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

by Tessa Candle

  Tilly coughed, and Frobisher caught her giving a wily smile to Rutherford.

  "Made off with him?" Frobisher was puzzled. "You mean she abducted him?"

  "Yes, yes." Lady Goodram looked at him with disbelief. "Do you never listen to town gossip?"

  "As infrequently as possible. Never is not quite attainable, even for a curmudgeon like me. "

  "Ah. Well anyway," Lady Goodram continued, "abducted is a strong word, for I do not quite think Delacroix was unwilling. He stole all his brother's jewels and silver beforehand, so I would be hard pressed to call his character superior to hers. I cannot make him out to be a victim in the affair."

  "That is an understatement," Tilly scoffed playfully. "I know you are of a forgiving nature, Lady Goodram, but you might as well make a clean breast of it and call him a filthy scoundrel at once."

  "Yes. Well, he made it back into town in time to shoot at you at your own wedding, as I recall." Frobisher remembered only too well hearing that piece of town gossip, a scant day after the event, though he had been in the countryside at the time. "I beg your pardon, Tilly. I am sure it is unforgivably bad form to mention that your friend's wife once so nearly married another."

  "Quite." Rutherford was clearly annoyed.

  "Think nothing of it." Tilly waved a hand. "All is well that ends well."

  Rutherford gave Tilly another sly look. "I suppose one might argue that, far from being a bad character, Miss Dervish, as she called herself, did us all a favour by removing Delacroix from town. At least for a time."

  "It turns out that she had no altruistic motive." Lady Goodram corrected him. "She was embroiled in conning society people, and she and her swindler husband were about to be exposed for what they were, so they made a dash for the continent. Mr. Delacroix only provided a little extra capital on their way out of England."

  "Her husband?" Frobisher's sunken heart must have registered upon his face, for Rutherford refilled his glass, unbidden.

  "The man had been posing as her father, but it was later revealed that they were husband and wife." Rutherford did not look especially happy about the situation, either. "However, you need not look so crestfallen, Frobisher. You knew she was a widow, after all. That tends to imply she was once married."

  Frobisher lifted a hand to ward off his friend's jibing. "So this swindler husband has died? Is that a certainty?" He knew he was giving the impression of being too interested. Was he too interested? No. It was only that if she had a man in her life, however corrupt he might be, she would be much safer than if she were alone in London. That was all. But was he still concerned for her safety? He finished his brandy in a single swallow, and conceded that he was.

  Tilly and Lady Goodram exchanged a look, then Tilly said, "I have heard that he fell overboard on their return trip to England, after they gave Mr. Delacroix the slip on the continent. They never retrieved him from the water."

  "Very well. And no one has any new information about her whereabouts? If not, I should be off."

  "You are still going after her?" Rutherford's voice was incredulous.

  "Of course. This changes nothing. You have obligations to her on your uncle's behalf, and I have obligations to her on your behalf."

  Rutherford cocked an eyebrow.

  "Do not pull faces at me. Just because you take your oaths lightly, does not mean I do. And anyway, I have a new clue. I found the farm lad that gave her a ride. He is going to show me where he let her down. But even better, he was talking to another young man from the parish who was also in London on the same day, and who gave Mrs. Colling an escort to a nearby boarding house. Apparently some bounder was following her around—which is exactly what we feared would happen. And no wonder. But anyway, the point is that I have a real chance of finding her now, do you not see? I am not going to lose my opportunity merely because you have some scruple about her character."

  "It is not exactly a scruple. It is merely that I do not believe she wants my help, and I now suppose her capable of taking care of herself."

  Frobisher fixed Rutherford with a look of disapprobation. "Well, apparently you suppose wrongly, if she has been reduced to begging strangers for protection from other strangers."

  Rutherford sighed. "Look, Frobisher, I am truly worried that she might get you entangled in something dangerous. You can have Lucifer. You do not need to go to town. I release you from all and any obligation regarding Mrs. Colling."

