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

by Tessa Candle

  If by some miracle Screwe did not yet know that the hermit was actually Miss Delville in disguise, how long could it be before he made the discovery?

  He deserved a punch in the face for wasting a single second feeling sorry for himself, when Miss Delville was in such danger and it was entirely his fault.

  When he arrived at his London house, he did not wait for the carriage to roll to a final stop before he burst out of it and dashed inside to the parlour. To his shock, a man lay stretched out on a chaise longue, drinking champagne.

  It was not Rutherford. It was…

  "Mr. Dee to see your lordship." The footman finally caught up to his hasty master. "He said Mr. Rutherford had sent him, so I set him up here with refreshments."

  Frobisher knew the face of his dearly departed friend only too well. There was no mistaking it. It was Delville, all right—and it was just like the smoky bounder to swill someone’s champagne under an assumed name.

  Delville piped up as he stood to greet Frobisher, "Good to see you after such a lengthy parting. Speaking of refreshments, why not bring another bottle? Do you not think a celebration is in order, Bish? Your old friend is back at long last.”

  Frobisher recovered from his shock. "And I remark that you are not dead."

  Delville tilted his head and grinned. "As you see. The Devil incarnate."

  Frobisher wanted not to smile, but his lips twitched. "We shall have to talk about that someday, but for the moment I am in a great hurry, and there is no time for reminisces or champagne. Where is Rutherford?"

  "At his London home. He fetched me and sent me here, after he finished interviewing the widows—none of whom had any chance of being my cousin, by the way."

  "So you know about your cousin?"

  "Just what Rutherford has told me. I do not believe we ever met, but from what I have heard, I can well believe we are related."

  Frobisher clenched his jaw. "Then you know she is a mistress of disguise. I recently discovered that she has imposed upon me entirely by passing herself off as a man."

  "You fail to understand the basic elements of skulduggery, old friend." Delville drained his glass and refilled it. "The surest proof that none of these widows was her, was their showing up for an identification interview at the home of one of the idiots trying to find her."

  Frobisher could not deny that calling him an idiot was fairly just, but Delville was wrong. "I will tell you a story of how she wound up living on this idiot's estate, if we can adjourn this discussion until we are on the road. I must return to Fenimore immediately."

  "Did you not just come from there? What of Rutherford and that other fellow?"

  Frobisher took Delville by the elbow and steered him toward the door. "They can catch up later."

  Delville's drawl was tipsy. "I am beginning to suspect you of mania, you know."

  Chapter 61

  Rosamond walked around Mrs. Johnson's room, feeling the fabric of the bed linens and touching every object of décor. She knew it was madness. She indeed felt quite mad, but she wanted to drink in every ray of hominess that the space held. Mrs. Johnson had invited her to stay there, had promised to keep her secret and protect her, had accepted her. This space is home, a small, repressed voice inside of her cried out, as she smelled the fresh violet scent of the soap by Mrs. Johnson's wash basin.

  She had cried more and felt unable to let Mrs. Johnson and Catherine depart, when they tore themselves away to go picnic with Lady Goodram. But they had to go. They could not let on that there had been any change, or give a clue that Rosamond was stowed away in Mrs. Johnson's chamber. Still she felt so desperate when they left.

  Catherine had only been a toddler when Rosamond last saw her, and yet the girl and she shared an affinity. Perhaps it was because they both had disguised themselves as the opposite sex, perhaps because they shared an enemy, perhaps because they had both been forced to uproot themselves to escape with their lives. Maybe it was because they had both been loved and nurtured by the same woman.

  Mrs. Johnson was the closest thing to a mother Rosamond had left. There was a calm place inside her, where she rarely let herself go. It was the memory of a quiet stream, lined with wildflowers in a meadow where a blanket was spread out, and where the sweet, reassuring voice of Mrs. Johnson read her stories.

  And now that place was so close at hand. Mrs. Johnson was alive! Her heart soared afresh with the knowledge. Her family was still alive.

