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

by Tessa Candle

  She nodded. "Oh I know, my lord. I am Mrs. Field. I am so honoured. I heard that your lordship was asking around about anyone who sent a cart into London t'other day." She stepped aside and gestured. "Would your lordship be pleased to come inside?"

  He could not think of a polite way to decline, but he did not wish to be delayed by an unnecessary social call—and anyway, it would also be kinder not to put the good woman out. "I thank you, Mrs. Field, but I am in something of a hurry."

  The woman was undaunted, and ducked quickly through the door, calling, "Of course, my lord. But pray let me fetch some refreshments."

  He sighed in exasperation, but the woman returned in mere moments, a young woman in tow behind, carrying a chipped plate.

  "Mary, offer his lordship some of those cucumber sandwiches you made." Mrs. Field handed him a tumbler of ale. "We do not have any tea to offer your lordship, but my daughter brews a very fine ale."

  Frobisher inattentively accepted the clay vessel and a sandwich. It was as though the woman had only been waiting for him to arrive. The daughter stood quietly to the side, her gaze downcast. Frobisher sighed internally and nibbled the sandwich.

  The bread and cucumbers were fresh, and the butter was not over-salted. He was aware that butter fetched a great price, and using some of their butter stock for this purpose instead of selling it was a sacrifice. He resolved to be gracious, and sipped the ale. He only drank wine, himself, but it was also good. "Thank you, Mrs. Field. They are delicious."

  The woman's grin broadened. "Oh I am so pleased your lordship approves. My Mary is a real little kitchen fairy."

  So, that was it. The woman was hoping to put forward her daughter to get some work. And why not? It was not as though he was overly pleased with his own servants—though he had no complaints about the food, particularly, except that it was often served cold.

  "I am sorry to be so terse, Mrs. Field. But have any of your men given a young woman a ride to town on a cart recently?"

  "Oh, we don't have any workers, my lord. But my boy, Paul, said he gave a pretty widow a ride into London with his load of cabbages."

  Frobisher's heart leapt with hope. Finally some information. "Is Paul here now? Can I speak to him?"

  "He is out at work with his father. He said he don't know the name of the place he set her down."

  "Could he show me? In fact, do be so kind as to fetch him back, Mrs. Field, and send him to the manor as quickly as possible. I want him to come with me to London and show me the location. I will pay him for his trouble. And if you have a horse you can spare, send him on it to hasten his coming to me. I shall reimburse you for that, too."

  "Yes of course, my lord." She stepped into the cottage and spoke a few words inside, and a minute later a boy darted out, making a hasty bow before running off. She re-emerged behind him. "It won't be but an hour, my lord."

  It was ridiculous for Frobisher to be impatient about a trifling delay, but now that he had some information to go on, he was eager to get away.

  "I must return home and prepare for the journey. Send him to me when he arrives. One of my men will bring the horse back to you."

  "Yes, my lord."

  As he made his way back to the waiting carriage, Frobisher considered his good luck. Finally someone who could narrow down, if not Mrs. Colling's whereabouts, at least which quarter of London she might have started out at. The only question was whether he should stop by at Blackwood to update Rutherford before he left. Was there any point? His lips twisted with misgiving. Rutherford would probably only try to dissuade him.

  Chapter 15

  Rosamond squared her shoulders and focused on perfecting her gait. It had to be convincing, easy, but not too self-confident. And definitely no swaying of the hips.

  She was but a few minutes walk from Mrs. Holden's boarding house, and it was imperative that she pass herself off credibly or she would be forced to go somewhere less savoury for the night.

  It was not her first time disguising herself as a man, but her breasts had grown since then. It made her nervous and thankful for the extra padding of the disguise, which masked her feminine contours.

  The evening gloom was beginning to settle in as she arrived and introduced herself as Mr. Hatch. Mrs. Holden once again saw her into the clean but sparsely decorated parlour.

