Three Masks and a Marquess: A Steamy Regency Romance (Parvenues & Paramours, Book 3)

by Tessa Candle

  As he returned to the front door, he noticed a bell beside the fishing pole. At first he had thought it was part of her angling tackle, but then he saw that it was actually suspended from a nail in the wall by a length of brown cord that ran under the shutters of the open window and out into the yard. He was sure it was the same inconspicuously coloured yarn that he had encountered on the path.

  He walked out the door and found where the wool cord exited the cottage. It ran to one pole of the empty laundry line, and from there out to the forest. Frobisher laughed and shook his head. That was how she knew he was coming. He had rung her alarm bell with his blasted top hat.

  Something in his heart gave way then, as though he had stepped into her fairy playground and joined her sport. She was wonderful, playful, inventive. He had to find her. Perhaps he could borrow Rutherford's bloodhound, Mack. He had a brilliant nose. If she had left recently, the hound might be able to track her down.

  The sooner he found her the sooner he could—what? Rescue her from whatever it was she was running away from. Protect her and make her happy. And, of course, claim Lucifer the mare as his payment.

  Frobisher looked down at one of her potted plants. It was drooping terribly. Poor little thing. He went to fetch some water from her barrel, grinning broadly. With Mack's help, he might even find her before nightfall.

  Chapter 7

  Rosamond watched as the man entered her cottage. It was that marquess, Frobisher. Apparently his rank gave him the right to tromp into anyone's home whenever he pleased. Rutherford had done the same. Ruddy presumptuous asses.

  She supposed she should be beyond caring—beyond having a sense of ownership over any place. Andrews had always impressed upon her never to get attached—not to people, not to places. You had to keep moving. That was the game. Do your swindle and get out.

  And Rosamond had needed to be a moving target for a long time. There was, after all, someone who wanted her dead. That is what made the swindler's life appealing—that and the assumed identities which protected her from discovery.

  But she had started to like her little cottage. It was not much of a house, perhaps, but it was more of a home than she had had since she was a child. The old duke had been kind to her, and now that she had lost him, she felt the need to stay nearby, to preserve the connection to her memories of him.

  Rosamond frowned. In other words, like a ruddy idiot, she had let herself get attached.

  She squinted at the window, trying to make out what Frobisher was doing inside. She could see only occasional movements, but no detail.

  No doubt he was going through the few things she had left behind when she scrambled out—snooping about in whatever she had not yet packed or hidden, intruding in her life. Yes, she had become attached to her little home, and that is why she wanted so badly to march into the cottage with her gun and tell this presumptuous ass to get the ruddy hell out of her home.

  This was precisely the sort of thinking she could not afford. In fact the self-important clod was doing her a favour, though she hated to admit it. She had already lingered too long. She would never be safe here now that the duchess had seen her face. Her grace had met Rosamond under one of her fake identities, the debutante Miss Dervish, and the duchess must have told Rutherford by now. The then soon-to-be duchess had promised not to tell Rutherford, or anyone, so long as Rosamond did not make any overtures toward the duke, but the woman had certainly misinterpreted a little fisticuffs that Rosamond and Rutherford had gotten into. If his new duchess had not yet told Rutherford everything she knew, it was only a matter of time until she did.

  Frobisher emerged suddenly from the cottage, apparently looking for something. When he made his way from the window to the clothesline, then started off into the forest, Rosamond knew he had puzzled out her alarm bell.

  It didn't matter now, as she was leaving anyway, except that it told him something about her—her true self, not the occluded and mundane masks that she wore for the world.

  Frobisher's whole face lit up as he returned from his investigation of the yarn attached to the bell. Once again Rosamond was struck by how much his appearance transformed when he smiled. All his surly biliousness slipped away in those moments. She was not the only one wearing masks.

  He shook his head in an expression of—what was it? Wonderment, yes, but also something else. Rosamond's heartbeat struck a strange rhythm. She found it alarming.

  His smile blossomed into the excited grin of a child anticipating Christmas treats as he walked to her rain barrel and fetched a bucket of water to carry to one of her plants. Rosamond chuckled quietly. She told herself she was merely amused that the damned fool was giving water to a plant that had already got too much rain, which was why it looked so pitiable.

  Her poor plants. They would have to fend for themselves now.

  Frobisher looked around the yard one last time, then headed back to the path and strode quickly away.

  Rosamond expelled a relieved sigh. Hopefully she would never see him again. He was exactly the kind of nosey person she had to avoid.

  She walked back a few yards to find the hollow tree that she used as an emergency cache. Looking fondly at the hunting rifle the old duke had lent her "for protection," she tightened the oiled canvas it was wrapped in and deposited it into the deep hole that extended down the tree trunk. "Keep a sight on things, old friend." She might need the gun again someday, but it would be far too conspicuous where she was going now.

  Rosamond gathered up her things and began to leave. Partway down the path, she halted to glance back at the over-watered plant. It seemed so forlorn and bedraggled—without a friend, just like her.

  "Ruddy hell. You are going to get yourself caught, you simpleton." But even as she cursed herself for a fool, she returned to fetch the plant.