  It was hard setting aside the feelings that had so recently, so violently bubbled to the surface. But if she was to hold on to her hope for a happy future, if she was to protect Mrs. Johnson, Catherine, and herself, she had to be strong and unemotional while they put their plan into action.

  It was a very risky plan, but Rosamond had learned from Mrs. Johnson that her attacker, the man working as Screwe's assassin, was imprisoned in Blackwood Manor. In fact, imprisoned might not quite be the word, for as Mrs. Johnson had observed, "He has probably never lived so well in his life. If you can believe it, Tilly has plans of reforming him."

  It seemed the duchess—Mrs. Johnson called her Tilly—let the miscreant out for excursions by himself, guarded only by a servant. He was permitted to read books—apparently he had been an educated man, before hard times brought him into Screwe's employ. He was free to ride and fish.

  Rosamond was astounded, shocked and even angry to hear it. But apparently the man had no idea that Mrs. Johnson was also residing in the manor, and Tilly believed this would not pose a risk for his erstwhile victim, so long as she was safely tucked up with a guard somewhere else in the house during his daily outings. It was so typical of the upper classes to cavalierly take risks with other peoples' lives.

  He was not, at least, allowed free rein to wander about the manor. Mrs. Johnson described for her where he was confined. Rosamond sat down at the writing desk and began her note.

  Screwe,

  Red Martha has paid me to keep a watch on Blackwood, where I work. I am instructed to direct any important information to you, now that you are resident in the neighbourhood. I have seen no sign of the Johnson woman, but I have other intelligence that may interest you.

  The young widow you seek has been living, under a disguise of some sort, in the hermitage on Fenimore estate. She will sleep there tonight. The marquess is away from home and does not yet know who she is. Therefore, she will be alone and completely unguarded, but perhaps only for this one day.

  I propose to store tinder, oil and other flammables in the shed behind the hermitage so they will be available to you this evening. More than that I cannot do, for I must return to Blackwood before I am missed.

  I will make an attempt to put this in the hand of one of your men who is imprisoned here, and set him free so that he might deliver it.

  She signed it simply with an X and folded it, writing instructions to the prisoner on the outside and indicating that taking his evening ride to deliver the message to Screwe at Brookshire, "would certainly be made worth his while."

  Rosamond put on her manly disguise once again and adjusted her hat in the mirror on Mrs. Johnson's toilet. Then she forced herself to leave the beguiling dream of the room and crept down the hallway to go to the east wing, where the prisoner's chamber was.

  She quietly slipped the note under the door, then heard the sound of someone approaching on the stairs in the servants’ entrance. She ran down the hall and hurled herself into the old duke's chamber, closing the door as quietly as she could.

  She listened at the keyhole, panting and praying that the servant had been carrying something cumbersome and had not made it up the narrow stairway in time to see her fleeing form. But she heard nothing, no cry of alarm or sound of footsteps rushing to find the intruder.

  She returned to the secret door in the fireplace and began to descend. At Fenimore she would gather everything she needed to prepare for her own death.

  Chapter 62

  "We really must take some refreshments for the road." Delville wriggle
d his elbow out of Frobisher's grasp and nicked the unopened bottle of champagne, stuffing two glasses into his pockets. "But very well, let us go. We can catch up on the way."

  Frobisher tried very hard not to bite Delville's head off, though he was growing rather cross with the man's complete lack of focus. "I do not care about ruddy refreshments! Screwe knows where she is, and he probably knows who she is, and no one is there to protect her. Do you not understand?"

  "Well, then,"Delville grabbed a bottle of claret for good measure, "we'd best bring reinforcements."

  Frobisher shook his head at Delville, but allowed a delay long enough for the larger carriage and six to be harnessed up and brought around. As he settled into the plump cushions, he noted the presence of the victuals Delville had requested. On this occasion, his house servants proved to be a bit too good at their jobs.

