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

by Tessa Candle

  When Mrs. Holden returned to her place by the fire, Rosamond opened the missive and read.

  Mr. Hatch,

  The position of hermit is to be yours, if you can be ready to depart for the estate tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp. I shall call then, and if you are not ready, I shall move on to the next candidate. No time for shilly-shallying and dillydallying.

  Sincerely, etc.,

  Matthew Patton

  Rosamond rejoiced, for this would be the very best of arrangements. It would get her out of London and away from Red Martha's unwholesome interest. It would also put her somewhere that surely Cousin Peter would never look. Unfortunately, she did not know where she was going, and she needed to give a direction to Mrs. Holden, in case Mr. Trent should send her word at the boarding house. She would have to extract that information from Mr. Patton in the morning.

  Her happiness was not unmitigated, either, for she was extremely frustrated to be leaving London without having learned a whit about where her old governess might be. She had Red Martha's interference to thank for that. But she still wondered what possible reason the madam could have for trying to locate the governess. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck. It only now occurred to Rosamond that Red Martha's interest in each of them might not be a coincidence. Could that evil woman somehow be in league with her cousin?

  It was most certainly a good time to be getting out of town.

  Chapter 26

  The day after arriving back at his country estate, Frobisher called early at Blackwood Manor. Mrs. Steele had only had one night to recover from her flight from London, so he did not expect to see her. But he wished to be assured that she and her boy servant were settled in properly.

  More importantly, he wished to know that the prisoner had not escaped in the night. He had some misgivings about transporting the scoundrel to the estate, even if he was bound and under guard. He did not fancy the idea of that knife-wielding fiend lurking around the neighbourhood.

  As Rutherford greeted him in the parlour, Frobisher noted his friend's shadowed eyes.

  "You look like you have had a night of it." Frobisher tried to make his voice sound light.

  "That I have. It does not sit well with me having an assassin locked up in my own home—though I must say that I am very grateful that you brought him to us instead of leaving him with the authorities in London."

  "I had contemplated depositing him at Bow Street and washing my hands…" Frobisher tilted his head. "But then I recalled how little satisfied with the majesty of the law you had been in the case of your dealings with Lord Screwe. And after what your wife told me, I thought this man must be working for Screwe. I decided it was better to get Mrs. Steele to Blackwood as quickly and quietly as possible. Making a statement would only embroil her in the investigation and put her more at risk. And to be honest, I did not want to give Screwe a chance to bail him out and dispose of him."

  "You did right. Screwe is up to anything. He has some means, too, for he is not terribly cautious about how flagrantly he misappropriates funds from the trust."

  Frobisher frowned. "As long as Screwe is at large, Mrs. Steele will be at risk. It is really him that you should lock in your cellar."

  "All in due time." Rutherford's eye flashed with menace. "However, Tilly would not permit me to lock this fellow in the cellar. In any case, I am very thankful that you did not beat the scoundrel senseless. We may get some information out of him that we can use against Screwe." Rutherford smirked suddenly. "You may console yourself for the loss of satisfaction in the fact that I have left him under Tilly's interrogation. He may suffer worse punishment, yet, for she was extremely unhappy to hear that the man had tried to murder her protégé."

  "I admit, I was astounded to see him attempt such a thing in the middle of a public street."

  "Well," said Rutherford, "London is a smoky place. I cannot say I am terribly surprised. But that does not stop one from being shocked and dismayed at the black depths of humanity."

  "To go to such lengths as killing a woman…" Frobisher shook his head. "I had not thought even Screwe was that much of a scoundrel."

  "I have learned to put no limits on that man's depravity. His very soul has rotted away to a mere seething, putrid boil."

  Frobisher did not think much of Screwe’s hired yahoo, either. He began to wonder at Rutherford's leaving Tilly to attend to the villain. "But are you not concerned about leaving his henchman alone in the company of your wife?"

  "She is not alone. I had my way at least that far in the matter." Rutherford sipped his tea as though to prevent himself from saying more on the subject.

