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

by Tessa Candle

  It was now or never. She made it to the door, inserted the key and turned the lock.

  Chapter 20

  Frobisher huffed and seated himself at table across from Paul. He had spent the rest of the evening enquiring at various boarding houses in the area around Mrs. Holden's house, but to no avail. He had finally permitted his servants to continue the search on his behalf and slunk home, somewhat defeated.

  Mrs. Holden had told him all she could while she awaited the arrival of her brother, but none of her information proved helpful.

  It was deeply troubling that Red Martha appeared to be trying to get the pretty widow into one of her brothels—and that she would go to such lengths to do so—but it was not all that surprising. This made it more imperative than ever that he find her, and he wished now he hadn’t promised the farmer’s son a meal. They should be out, continuing the search alongside the servants.

  Still, it would not do to get fatigued and the food, after all, was ready. Frobisher dug in, resignedly at first—then with more enthusiasm, realizing he was famished. He was glad he had ordered roast chicken. His cook made it exceedingly well, and it was a dish that would not intimidate Paul.

  The skin was crisp and perfectly salted, the flesh juicy and a little smoky from the open fire. It was perfect. Frobisher even made a point of gnawing on a drumstick with his hands to make Paul feel less out of place.

  "Well, Paul, you have been a great help to me on this trip."

  "You are kind to say it, my lord. I reckon I only helped a little. And even when we found Mrs. Holden, she could only tell your lordship that she turned Mrs. Colling away."

  "True, but that is at least something. We know she is probably in the area, and if she should return, or Mrs. Holden should see or hear of her, she will be sure to send word here."

  "Aye, my lord. That was a good piece of work, but it was all your lordship's doing."

  "I have instructed the servants to start inquiring at every boarding house or lodging with rooms to let in the area. It is a very good start." He smiled at Paul, who had finished his chicken, and was mopping up the memory of it from his plate with a piece of bread.

  Frobisher ordered more chicken to be served to the boy and continued, "It narrows down our search considerably. And it is all thanks to you."

  Paul blushed and paused in shovelling his second helping of chicken and potatoes into his mouth. "Your lordship gives me too much credit. Why, it was more John Pines’ assistance than it was mine."

  "And when we return to the country, you shall bring me John Pines, and I shall thank him as well. He shall not go unrewarded for his kindness to Mrs. Colling."

  "He will be in town again next week, my lord. Has a delivery."

  Frobisher frowned. "If only I could stay that long. I would prefer to oversee the search for Mrs. Colling myself, so as to get the earliest possible information of her whereabouts." He now regretted agreeing to do this side task for Tilly. When he came to London, he had fancied that, with his new information, it would only take a day to find Mrs. Colling. Now he could see that it might take a bit longer—though his prospects were very good. The fortification of the meal buoyed his optimism, and he began to reckon that it might take but a couple of days.

  Paul did not offer any opinion, focussing instead upon the task of destroying another plate of food and making bold to start on one of the puddings.

  "True," said Frobisher, as though Paul had made some suggestion. "I could pay a call on this Mrs. Steele and convince her to delay her trip to the countryside by a few days."

  Paul once again forbore to comment, but managed to keep his mouth closed as he munched the pudding.

  Frobisher decided he would speak to the woman and arrange matters more conveniently. Surely things were not so dire as Tilly made them out to be, and a slight delay would not signify. He smiled to himself and brushed a crumb from his lace cuff. All would turn out well, and soon he would find the fascinating Mrs. Colling and assist her, make her understand that she need not fear either Rutherford or himself.

  And then what? Would they all live happily ever after? And why not? He dismissed his doubts. Frobisher could be charming enough to women that he liked—and he liked this Mrs. Colling, even if he did not know her real name and had never properly met her. He had learned more about her through this merry chase than he could possibly do chatting idly in some wretched, over-heated ball.

  Yes, he would find her and they would get along splendidly. He dusted his lace cuff again and smiled with complacence. "I am decided. I shall spend tomorrow looking for Mrs. Colling, and if necessary the day after I shall go see if Mrs. Steele might be persuaded to delay her trip to Blackwood for a few days more. I do not suppose you will mind staying in town a bit longer?"

  "I am at your service, my lord. And I hope my father will be pleased to have spared me, when he sees your lordship's generosity."

  "That was a trifle. You will have more when we return, and I shall compensate your father as well." Frobisher filled with optimism. "And if we find her before I leave town again, you shall have your share in the reward I am offering the servants."

  Paul beamed at Frobisher with gratitude and took another helping of pudding.

  Frobisher was filled with hope that Paul would get his reward. They would find Mrs. Colling, surely. He pulled out the widow’s kerchief from his pocket and permitted himself a single sniff. He had to savour this sketch of her scent but sparingly, to make it last until he could retrieve the original.

  Chapter 21

  Rosamond awoke to an itchy face. Once she had replaced her disguise, she did not wish to take any chances, but sleeping in the false beard and eyebrows was excruciating. Only her utter exhaustion after the prior day's events had made slumber possible.