  Rosamond had plans for the potted flower. She had to make her way down to one of the local farms to find a ride into town, anyway. It would not be that far out of the way.

  Chapter 8

  Frobisher followed along the trail behind Mack and the hounds-man. He reckoned they had crossed over from Blackwood Park into the forests of Fenimore about an hour ago. The trail was fresh and they were making rapid progress, but from the back of his horse, it still felt like a plodding pace.

  Or maybe he was just impatient to find her. Perhaps he should not have delayed to take some sustenance with Rutherford before making a start. He felt they should have caught her already. By now, he should be explaining everything to her, making her understand that she was welcome at Blackwood and she didn't have to leave.

  He smiled. And maybe she would accompany the duke and duchess when they came to Fenimore, sometimes. Or maybe he would see her when he went to call at Blackwood.

  He stopped himself. Why would he have such thoughts? He hardly knew her. It was not as if they would become friends suddenly, especially when he was essentially hunting her down. He chuckled when he remembered tripping her alarm bell. She would not make it easy for him. But that was quite all right. He liked a challenge.

  The cottage that he planned to turn into a hermitage came into view, and he expected the scent trail to continue along the path through the park and down to the main road. But to his great surprise the dog turned right and headed straight toward the manor itself. Was she here? His stomach twitched nervously. What if she had come to tell him off?

  Well, he would endure anything as long as he got to talk to her, apologize and explain things for Rutherford, and give her the purse full of money that the old duke had bequeathed to her, and she had left behind. Yes he needed at least to do that, and to assure her there was a place for her here—at Blackwood, he corrected himself—that she would be protected.

  Frobisher began to question Mack's nose when the hound led them right up to the front stoop of his own manor. Blast! Had the dog been following the wrong trail?

  Then he saw it. The bedraggled plant that he had given water to at the widow's cottage sat on the step. He reached dow
n to retrieve a tiny scroll that was tied to one of the stems with a bit of brown yarn.

  His heart thrilled. Had she left him a note? He unrolled the slip of paper and read.

  It is fairly hard to kill an impatiens, so hopefully this one will not die under your care. Kindly do not over water it again. In fact, as you appear to be well inured to handing all your work over to the servants, may I advise that you refer this task to your gardener?

  That was all. He was a bit disappointed at its not being signed, but he supposed he should be thankful for the gesture—of what? What did she mean by leaving him this plant and terse little missive?

  She meant to throw down the gauntlet. This was her opening move.

  A servant came out to greet him.

  "Shall I have this brought to Meeks, my lord?"

  Frobisher looked at the plant. He did not wish to relinquish it, but it was probably better off in Meeks' care. "Yes. Ask him to take special care of it. I don't suppose anyone saw the young woman who left this?"

  "I don't believe so, my lord. But I'll ask around—only are you quite well, my lord? Shall I fetch a restorative?"

  "A restorative? Of course not. I am as healthy as ever."

  "Ah, well then." The servant bowed and made to leave.

  "What?" Frobisher called after him.

  The servant paused. "It's only…" He looked uncomfortable. "Forgive the impertinence, my lord, but his lordship appears to be smiling."

  Indeed he was smiling. In fact, his face was beginning to hurt.

  Chapter 9

  Rosamond stepped over a large puddle. She had never liked London—it did not help that it was a mucky, rainy mess most of the year. But the real problem was that, although she never really felt safe anywhere in England, in London she felt positively endangered.

  It was not the constant parade of leering pigs, though they were common enough, and her veil only helped with the least attentive of these swine. The real threat was that her vile cousin preferred town.

  The time she had spent pretending to enjoy the season as the debutante Miss Dervish had been nerve wracking. The upper classes were so well networked that she feared she might run into Cousin Peter at any turn.

  Would he recognize her if he saw her? Rosamond was still a child when she ran away from him. She had grown since he had last seen her and she had intentionally altered her appearance, but she feared that he would see through her disguise in an instant.

  Rosamond reached the sooty building she sought and stopped by the door. But she could not pause for thought long. It was a busy place and she was forced to stand aside to let people pass around her. She preferred this post office, which was in a nicer area of town, but it was more likely that she might run into someone who would recognize her from her days posing as a debutante.

  She put a hand into her reticule to feel her small collection of coins. It would be an unwelcome expense to return the book to Rutherford by pre-paid post. Of course, she could let him pay for it when it arrived, but it would be a great imposition, and she did not want to owe the man anything. That was the whole point of returning the book. She supposed she should have left it in the cottage for one of his servants to discover. But—more of her foolish sentimentality—she could not bear to abandon it there. In fact, she did not like entrusting it to the mail, either.

  A man whom she recognized emerged from the office. She involuntarily flinched. It was her instinct to recoil from anyone who might recognize her. But it was unnecessary in this case, for it was one of Lady Goodram's servants—Tesker, she thought his name was. It was hard to forget the face, for he was terribly handsome, as was the fashion of the day for footmen. It gave bored upper class ladies something more interesting to look at over dinner than the drunken pudding faces of their husbands. And Lady Goodram was a widow, after all.

