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

by Tessa Candle

  "Very good, my lord." He was still grinning. "I shall send the valet right away." He was about to depart, but Frobisher stopped him. "And where is Mr. Delville?"

  The man looked puzzled.

  "Mr. Dee?" Frobisher corrected himself in irritation.

  "He has not yet risen, my lord."

  "Well, rouse him and tell him I wish to see him in my study in one hour."

  "Very good, my lord."

  There was nothing yet in the breakfast room, so he walked into the kitchen to fetch some cold viands, and he was forced to endure another eruption of jubilant greetings from the servants there who had equally feared he was dead. Why didn’t Delville tell them of his survival? Unless he immediately himself in Frobisher's wine cellar as he had threatened. Frobisher did not doubt it. The man had a knack for getting into a wine cellar. When they were young, Frobisher had suspected him of carrying thief’s picks for that purpose.

  He crammed some cold ham and bread into his mouth and washed it down with tepid tea from the servants’ table. The staff were mortified and assured him that proper tea would be sent to his chambers, immediately.

  Then he headed upstairs to submit to the ministrations of the valet, who was equally as overjoyed as the others had been at the master's safe return.

  When Frobisher was bathed and shaved—his scrapes and burns treated with salves and solicitous clucking from the valet—it was time for the wardrobe.

  "I want the fine blue cloth coat there. And a proper shirt—no lace cuffs."

  The valet only showed a moment's hesitation at this astounding direction, but complied happily, one might even say jubilantly. And apparently buoyed by the joyous occasion of Frobisher having not only returned from the dead, but also to a right way of thinking about attire, the valet commented, "And shall his lordship be calling on his grace today?"

  "He is from home—in London."

  "Has no one told his lordship that the Duke of Bartholmer called last night—or rather very early this morning? His grace raced home from London, saw the fire, and came looking for your lordship. Indeed, we had all thought the worst. Shall I send a message to Blackwood, my lord? Only his grace mentioned forming a search party…"

  "A search party? Good lord what a tempest in a teapot. Very well, fetch me a pen and paper and I will write a quick note to reassure him. But I hope you are wrong, and he is sleeping peacefully when it arrives, for he must be exhausted."

  Frobisher himself was quite played out, but he could not help smiling to himself when he recalled the reason why. He thought of Rosamond asleep in the cottage, her mass of auburn hair lying on the pillow like a magical halo. It had been painful to tear himself away from her, but after the exhausting night she had, he thought it would be cruel to wake her. And he had to have an audience immediately with the only of Rosamond's relatives that he could properly solicit for her hand.

  Screwe had certainly forfeited any claim to kinship, and was not to know that Rosamond was still alive. In fact, it had escaped his thoughts, but he should make a point of organizing a funeral for Mr. Hatch, to prop up the fiction of the fire. He finished scrawling off the missive to Rutherford, saying he was hale and hearty, not at all dead, and would see him in the afternoon to explain everything.

  But as he handed the letter to his valet, Frobisher became suddenly anxious. He should never have left Rosamond alone in the cottage. It seemed necessary at the time, for by the light of day he had a pang of conscience for having taken such liberties the night before. If he had been more the master of his feelings, he would never have compromised her thus.

  He smiled stupidly. Not that he regretted the act, exactly, but he regretted the perilous position he had left her reputation in, simply because his passion was stronger than his virtue.

  He would return to her as soon as possible, but first he had to fix his wrongdoing. He would ask Delville for his consent to the match, as ridiculous as that was, and then he would take his grandmother's ring from the jewel chest, go back to the cottage, wake Rosamond up with kisses and propose to her formally. Should he get a special license? Perhaps he could discuss it with the parish priest when he made arrangements for the show funeral of Mr. Hatch. With a little luck, the whole thing might be completed in a few days.

  When Delville finally joined Frobisher in the study, he looked precisely like a man who had decimated as much of his friend's wine cellar as was humanly possible before passing out in a puddle of his own drool. Frobisher knew better than to say anything to him before he poured him a glass of champagne spiked with brandy.