  The woman looked at her without particular remark and said, "You are come rather late. If you are looking for lodgings, this will still count as a full day."

  Rosamond made her voice low and hoarse, "Indeed I am come for lodgings. What are your terms?"

  "A half crown for a week, paid in advance, with a bit of supper included. No cavorting with women and if you show up drunk, you are out—without your remaining rent."

  "Very well." Rosamond pulled out a purse and produced two shillings and six pence. "I can see you run a clean establishment, and I have faith that the rooms will suit me. Here's payment for the first week."

  The woman snatched up the coins before adding, "You are too late for today's dinner, but I shall put out a cold plate for you."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Holden."

  When she was alone in her room, she locked the door and removed her man's wig to reveal her head of auburn hair, carefully braided close to her scalp and pinned so as not to poke out from under the wig. She did not bother to put on her black wig. No one would disturb her here, and her head so infrequently went uncovered that it was a great relief not to have that mass of curls plonked upon it.

  Then she peeled off the eyebrows and beard, and retrieved a mirror and cloth from her pack. Wetting the latter from the pitcher of water supplied by Hrs. Holden, she set about rubbing off the makeup and dirt that she had used to give her face a tan and more masculine features. It was nice to let her skin breathe, but the tea staining underneath the makeup remained unfaded. She looked terribly unladylike and wild.

  "Good. I am unladylike and wild, so there." She stuck out her tongue at the mirror, then sat with an exhausted sigh on the small bed. She was too tired to bother changing out of her clothing, so returned her accoutrements to the pack as she looked around at her new chamber.

  It was passable. The window was a good size and it opened. Of the two rooms Mrs. Holden had free, Rosamond chose the one closest the tree that stood in the back enclosure near the house. It would block her light, but it was not as though she would spend her days reading and drinking tea. And having a tree outside ones window could prove useful.

  There was a closet, for which she had no use, for everything was kept in her pack, always at the ready for a hasty departure. Aside from the cot she sat upon, the only other furniture was a slightly wobbly table, where Mrs. Holden had set the promised plate of food. Her mouth watered.

  She seated herself at the table and fiercely gobbled up a slightly stale meat pie by the light of a taper, for which she had paid Mrs. Holden extra. As she washed her hasty meal down with a tumbler of ale—Mrs. Holden's own, and not to be immoderately consumed, of course—Rosamond thought about her fate and her dwindling store of coins.

  She once again cursed herself for letting her grief and pride make her leave behind the generous purse the old duke had left to her. She needed to find some sort of work, or she would soon run out of money and be without a place to stay. Then Red Martha or some similar vulture would come hovering around.

  She opened the tattered cloth bag she had retrieved from the well at Brookshire, and withdrew her most precious possessions. The letter she merely set gently on the table. She dared not unfold it again. No matter how much she longed to read the words her father had written her on the day of her confirmation, she could not risk its falling to pieces. He had died shortly thereafter, and this was her last memory—her last connection to him. She had committed it to memory, yet still loved to read it. But however much it might nourish her lonely heart, it needed to be intact if it was to be of any material use to her.

  The ring, which she had cleaned up as best she could, glimmered in the candle light. I
t was her father's signet ring—he had no title, but this item had been in the family a very long time. He had used it as a seal. She remembered watching in fascination as he applied it to his letters. Once he had even let her press it into the wax for him.

  "This will be yours someday, Rossy." He had said.

  At the time she had grinned at him happily, not realizing that it would only be hers when he died.

  When Cousin Peter showed up after her father's death and began counting up the silver and removing paintings, Rosamond felt compelled to retrieve the ring from her father's desk drawer and ferret it away. Her instincts were vindicated by the events that followed. And she chose the right item to hold onto, for although her mother's jewellery was much more valuable—and it all disappeared from their home very shortly after the arrival of her cousin—the ring could prove her identity.