  Frobisher sniffed. "It is about the principle, Rutherford, not about the horse." He pursed his lips and cast a brief glance at Tilly. "But thank you for your sudden solicitude about my letting a woman entangle me in something dangerous."

  Tilly took no umbrage from this remark, and only beamed as she walked to Frobisher's side to hand him a direction and a letter. "Well I, for one, am glad to hear of your resolve, Frobisher. Only do not forget to find Mrs. Steele while you are in London and bring her and her young attendant back with you. Keep them safe."

  "Very well, Tilly." It was just his luck to be saddled with squiring another woman about. But at the moment he would have agreed to much worse things to be rid of all the nay saying and be sped upon his journey. "I shall do my best, but if I find Mrs. Colling, it will be a rather full carriage."

  Rutherford apparently could not suppress a curl of the lips. "You will have a merry time of it—just you and a carriage full of women and children."

  Frobisher waved his hand dismissively at his smirking friend. "The farm lad is hardly a child. And if worse comes to worst, he can keep them company while I ride up top."

  They were still laughing at his expense when he took his leave of them all. But he did not care. He was closing in on Mrs. Colling—and she grew more intriguing at every turn.

  Chapter 17

  Rosamond had known the loosely tied knot would not hold, but only break her fall. However, she did not anticipate how badly she would get scraped up, or how much it would hurt to hit the ground. She prodded her legs carefully, but could not detect any major injury and so stood. Then she moved her arms—nothing broken, though she had a nasty gash showing through the torn left leg of her britches. She still had her sack, so she slapped on the man's wig and hat and quickly gathered up the rope.

  She was now in the sad little patch of the back garden, which was visible from any of the rooms upstairs. If the madam was searching the boarding house for her, it would not be long before she discovered that Mr. Hatch was not in his room.

  She wondered how much Red Martha knew and prayed that Mrs. Holden would not be harmed. She was a bit dour, but she was a decent person. And it turned out that the cautious landlady was right about Rosamond's face attracting the wrong sort of people.

  Rosamond pulled her cap low over her eyes, keeping her gaze cast downward as she shuffled along the path to the front street.

  Chapter 18

  It was late when Frobisher arrived in London. The spot where Paul set Mrs. Colling down was mostly an encampment of people bringing produce and foodstuffs into the city. There was an inexpensive inn nearby which housed working people staying overnight—the poorer clients could sleep in the stables on the cheap. Paul suggested that he might stay there, so as not to be an inconvenience.

  Frobisher assured Paul that this would not be necessary, as they could both overnight in his London home, and it took the young man some time to understand what Frobisher meant. Then the boy became very self-conscious, expressing regret that he was not dressed to be received in a lord's home.

  "For," Paul added ruefully, "even the servants in London turn themselves out quite smart—smarter than anyone I know. I could not bear to be a shame to your lordship."

  "Not to worry Paul, all will be well. I am the master in my house, the servants will treat you kindly because I will tell them to." And unlike the staff at Fenimore, his town servants actually ran the household properly.

  Paul looked sceptical, so Frobisher changed the subject. "Back to the problem at hand. Can you show me the market where your friend,
Mr. Pines, met Mrs. Colling?"

  As the carriage rolled toward the square that housed the food vendors during the day, Frobisher found himself looking about the street, as though Mrs. Colling might present herself at any turn. It was preposterous, of course. She would not be idling about in the area when she had no reason to be there.

  The market was not readily accessible by the large carriage, so they got out and walked through an alley to get to it. One of Frobisher's men followed behind. The market was abandoned, but for a few stragglers packing up.

  "And Mr. Pines said she wanted to go to Mrs. Holden's boarding house?"

  "Yes, my lord. But I don't know where it is."

  "But it is nearby?"

  "He said it was not a half hour's walk, my lord. He didn't know the street, but I reckon he could show where he went, if he was here with us."

  "Very well. We shall take the carriage around the neighbourhood to see what we can see. If we find nothing, I shall task the servants with finding it while we have a little supper."

