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

by Tessa Candle

  The butler entered. "You rang, my lord?"

  "Yes. I am very anxious to hear all you have to tell me about the researches into Miss—into the Widow Colling while I was away. To save time, you might as well wait to give details until my guests have assembled here. But perhaps you could supply me with an overview.”

  The butler looked apologetic. "I wish I had more extensive intelligence to report to his lordship, but the truth is there is little enough to tell that I might easily repeat it for the guests without much loss of time. In short, we have been to all the neighbourhoods that offered any sort of lodging for two miles around Mrs. Holden's establishment, and no one has heard or seen anything of Mrs. Colling."

  Frobisher was disappointed. "Did you meet with any apparent secrecy? Might someone be hiding her?"

  "It is always possible, my lord. However, the servants tell me that everyone was most obliging when they heard it was his lordship who sought their assistance. We were directed to and found dozens of young widows, but none of them matched Mrs. Colling's description."

  Perhaps, he should interview these widows himself. But no, it was a task better left to Rutherford, who was familiar with Miss Delville's face. Frobisher only had the most fleeting of veiled glimpses, and the descriptions of others to go by.

  When Rutherford and Mr. Borden arrived in the study, Frobisher informed them, glumly, of the lack of news. They decided that the best course of action was to split their efforts three ways.

  Rutherford would go to his own home and send his carriage to bring the widows there for interviews. He would also send a note to his friend Aldley, who was in town, to enlist his aid in making contact with Mr. Delville.

  Mr. Bolden would check back at his practice to see if anything more had been learned, or if by any chance, a legal action had been started against Screwe. It was a faint hope, but if Miss Delville were in London, she might be intending to challenge the trusteeship.

  Meanwhile, Frobisher would call on Mrs. Holden again and see if there had been some news, or if she had remembered anything more. He also wanted to know if Red Martha's yahoos had returned to make enquiries.

  He raised a glass of the frosted champagne to his three comrades. "Here is to a successful hunt!"

  They all drank to that, but none bore a convincing expression of much hopefulness.

  Chapter 59

  Rosamond slowly raised her hands and turned around to face the child that held a gun on her.

  Catherine stood, still dressed as Oakley, but without the wig, her rifle now levelled at Rosamond's waist. That explained what had happened to the gun. The poor little girl. She had the kind of desperate life of hiding that Rosamond had, but at least Rosamond had not gone on the run until she was in her teens. Catherine must have been made to run before she could properly walk.

  Mrs. Johnson's voice called through the door a second time. "Are you in there, darling?" The door handle turned.

  Rosamond moved carefully out of the way so that Mrs. Johnson could enter, but kept her hands raised.

  Mrs. Johnson opened the door. "What are you doing with that rifle?" She entered, closing the door behind her. "Put that down for heaven's—" She suddenly saw Rosamond and stared in stunned silence.

  "Please." Rosamond used her woman's voice. "I mean you no harm, and I am not who you think I am."

  "I think you are," said Mrs. Johnson in some confusion, "—that is to say, you look like the man who rescued me from being murdered."

  Rosamond smiled. It was the first time in a very long time that she was thankful at being recognized, as far as such recognition went. "That much is true. But as you can perhaps hear, I am not a man." Would Mrs. Johnson recognize her as Rosamond?

  She turned to Catherine, who still pointed the rifle at her, but now looked uncertain. "Catherine, I am going to remove my disguise slowly. Please do not shoot me." She was pretty certain the gun was not loaded, but it never hurt to be cautious.

  The girl's mouth dropped open. "You called me Catherine."

  Mrs. Johnson gasped, then recovered herself and tried to act calm as she corrected, "His name is Oakley."

  Rosamond understood why they were disturbed. They probably never used their real names, not even here, perhaps not even with each other. "I know who you both are, but please do not be afraid." Rosamond carefully began to pull off her beard and brows, wincing as she tugged on her sore face. Her skin was growing accustomed to wearing it, but some irritated bumps remained from the initial rash. When she pulled off her wig, Mrs. Johnson could no longer maintain a calm demeanour.