  He looked at his pocket watch when the wheels began to turn and the carriage embarked upon yet another mad journey back to the country. It would be very late when they arrived.

  He sulked. What guilt he bore! She had only the meanest of accommodations, and he had driven her from even that bit of refuge with his foolish quest for diversion. And then when she had relocated to the hermitage, like an idiot he led her enemy straight to her. It had merely been a game for Frobisher, and now Delville was making matters worse by turning their rescue mission into a champagne-filled pleasure trip.

  "Does it work, do you think?" Delville tilted his head.

  "What?"

  "Your watch. I do not believe I ever saw you examine it when we knocked about on larks before. I had thought it was merely for display. Do you think it is reliable?"

  "Shut up."

  "Well, look at the brooding marquess, just as cross as two sticks." Delville sipped his champagne, then remembered himself and poured a glass for Frobisher.

  Frobisher took it, but mostly to prevent Delville from drinking it. He could not bring himself to imbibe so celebratory a drink.

  Delville sighed. "Well, as you are in such a serious mood, why do you not begin by telling me why you think she is at Fenimore, and how Screwe should have found her at your own residence before you did?"

  Frobisher decided to drink the wine after all, so he might have a pause to think. How much should he tell Delville? The man was a total rake, but to Frobisher's knowledge he had never had a dalliance with a man. He quickly decided not to be a damned fool, and to keep his more private instincts about Mr. Hatch to himself. "Well," he began, "I do not quite know how I missed it, but my hermit, is actually a hermit."

  "So, part of your mania is a tendency to speak in riddles?" Delville snorted. "How pedestrian of you."

  "Quite. I should not tax your bacon brain. Very well, I shall explain. I hired a hermit named Mr. Hatch—or rather, Mr. Hatch would have been a hismit, if he were a man. But it turns out that he was a hermit, as he was none other than your cousin in disguise."

  "No!" Delville squinted at him over the rim of his glass. "Surely you would have detected such an obvious fraud."

  Frobisher resolved not to say a word about the intoxicating scent of Mr. Hatch. "Apparently not."

  "Yet you call me the bacon brain!" Delville scoffed and then dissolved in laughter. "Are you sure of this?"

  "I suppose I should admit some doubt, as I have not yet had the chance to put my theory to the test of disrobing Mr. Hatch." He could not prevent a dreamy smile from playing upon his lips. In his depraved heart of hearts he hoped that she would force him into proving his point by exactly such means.

  Delville looked superior and tsked. "Well, well, well. Is that a glimmer of heat I see in your flinty, cold, woman-hating heart? Remember, my friend, she is a lady—of sorts. And my cousin."

  Frobisher scoffed. "I am glad to hear you have finally remembered she is your kin and deserving of your protection. But she is not a lady of sorts. She is a lady of the best imaginable kind, a resourceful and clever one. I believe you have always known I am no misogynist. It was just easier to play at being a woman-hater. And I have no patience with your levity. This is serious. Let me tell you what I have learned, and see if you can still take things so lightly."

  Chapter 63

  Another bug bit Rosamond. She quietly squashed it against her neck, not lifting her gaze from the hermitage. It had been half an hour of spying on the cottage from various angles, ending with a nice long stare at the front door from the concealment of the trees. She had to be certain that Screwe was nowhere nearby

  But there had been no movement around the place, so she finally emerged from the forest and approached the building. Still no one. She opened the door and looked inside. No one was there.

  She crept back to the trees and began the process of transporting all the flammables she had taken from Fenimore into the shed by the hermitage. It was not a lot, but it should be enough to start a fire. The most important thing about the scheme was to place the idea into the mind of Screwe.

  She knew that once his evil brain had grasped onto the notion, he could not resist the allure of murder by fire, because it could appear as an accident, and even if anyone suspected him, it would be very hard to prove that it was anything but a cottage fire caused by a stray spark from the hearth.