  As the carriage rolled along the streets, Frobisher's eyes were trained on female faces in a way that they had never been before. He peered at every woman on the street until he felt quite uncouth. There were, in fact, not so many of the fairer sex out on the avenues after dark—probably mostly only those that had to be.

  Then he caught sight of a striking woman approaching her carriage her carriage in the company of three men. He squinted. It was the infamous Red Martha, unless he were mistaken. Not that Frobisher had ever made use of her particular services, but it was impossible to be a wealthy young man in London without having her pointed out to you.

  Her face was not smiling and coquettish, as one might expect. In fact, she looked incredibly angry. She addressed one of the men through her teeth while daggers flew from her eyes.

  Frobisher chuckled. Probably a client in arrears, or some such thing. They passed as the madam stepped into her carriage and rolled off in the opposite direction. A moment later, a woman rushed out from a doorway, dishevelled and bruised and looking beside herself with fright.

  Frobisher did not wish to be delayed by other people's problems, and yet could not just leave her there in her distress. He signalled the driver to stop and stepped out of the carriage. "Are you quite well, madam?"

  The woman flew to him, wringing her hands. "Oh my lord, I have been attacked in my own home!"

  Frobisher thought for a moment, then said without much feeling, "How dreadful. Very well, I shall leave one of my men to assist you and make sure the assailant is gone. Did he rob you? Are you seriously harmed?"

  The woman grew braver as she found herself in more civilized company. "No. That is to say, I do not know if they have robbed me. I have not had time to check. But they boxed my ears good, and I shall have a black eye tomorrow, I'll warrant. Such ruffians! A person ought to be safe within the walls of her own house."

  "Quite. I hope you will go to Bow Street tomorrow and report this." Frobisher found his interest in the woman dwindling now that he had ascertained that there was little he could do for her.

  "Yes, my lord." As her initial shock dissipated, she became embarrassed—as though realizing it had been foolish to run out into the street. She was no longer in danger, after all, and there was nothing any of them could do for her.

  Frobisher decided to make some pro forma gesture and then get away as quickly as possible. He was very hungry and beginning to look forward to a good supper. "Is there anyone I can send for?" He offered without conviction.

  She looked at him with hopeful gratitude. "Oh, if it would not be too much of an imposition, my lord, I should very much like to have my brother come to stay. He only lives a short way from here, but I have no servant to send. My woman of all work comes in the morning."

  Frobisher suppressed a sigh, but he supposed he could provide a servant for the errand and still continue home for some sustenance. He gestured to one of his carriage men. "Do you have a direction?"

  She recited the way to her brother's home to the servant and then added, "He is a solitary man and has but one servant, who will not want to admit you at this hour. But tell him that Mrs. Holden sent you, that it is a dire emergency and he must come."

  Frobisher drew in a breath and all thoughts of supper flew out of his mind. "I find I have neglected to introduce myself. I am the Marquess Fenimore. Might we wait inside and chat while I send my carriage for your brother, Mrs. Holden?"

  Chapter 19

  Rosamond did not like her situation in the least. She had only enjoyed her room for half an hour before she found herself out on the street again. And she was loitering about sporting the worst possible costume—showing a woman's face, but clad in men's clothing. This was not safe.

  She needed somewhere private where she could reapply her disguise—and then she would never take it off again.

  Rosamond hung about in the shadowy inset doorway of a dilapidated building some distance down the other side of the street and stared out at the well-lit area in front of Mrs. Holden's boarding house.

  The residence looked peaceful from the outside, but she could only imagine what sorts of effrontery were going on within.

  Unfortunately she could not intervene to rescue the woman. But might she not lend assistance after Red Martha and her henchmen left? Perhaps something might be done. She could at least make certain that Mrs. Holden got treated by a doctor, if it were necessary.

  She was not sure the other tenants would be of any assistance. Not that Rosamond had met any of them, but in her experience people were generally not helpful unless you gave them a reason to be.