  Mrs. Holden had been absorbed in conversation with her guest and had either not heard Rosamond sneak in, or had ignored it. When Rosamond thought about it, the woman would certainly not wish to tell her new tenant that the home had been broken into. There was little other reason for her to speak with Mr. Hatch upon his return.

  It was highly advantageous being an unremarkable man. For one thing, no one wanted to sell you into prostitution. As itchy as the disguise was, it was definitely staying on her face.

  She made a hasty toilet and found her way downstairs to the parlour, where tea and bread might be had, for a price. One of the male tenants was leaving as she entered. She spied that he had left a day old paper on one of the tables, and she sat down to read it.

  The smell of bread made her stomach growl, but she had to save her pence now, and would eat nothing until the hour of whatever dinner Mrs. Holden was offering. She unfolded the paper to the section where solicitations for work and workers appeared.

  There was little enough employment on offer. Quite the contrary, a slew of young women sought positions as governesses and nurse maids. It was not very heartening. A couple of places were posted for male labourers, but Rosamond could not imagine herself pulling that con off. She was strong, but she knew that digging holes and pounding stakes and hefting huge crates was outside of her ability. One query suggested that the offerer might take on a woman as a cook and woman of all work "for the right price."

  Rosamond pursed her lips at the probable wretchedness and penury involved in such a posting, and wondered to herself if anyone desperate enough to take it would be able to read the paper. But then she realized, with a sigh, that the desperate woman was her. She admitted to herself that she could not be too particular and noted the direction.

  Then her eye alighted on a posting that she had glossed over before. Someone was looking to hire a hermit. She suppressed a cackle, for she was afraid it would sound too feminine and give her away to the other tenant who had shuffled into the room. But honestly, a hermit?

  Bloody bored noblemen, always looking for someone else to entertain them because they were too useless even to find their own diversion. "A small stipend," the advert said, "plus food and accommodation." Ros
amond sighed. She who begs does not choose. She wrote down the direction of the park where the hermit interviews—which sounded utterly absurd—were to be held.

  A sudden movement caught Rosamond's eye, and she looked out the parlour window to see a beady-eyed face peering in, framed by two grubby hands pressed on the glass.

  Panic gripped her. It was the face of the nosy maggot that had followed her around and brought Red Martha to her residence. Another emotion soon forced her fear aside, however, and she had a strong inclination to step outside and lay a beating on the man. But that would end badly, for although he was not especially large, his overall look was wiry and tough, and scrapping was the best way to lose one's disguise.

  Mrs. Holden entered the parlour and greeted Mr. Hatch and the other tenant. Rosamond was glad to see that her black eye was not severe, and the friendly salutation suggested that her spirits were recovering from the assault. But then, as Mrs. Holden's gaze fell upon the face looking in her window, a stern look wiped the friendly one away.

  "What is this scoundrel doing staring through the windows of decent folk?" Mrs. Holden gestured angrily to shoo the man away. A nasty smirk pulled at his features, and this was all the provocation Mrs. Holden needed to go and fetch a cricket bat from the entry room.

  But though the man's lips pursed insolently, he nonetheless slipped away from the window, only casting a single glance back to wink at Rosamond.

  She swallowed. Of course he might have intended the wink to be more generally received, for the other tenant had come over to look out the window at the intruder. Might that not be all it was?

  Her pulse raced. But what if the wink was meant for her? Was it possible that he had seen through her disguise?

  The other tenant shrugged and returned silently to his breakfast, affirming Rosamond's every suspicion about human nature. The useless lug never spared a thought to helping his landlady.

  She decided to join Mrs. Holden outside to lend moral support to the affronted woman who was peering about the location where the man had stood, wielding her cricket bat at the memory of him. Rosamond felt at least one of the men should make the gesture of solidarity in standing beside her—even if that one man were not, in fact, a man.

  As she passed through the entrance room, she spotted a card sitting on the salver by the door. A quick perusal revealed that it was Frobisher's. With all her concern to get back to her room quickly the night before, she must have missed it. Clearly Mrs. Holden got some personal satisfaction out of having the card of a marquess on display by her door.

  It bore a London address. Rosamond entertained a brief thought of finding him out and spying upon him. See how he liked a taste of his own medicine. But however amusing the thought was, she was far too sensible to put herself anywhere near the silly man.

  Chapter 22

  As Frobisher sat in Mrs. Steele's front parlour, he was struck by how small it was, and how poorly finished. And yet, he could admire that it was clean, and by small embellishments here and there, had its own personality.

  The table he sat at was cheap and old, but was free of dust and properly polished. The teacup before him was mismatched from its saucer, but both were of good quality china. And the tea was weak, but the young lad that fetched it to him—a child attendant in old-fashioned livery and powdered wig, who was both Mrs. Steele's companion and her only servant—did so with such care and decorum, and such a pretty bow, that Frobisher was charmed. If only his own servants were so attentive.

  The overall effect of the household, and the people in it, left an eccentric but cosy impression.

