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

by Tessa Candle

  Andrews had showed her the secret way into the building. For a swindler who assumed many identities, theatres were always a useful resource in a pinch. The small back door was locked, but easily picked. The local troupe who ran the theatre were not getting rich off of it, by any means, and Andrews always left money for them when he took something for a disguise.

  Only cheat the people who deserve it, he had told her.

  This conveniently coincided with Rosamond's own way of thinking. She was never happy about deceiving good people, however necessary. But she did not think she could ever bring herself to steal from them through that deception.

  The sun was not yet properly awake, but although theatre folk were not renowned as morning people, instinct told her to get what she needed and get out.

  She had selected an outfit of padded men's clothing and other necessities for her disguise, along with a couple of large hats, when she heard footsteps coming from the hall.

  Her escape route to the secret door thus cut off, Rosamond grabbed her plunder and slipped into a closet full of brooms, buckets and rags.

  She willed her heart to stop pounding as she listened for signs that they had entered the costume room.

  "Is this the place?" came a half whisper.

  "Yes. Here is the cosmetics cabinet."

  "I feel terribly guilty about taking these things."

  "Well, you wouldna have to, if you hanna thrown away what I gave you as soon as you heard the ruddy bastard was in the nick."

  "You do not have to remind me. That was imprudent, I know. But it was like a celebration—like throwing off my chains. All that makeup was oppressive to the skin, and you cannot imagine how it feels to live in constant fear of detection."

  Rosamond smiled bleakly. A kindred spirit. And here was Rosamond, such a refugee that she had to hide from other refugees.

  The other voice continued, "Aye, aye. It was still foolish. An'all there is a shortage in town, at the moment. But donna let your scruples trouble you. I'll leave some coins and a note. This quality isna to be had cheaply. Thank goodness you kept the wig. That is worth its weight in gold."

  "Yes, and I still have Oakley's things."

  Rosamond moved involuntarily to relieve the tension in her shoulder, and one of the brooms shifted, slipping and rattling against an empty bucket."

  The whispering stopped, and the sound of rustling of skirts and rapid footsteps told Rosamond that the two had swiftly retreated.

  She peeked out of the closet. The room was now empty.

  What a dangerous world they lived in, where women had to mask themselves to survive. She wished she could don her disguise now. Being a working class man would make her almost invisible and much safer.

  But she had to make one more stop before her identity changed. And the agency would be more likely to give her the information she sought, if she could plausibly pass herself off as a would-be governess.

  She stepped out of the closet, stuffed her disguise into her bag, dropped a few coins on the toilette table and departed.

  Chapter 12

  Frobisher arrived at Blackwood Manor in a bleak mood. He had wasted an entire day trying to get some intelligence from the neighbouring farmer, whose workmen had now returned from London. He should have sent the servants, but Mrs. Colling's rebuke, you appear to be well inured to handing all your work over to the servants, still echoed in his mind. It was a foolish motive, for it is not as though she would ever know whether or not he had spoken to the man personally.

  It turned out that the farmer's cart had departed much earlier, and Frobisher would have known it, if he had enquired about the hour of departure during his first visit. Some puzzle-solver he was. And now he had to trot into Rutherford's home and admit that he was an idiot.

  The servant showed him into the parlour, where Rutherford was seated with a pack of puppies around his feet. The duke rose to greet his friend, carefully stepping around the whelps. "Ho, neighbour. And what news?"

  "It will not be news to you, but I have made a great discovery."

  "Oh?" Rutherford tilted his head.

  "My visit to the neighbouring farm has revealed to me that I am a beefwit." Frobisher paused to give his friend a chance to make a crack. Rutherford only shrugged, so he continued, "If I had enquired about when the farmer's cart departed for London, I would have known that Mrs. Colling could not have been a passenger."

  "There, there. Do not be so hard on yourself." Rutherford was being too kind.