  Frobisher decided to proceed delicately. "But I can see you are worried."

  "Oh yes. I have grave concerns. We have not revealed this to anyone, Frobisher, so I hope you will keep it to yourself, but we are expecting an addition to our family. So I am more anxious than ever before about my wife's health. You can imagine that I should prefer to be the one questioning this criminal. But Tilly has a mind of her own. It is one of the things that I love about her. And in this instance, it is one of the things that is most vexing."

  Frobisher was pleased to have his suspicions about the duchess' condition confirmed, but he knew it would be bad luck to felicitate Rutherford. "I look forward to congratulating you both. But perhaps Tilly is the best person for the job of inquisitor after all. Women have an insinuating way of worming things out of men, which might otherwise not be attained by a more direct, manly approach."

  Rutherford looked irritated. "Perhaps. However, that does not make it worth the risk. It is not that he could do anything to her directly, for he is restrained, and I have sent two big men to stand with her. But I am concerned about anything that might upset her nerves. That cannot be good for her in her current condition."

  Frobisher shrugged. "I suppose she must know her own limits."

  Rutherford laughed suddenly. "Frobisher, you may look at things differently, some day. It is one thing to cavalierly dismiss a fellow as an old man in petticoats for fretting about his wife. But it is a very different matter when it is your own wife's well-being that is at stake."

  Frobisher scoffed. "Calm yourself! I do not find the least fault with your wish to protect Tilly. But I hope never to put your assertion to the test, and to avoid any concern of the sort by evading the marriage estate altogether."

  Rutherford shook his head at his friend and mused, "I am reminded of a conversation that I had with Aldley when his wife was expecting. It was before I had got Tilly to agree to marry me, and I am afraid that I was not very sympathetic to his own consternation with his wife's wilfully placing herself in danger. I am coming to see things from his point of view, as I think you will also someday do.”

  Frobisher scoffed, but offered no other reply.

  Rutherford continued, “Of course he was exaggerating the risk, but in the end he was proved to be right when she was accosted by that Delacroix bounder. Screwe had his share in that, too, for it was he who bailed Delacroix out of the nick so he could shoot at my wife."

  "Have they hung Delacroix, yet?"

  "Not yet. It is under appeal. But I know very well that Delacroix is just a miserable piece of desperate filth. Screwe hired him—he is the real devil."

  "Yes, you owe Screw quite a grudge. I only hope your wife can get at him through this henchmen of his."

  "Well, I have made some progress in my line of inquiry after Screwe. That is to say, regarding his untrustworthy trusteeship."

  "Have you?" Frobisher leaned forward. "And what did you discover?"

  "For one thing, my lawyers have found out the name of the beneficiary under the trust. They have also located the will and copied out the terms. I have not yet seen anything, but Mr. Borland will be coming here for a meeting to show and explain it to me. He advises me that there is extensive property and there are large sums on deposit with the bank. This beneficiary will be a very rich woman."

  "It is a woman?" Frobisher could not hi
de his surprise.

  "Yes, Bish." Rutherford's brow twitched in reproof. "It may come as a shock to you, but some people believe in providing an inheritance for women. Imagine that."

  "There is no call for your sarcasm. I have never said that women should not be provided for. I only object to being the one who makes such provision. If they can inherit from their own families and leave me alone, so much the better."

  A thought struck Frobisher and he squinted suspiciously. "Do you not think that perhaps the beneficiary might have some connection to Mrs. Steele?"

  "It had occurred to me that it might be Mrs. Steele herself, for I am certain Mrs. Steele is not her real name."

  Frobisher nodded. He recalled the impression of elevation she had left him with. If she were brought up in a well-connected gentleman's family, but had been denied her inheritance, that would explain why she seemed to be of a higher class than her circumstances suggested. "But she is too old—though one could not quite tell, what with all the antiquated makeup. Would not your wife know more of this?"

