Behind The Baron's Mask: A Regency Romance (Resolved In Love Book 1)

by Penny Fairbanks

  Cecilia grimaced. She had fled from the drawing room in the heat of the moment, not thinking about how her disappearing act might affect her loved ones. In a large, unfamiliar home, she could have hidden anywhere. Or even left Lord Overton’s home entirely.

  “I’m so sorry, Jules. I didn’t realize I’ve caused such a fuss. But I promise, I’m just fine now. A little embarrassed, to be sure, but I’m in one piece.”

  Cecilia removed her hands from her sister’s grip and cupped her soft round face, the heat from her skin seeping through Cecilia’s silk gloves. She’d done such a thing countless times throughout their childhood—whenever Juliet scraped a knee chasing after birds on the grounds of their country estate, or nearly broken her ankle after falling out of a tree, or been teased by the girls at their seminary for her untamed mouth.

  She wondered briefly when had been the last time she’d done this. Probably several years, as Juliet needed her reassurances less and less over time. Oddly, it brought a small smile to Cecilia’s face. She was glad to know that her little sister still relied on her sometimes.

  “Please don’t ever run off like that again. You’ve scared us all half to death, and I swear if another minute had passed I would have sent out the servants to search for you,” Juliet huffed. Suddenly she sounded like the older sister chastising the reckless and foolish behavior of the younger. Cecilia couldn’t help laughing at the role reversal.

  “On the plus side, Mama’s hair has turned a very becoming shade of silver. It quite suits her, I think,” Juliet giggled, her face slipping back into its easy demeanor.

  “We should go and deliver the good news,” Cecilia said after catching her breath. “Oh, but first Lord Neil—”

  Cecilia turned to her side to give the baron his due credit for finding her and helping her return to her senses. But the baron had performed a disappearing act of his own. Her heart sank just slightly, and she hated that irksome sensation.

  “Lord Neil? He left in quite a hurry not long after I arrived. Perhaps he wanted to give us privacy to reunite.” Juliet shrugged before turning to Cecilia to wipe away any stray tears and adjust the curls that had fallen out during her escape. She turned back toward the earl’s home, keeping Cecilia’s hand in her own.

  Cecilia frowned, a twinge of guilt settling in her stomach. How could she not notice him leave? And why did she care whether she noticed or not? His work here was done, his obligation completed. At least for tonight.

  Chapter 8

  Henry jolted awake to the sound of the heavy door opening. His heart raced for a few seconds, until his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and saw the large curtained window to his left, and the floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall bookshelves in front of him. The familiar shapes of his study brought him comfort and eased his momentary panic.

  “Apologies, my lord. I did not realize you were still here.” The young footman bowed but did not otherwise seem surprised to find his employer asleep in the study. All the staff knew by now that Henry spent just as many nights asleep at his writing desk or in a chair in the library as he did in his own bed. This was not the first time they had found him in such a state, nor would it be the last.

  “That’s quite alright. It’s about time I was up anyways. Carry on,” Henry grumbled, his voice cracking from disuse.

  The sun was just barely beginning to wind its way through the fabric of the curtains, the staff getting their start on the day. Henry could have slept for several more hours if he wished, as many of the gently born part-time residents of London were no doubt doing.

  But they did not have books to write.

  Henry dragged his hands over his face and gave his cheeks a light tap to rouse himself. Running a hand through his hair told him that there was no hope for that sorry mess and he would just have to leave it be for now.

  He pulled the bell and, while he waited for the maid, reviewed last night’s work. Thumbing through the handful of pages, all he saw were lines of disappointment. When he got to the last page he’d written last night—or rather early this morning—stuck in the middle of a sentence, he gripped the corner of the sheet tightly, tempted to crumple the whole thing.

  But the maid arrived at that moment and Henry loosened his hand, smoothing out the creases he’d created. “I’ll take breakfast and tea in here today, thank you,” he instructed without looking up from his work.

  “Drat it all...” he muttered, propping his elbows up on the desk and burying his hands in his already disheveled hair.

  Henry’s publisher had given him the grand news last week that the latest installment in his series was doing quite well, a marked improvement from the steady climb of his previous books. It was popular in both circulating libraries and home libraries.

  This finally gave Henry some real hope that perhaps his talents were truly being noticed. Solomon insisted that his novels were gaining traction, but Henry couldn’t help doubting the veracity of such statements. He didn’t think his friend lied to him for the purpose of bolstering his confidence. Perhaps just stretching the truth.

  But hearing this from Frye himself struck Henry differently. Maybe, just maybe, his dream of sharing his imagined worlds and expressing his opinions and feelings through his characters to a larger audience were coming true.

  The more Henry wrote, the more he realized that he needed his work to be shared. He had thought that he would be happy simply getting his ideas on paper and reading them back to himself over time as a private hobby. And he likely would have been content with that, had Solomon not given him the push to publish.

  Now that the idea that people read and even enjoyed his writing had been planted in Henry’s mind, he wanted to keep sharing himself in this way—even if no one knew it was really him.

  In truth, it was the only way he could share any of himself.