  Frobisher gave his friend a suspicious look. "I should think you would be more severe upon me, for the delay has cost me precious time. Her trail will be stone cold by the time I get to town."

  "I do not think the metaphor holds, really. There was never going to be any trail. And London is a maze made up of faceless people. You might as well save yourself the trip. She could be anywhere."

  Frobisher could not believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying I should give up?"

  Rutherford looked uncomfortable. "Well…"

  "What happened to the man who was desperate to find the young woman his uncle had sworn him to assist and protect?"

  Rutherford sat down again, issuing a heavy sigh. "It is no good. I cannot keep this from you, but I can only tell you a little, or I will betray a confidence."

  Frobisher huffed impatiently, but also seated himself across from Rutherford. "Out with it, then."

  "I have learned that the widow is not all she ought to be, that is all. I cannot say more."

  "You mean she is…" Frobisher grasped for the words, “a bit of muslin." The thought disturbed him more than he wished to admit.

  "No, no." Rutherford was quick to correct the mistake. "I cannot tell you what, precisely, but not that. Suffice it to say that she is of a character that will make her much more adept at surviving in London than I had previously apprehended."

  "But she will still be vulnerable." Frobisher was taken aback at what he was hearing. It sounded as though Rutherford were suggesting they just forget about her and leave her to her own devices.

  "I suppose, but I am sure I do not have to tell you that there are some women who can turn vulnerability into an asset—into a weapon, even."

  Frobisher took in a sudden breath. The way his friend said it shocked him—as though Frobisher of all people should agree with this, this… what was it? This misogyny. "I do not know why you would assume I should be sympathetic to the proposal that we leave a lovely and vulnerable young woman alone and defenceless in London. I should not have to convince a quixotic knight like you that we have a duty to protect her."

  "Lovely, eh?" Rutherford was grinning. "Well, well. Did you not tell me that you had never even seen her face?"

  "I am going by reports." Frobisher waved the jibe aside. Where were the damned refreshments? "So what does a marquess have to do to get a drink out of a duke?"

  Rutherford harrumphed. "Give the servants a minute, Bish. They are polishing up the decanters and refilling them. Will not be but a trice."

  "At least your servants actually," Frobisher's lace cuffs fluttered as he waved his hand, "do things. I practically have to dress myself, and there is never a glass to hand."

  "Sounds like you have the wrong servants. Or perhaps they do not care for their new master. You are not the son of the former marquess, you know."

  "Neither are you the son of the former duke."

  "But I brought puppies with me—I believe that helped." Rutherford smiled and stroked the long ears of Mick, the nearest pup. "Whereas you commenced with changing everything as soon as you arrived."

  Frobisher scoffed. "That should hardly signify."

  "I suppose. But it is human nature to resist change and resent an interloper. They probably feel as though they are remaining loyal to their old master."

  "Well, it is a fine thing to give dereliction of duty the honorary title of loyalty. How very convenient. But do not change the subject. What is it that you think you know about Mrs. Colling that makes her u
nworthy of your protection?"

  "I do not say unworthy, only un-needful. I cannot give further explanation, but suffice it to say that she is not who anyone thinks she is, and my uncle was probably entirely taken in by her."

  Frobisher found this hazy assertion unconvincing. It was irritating that Rutherford would so lightly set aside his solemn oath to protect. "And you think that this vague belief that the old duke was deceived relieves you of your duty to fulfil your promise to him?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then why are you telling me not to go to London?"

  Rutherford's laugh was exasperated. "It does not relieve me of my duty to protect her, but it relieves me of any misapprehension I had about the degree to which she requires protection."

  "I am still going to find her." Frobisher's chin jutted out, and he felt like a petulant school boy. "And you are still giving me that horse. Or do you think that your new information also lets you out of that bargain?"

  Rutherford snorted. "Oh, so this is about the mare, is it? Rest assured, Lucifer is all yours, if you can find me the mysterious widow." He raised a brow. "I only hope that, in either case, you will not be getting more than you bargained for."