  "She may very well. However it is not information she has chosen to share with me. And Tilly will not let me interrogate Mrs. Steele, as she calls it. I suppose she has a point. The woman has been terrorized. I have always known my wife kept her own counsel about her business, but I am sure if she knew something important, she would tell me."

  Frobisher smirked. "It sounds like you are rather more trying to convince yourself of this fact than me.

  "Frobisher," Rutherford showed his irritation, "not all of us are women-haters, you know. I believe in the discretion and capabilities of my wife, and I accept that she has confidences with people other than myself. In other words, I trust her. There is no reason for me to pry into her affairs."

  "Very well." Frobisher held up his hands in surrender and laughed. "I meant nothing by it, Rutherford. However, as your people have ascertained the identity of this beneficiary, it should be an easy matter to find her, should it not? Who is she, by the way?"

  "The solicitor did not say. I will find out when he arrives a few days hence."

  Frobisher sighed. "If only they could come today." It was tempting to stay and hear all that had been discovered, but he had promised himself a rapid return to London.

  "Well, you could delay your return to town."

  "No, no. I have my own damsel to locate."

  Chapter 27

  Mr. Patton, though he had sounded stern and punctual enough in the prior day's message, arrived at five minutes after nine, according to the clock on Mrs. Holden’s mantel. Rosamond could forgive his tardiness, however, when she saw that he held two warm meat pies. She could hardly disguise her hunger.

  Mr Patton's smile was kind. "I brought some breakfast, but we shall have to eat on the road, I am afraid."

  "Thank you, Mr. Patton. I am most obliged." Her mouth watered.

  "Think nothing of it. Although I do think you have the right sort of form for the job—everyone wants a hermit to look ascetic, you see—it is not necessary that you expire from hunger. However, if these are all your things," he gestured at her sack, "then let us be off. I have delayed us enough by purchasing our repast."

  "I am ready to depart this instant—but you have not told me where we’re going, sir. I should like to leave the direction with my landlady, so that she may forward any mail."

  "Mail? Ah, quite. Just so." Mr. Patton pulled out a case and extracted a card. "This has the address upon it. You may make a copy for the landlady. Only be quick about it. I shall wait for you in the vehicle.”

  Rosamond did not pause to look at the card until she was leaned over the table copying the address while Mrs. Holden waited.

  A sort of mad giddiness rushed over Rosamond as she read the words Fenimore Hall. She straightened suddenly, overtaken by a stunned silence that threatened to collapse into hysterical laughter at any minute. Then she shook her head, and forced herself to write the address—omitting any reference to the Marquess—as calmly as possible. She did not wish anything to draw Mrs. Holden's attention to the card. Rosamond prayed that the woman had only seen Frobisher's London address, and would not make the connection between Fenimore Hall and the Marquess of Fenimore. It was a faint hope, however. Surely the address would call to mind the only lord of her acquaintance.

  But Mrs. Holden took the slip of paper without looking at it. She carried it to the front entrance and set it on the tray with her other cards, where the Marquess’ calling card still sat on display. She cleared her throat. "Well, Mr. Hatch, and so you will leave. You'll be missed, to be sure. You've been a good tenant for these few days. And I am only sorry I cannot refund you the rest of the week."

  Rosamond scarcely remarked upon the woman's slight show of emotion. She was too consumed with her own scrambled thoughts. How was this possible? The situation was ridiculous. Were the fates so perverse that they toyed with her by constantly throwing her into the path of the man who pursued her? Or had it been a trap? It did not seem possible. The position was advertised in the paper. And the marquess could not be that clever. It was just beastly bad luck. Should she take such a risk? It was not too late to change her mind.

  Apparently taking her tenant's silence for some sort of rumination on the topic of rental rebates, Mrs. Holden briskly guided Rosamond to the door. "Be assured, I will send any mail that comes for you to your new place. And if you are ever back in town, don't hesitate to come by, Mr. Hatch. If I have a room free, it will always be yours."