  "You are—"

  "She is a girl disguised as a boy!" Catherine looked quite tickled by this.

  Rosamond smiled at Catherine, but turned to look in earnest at Mrs. Johnson. "Do you know me? Oh please say that you recognize me, though when you last saw me I was so much younger." Her heart was pounding. She needed so much to be acknowledged by Mrs. Johnson. Her claim depended on it. Besides, she knew that Mrs. Johnson, of all people, could be trusted with her secret. They were hiding from the same man.

  "Can it be?" Mrs. Johnson drew close to Rosamond and looked intently at her face and eyes. "Are you Rosamond? My little Rosamond?"

  Rosamond felt herself unravel, as if every aspect of her life had been a faulty weave, and this one pull of a string reduced her to a formless pile of yarn. She realized with awe that she was crying. She was actually crying, and the discovery that she was still capable of doing so made her sob all the harder.

  And then she was laughing through the tears and embracing Mrs. Johnson, who tried to soothe her by stroking her head, as she had done when Rosamond was a young girl. Rosamond could not say whether it was the act of kind tenderness itself, or its familiarity—how it transported her back to a time when she was a child with only little girl concerns, who was loved and protected—that most readily reduced her to a blubbering mass.

  But after a good five minutes of weeping, she paused for a break—she had forgotten how tiring crying was—and realized that Catherine, too, had joined in the embrace. The gun lay abandoned, leaning against the bed next to Oakley's powdered wig.

  "I feel that it will be very important for us all," said Rosamond idly, her mind and spirit awash with the strange calm that comes over a person after a proper bout of tears, "that we gather all our materials of disguise together and burn them some day."

  "Amen. Except for my wig." Mrs. Johnson's voice was playful. "I am told that it is worth its weight in gold. And I can attest that it is very, very heavy."

  Rosamond's memory suddenly grasped onto the words worth its weight in gold. And that name, Oakley—she had heard it before. "My God!"

  Mrs. Johnson looked at her with concern. "What is the matter?"

  "I cannot believe it, myself." Rosamond felt light headed. "Did you not venture into the Old Sparrow Theatre recently, in search of some more cosmetic for your disguise?"

  Mrs. Johnson gaped. "How could you possibly know that?"

  So it was true. Mrs. Johnson was the woman who had interrupted Rosamond in the theatre. As Rosamond recounted the story to the amazement of her friend, she realized she had taken entirely the wrong view of her life.

  She had laboured under the horrible belief that she was completely on her own, without protection in the world. But she could no longer believe it. At every turn, even when matters had seemed to go utterly wrong, some unseen hand guided circumstances and worked all toward good. Surely there was a friendly angel watching over her.

  Chapter 60

  Frobisher sat in a wooden chair beside the front window in Mrs. Holden's parlour, which apparently also served as the room the tenants took meals in. Mrs. Holden cleared away the last of their tea things and made up a fresh pot for her guest, while he sat contemplating the place where she lived.

  It was basic. He would call it impoverished, except that it was so clean and tidy that it showed a great deal of pride of place that he could not reconcile with his notions about poverty. Then again, he re
minded himself, Mrs. Holden probably lived better than a good three quarters of the residents of London. He had simply lived all his life in the pretty crystal palace of his imagination, never seeing the plight of those who toiled to make his world run.

  He compared his feelings now, returning to Mrs. Holden's boarding house, to those he felt when he first encountered her. He had been haughty and even disdainful of Mrs. Holden, simply wishing to do the bare minimum required by decency and then be rid of her.

  He wondered at that now. How could he have been so aloof and heartless? Was that really decency? If so, then decency was the great fraud of the upper classes. It was only a tastefully decorated mask, or the pristinely gloved left hand diverting the gaze of the world, while the right hand wielded daggers, palmed cards, and robbed the unsuspecting neighbour.