  The lady kept an orderly staff, and Tesker was not the sort to gad about trying to peer behind a woman's veil. Still Rosamond held her breath and turned her face away, pretending to examine a poster, until, with the efficiency that one would expect from the very best London servants, Tesker walked off to go about his other business.

  It then occurred to her that Lady Goodram might be a good person with whom to leave the book. Surely she and Rutherford would know each other, for Lady Goodram was very close to Lord Aldley, Rutherford's best friend. Anyway, all these noble types knew one another.

  The problem was that Lady Goodram knew Rosamond's face. They had spent quite a good deal of time chatting at one of the lady's balls. Perhaps she could find a better disguise.

  Rosamond suddenly realized she had been following the servant, unconsciously. She shook her head at her own stupidity. Where was she now? She looked up the long line of greying buildings and muddy cobblestones, but did not recognize the street. Blasted addle-minded thing to do. She turned to examine the path by which she had come. She thought she could find her way back.

  But as she lifted her head to look again for some landmark, she caught the gaze of an overly curious man, who began to lumber toward her. She definitely needed a better disguise.

  Rosamond darted into an alleyway and ran down it until it exited into a square on the other side. She breathed a sigh of relief as she realized she knew where she was. It was a small enclave in the market where the purveyors of fresh-made food assembled.

  The smell of meat pies still hot from the oven was an irresistible distraction. Her stomach growled. She had not had anything to eat since morning, but she could not get complacent yet. The man might still be following her.

  She mixed into a large crowd of milling servants and peeked back at the alley. The man emerged and looked around him, squinting and scowling. Surely he would give up now, even if he did spot her. The table full of meat pies was only about ten feet away. Hunger drove her over to patronize the baker.

  Two pennies later, she had a large pie and did not scruple but to eat it right in front of the vendor. She was famished and finished it in moments, licking the gravy from her lips. What would her old acquaintance in the bon ton think if they could see her now, eating on a public street like a common slattern?

  The thought gave the food an added rebellious savour, and she wanted another pie immediately, but knew she had best move on. She recalled that there was a theatre not far from here where she might get some materials for a disguise, and the square was not a half hour walk from a boarding house where Andrews had once lodged.

  Suddenly the man loomed at her elbow.

  "Well, hello, my pretty. Why don't you let me buy you a proper meal?" He leaned in too close, and his breath reeked.

  Rosamond recoiled and without reply hurried away, aiming for the largest man she could find in the square, who happened to be a young farmer unloading crates of vegetables from a cart.

  "Cousin John!" She cried out as she approached him.

  The young man looked up and smiled at her, though appearing confused. Rosamond was relieved to see that his face had a look of decency about it, and as he straightened, it became apparent that he was truly massive.

  Rosamond rushed to shake his hand and darted a glance over her shoulder. Her persecutor had lagged back at some distance. She sighed and turned to face the young man. "Are you not John Milfort? Uncle Ned's son?"

  The man chuckled and shook his head. "I do not often get mistaken for other folk. This cousin of yours must be a biggun."

  Rosamond returned his good humour. "Ah, that he is. Forgive my brashness. Only you look so very much like him."

  "Well, it is an honour to be mistaken for any cousin of such a gentle lady as yourself."

  Rosamond realized that she was speaking like a lady. Her dress was well made, but plain black fabric would not lead anyone to believe her a lady. However, elevated speech would give her away entirely. It would not do if she wanted to blend into the sea of working folk in London. She looked again over her shoulder. The irksome swine who had pursued her was lingering across the square, watching the exchange. If only he would take
himself off.

  "Well I am not such a grand lady as that." Rosamond tried to make her voice sound not quite so refined. "But I appear to have attracted the attention of a rather rough sort of man. I do not suppose you would walk me to Mrs. Holden's boarding house."

  "I don't know where that is." The young man looked puzzled. "But I would be honoured to escort you there, if you can wait a bit while I finish unloading."

  Rosamond inclined her head. She was not sure what she would have done if he were not willing to help her, a total stranger. "It isn't far from here, and I would be happy to wait for you, thank you. My name is Mrs. Colling." She nervously glanced behind her to make certain the man kept his distance, but could not find him in the crowd. Hopefully he had gone away to pollute someone else's air.

  He bowed his head slightly. "I am John Pines—you got the John bit right." He chuckled. "Be with you in a trice, Mrs. Colling."

  Rosamond was relieved to have secured Mr. Pines’ assistance, though she supposed the boarding house she sought would not be situated in an especially bad neighbourhood. She knew Mrs. Holden let out humble but reasonably-priced and clean rooms. Andrews had told her of this place. The landlady was apparently more strict than usual, and had kicked Andrews out for his drunkenness. But Rosamond thought she might be able to persuade Mrs. Holden that she was a respectable widow—however untrue that was. And she had best take advantage of her large escort to go secure some quarters before dark.

  As she and John Pines approached the building, Rosamond was immediately put on her guard by a cluster of young ne'er-do-wells standing around the front of the building. It was her instinct to avoid men who were merely dangling about with nothing better to do. They were precisely the sorts who would always accost a young woman.