  Delville smiled weakly. "There's a good man." He drank it back and swallowed the refill Frobisher gave him as well, before throwing himself into a lazy slouch upon one of the study chairs. "You summoned me, Marquess?" he asked as he held out the glass again.

  "I will get right to the point, Delville."

  "Call me Mr. Dee, please."

  "I will call you whatever you like when we are in public, but at the moment what I call you is the nearest relative to Miss Delville that merits any sort of deference."

  "Well, you could say that." He finished off the glass in one smooth gulp. "Or you could say the nearest relative—full stop."

  Frobisher gave up and handed Delville the whole bottle without comment. "Is that right? I had thought such honour belonged to the undeserving Lord Screwe, by virtue of his nominal guardianship over her. In any case, I am here to beg your leave to seek Miss Delville's hand in marriage."

  Delville shrugged. "Done. Got any more of that brandy?"

  Frobisher handed him the decanter. "And you have no reservations?"

  "None whatever. True, I know nothing of my cousin's tastes, or if you will suit, but you are a marquess, and she is… well, let us say that a certain colourful character runs in the family." He winked and walked to the sideboard to fetch a glass for Frobisher. "But if she consents to marry you, I can have no objection whatsoever."

  "Not even," Frobisher chose his words carefully, "after what you witnessed last night?" After all, Frobisher had walked off into the shadows with her, unescorted, and had not reappeared for the remainder of the evening.

  "Aye, you have a point." Delville's smile was pure mischief as he handed Frobisher a brandy with a splash of champagne. "All that nonsense about disappearing after the fire and leaving everyone to think you were dead, only to show up again like nothing had happened. Only a right, pox-ridden bastard would do something like that." He clinked his glass against Frobisher's. "But cheers to you and your future bride, my friend. I say, go get her."

  Frobisher laughed in exasperation at Delville. A proper scoundrel, but he could not help liking him, even after his return from the dead. Yes, all in all, he was glad the bounder was still alive, but it gave Frobisher further resolve to go marry Miss Delville as soon as could be. She had nothing but a mad bunch of rascals for relatives. She needed someone to look after her.

  Frobisher rose and set aside his drink. "Well then. I shall instruct the servants to keep you well supplied while I am gone. Try not to kill yourself—again."

  Delville saluted Frobisher saucily. "Most certainly. I reckon there has been enough dying around here of late."

  Frobisher strode out of the room to find his grandmother's ring. It would be perfect for Rosamond.

  He wanted to arrive quickly and in style, so he selected Lucifer for the ride to the Blackwood cottage. He and the mare had not really had time to get acquainted, but he felt it was an appropriate time to finally ride her. After all, he had at last earned the horse by finding Miss Delville. This recollection made him grin in self-congratulation.

  But then he winced as he recalled the unfeeling glibness of that bargain. He must have been a different man then. And to prove it, he would give the mount to Miss Delville when they were engaged, as a sort of settling of his debt for having been, only weeks earlier, such a selfish bastard.

  Lucifer was fiery at first, but then decided that she liked him well enough. And she was very enthusiast
ic about trotting off to Blackwood.

  He arrived at the cottage in good time, dismounted, straightened his cravat, and walked to the door. Should he knock? He felt suddenly self-conscious. He rapped lightly. If she did not answer, she was probably still sleeping. He could creep in and awaken her with a kiss. The only difficulty would be limiting himself to that one small gesture of affection before they were married.

  He walked through the door and straight to the bed chamber. He frowned. The bed lay in disarray from their activities of the night before, but it was empty.

  A cold sweat of misgiving crawled up his spine. "Miss Delville? Darling Rosamond?" He walked around the inside of the cottage, but she was not there.

  He dashed outside. "Rosamond?" He looked about the yard. She was nowhere.

  Where could she have gone? He rushed back to the house and searched through it again, trying to locate her sack. Surely if her possessions were there, she could not be far away. But the sack was gone.

