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

by Tessa Candle

  Lady Goodram nodded. "You are no doubt right. However, the duke asserts that his extreme caution is justified in his case. He is not much for foils, he assures me. He furthermore fears he would shoot himself in the foot should he resort to pistols. Being somewhat vain about his feet, he could not bear that one of them should become so swollen and nasty that he could not wear his diamond buckled dancing pumps—which, you must know, shape his calves up just so." Lady Goodram laughed and sighed. "Your father is a gem among men, Miss Dawling."

  Miss Dawling's eye twinkled and her smile showed real affection. "I know it, Lady Goodram. And what man could ever possess sufficient charm to lure me away from him?"

  Frobisher witnessed that this brief transition was followed by a return to a practiced bland expression on Miss Dawling's face. He began to comprehend that she and he might have something else in common: they both concealed their true faces. It was a shame, he thought, that they could not be friends without creating expectations in all of his acquaintance.

  Frobisher's mother sighed. "If only filial piety were the impediment to my son's marital ambitions, I believe I could bear it better."

  Frobisher, without changing his expression of sang froid, reached out and patted his mother's hand twice in an obligatory gesture. "You should never doubt my sense of duty to you, Mother, though I could wish you less eager to dispose of me to another of your sex."

  "Nonsense! I should not think myself cursed for losing a son, but blessed for gaining a daughter. And as I am sure you have noticed, no household is truly in order unless it has a lady to preside over it. I am only thinking of your comfort." Mrs. Frobisher turned to Lady Goodram in a plea for support. "I fear without my influence he would become a hermit, entirely."

  Frobisher, finding the conversation had become irredeemably loathsome, and unlikely to end soon enough to permit his removal to London that day, seized the opportunity. "Speaking of hermits, mine has arrived and is now installed in the cottage. I have only met him briefly, but have promised to call upon him. Shall we not all go see him together? Or will you ladies be too frightened?"

  Miss Dawling huffed and rolled her eyes. "Oh yes. Petrified. We shall all have to bring our smelling salts."

  Chapter 35

  Rosamond found her hermitage as depressingly sparse as ever. The gloomy scene of emptiness was only amplified by the leaden light that trickled in from the grey sky outside. Having already seen the marquess and read the fortune of the butler, she thought she might now count on some repose, so she heated herself a pot of water with which to wash. Perhaps cleaning up a bit would cheer her mood.

  It was not a proper bath, and she had to do it in the pale light supplied by the window and the fire in the hearth, but it was a real luxury to feel somewhat clean again. As she dried herself and re-braided her hair, she peered into her small looking glass to examine the rash that was developing on her face where she affixed the false beard. Her heart dropped in dismay. What if it scarred her skin?

  She shook her head. How, after all the trouble her pretty looks had caused in her life, could she have such a vain thought?

  But she was a woman after all. And although living like a man—even a poor man— had its definite advantages, it was not nearly as pleasant as living like a wealthy heiress. Being attractive, even if it had endangered her, had also been her bread and butter. It garnered her the assistance of others. But was it really the only thing that made her special?

  Rosamond dressed and went to the casket where she stored all her things. She retrieved a bundle concealed in layers of silk kerchiefs, which she pulled away to reveal a beautiful crystal flacon.

  "Pour la belle reine de mon coeur," he had said. For a gentleman who preferred the company of young men, the perfumer had been capable of extreme fascination with women. He had crafted this fragrance for her—and only for her. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever smelled. She was used to applying it after she bathed to cheer herself up, but now that she was a man, perhaps the perfume was too feminine.

  Might she not have a single drop now, just for the memory? It would refresh and restore her spirits, which they sorely needed. She removed the stopper from the bottle and wafted it beneath her nose. What could it hurt?

  She pressed a tiny amount upon her left wrist. Immediately her heart lightened and embraced all the possibilities of a grand life filled with amusements and delights, and late nights carousing with the brilliant and the bold of society. But most importantly, she was filled with hope that she could attain the great longings of her soul. She did not know how the perfumer did it, but he somehow looked within her and, reading her heart, supplied her with an ambrosia that promised all her innermost desires—happiness, home, family, warmth, love.