  Yet somehow these past few days had proven unusually difficult. Of course Henry ran into occasional road blocks with his stories, perhaps unsure of where to take the adventure next or struggling to find the right words to convey a scene. It happened to any writer, or any artist for that matter.

  But he’d always been able to overcome it fairly quickly. A solitary walk about the park, or a quiet carriage ride down the streets of London usually sparked some inspiration in him.

  There was just something this time that truly had his imagination in a bind. His hero was stuck in a seemingly impossible predicament, and Henry couldn’t see how to get him out yet.

  “My apologies, dear friend,” he muttered to the sheets of paper clutched in his hands, addressing the character that lived there within flourishes of ink. “I will try to rescue you as soon as I can.”

  It was also not uncommon for Henry to speak to his characters out loud on occasion. As the work progressed, he found that he started seeing them more and more as real people who simply took a two-dimensional form rather than a three-dimensional one. He felt as though through writing the tale, he got to know more about them, and though he often had an idea of how the story would progress, these imaginary people often surprised him and redirected themselves.

  Of course, Henry didn’t share this quirky habit with anyone. Not even Solomon. He even checked to make sure that any footmen or maids had left the room first.

  To Henry, this was a sacred artistic intimacy shared only between himself and his work. Besides, he knew it would sound utterly daft to anyone else.

  Henry knew all too well the ebbs and flows of inspiration and motivation. But he had not anticipated suffering a creative block that seemed to dry up his pen for days, barely managing a few lines every time he sat down at his writing desk. Henry hadn’t left his home for days, yet all he’d managed to squeeze out were a few pages—and mediocre pages at that.

  And he had certainly not anticipated being dragged about town by Solomon on his courtship quest, and their first outing was scheduled for later today.

  That thought had loomed large in Henry’s mind ever since Solomon’s dinner. His encounter with Miss
Richards in the garden had been...peculiar. He wasn’t entirely sure how to describe it.

  He'd felt immensely sorry for the young woman and felt partly responsible for what transpired during her performance. She played very well, though not quite like the masked lady at Lord Henshell’s ball. Even still, Miss Richards clearly had an abundance of talent and passion for the instrument.

  If only he’d had the good sense to keep his distance. Yet something propelled him forward, some invisible string that connected him to the pianoforte and wound itself tighter and tighter by some strange force until he’d found himself just a few yards away, watching her play with an intensity that arrested him.

  She’d been doing a wonderful job. That is, until their eyes had met. Henry knew she did not have any warm feelings toward him, nothing more than a polite tolerance most likely. Seeing him so nearby must have shocked her into fumbling her notes, and she’d clunked through the rest of the piece.

  Just as Henry had stepped forward to apologize for distracting her, she’d left the room as quickly as she could manage in her dress. But not before Henry had seen the tears pooling in her blue eyes.

  He’d considered it a miracle that he found her in the garden, and he had been ill prepared to deal with such a distressed young woman. He couldn’t even blame her for snapping as she had at his insensitive and obtuse question.

  As they’d sat together in the garden, he could have sworn that the uncomfortable air that had surrounded them since their first meeting was finally dissipating. But Miss Richards’s last remark, before her sister discovered them and he’d taken his leave, still puzzled him and gave him the impression that she was not overly fond of him after all.

  She had said nothing outside of the bounds of politeness, but the undercurrent in her voice had told him that she wished to be rid of him. He simply couldn’t figure out why.

  He sighed as he thumbed through his papers again. Unfortunately, there seemed to be much that Henry could not figure out these days.

  “Breakfast, my lord.” The maid entered with a tray piled high with eggs, sliced ham, and toast accompanied by a pot of steaming tea.

  “Thank you. You may set it there.” He poked his nose toward the small table by the window. “I’ll pick at it throughout the morning.” That is, if Henry remembered it at all. When he took his food in the study, Henry often ended up sitting down to a very cold meal after getting caught up in his work for hours on end.

  “Please do, my lord.” The maid nodded as she backed out of the room. It seemed his staff knew this as well.

  “Well, I’m not getting anything done so might as well nibble a bit,” Henry said to himself, taking a deep whiff of the surely delicious food.

  Abandoning his writing desk, Henry sat by the window and poured a cup of tea. He looked down at the mostly empty street that passed by the front of his London home, his thoughts returning not to his book, but to the garden and Miss Richards.

  Why must I be here? Henry lamented to himself for the dozenth time that afternoon. Everyone else in London seemed to be enamored with Hyde Park, but Henry swore he could live the rest of his life without setting foot here again, especially at this hour. The whole of the ton seemed to be here, clogging the otherwise beautiful park.

  But it was not just this overly crowded place that bothered Henry, though it certainly didn’t help.

  Miss Richards walked beside him once again, her gloved hand placed gently on his arm. He had to admit, she looked rather in her element here in the park, wearing a lovely walking dress and nodding and smiling to many other people as they passed by. Was there anyone in this city she did not know? If Henry wasn’t mistaken, he was sure she wished she did not know him right now.

  Their conversation had been minimal. After all, they were not the ones courting. Their presence was a mere formality on behalf of Solomon and her younger sister.