  Rosamond hardy heard this gracious kindness, and meekly allowed herself to be steered to the front door as she turned things over in her thoughts. Should she stay or should she go?

  Frobisher believed she was in London. He was looking for her there. He would not even be at Fenimore Hall, and by the time he returned, perhaps she could have sorted something else out. He might even stay away for long enough that she could celebrate her birthday and attain her freedom—after all, what does the countryside have to tempt a rich and idle young lord? Surely he would prefer to stay and enjoy all of London's amusements.

  Before she realized it, she was at the door of the carriage. Mrs. Holden said her final farewells and turned back to her boarding house.

  It was Rosamond’s last chance to extricate herself. She looked up at Mr. Patton, who gestured her to enter the vehicle. Then she turned back to look at the house, as though it would help her examine the relative merits to each side of her dilemma. At that moment a man disembarked from a hackney and strode rapidly up to the front door, halting Mrs. Holden before she could return inside.

  Rosamond felt her legs falter beneath her. There was no mistaking the features and snakelike air. It was Cousin Peter. He had found her. He had found her and now she would die.

  He bent to speak a few words to the landlady, and her brows raised in surprise. She turned to look at Rosamond. Rosamond caught her eye, and in mute desperation, merely shook her head quickly. But she did not think Mrs. Holden really saw her, for she turned back to talk to Cousin Peter.

  Her heart was pounding. She did not wait to see if Mrs. Holden would understand this communication, but flung herself into the carriage without further hesitation. A cold sweat of fear washed over her as she sunk into the cushions.

  Mr. Patton signalled the driver to proceed and pushed the pie into her hands.

  "You must eat something," he said, as the carriage eased off down the street. "True, you look as pale as death, poor fellow. Must take better care of yourself."

  Chapter 28

  Before Frobisher could press Rutherford for any more details about the lawyers’ discoveries, Tilly sauntered into the room and flopped herself down inelegantly in a stuffed chair, saying, "Frobisher, how lovely to see you. I want to thank you again and again for rescuing Mrs. Steele and bringing her to me. She would do so herself, but she and Oakley are taking a walk in the grounds. And you just missed Lady Goodram and Miss Dawling. They have gone to explore the local village and patronise the milliners. I have no idea wh
y, for there is nothing decent to be had there."

  Frobisher pursed his lips. "An insatiable demand for head coverings is apparently a sort of monomania that afflicts your sex."

  Tilly laughed. "Even your severity against the ladies will not put me off today, Frobisher. You have done my friend an invaluable service—despite her being a woman—and I shall not forget it, no matter how much you grouch and grumble and pretend to be cross."

  Frobisher waved a lace-cuffed hand dismissively. "And so Mrs. Steele's nerves are already sufficiently restored for a turn in the park. Has she really recovered from her brush with a murderer so soon?"

  "So it would seem. But, in truth, Bish—you do not mind if I call you Bish, do you?"

  He gave a pained look to Rutherford, who merely backed away laughing and holding up his hands as though he had no part to play in the matter. Frobisher nodded in assent to Tilly. "The Duchess of Bartholmer may address a mere marquess however she pleases."

  Tilly scowled. "You know very well that I am not a duchess to you."

  Frobisher sniffed. "As you wish. My good friend's wife may take any liberty with my name."

  She shook her head. "Very well. I shall call you Frobisher, then. I did not mean to take a liberty."

  Frobisher sighed. He might as well give up now, for he would never win this game, and in any case, he liked Tilly quite well enough that she could call him by his silly nickname. Only his standing as a woman-hating curmudgeon was so threatened on every side these days that he felt he should make what small stands he could, though they paled against the fundamental retrenchment of chasing some unknown beauty around the country. He feared his reputation would never recover from such a blow. Still it must be done. Duty before all—even reputation.

  He shook his head and smiled sadly at the saucy face confronting him. "As you will make me say it: you, Tilly, may call me Bish. Only do not do so before Miss Dawling and Lady Goodram, I beg of you."