  At the time she could not have known that her filthy, creeping, leering cousin would come after her one drunken night when she was only thirteen, and she would be forced to run away without retrieving her treasures.

  All she knew then was that she missed her father and her heart was breaking. She needed something to remind her—to connect her to him, when everything familiar to her was rapidly being stripped from her home. Hiding the ring and the letter behind the well stone allowed her to hold onto the memory of family, of belonging to someone.

  It was not unlike her motive for stealing the book from Rutherford. She gaped at the sudden insight. It was exactly like that. Another father figure, another death, another interloper, another need to hold onto a token. Of course, Rutherford, for all his faults, was not comparable to the ravening dung ball that was her Cousin Peter.

  But it was demoralizing to think that she still thought like a desperately lonely, barely adolescent girl. It was a weakness in her, this need for a connection. It endangered her. Yet it was that very need that had driven her to preserve the letter and the ring. Andrews had told her it would prove who she was some day. He impressed upon her the need to speak to a lawyer.

  She removed a card from her pocket. Dorstly and Son, Barristers. He said they would help her.

  Surely if she could speak to a lawyer, something could be done. But revealing herself to anyone created the risk that she would be discovered. Dead women could not bring legal actions. Still, would it not be better to get the process started before her twenty-first year?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a ruckus below. Rosamond froze and listened.

  "You cannot intrude into my house! There are rules and it is past visiting hours." Mrs. Holden sounded extremely unhappy.

  "I must see one of your tenants—a young lady. Very beautiful. I can make it worth your while." The words came out as a long purr that was at once ingratiating and faintly menacing.

  It was Red Martha. Rosamond was sure of it. She placed the ring and letter back in her bag, grabbed her pack and stuffed the last bits of her disguise into it. She did not have time to even put on her wig. She mentally thanked Andrews for teaching her to always insist upon a room with a tree—where it could be had. She had a length of rope in her pack. Andrews had taught her well.

  "Madame," Mrs. Holden's voice was firm, "I do not know who you are, but at the moment I do not have any lady tenants. And even if I did, I would certainly not let you go tromping upstairs with two—"

  Rosamond secured one end of the rope sloppily to a tree branch outside the window. She could hear the sounds of a scuffle and yelling downstairs.

  "Unhand me, you brutes! I shall have you before a magistrate for this!"

  Rosamond winced, but could not wait around to see how things turned out. She slung her bag over her shoulder, took hold of the rope and jumped, flinging the window closed behind her just before she dropped.

  Chapter 16

  When Frobisher saw Lady Goodram's carriage pulling around to the stables as he approached Blackwood Manor, he cursed himself for deciding to take leave of Rutherford before heading for London.

  Lady Goodram was one of the women Frobisher made an exception for in his bitter heart. She was kind and brilliant and generally noble—in the best sense. And she had never tried to fob any unwed relatives off on him. However, her presence would lead to added delay, which irked him.

  He had to find Mrs. Colling before something awful happened to her in London, yet at every turn he was interrupted and stalled.

  "Paul," he turned to the farmer's son who had come to show him where he had let off Mrs. Colling, "will you wait here for a short time? I should speak with R—the duke."

  Paul was speechless for a moment, but then he wiped his palms on what was probably his best jacket and cleared his throat. "I am at your lordship's service."

  He was a good lad, and a large one—only fourteen years old and already almost too big to fit in the carriage. Perhaps he was shocked into his best manners by suddenly meeting a marquess, but he also seemed very sober-minded for his age. Clearly his father trusted him to take the cart into town, so he must be reliable. Yes, Frobisher would find a place for both him and his sister. Once he sorted out the problem of the mysterious widow, he could start sorting out his delinquent house servants.

  When Frobisher walked into the drawing room to exchange greetings with Rutherford and Tilly and the recently arrived guests, they were arranging themselves and taking their first sips of tea. Lady Goodram had brought a young lady with her, the Duke of Grendleridge's daughter, Miss Dawling—she eschewed any application of a curtesy title.