  This philanthropic thought was interrupted by the emergence of Red Martha from the doorway. Rosamond's pulse surged and her stomach sickened. The madam was followed by two glowering yahoos. Lord! What those ham-fisted clods might have done to that poor woman.

  It was not that she found Mrs. Holden especially amiable, but Rosamond could tell that the woman's terseness came principally from living in such close proximity to a bunch of scoundrels—in short humanity, or at least that portion of it that had congealed around the edges of London's great stewing pot.

  Rosamond supposed she was, herself, a scoundrel, but she and Andrews had never resorted to actually harming anyone. And they never would have even considered swindling someone decent like Mrs. Holden.

  A slighter figure slipped out of the shadows and joined ranks with the henchmen, like a terrier prancing along behind two mastiffs, as they followed Red Martha up the street toward an awaiting carriage. It was the man who had followed her to the market and tried to buy her off with a meal. Was he somehow in league with Red Martha? He must have been the one to lead them to Rosamond.

  Unfortunately for him, Red Martha did not appear to be especially thankful. In fact she looked furious. She berated the man at length. Rosamond could make out some choice language, and the words "you'll get nothing" and "wasting my time."

  Rosamond smirked. At least the filthy spying worm would not profit from persecuting her. On the other hand, it was rather alarming that Red Martha was going to such lengths to find her. Granted, she probably viewed Rosamond as prime meat for her market, but Rosamond was hardly worth a trip across town to personally attend a violent trespass that could land Red Martha in the nick.

  On the other hand, from what Rosamond had seen, the madam enjoyed being directly involved in the procuring aspect of her trade. She shook her head. Someone should give that nasty sadistic witch what she had coming.

  It would not be her, though. Rosamond's shoulders slumped. She had her own neck to save and could only cower in the shadows.

  Another carriage rolled past and obstructed her view for a few moments. By the time it had passed, the whole unsavoury party had reached Red Martha's carriage and piled into it—except for the maggot who had been spying on her. He trotted off in some other direction as Red Martha's vehicle rolled away.

  But the other carriage stopped suddenly, and Rosamond was surprise
d to behold Mrs. Holden flying out into the street towards the newly arrived coach.

  It was a great relief to see her. Mrs. Holden looked dishevelled, but if she was conscious and able to run, she could not be seriously hurt. A man stepped out of the vehicle to investigate what was the matter with the distraught lady.

  Rosamond gaped. It was Frobisher! Was she so ill-concealed that even a brainless, self-entitled marquess could find her? He must have clever servants. The nobility could do nothing for themselves.

  After all the panic of the sudden flight from her new residence, Rosamond did not think she could be more alarmed, but her heart beat faster, and the heat rose in her cheeks.

  What if he were cleverer than she had given him credit for? Might he pose a real risk to her? She did not know if she were more irritated or intrigued to see him take Mrs. Holden's arm and assist her back to the boarding house.

  As she waited, his carriage left and returned shortly, delivering a man to join the party inside.

  Rosamond remained in her shadowy spot, shivering and peering at the house until Frobisher finally left. When his carriage was no longer visible, she experienced a sense of loss. As much as his presence endangered her, she felt entirely alone and exposed now that he was gone. Even if he was only here to snoop around after her, she was glad that he had been kind to Mrs. Holden.

  She set aside her sentiments and steeled herself to return to the house. After all, she had a key, and Mrs. Holden would likely be occupied with whomever it was that Frobisher's carriage had been sent to fetch. Rosamond could probably sneak up the stairs unnoticed. No one, after all, was looking for the very ordinary man, Mr. Hatch. They were looking for the pretty widow, Mrs. Colling.

  She needed to keep her undisguised face cast down, in case anyone should be about the entry room. But if she could not creep in undetected, if she was to be found out, it might as well be now. At least then she would know where things stood. She would hate to lose the week's rent, but she could slip away and find another place to dwell.