleté. Not an entirely appropriate dress for a morning call, but effective. The mother probably picked it out. Thank God they were finally leaving.
"It has been my great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Lord Fenimore," simpered the girl as her mother displayed her best ingratiating smile and nodded.
"I am sure it has." Frobisher yawned and formed his face into the peevish, sickly mask that he always wore for such occasions. He was not going to make up any appropriately dishonest pleasantries. It had been a beastly waste of a morning and he hoped never to lay eyes on either of them again.
His mother slid into place beside him, smoothly rested her arm in his, and pinched him discreetly. "A pleasure to see you both, Lady Milton, Miss Milton."
When the unwanted guests were loaded into their carriage and rolling their way back to London, the marquess muttered, "A very good riddance to you both."
He strolled into the manor and up the stairs to his study, his mother pacing him from behind.
"I wish you were not such a perfectly ill bred brute to every guest I bring to the house!" She frowned at him as he hurled himself into his desk chair.
"And I wish every guest you brought to the house were not a toad-eating opportunist. I thought I should be safe out here in the countryside. If you insist on entertaining these people, why do you not do it in London and leave me in peace?"
"All I do is for your sake, not for my own amusement."
"How many times have I told you that I do not require your assistance in finding a wife? And yet you persist in throwing these awful bores into my path."
"Lady Milton's daughter is perfectly lovely."
Frobisher sprang up again and strode to the small sideboard. "She is dull and lacks any talent for conversation. The rustling of her petticoats was the most interesting sound she made."
"You were intentionally intimidating. No wonder she said next to nothing. You frightened her."
"She seemed frightened to you, did she? Well, she spoke enough for having said so little—though not without a jab or a look from the mother. Lady Milton was bent on making the most of things. And honestly, that dress! For morning tea? These mothers become less like chaperones and more like madams every day."
"That is a mean, low-minded, slanderous way to speak of an honest noblewoman and her daughter! I thought I had raised a kinder, better son than that." His mother's eyes grew round and tearful.
Frobisher sighed. "Oh, you did, Mama." He smiled sadly at her and suppressed a twinge of guilt
, turning away to search for a crystal tumbler behind the bottles on the sideboard and then in the cupboard beneath. "But you see, you drove that kind son to a mad sort of desperation with your constant matchmaking. Stop, I beg of you. I do not want to marry any of these tedious empty bonnets. I will marry if and when I meet a woman who interests me, and not before."
"And when will that be, pray? You have a duty to your name and title to marry and provide an heir to the Fenimore line."
"Not to worry, Mama! If the perfect mate of my heart does not turn up, there is always my cousin, Mr. Peterstone. He looks healthy enough and already has three sons." The marquess gave up trying to find a glass and fetched his used teacup from the desk—still there from yesterday. Were the servants on holiday, or something?
"Do not remind me of the odious man! I swear he only keeps spawning heirs just to spite me."