  She wondered if there would ever be another who looked past her disguise, saw beyond her beauty, and recognized within her a person worth loving. Rosamond scoffed and re-wrapped the bottle, locking it into the casket once again, as much to protect herself from the dangerous fancies it inspired, as to keep it secure from the world.

  It did no good to indulge these dreams, now. If she survived to claim her inheritance, it would be soon enough to plan for some sliver of future happiness.

  Rosamond had replaced her disguise and washed down the last bit of pie she had saved from the trip with Mr. Patton with some rain water from the barrel, when the sound of childish laughter drew her once more to the window to peek out from behind the rustic burlap curtain.

  A small boy in livery danced around in the grass with a dog. She believed it was Mack, Rutherford's bloodhound. Rosamond recognized the child immediately. He was the attendant to the lady she had rescued from the murderer in London.

  The child was soon joined by the lady herself, who wore an indulgent smile that transformed her features. Indeed, she looked at the boy affectionately. Rosamond supposed it was natural for her to come to care about a child who served her and must also be under her protection and guidance in a way.

  As sweet a scene as it was, their presence was vexing. How had they come to be here? But of course, the woman must know Frobisher. And she would want to get out of the city after that man tried to stab her on her own front stoop. Would they recognize Mr. Hatch as the man that disarmed the would-be murderer?

  She was reassuring herself that this was unlikely, that the impression must have been a fleeting one, when a more frightening thought occurred to her. What if Frobisher got a better look at Mr. Hatch in decent light and identified her? He had not seemed to recognize her at all when they had that mortifying meeting in the nursery, but that could change. She willed herself to calm down. She must not borrow trouble.

  However, as she watched the woman and boy draw too near to the hermitage, Rosamond wondered if she should do something to frighten them away. Then the woman suddenly spoke to the boy and changed course. They wandered back down the path toward Blackwood, the hound loping in front of them.

  Rosamond released the breath she had been holding. At least she had staved off meeting them for the moment. Thankfully the lady appeared to be staying at Blackwood. Hopefully there would be no reason for the pair to come visit the hermitage.

  No sooner had Rosamond consoled herself with this, than she heard voices approaching the front door. She dashed to the other window and lifted a tiny corner of the curtain to peer out. Coming along the path from Fenimore Hall walked a party which included, among others, Lady Goodram and Frobisher himself.

  Ruddy hell. What blasted bad luck kept bringing people who might recognize her right to her cottage? In desperation, she gathered ash from the fireplace and smudged it about her face. It was a pity, after having cleaned herself, but there was nothing to be done for it. For good measure she put on her hat.

  When the knock came she could scarcely hear it over her pounding heart.

  Chapter 36

  The man who opened the door to Frobisher was surprised to see him, and bowed deeply, mumbling at the floor, "My lord, what a great honour. I apologize for m
y appearance, only I was fixing up the fire."

  "So I see." Frobisher had in fact only seen a quick flash of the ash-smudged face before it was utterly cast down. This humble reticence would not do. He would prefer to converse with his hermit in an ordinary way, on friendly terms, and have him be beastly and frightening to everyone else. He would have to have a word with the man later. "However, please be at ease, I am only come with my guests to pay a call and welcome you."

  "Oh!" The man removed his hat and wrung it. "That is most obliging of his lordship. True, I do not deserve such condescension."

  Oh dear. So now the hat wringing and mumblings about condescension were to start. It was a pity, he had greater hopes for this hermit. Still, there was something in the way the man spoke—Frobisher could not put his finger on it, but for all his overdone humility, he might have been raised as a gentleman and be only playing the part of a hermit. Then again, all the best hermits would have to be refined in order to be sources of interesting conversation. It only made sense that they should come from a gentle background, then fallen on hard times. Perhaps as they became better acquainted, Frobisher might learn more of the man's history.