  Now he was quite thankful that Mrs. Holden invited him into her modest parlour and cobbled together some refreshments. The repast was utterly unnecessary to him, but Mrs. Holden thought it absolutely crucial that he have the best of what she had in her house. He suspected this was mostly because of his rank, but he was shamed by her widow's mite being wasted on such an unworthy object as himself.

  "Thank you, Madame." He accepted the watery tea from Mrs. Holden.

  "It is I who should thank your lordship. I cannot express how grateful I am for the last service his lordship bestowed upon me."

  She was terribly formal and she exaggerated his role. He had certainly not saved her. The most that could be said was that he brought her brother to her and then left. But he supposed her overwhelming gratitude also served her own purposes, flattering her sense of importance at having been saved by a marquess. There! You are doing it again! He caught himself. Why should he resort to making the worst possible construction out of someone else's gratitude? He began to feel that he was a hopeless case.

  "It was nothing at all, Madame. Indeed I should thank you, again, for indulging all my questions about the Widow Colling."

  "I only wish I could have done more. Knowing his lordship's interest in her has made me feel that I did wrong in turning her away. I should a fair sight rather see his lordship find the pretty widow, than those nasty brutish creatures who attacked me." Mrs. Holden stroked her face in the memory of the black eye that was now only barely perceptible.

  "I am glad to hear you say it. For, I admit, I have another motive for calling, aside from wishing to assure myself that you are well." Frobisher smiled to discover that he was sincerely glad to see her recovered. Perhaps there was some hope for him, after all.

  "I should be honoured to perform any service for your lordship." Mrs. Holden was beaming, and it made her look ten years younger.

  "I only wish to know whether you have heard anything more about Mrs. Colling. Have you seen her again, perhaps?"

  She looked sad. "No, my lord. She never returned here, or I'd have sent word straight away. And I ask around from time to time, too. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows his lordship is looking for her, and they are all curious, but no one knows anything."

  "What of a woman named Delville?"

  She shook her head. "Never heard of her, my lord."

  "And Red Martha never returned?"

  "No." Mrs. Holden frowned. "And it is wise of her to stay away, for I have a cricket bat now, and I will not be taken unawares again."

  Frobisher smiled. "I am glad to hear it."

  Mrs. Holden blinked suddenly. "Only, there was one man who came asking. Apologies, my lord, for letting it slip my mind."

  Frobisher leaned in. "He asked about Mrs. Colling?"

  "Aye. And for all that he was a lord, I should never have called him genteel."

  Screwe. Frobisher was certain of it. "Let me guess, it was not what he said, but how he said it?"

  "Just so, my lord! And well put. I am sorry to speak an ill word about any of the quality, but his looks and his voice brought me all over in goose flesh."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "Why nothing at all, my lord. I knew nothing, after all, and did not even say that she had asked for a place here. I only said there was no one by that name here and pointed out that I had no female tenants at all."

  "Very good. Was he satisfied with that?"

  "I am not sure. But he did pause over your card, though."

  "My card?" A feeling of dread pricked Frobisher's skin.

  "Yes, well. I imagine it will seem very silly to your lordship, but," she blushed, "I keep your lordship's calling card on the salver by the entrance. You see, my lord, I have never before been called on by a lord. But it isn't just wanting to make a display. I beg your lordship will not think that of me. Only I like to have it there, as a memento."

  Frobisher could not be angry with the poor woman, but if Screwe had seen the card, it was probably the reason he had come to Fenimore. "And did you tell him I was looking for Mrs. Colling?"

  "Oh no, my lord. I cannot say why, but I thought your lordship would prefer I didn't."

  "You did very well to keep that in confidence, and I thank you." Screwe had no doubt at least suspected that Frobisher was looking for the widow, anyway. "But he saw the card and commented on it?"

  "Yes, my lord. I only said that you happened by when I had been attacked by ruffians and assisted me."

  "Did he say anything else?"