  Chapter 13

  Going into the agency was nerve wracking for Rosamond. Perhaps it was because there was a chance she might find a clue to her old governess' whereabouts, and would then have to find a way to speak with her. After all these years, what would she say? She could hardly approve of how her pupil had turned out. Or perhaps it was because she knew it was very unlikely that she would find out anything at all, but she needed to so badly.

  The dowdy grey building looked out on the dirty street. Throngs of young women, most probably in want of work, walked to and fro, some of them dropping into the agency. Rosamond knew how poor their chances of getting a good position were.

  Most families who could afford governesses got their placements through referrals. The upper classes were an insular lot, petrified by the possibility that their households might be polluted with the wrong sort of people. They needed to protect their daughters from being tainted by association with anyone whose history was the least bit suspect—in short, from people like Rosamond

  She swallowed and extended a gloved hand to open the door. The rusty hinges screeched a warning that put her teeth on edge. Rosamond shuddered. There was a queue for the clerk's desk, so she took her place behind the many hopefuls, in a cloud of London sweat, hot starch and cheap floral sachets.

  She had waited a half hour and was two places away from being served, when the door hinges screeched, and a grand woman, dressed in a very fine robin's egg blue silk day dress bustled past Rosamond, rose-scented vapour streaming behind her, and pushed her way to the front of the line.

  "Oy!" The girl at the front addressed the pushy budger.

  The woman's garnet earrings glittered, and a long curl of bright red hair slid around her neck like a pet serpent, following the line of a throbbing blue vein, as she turned and gave the complaining lass a deadly stare.

  Rosamond gasped. She recognized the face. It was Red Martha. This woman had tried to “put her to work” when Rosamond ran away from her cousin and ended up in London for the first time, looking for her governess. Andrews had intervened and saved her. That is how Rosamond met him—how she had started on her career as a swindler. It was a better lot than the sort of employment that Red Martha had in mind for her. She shuddered and shrank back, thankful for her veil.

  Would the woman recognize her? Surely not. It was so many years ago, and Rosamond had practically been a child at their last meeting.

  The plaintive young woman at the front of the line held her tongue and cast her gaze down. Red Martha turned back to the clerk, deftly slipping something across the counter and leaning in.

  Rosamond strained to hear what she said.

  "…Mrs. Johnson come looking for work yet?... Anyone else enquiring… with red hair?"

  Rosamond swallowed. Mrs. Johnson. Could the madam be looking for Rosamond's governess? She tried to mentally calm her pulse and breathing. It was very important that she not give away that she had heard anything. She called on all her training as a con artist and forced herself to assume a bored, dull look, as though her mind were entirely elsewhere.

  The clerk shook her head and went to tuck something into her pocket. But Red Martha's hand darted out suddenly. She grasped the woman's arm and muttered something else. The clerk shook her head again, this time fearfully. "Of course not, ma'am."

  Red Martha released the clerk's arm, turned from the desk and made to leave. But she stopped abruptly beside Rosamond. "What gorgeous hair you have." The voice was full of honey.

  Rosamond winced. Her wig had been arranged as plainly as possible, but it was not practicable to reduce the volume or hide the curls. And raven hair was all the rage at the moment, so it tended to catch the attention of the fashionable. She kept her face cast down, but sneaked glances at the awful woman.

  "Thank you, my lady." She tried to sound like a feckless young woman from the country, to disguise herself from the madam.

  But it appeared to convince Red Martha that this widow would never find work as a governess. The woman's mouth curled into a sickly sweet smile, and her heavy rose perfume clogged Rosamond's lungs. Then the red haired demoness leaned closer, trying to penetrate the veil with her gaze. "And what a face. None of the Quality is going to want that near their sons. But you should not hide your beauty." With a flick of her wrist she produced a silver card case, embellished with a single ruby. Her long fingers extracted a card and presented it to Rosamond. "Here is my address. If you should not find work, come to me. I may have a position for you at my academy."