  He looked past Mr. Hatch into the cottage. "Will you permit us to come in? We shall not stay long, I assure you."

  "Yes of course, my lord." The man's face showed his mortification. "Forgive my not offering admittance before, pray, my lord. Only I had not presumed to make the invitation."

  There it was again. That turn of phrase which singled him out as not quite belonging to the class that he appeared to occupy.

  Frobisher led the party into the small quarters, and noted that, although his instructions had been followed, and a wild and rustic look had been affected in the cottage, it had been rendered less comfortable in the process.

  There was only one chair, for example, and the curtains looked cobbled together from old sacks. There were no ornaments or comforts. Frobisher felt a momentary flush of shame. He knew not why, but he did not like to think of the man living in such deprivation.

  Perhaps he should relocate Mr. Hatch to the manor house. Frobisher almost scoffed aloud. Where had such a thought come from? What could have possibly made him so solicitous of this stranger's comfort?

  And yet, as he introduced each member of his party to Mr. Hatch, he found himself concerned that they should all treat him with kindness and respect. Frobisher felt protective of the man—as though he knew him somehow, although he was a total stranger.

  "I would offer such honourable company some tea, but I haven't any, at the moment." The man looked ashamed. "Nor anything to serve it in, I am afraid. I shall try to improve my housekeeping in the future."

  Frobisher was stricken again by the impoverished circumstances of his hermit. He remarked with a pang of guilt upon the man's drawn face and loose fitting clothing. Mr. Hatch must be nearly starved, and there was no evidence of any food in the house. Frobisher resolved to remedy that immediately.

  His mother curled her lip slightly and said without warmth, "I am much obliged for the thought, Mr. Hatch. But I think we have intruded upon your repose too much already. Perhaps we should all return to the manor."

  Frobisher clenched his teeth, but managed to keep his reply civil in form, if not in tone. "We have only just arrived, Mama. We shall not insult Mr. Hatch by deserting him so soon. Indeed, I am of a mind to invite him up to the manor for dinner so we can have a longer visit. And anyway, I understand he reads palms. Would you not like to have yours read?"

  His mother sniffed and looked away. "Not in the least."

  "But I should." Frobisher rolled back his lace cuff and extended his hand to the hermit. "Would you be so kind, Mr. Hatch?"

  The man inclined his head and gestured Frobisher to move into the adjacent parlour and sit in the solitary chair. As Mr. Hatch drew closer, Frobisher felt a strange sensation—like he had been enveloped in a cocoon that separated them into their own little universe of two.

  Whatever could have caused such a mad thought? And yet it persisted. He could not say what, for his wits were confused, but something had triggered a sudden sense of intimacy. All else was eclipsed. There was only the hermit before him.

  Mr. Hatch's hand shook as he reached out to take Frobisher's. When they touched, a shock went through Frobisher's body. He felt a tingling sensation over all of his skin, and something strange stirred within him. He could not explain it, but it was as though this man were kin or a very close friend—or something much more. What was it that made Frobisher's heart beat faster?"

  The man examined Frobisher's palm for a time, then shook his head.

  "What is it?" Frobisher asked breathlessly, afraid, despite knowing it was foolishness, that the man might let go of his hand and break the spell. All Frobisher could want at that moment was to sustain contact. For him, no one else was present and the room itself seemed far removed.

  "It is only that I do not think his lordship wishes to hear this fortune."

  "But of course I do—even if it is something bad." Frobisher smiled as though it were all a game, and he did not feel a sense of transport. "It will be better, after all, to be forewarned."

  The hermit did not meet his eye. "But what if it is not flattering, my lord?"

  "I can endure whatever insults the spirit world might hurl at me." Frobisher, though he still felt breathless, chuckled and nodded encouragingly. "Please do go on." He did not feel the least bit concerned if what the hermit had to say was merely unflattering. And he wished very fervently that the man might not let go of his hand.