  Nothing need come of their participation, Henry reminded himself. Certainly nothing should come of it. Every moment he spent here was a moment he could have been in his study, breaking through his slump and forging ahead on his novel.

  But a promise was a promise, and Henry was a man of his word. Besides, he found the barely tamed eagerness in Solomon’s face to be quite charming. His features seemed to have aged backwards, the anticipation transforming him into a young boy again. Solomon tried to hide it, but thanks to Henry’s extensive knowledge of his friend it was plain as day.

  Solomon’s companion seemed quite enthusiastic as well. She clung to Solomon’s arm and gazed up at him with a nearly permanent smile on her face. Whatever they spoke of, both seemed to find the topic of conversation completely engrossing and entertaining.

  “Lord Neil, you haven’t had any more trouble with that awful Mr. Faxby have you?” Miss Richards finally broke the silence, with one of Henry’s most dreaded questions.

  “No. Solomon tells me he hasn’t shown his face at our club since the dinner, though I haven’t confirmed this myself yet since I’ve been quite locked up in my study these past few days.” Henry muttered his reply, his throat drying up at the memory of that embarrassing incident. He could feel heat spreading over the back of his neck despite the cool evening breeze.

  “Ah, right. And how goes everything in your study?” Miss Richards’s voice was measured and polite.

  Her eyes were trained straight ahead, flickering over the scenery from the tall trees to the other walking couples to the carriages rolling by, her eyes seemingly absorbing every detail. Surely she could not know that she was asking all the wrong questions.

  “Everything is going as usual,” Henry lied, hoping his nerves remained hidden. “I think this is my first day properly out in the sunlight since Lord Overton’s dinner. I have been quite engrossed in a book of late but though I enjoy it, I find myself struggling to get through it.”

  The words fell out of Henry’s mouth almost without him realizing. It certainly wasn’t a lie, though Henry rarely discussed the specifics of the goings on in his study lest he let any potentially revealing hints slip.

  Why on earth was he treading so close to the truth with this woman who was barely an acquaintance and who likely cared little for his company, let alone his private thoughts? And Lord knew what she might do with that perilous information if he did divulge too much.

  The heat that had crept over his neck intensified, and he could feel tiny beads of sweat forming under his hairline. The hand at his side curled into a tight fist and then opened again several times, and he could feel his pulse thudding against the thin skin of his palm.

  Henry should not be troubling a lady with his hobbies—truth or not—especially one he didn’t know very well. The few ladies he’d been seated with at dinners or cornered into walks with (either by Solomon or eager Boodle’s club members with eligible daughters) had all seemed rather uninterested in the contents of his bookshelves or his current reading list.

  But, Henry realized, if he bored Miss Richards enough, perhaps she would deem him an unworthy conversation partner and revert back to silence and the occasional verbal courtesy for the rest of their undetermined time together. Henry certainly didn’t see the need for constant chatter, and Miss Richards need not feel obligated to provide it.

  Henry awaited her response, expecting her to change the subject or tell him to abandon the venture. But the young woman said nothing for several moments. Suddenly Henry found that the silence he had wished for just a moment ago was made even more uncomfortable by the anticipation of whatever dismissive reply she was sure to make.

  Having the advantage of height, he craned his neck forward slightly to peek just beyond her bonnet to see if he could surmise anything from her expression. Her legs continued to carry her body forward, her walking dress swishing slightly against his trousers, but perhaps he had somehow put her mind to sleep.

  What he saw instead surprised him. Her face had lowered, brows furrowed and blue eyes examining the gravel walkway. She seemed to be carefully considering his words,
else some other urgent thought had chosen that moment to captivate her. Somehow, Henry found the expression to be quite endearing, with the way the corners of her mouths turned down just slightly to reveal small shallow dimples.

  “Miss Richards? Does something trouble you?” He hazarded, not entirely sure if it was appropriate for him to pry into her thoughts, or why he should want to do so in the first place.

  She still did not respond right away, but instead she lifted her head to look forward again, her lips pursing in a puzzled fashion. Suddenly Henry couldn’t help wondering just what she could be thinking to cause such a look.

  “It seems you and I are not so different, Lord Neil,” she mumbled.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Would you say you are experiencing some sort of block that is hindering your enjoyment of your hobby?”

  “I suppose that would be a good way of putting it, yes.”

  Miss Richards nodded solemnly, taking a few moments to think this over. Finally, just as Henry was growing antsy to understand her question, she gave a deep sigh and shook her head slightly.

  Surprised by this reaction, Henry halted in the middle of the path and turned to face her fully. Truly, this woman was a mystery. Henry could not fathom what she might be thinking at this precise moment, or why she questioned him so. She unlaced her hand from his arm and faced him as well.

  “Perhaps individuals such as us, with interests within the realm of the arts, have this problem in common.” Her once serious expression gave way to a small smile as she looked up into his face, some sort of understanding in her eyes.

  “I see.” Henry nodded quickly, trying unsuccessfully to pull his gaze away from hers. His heart fluttered in his chest, a rather different sensation than the painful, constricting hammering he was used to when presented with an unfamiliar situation. He could feel that he stood on the verge of something important. Something in him was being answered, but he did not know what, or why.