  "Now that you mention it, he was interested in a forwarding address left by one of my other tenants who had just departed." She chuckled and shook her head. "I thought it was very nosey and idle of him, lord though he might be, to be prying into the details of everyone's residence. But the address was lying on the same salver, so I would have it handy if anything came for Mr. Hatch, and the lord spied it there. He has those kind of eyes that are like a thief's hand, itching to find something to latch onto…"

  Frobisher was entirely flummoxed and barely heard the woman rattle on about the inarguably evil looks of the inquisitive lord. Mr. Hatch. Had she really spoken his name, or was Frobisher's mind now so deranged that he found reminders of his beguiling hermit wherever he went? God help me. But no, she must have said it. "Forgive my interrupting, but did you just say that you had a tenant named Mr. Hatch?"

  "Aye, and he was a good one, for the short time he was here."

  "Do you still have his forwarding address?"

  "Certainly, my lord." She stood, unable to entirely suppress a curious look. "I will go fetch it at once."

  Frobisher's face burned as he read over the slip of paper she brought him. It was his address at Fenimore. Mr. Hatch had been a tenant at Mrs. Holden's boarding house. His Mr. Hatch. What were the chances of that?

  "Is this his handwriting or yours?"

  "It is his own hand, my lord. Quite a pretty script, in my reckoning."

  And it was. Very pretty. It did not look like a man's handwriting. He supposed one did encounter men whose hand was more beautiful than a woman's, occasionally, but this did not look like the hand of a penniless mendicant, either. Taken all together, he began to believe that Mr. Hatch was not Mr. Hatch.

  He ran a hand through his hair, tempted to pull at it like a madman. He was not sure whether he should feel relieved, or incensed for having been made such a fool in this deception. But he could not let himself think of it now. There was far too much to ruminate over and no time for anything but rapid action.

  "May I keep this, madam—I mean this very slip of paper? Would you mind copying it out from the original?"

  "Of course, my lord." Mrs. Holden was only too glad to be of service, but Frobisher thought she could hardly escape wondering at all these strange lords with their fascinations about other peoples' addresses.

  As she finished copying, she said, "In fact, I had to forward something to him, just yesterday. Some man hand delivered a letter, only to find Mr. Hatch was no longer here. I copied out the address, so I will be getting quite practiced now."

  "Just yesterday." Frobisher's fingers itched to have that letter. "Did you remark upon the man's name?"


  She tilted her head and thought for a few moments. "I am afraid I can't recall, my lord. I am not sure that he gave any name."

  If it had been sent yesterday, it was probably delivered shortly after Frobisher left Fenimore. It was maddening to realize how he had been dashing about here and there, and always heading in the wrong direction—going to London at the precise moment he should be staying in the country.

  He left Mrs. Holden a generous sum to thank her for her assistance and to encourage her not to discuss the matter with any other enquirers.

  When he was finally settled into the carriage, he allowed all the implications of what he had learned and what he now suspected to sink in.

  Mr. Hatch had appeared at Mrs. Holden's the day after she had turned away Mrs. Colling. Then Mr. Hatch left a few days later to take up the position as hermit at Fenimore. That was a nice piece of manoeuvring, putting herself right under Frobisher's oblivious ruddy nose.

  And then she had bewitched him. The perfume. The stories. The strange attraction. The insistence that he would not find Mrs. Colling unless he brought Mr. Hatch with him. It was all a very twisted game to her, and she conducted the whole affair like a puppet master, completely indifferent to the torment she put Frobisher through.

  God, he had questioned his own manhood! His very identity! How could she have such power over him? And how could she use it so mercilessly? Should he curse her for her cruelty, or bless her for being, after all, a woman and not a man?

  It was an odd comfort, but there it was: after spending his life running away from eligible young beauties, he now found himself deeply, profoundly grateful to discover he was utterly bewitched by a woman.

  Who was he, really? Had he ever really known himself?

  Then another realization struck. Screwe would have made the connection between the two addresses. He must have suspected that Mr. Hatch was, at the very least, connected to Mrs. Colling—and thus to Miss Delville. And the connection was Frobisher. The whole town must know that his servants were enquiring everywhere after her. It was Frobisher's completely indiscreet hunt for the woman that had led Screwe to come to Fenimore, where Mr. Hatch was.