  And aside from the practical aspects of using fire, she was certain that it would hold an intrinsic, elemental appeal for the diabolical nature of Screwe. Her itinerant young life had exposed her to a lot of people, many of them very bad. Normal people were naturally attracted to fire as a symbol of warmth and community—the hearth and home.

  But in her experience, there wasn’t a blackheart alive that did not love a blaze, not as a symbol of home life, but because it conjured up destructive power and vengeance in their minds. It was the metaphor for their own angry, chaotic lives.

  She was sure that Screwe would find the bait irresistible, and she needed to have everything in place before he arrived. The weakest part of the scheme was Tilly's prisoner. Tilly apparently trusted him, and that must mean that he had shown at least some evidence of reform. If he scrupled not to deliver the message to Screwe, all would be for nought. She would not be any worse off, but Screwe would still be trying to kill her.

  Rosamond was naturally mistrustful of human nature, however. Perhaps it was her own life experience of taking on so many identities, but she believed the internal worlds of people never changed. Appearances might be altered, roles might be played, but the real person remained the same.

  Did a man who so recently tried to kill an innocent woman for money suddenly become the sort of person who would recoil in disgust at a plan to burn another woman in her bed? Rosamond did not think so.

  She finished storing the supplies in the shed and constructed a scarecrow version of herself by stuffing grass in to a pair of trousers and a shirt she had stolen from the laundry at Fenimore. When it was positioned in bed, she topped it off with a head shaped rock and her black wig.

  The finished form looked fairly plausible, nestled under the blankets. She looked at the wig with some remorse. It would burn in the fire and it was worth a small fortune. It was a work of art, but Rosamond would be happy never again to have it on her head. She only wished she could have sold it.

  The immediate problem was that it was not auburn, like her natural hair. Screwe knew her true hair colour, approximately. But he also knew she had been sporting black locks as the Widow Colling, so maybe he would believe she had dyed her hair. Or, maybe he would not use a light to inspect the sleeping form, for fear of waking his victim and raising an alarm. Rosamond hoped it might be so. It was her best chance in succeeding with the plan. And after all, with one criminal trespass already laid at his charge, Screwe might be careful not to have a lamplight betray his presence before he could set the blaze and escape.

  She sat down at the recently installed table and ran a hand along the smooth surface. It was well-made and expensive. What a great shame to destroy the new furnishings. At least she had been able to return the fishing rod and ta
ckle to the manor.

  All of the things Frobisher had brought to fit up the cottage were of the highest quality, especially when compared to how sparse and dismal the place was when she came. She asked herself again, was it for her that he had done all this? It was not. It was for Mr. Hatch. Her foolish dream that a spark might exist between them had been built upon a lie—and so fundamental a lie could never be overcome.

  Never. No one ever fell in love with just the person. Even if he had caught a glimmer of the true Rosamond beneath the disguise, no one ever looked at another person without first remarking upon his or her sex. That was the anchor of everyone's identity. How could he ever get past the fact that she was not the man that he had taken a fancy to? And could he even forgive her for such a wicked deception?

  She snorted in disgust at her own pointless ruminations and fetched herself some bread, cold meat and ale from her larder. It might as well not go to waste. She had to eat. In fact, she was famished, but the food tasted like sawdust. She could not even take solace in the basic comfort of having a shelter and more than enough delicious food. Now, when she had been given a place and the care—perhaps even the love—of a good man, she was about to lure Screwe into burning it all down.

  And it would break his heart. She would make him utterly miserable, and then what would she do? Offer her true self, Rosamond, up as a consolation and a comfort to him in his time of grief? Deplorable second act. But it could not be. No matter how pretty the face, she could not make a man who liked men fall in love with a woman.

  Unless… could he be one of those who liked both men and women? He did not have to know that she had ever been Mr. Hatch. He might see the burnt cottage and believe Mr. Hatch was gone, even if they found no remains. Fires could be like that. He might never find out.