  "Well then, if you insist, my lord." Mr. Hatch swallowed. "His lordship's palm shows two paths. Even as we speak, you are on the path of injustice, my lord. Someone deserving has been denied their due."

  Frobisher's thoughts immediately turned to Miss Colling. He did not restrain his excitement as he asked, "Is it a woman? Is there any indication of how I should find her, to make her redresses? To keep her safe?"

  The hermit drew in a rapid breath, swallowed and paused.

  Frobisher wondered if this were done for effect, or whether the man might actually have spiritual powers. Might he truly be able to assist Frobisher in his mission?

  A few moments later Mr. Hatch replied in a cracking voice. "Not a woman. Someone has been cut off after long service from a small amount of money that will make his old age tolerable. And his lordship still has the chance to do what is right."

  "What? Long service?" Frobisher racked his brain, but could not think of anyone he had failed to pay their due. "Do you mean one of the servants?"

  "Perhaps. This type of fortune telling is not that specific." The man caught Frobisher's eye for one brief, fierce moment. "And though other, darker means might give more satisfactory answers, they come at a very dear price."

  Frobisher shivered. He could not decide if the man's allusion to dark arts unnerved him, or if it was, rather, that the second the man's gaze caught his, Frobisher's heart lurched. It pounded in his chest, though he sat at his ease. He did not think it was mere superstitious fear. It was something else, but it so confused Frobisher that he wanted to flee back to the manor. And yet, he could not bring himself to let go of the hand. He cleared his throat. "Can you not tell me what I must do?"

  The hermit traced another mark upon Frobisher's palm. The tickling gesture charged his whole body with a sensation of pleasure and his senses suddenly heightened. The firelight which had before been only a dim glow from the other room, now blazed a dazzling amber and the light from the window shifted from dull miserly grey to abundant lemon-gold.

  He was suddenly aware of a fragrance, the wonderful ambrosial scent of feminine mystery. Frobisher had to stifle a groan of longing. He must be smelling the widow's kerchief that he kept always in his pocket. How could the scent suddenly overpower him thus? What was wrong with him?

  "My lord, there is a sign here…" Mr. Hatch’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. "It suggests an answer that your lordship seeks will be found right
under your lordship's nose."

  Frobisher looked at Mr. Hatch hopefully. "You mean the woman I seek?"

  Mr. Hatch sounded confused. "I mean the person to whom much is owed. He is within or near your household. Perhaps, then, it is among the servants that one should inquire. Might there be something owing in the way of household expenses, my lord?"

  "I know nothing of these matters. I suppose I could speak to my butler about it." Frobisher found that his voice came out as an unmanly squeak. He swallowed. "Is there anything else?" Then, fearful that this might be taken as a dismissal, he added, "I am very solicitous of any guidance you might give me."

  "Only that, in redressing this injustice, you will also be setting your own household in better order." Mr. Hatch turned his face away. "That is all."

  Perhaps it was Frobisher's imagination, but the hermit seemed reluctant to drop his hand, though he did. The spell was broken and Frobisher's spirits plummeted suddenly, as the light shifted back to the dingy grey of the gloomy day. It left him with such an emptiness and longing. Had the hermit felt the strange connection too? Or was it not a connection at all, in the typical sense? Was this Mr. Hatch truly a mystical being? Frobisher relinquished his seat and watched intently as Miss Dawling presented her hand. Surely there would be some sign if the young lady felt the same thing that Frobisher had.

  "Ahhhhh," said the hermit portentously, as he leaned over her hand and hummed and nodded.

  He had a more theatrical aspect with her, as one merely playing at telling fortunes, not like the oracle that had so eclipsed Frobisher's sense of the mortal world a few moments prior. Frobisher scrutinized Miss Dawling. Was she experiencing the same shock of electricity? She appeared amused, but her face bore an unaltered, vaguely satirical expression just as before. There was no rapture of discovery there.

  Frobisher thought he detected a rapid sideways glance from Mr. Hatch, but his comment only addressed Miss Dawling. "I guess you will want to know about your love life, Miss."