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

by Tessa Candle

  It was then that she noticed the face of the man who had peeked in the window at the boarding house. Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. She suddenly lost her appetite, but she immediately turned back to return to the pie cart, clandestinely keeping him in her peripheral vision.

  As she paid for her pastry, she watched and became convinced he was not looking at her. This made her relax slightly. At least he had not seen through her disguise, nor was he pursuing Mr. Hatch. But the look on his face before suggested he was plotting something, and it was nothing good.

  She dallied, chewing on the pie for a few moments while he passed. Then she fell in behind him at a distance and tailed him up the street. She felt all the danger and ridiculousness of following the predator while he tracked another prey. And she was sure that was what he was up to, for he was that sort of loathsome pest, but she felt a burning curiosity to discover which of the people milling about the boulevard he might have his eye upon.

  There were so many. And yet, as she watched the pattern of his occasionally pausing and turning his face so as not to be detected, it coincided with the movements of a certain lady up the street, as she stopped to examine something in a window, or pointed out a potted plant to the child that attended her. She was petite and blonde. The young boy, who carried some small parcels for her, wore a powdered wig and livery. They both looked unfashionably out of time and place, and Rosamond began to wonder if she was only believing them the target of the man's gaze because they caught her own eye.

  They turned a corner, and Rosamond lagged further behind, waiting to see if the man would follow. And if he did, should she be led off her own errands by this dangerous game of follow my leader?

  Rosamond was taking a great risk by getting further involved in this intrigue, but could not help her curiosity. And after all, she might find out more about her enemies if she watched them hunting others.

  And yet she knew it was foolishness. The man was probably one of Red Martha's loathsome henchmen, and although she detested the practice of procuring the vulnerable for the debased pleasure of wealthy evil men, it was not anything she could prevent. And there was, alas, nothing remarkable about it. It happened every day in London.

  But why should this particular person be of interest to Red Martha? She was not especially young—though with all the heavy makeup she wore, she probably looked older than she actually was. Her face, in short, was unlikely to summon the attention of Red Martha and her pack of jackals.

  Then an awful thought occurred to her. He was not after the woman. He was after that adorable little boy beside her.

  Rosamond knew only too well that there was a special market for the sale of children—and she could easily see how such a pretty child, and one so conspicuously attired, might have been singled out.

  Rosamond's resolve crystallized. She did not care if she got caught. Maybe such horrors happened every day, but she was not going to stand by and let it happen in front of her own eyes. She was going to do whatever she could to stop this abomination from ruining that little boy's life.

  She found, however, as they wound their way onto quieter streets, that her risk of discovery grew greater, for there was not much crowd for her to blend into. She lagged further behind and watched as the woman took a turn up a short walk, and let herself into a small townhouse. The area was respectable, but not rich. The house, though lacking any yard or fashionable embellishment, was in decent repair. That gave her pause, for it was too fine to be the dwelling of one of Red Martha's victims.

  Poaching game pullets from among the lower ranks of the middling, or even the respectable working classes, posed far too much risk. And it was completely unnecessary when such a vast assortment of impoverished children and desperately poor young women pooled in the recesses of the city. Rosamond's fists clenched. People no one cared about.

  So why was this woman or child being targeted? Rosamond dawdled and pretended to tie a boot lace, allowing a few other people to pass by her. The man did not seem to anticipate that the woman and child would turn so suddenly. As they ascended the step, he paused and apparently concluded that he was too far behind to catch them. They disappeared into the building, and he walked on, stationing himself to watch from across the street further down.

  Rosamond decided that she must continue strolling past the man and onward down the way, or she would arouse suspicion. She could find some less conspicuous place to survey him from later, but if she loitered here now, it would be obvious that she was watching.

  She swallowed. She had thought that he must not have seen through her disguise while peering in Mrs. Holden's window, or else Red Martha would certainly have returned for her. But there was a possibility that, if he looked at her as she passed by on the street, he might recognize the man he had winked at in the parlour.

  That would be very bad, for it would be only logical to conclude that she was spying on him. And Rosamond knew that the spy would especially resent being spied on. People so predictably disliked being served a dish of their own unsavoury conduct.

  She tried to look casual and consumed with her own thoughts, as the space between them narrowed. But he did not even glance her way, for at that moment a carriage rolled up to deposit a caller on the woman's front step, and the man shrank back.

  When Rosamond saw who the caller was, she turned around and walked back where she had come from. She had no idea why Frobisher was calling on this woman, or if he had some connection to the spy who was following her, but she did not wish to get embroiled in anything that might expose her to Frobisher, who probably had social connections to Cousin Peter, and especially not in front of this deplorable vermin who would try to ensnare her into Red Martha's service.

  When Rosamond reached the end of the street and turned the bend out of view, she spun back to peek around the corner and spy on the man watching the house.