  Frobisher declined the offer of refreshments. "I beg your pardon for the incivility, but I cannot stay long. I must run off to London on important business."

  "Ah yes." Lady Goodram tapped her smiling lips thoughtfully. "I have heard all about it from Rutherford. I came bearing a message from your quarry, you see, which I was quite puzzled to receive. So naturally I would not be satisfied until he had supplied me with all the details of your intrigues with the woman. She sounds utterly fascinating." Her eyes sparkled. "Good taste in literature, too, which is a trait I always observe to be linked to scandalous women."

  "What message?" Frobisher realized even as this hasty question left his lips that it was put rather coarsely. He shook his head. "I beg your pardon, but I am very desirous of any information that might aid me in my search."

  "Not at all." Lady Goodram's rings sparkled as she waved her hand with a graceful rotation of the wrist, as if to magically dispel any need for pardon. "She left a novel which she desired me to deliver to the Duke of Bartholmer."

  "Did you see her? Was the letter addressed? Did she leave a card?"

  "No." Lady Goodram's nose twitched. "She left it on my doorstep with a note and slipped away. A most irregular young woman. I wish she had bothered to call on me, for I was spending a rather dull evening in at the time. A bit of spiked champagne and a chat with an adventuress would have been just the thing."

  Frobisher would have found the adventuress aspersion irksome, except that he knew Lady Goodram meant no insult to the widow. "Adventuress?" He could not keep a note of profound interest from creeping into his voice.

  "Lady Goodram has already met your young widow," Tilly explained.

  Frobisher's nostrils flared and he pressed his lips together, bracing for the teasing he knew was about to befall him. "She is not my young widow. I am doing this for Rutherford."

  "Oh, indeed?" Lady Goodram hid a smirk behind her teacup. "That is probably just as well. When Rutherford described her to me, I knew she had to be the debutante heiress I met some time back. There could hardly be two such beauties about. Only she went by another name, then."

  Frobisher's heart raced. This was a clue indeed. Perhaps he might now learn her real identity. "I pray you will not keep me in suspense. Who is she?"

  "Who she is might remain a mystery for a time." Rutherford's voice held a note of caution.

  "True." Lady Goodram added, then turned again to Frobisher. "But when I met her, she went by the name of Miss Dervish. I believe you two wer
e introduced at one of my balls."

  Frobisher searched his memory. "Miss Dervish you say? I do not quite recall. No, it does not sound familiar."

  The whole party laughed at him.

  "What?" Frobisher let his pique show through the patrician coolness. "Am I to remember the name of every debutante I meet? Unmarried ladies are a constant pitfall for me. I must say I rather do my best to forget them."

  Lady Goodram wiped her eye with a lace kerchief. "You should beg Miss Dawling's pardon for such a speech."

  "Not at all." Miss Dawling's plain features arranged themselves into a satirical expression. "I take no offence at all. I find myself rather sympathetic to the marquess at the moment, for I have my own sources of persecution."

  Frobisher crudely turned the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Yes, well, I meant no offence of course. Only tell me, Lady Goodram, what do you know about this Miss Dervish?"

  "The principal thing is that her name is not Miss Dervish. Whoever she might actually be, either she is marvellously good at disguising her true nature, or she was brought up rather higher than one would expect from a swindler. She spoke and carried herself like a very well bred and elegant young lady."

  "A swindler?" Frobisher, who had been standing, sat down suddenly. "Perhaps I shall have that brandy, after all, Rutherford.

  Rutherford grinned and handed him a glass. "I did warn you that she is not all she appears to be."

  Frobisher took an inelegant gulp. "But you were rather vague about it, as you might recall." He turned back to Lady Goodram. "And is there no mistake? You are certain?"

  "Quite sure. She made off with Lord Delacroix's younger brother last year, while he was convalescing after that infamous attack by his carriage driver."