  "Thank you, Oakley. You may go arrange my yarns for me now." Miss Steele gave the child the faintest of smiles.

  "Yes, ma'am." Oakley bowed and went off to his task.

  It was hard that the boy should be pressed into service so young, but then his lot was much better than many poor children of indifferent birth. Yet there was something in his voice and manner that was not indifferent, that was, in fact, refined. Was this merely an adaptation to please his mistress, or was there something in the blood? And his mistress, too, though clearly without much money and sporting an outmoded look, seemed, perhaps not fashionable, but elevated.

  He realized he was staring and roused himself. "I am sorry to impose upon your good will so soon after making your acquaintance, Mrs. Steele, but I am come on the somewhat embarrassing errand of begging off my promise to your benefactress, the Duchess of Bartholmer."

  The woman's face, covered as it was in an alabaster cosmetic, proved incapable of turning any paler than it already appeared, but a faint gasp escaped her. She looked downcast. "I received word from the duchess of her scheme for my removal in this letter that your lordship so obligingly delivered. But I had already intended to leave London today—for I must. My things are packed and at the ready. Does your lordship then intend not to convey me to Blackwood?"

  He was surprised at how invested she was in making the trip. Was it really such a rush? "Ah, no. I mean that I am hoping you will agree to a delay in my return to the country by a few days, after which I will gladly convey you to the duke and duchess."

  Her light brows furrowed and she appeared to descend into thought for a few moments before replying, "It is a most kind condescension of your lordship even to consider conveying me at all. But I am afraid, weighing the great honour and comfort—not to mention relative safety—of travelling under the Fenimore colours against the imperative of leaving London quickly, I must choose to leave today with the post, rather than to delay a single day more. "

  Frobisher was surprised by this reply, and he was again struck by that impression of higher birth, for she spoke like a gentle woman. The stoic resolve that shone in her eye and the slight note of fear in her voice made him ashamed.

  He was curious what made her so adamant to rush out of the city, but his upbringing would not permit him to ask intrusive questions of a women he had known for less than a half hour. Was she really in so much peril as that? And if so, was he not being a selfish brute to insist upon tarrying in London, when he could as easily take her to the countryside and return to look for Mrs. Colling the following day?

  And yet it was rather hard that he should be put in this position by trying to run errands for both Rutherford and his wife when they were at cross-purposes. Why had they not merely sent one of their unmarked carriages for her? When had he become an errand boy? And what was the point of being a marquess if he did not get things his way?

  "I comprehend completely, madam. I well understand how often expeditiousness must prevail over every other consideration." He felt the peevishness of his reply, even as he delivered it, and added, more gently, "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Blackwood, when next I call there."

  Chapter 23

  It was a fine day, and Rosamond had spent the day before rained in and ruminating, and was therefore thankful for a long walk. Though her false beard and moustache were particularly itchy in the warm rays of the sun, she was enjoying her promenade back to the boarding house from a small park near the centre of town, where one Mr. Patton had held interviews for the hermit position.

  She thought it had gone quite well. He was pleased with her general appearance, which he claimed was the sort of compact and lithe frame he had been looking for. A more wiry build would be even better, but this would do. He also said the beard was a nice touch. And when he asked her to read his palm, Rosamond's past as a swindler came in handy. Running cons got a person accustomed to making up impromptu stories that drew people in, and this was also the very essence of telling fortunes.

  Mr. Patton had taken her direction and said he would send word soon if the position were hers, and directed her to be ready to leave London right away, for his lordship wanted someone as quickly as possible.

  Rosamond laughed internally at the ridiculousness that it should ever be such an emergency as all that to hire a hermit. But she supposed the very wealthy would have their way and never tolerated any d
elay in having even their most trivial whims indulged.

  Anyway, the position would take her out of London to some place in the country, though Mr. Patton had not said precisely where. But anywhere would be better than town, for she had more than Red Martha to worry about now that Frobisher was poking about. The only thing that bothered her in the arrangement was that she had not yet found any further information about her old governess.

  And yet, might that not be something that a lawyer could enquire into? She took out the card Andrews had given her and reviewed it again. She did not recognize from the address what part of town this Dorstly and Son had their offices in. She supposed the street would be close to the courts. Knowing Andrews and his colleagues, it was probably near the Old Bailey. If she could walk to the area, she might find someone there who could direct her to the correct street. Now that she had a disguise, she might at least pay a call and ask, without giving specifics, if they would be able to assist her.

  The hermit interview had been early, so the day was still young, and Rosamond felt she could spare the time. She diverted her course toward Old Bailey Street. It would be a long walk, and her stomach growled as she passed a pie cart. The scent of caramelized onions, juicy pork and crisp pastry teased her nose and drove her to distraction. Her mouth watered, but she ignored it. She needed to save her meagre funds. There would be some dinner at the boarding house when she returned in the evening. That would have to be enough.

  She hated skipping meals and she was growing thin. But one benefit of this was that it made her features more angular and masculine looking, which aided her disguise. Still, the hunger was making her miserable. She cast a backward glance at the pie cart.