  "That bastard!" Frobisher ran back to Lucifer and swung into the saddle. Screwe must have taken her, and all the evidence of her identity, too.

  Chapter 69

  Rosamond walked into the breakfast parlour at Blackwood Manor, hiding as best she could behind Mrs. Johnson. The artless, elegant beauty of the room had not much changed since she had been there last. There were new curtains, but Rosamond was relieved to see that the new mistress had embraced the simple stonework walls, and had not insisted on doing things afresh with wood panelling and wallpapers. Rosamond preferred the old feel of the great building and was glad that the modern sense of fashion had not been imposed upon it.

  But as she looked at the ladies assembled in the room, her guilty conscience reminded her that she had been the one assuming false faces and erecting facades. She was painfully aware of how smoky she must look and smell. That was appropriate. She was a swindler and a liar—to call her smoky was too kind.

  She wanted to apologize to them all, to be understood, but she knew forgiveness was too much to ask for. At least the duchess was willing to take her in and lend her countenance and protection. That was certainly something. She dared not hope for more.

  But as Mrs. Johnson introduced her to each of the ladies, they received her happily into their midst. Even Lady Goodram, whom she had met as the debutante Miss Dervish, gave her a cheerful smile and expressed her pleasure in meeting the fascinating Miss Delville and in seeing her well.

  Rosamond could not believe it. Her misting eyes caused her embarrassment amid a rush of gratitude and emotion. "I do not know what to say to you all. Words cannot express my thankfulness at being so warmly greeted." She fell silent then, unable to continue, and Mrs. Johnson led her to a seat at the table next to the duchess and made her up a cup of tea, just as she had liked it when she was a young girl. This one gesture of care could have made her break down and weep, but instead she resolved to reward Mrs. Johnson's kindness by keeping her spine straight and smiling, as if to say, I remember all those cups of tea.

  "You have had a very hard time of things." The duchess broke the silence. "But everything has changed now. I know it takes a long time to feel like you can be safe again. Mrs. Johnson is well aware of that, and I believe she can help you through this period of transition. Only know that our home is open to you as long as you need it, and we will do everything in our power to protect you until you can claim your inheritance and establish your own household."

  "Thank you, your grace." A tear finally escaped and slid down Rosamond's cheek. "I know I deserve no such kindness, and I am dumbfounded at her grace's compassion. I beg forgiveness for all of my deception and concealment."

  "Nothing of the sort! There is naught to forgive except your insistence upon calling me your grace. All of my friends call me Tilly, and I hope you will do me that honour."

  "Thank you, Tilly. I hope you will call me Rosamond."

  "With pleasure. And it is I who should ask your forgiveness for not helping you sooner."

  "I would forgive you with all my heart if I could bring myself to believe that you require it. But true, you have been kinder to me than I deserved. Many, probably most, would have exposed me immediately."

  "Well," Tilly laughed and slouched back into her chair, "let us simply say all is forgotten, and move on, or we will bore everyone else to death."

  Mrs. Johnson spoke up then, "Rosamond, you must tell everyone what you know of Frobisher."

  At the mention of his name, she quivered. How she longed to see him, to be sure that all was well, that he was safe and loved her still. But she forced herself to speak calmly. "Mrs. Johnson tells me that everyone fears he died in the fire, but that cannot be. I saw him come out of the cottage myself. He was coughing and a little overheated, to be sure, but very much alive."

  "But where did he go?" Tilly, Lady Goodram and Miss Dawling asked all at once. Then Tilly took the lead to say, "Do you know where he is, then?"

  "No." She was relieved that so far she had not been compelled to lie. But she could not very well tell the group what the two of them had got up to after the fire. "Is he not at Fenimore?"

  "He was not there, nor anywhere to be found, when Rutherford called there to see about the fire. It was almost out, but no one had any idea where Frobisher had got to."

  "And has he not yet returned?" Rosamond did not like the sound of this. She had been sure that he went home. But perhaps he and Rutherford had merely missed each other.