  Rosamond sickened. She knew very well what sort of academy it was. But she accepted the card meekly, keeping her gaze cast down. "Thank you for your kindness, my lady."

  Red Martha did not correct this second misapplication of the title—perhaps because she believed the truth would become apparent soon enough, or perhaps because it amused her to be styled a lady when she was the furthest thing from it.

  The madam bustled out of the office with the same superior air as when she entered. Even the door hinges seemed cowed and squawked less loudly as she made her exit.

  Rosamond released a breath in a faint hiss. She knew not what to do. There was no longer any reason for her to stay, for she could not make any enquiry of the clerk now, knowing that Red Martha would find out about anyone who was asking questions. But it would look odd if she left immediately, and besides, Rosamond wished to give Red Martha a chance to be very far away before she walked out the door.

  Yet what could possibly be the madam's interest in a widowed governess? Had Rosamond's old governess fallen into some sort of bad business with Red Martha? Impossible. But then again, it would probably also seem unthinkable to anyone who knew her as a child that Rosamond should have ended up a swindler. Desperate times called for desperate measures. And Mrs. Johnson was a common enough name. It might not be her governess, after all.

  Rosamond sighed and stepped forward incrementally as the woman in front of her was served. She would make an enquiry after a position using a false name, then leave. Checking back at the agency would give her an excuse to be there when Red Martha arrived, if she knew when she would show up. She might overhear some information about the governess. Rosamond frowned. Or she might get snatched and forced into work at one of Red Martha's brothels.

  But the more Rosamond thought about it, the more she wondered why Red Martha was coming in person at all. Surely the clerk could simply send a note if the governess showed up, or she heard anything.

  As she left the agency, she discovered the answer to her question. Red Martha was chatting with young girls who were on their way to the agency, handing them her card as she had done to Rosamond. An assistant was wading among the pedestrians, singling out street children and handing them slices of bread. Some of the prettier children received red bonnets or caps.<
br />
  Rosamond shivered. She knew the person worked for Red Martha, because that was exactly the trick the procuress had used to ensnare Rosamond, so many years ago. The children who accepted her gifts bore a sense of obligation which could be exploited, and many also bore a sign, the red hat, that would make it easy for Red Martha's henchmen to later identify and round them up.

  The woman was evil. She preyed on the poor orphans and the gullible country chits who found their way to London, just as Rosamond had done. But she must be incredibly rich by now. There was no need for her to do this work personally. Rosamond could only conclude that she did it because she enjoyed it. Yes, it was not mere greed. There was a sickness to that smile.

  Rosamond realized, a moment too late, that she was staring, for Red Martha turned her gaze to the front step of the agency and saw her there. The woman's smile broadened and she inclined her head in greeting.

  Rosamond froze a moment, then remembered herself and curtseyed before rushing off in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 14

  Frobisher had risen early to make the rounds among the local farms where he had not yet enquired—many of them were too small to even send much to the London markets, but he wanted to be thorough. If anyone had given her a ride, they would at least know where she got off the cart, and that could be a very useful starting place.

  He walked the last fifty feet of the dirty road—dodging the many deep potholes that had made him think the better of bringing his carriage up the farmer’s drive—to arrive at a small thatched cottage. He knocked on the door. The short, thin woman who answered beamed and was not at all surprised to see him. She curtseyed deeply. "Why, my lord, you do us a great honour in coming to visit our humble home."

  It occurred to Frobisher that this was probably the home of one of the tenant farmers who paid rents to his estate. The old marquess might even have deigned to pay visits to them at Christmas and such. He felt a twinge of guilt. It was not the sort of activity that at all interested him, but he supposed it would be a great highlight in a tenant's life to have the lord of the estate pay a call. "I am the Marquess Fenimore. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."