  "We have not received word of it." Lady Goodram looked unhappy. "He would not leave us in any suspense if he had returned home to hear of Rutherford's hunt for him."

  "Is his grace searching?" Rosamond wondered where, besides Fenimore, he might look.

  "He has taken some men to confront Screwe at Brookshire." Tilly did not look especially happy about this. "I do not see what Screwe would have to gain by absconding with Frobisher, but perhaps…"

  Good Lord. Was she suggesting that Frobisher had gone to settle matters with Screwe? That would be pointless and far too dangerous. "I hope Frobisher did not go to call on Lord Screwe on my account."

  Tilly gave Rosamond a brief look, as though she were trying to detect something in her words. "Well, let us all hope not. If Frobisher is not there, then it is less likely that Rutherford will do anything foolish. But it will do no good to dwell upon it. First I shall see that you have a decent breakfast, and then I hope you will not object to a bath and my sending you a lady's maid."

  Rosamond laughed. "My apologies, I must look a fright." She would greatly relish a chance to be clean and presentable, but she could not shake a feeling that she should be going somewhere, finding Frobisher, doing something to hide herself again.

  She tried to dispel the impulse. It was nothing but a misunderstanding, and she needed to stop making every situation a reason for flying off in some new direction. She had lived so long in hiding and disguise that simply being "herself" with these ladies for twenty minutes was making her frantic. Who knew that abiding in the home one had found would be so hard, after longing for it for so many years?

  It felt terribly, terribly good to be immersed in the huge tub. The suds massaged the many sore spots Rosamond had not known she had, and the sachet of lavender soothed her worried mind. Clearly there were advantages to living under a ducal roof. She had got so little rest in recent days that she could lay back in the warm soapy water and sleep.

  But there was no time for naps. The lady's maid returned with a special herbal rinse for her hair, meant to heal some of the damage caused by wearing wigs and loitering about burning buildings.

  When she was washed and dried, she sat down at the toilette to have the tangles combed out of her locks and treatments applied to her face. The woman had prepared buttermilk to remove some of the colouration of her skin.

  But as Rosamond looked into a proper mirror for the first time in ages, she was horrified. Her face was not merely stained from the tea she had applied to darken it. Her beard rash had formed up into a nasty, sp
otty-looking set of scars, and her skin over all was reddened on the nose, chin and cheeks from exposure to the heat of the fire. She looked quite coarse.

  This was the face of the woman that Frobisher had taken to bed the night before. She was incredulous. It was a good thing the light had been so dim. What would he say if he saw her by daylight? Would he be repulsed and retract his offer of marriage?

  The irony of the moment did not escape her. All her life her beauty had attracted unwanted attention from the worst sorts of scoundrels. She had often been desperate to hide or disguise it. But now, at the moment when she had found a man that she wanted to look beautiful for, her looks utterly betrayed her.

  "Will the buttermilk help, do you think?" she asked hopefully.

  "Oh yes, Miss. A few treatments of that and your freckles will fade right out."

  Her freckles? Those were the least of her worries. "What about the rash, the scars, all the redness?"

  "I reckon the redness is from getting to close to the fire. But you are not really burned, so I don't believe it will linger, Miss. I have something else for the scars. They too will fade with time."

  She sighed. Time. Frobisher would not stay away as long as that, surely. He would have to see her and either accept her, or run away. And had he not already accepted much worse things about her than merely some patches of marred skin? In truth, it was quite childish of her to be wallowing in her wounded vanity when Frobisher was still missing.

  Perhaps she was merely infected by the worry of everyone else in the household, but she had misgivings about his disappearance. Had he gone off to hunt down Screwe and been harmed? Or worse—but no, she could not think of that. More likely, he awakened next to her and fled her hideous face, repenting all the promises of the night before. He did, after all, have a reputation for avoiding women in general and marriage in particular.

  Rosamond ached with the painful apprehension that she had been a fool, and the sweet words he had spoken to her were merely for the art of seduction. Was he another vile man who loved to compromise young women and abandon them?