  He was still there, staring intently as Frobisher entered the dwelling. After about a half hour, Rosamond wondered if it were mere foolishness to continue watching. The two appeared to be safely tucked inside, and surely this man would not try anything while a marquess was paying call. And anyway, Rosamond had other things to do. But that loathsome man still stood in place, watching, and she could not tear herself away from the scene.

  When Frobisher finally emerged and made his way to the carriage, Rosamond kept her eyes peeled to see what the spy would do next.

  Chapter 24

  As he took his leave and quitted Mrs. Steele's home, Frobisher wondered if he were doing wrong. After all, he had told Tilly he would convey Mrs. Steele to her, and the duchess was concerned that Screwe meant to persecute Mrs. Steele, for whatever reason. That man certainly appeared to hate everyone, but why he should focus on Mrs. Steele in particular was puzzling.

  In addition to his regrets at failing to discharge his duty by Tilly, Frobisher felt a lingering curiosity about Mrs. Steele that made him second guess himself. Her case was interesting. He did not wish any harm to come to her, yet it was very improbable that any should. He feared that the ladies were over-reacting, as ladies were wont to do.

  A disquieting feeling gripped him as he approached his carriage. It was that sudden sense one sometimes gets when under the intense gaze of another. Frobisher looked about him and saw the observer look away and pretend to walk casually down the street.

  It was vexing that he kept his face turned from Frobisher, who decided to indulge his curiosity and treat the man to some of his own medicine. He directed the driver to follow behind the spy at a slow pace until he caught up to him. Frobisher observed him as he passed, but again the man turned his face away, pausing and pretending to examine something as the vehicle went by.

  This roused Frobisher's suspicion even more. The man did not want to be recognized. Could it be Screwe? Frobisher opened the door and popped his head out to peek behind. The man was retracing his steps back toward Mrs. Steele's dwelling. He signalled the driver to turn about. He had changed his mind.


  Frobisher cursed the slow process of turning the carriage around. He finally threw the door open again and dashed out into the street, immediately seeing what had made the man turn back. Mrs. Steele and Oakley were descending the steps, the latter carrying a small trunk. The man's pace quickened as he made directly for them.

  Frobisher winced as he ran to intercept, wishing he were wearing more sensible shoes.

  The man was drawing nearer, he would be upon them in mere moments. Frobisher's heart sank. What might the scoundrel be planning? He could hardly escape with two captives and no carriage, but there might be enough time for robbery, or worse. If only Frobisher had gathered them up and taken them to safety. He had been such a selfish fool.

  As the man drew closer to them, Mrs. Steele saw his intention and turned back in panic, pushing Oakley up the steps before her. But the filthy coward drew a knife as he came up fast behind her. Would he stab a defenceless woman in the back? Frobisher's blood boiled, and though he now ran at a pace he thought not possible in his current footwear, he knew he would never reach them soon enough.

  Mrs. Steele, with Oakley tucked behind her skirts, turned and raised an arm to ward off the attack. Frobisher felt suspended in time as he cried out something incomprehensible but filled with wild anger and despair.

  Suddenly a figure Frobisher had not previously seen darted up and dove at the man's legs, tackling him to the ground so that they both rolled off the front step. The murderous fiend sprang to his feet and kicked the rescuer while he was still down, then took up his knife again and raced up the steps.

  But the few moments had been sufficient for Mrs. Steele and Oakley to unlock their door and fling themselves inside.

  Frobisher reached the thug as he was rattling and kicking the door. He grabbed the man's shoulder, spun him around and swung hard.

  He saw red and barely felt the pain in his fist as it connected with the solid jaw of the brute with a satisfying crunch. The man's ruptured lip sprayed blood as he fell back stunned.

  Frobisher stood staring for a few moments at his bloody lace cuff, stunned himself. He waited for the lump of filth to stand up again so he would have leave to punch him a second time. Then Frobisher recalled the intercessor who had saved Mrs. Steele. He turned to see if the man required assistance, but the spot where he had lain was empty. The fellow was fleeing down the street.

  Frobisher called after him, "Wait! Do not go!"

  The man continued to run.

  "But I should like to reward you!" Frobisher contended, to no avail, waving his arm so frantically that his bloody lace cuff frothed in the breeze. The man disappeared around the corner. He did not have time to chase after this reluctant hero, however. His men arrived with the carriage, and Frobisher put them to work restraining the assailant.

  He climbed the steps and rapped on Mrs. Steele's door. "Madam? Please admit me. I hope you will forgive me for my previous reticence to quit London. I can now see that it is a case of some urgency, and I should very much like to convey you to Blackwood right away, if you will permit me. Only first, I must take care of the worthless brute who attacked you."

  Chapter 25

  It was impossible to still her pounding heart even several minutes after Rosamond had stopped running and re-joined the normal traffic of the main street.

  She looked behind her. No one was following. No one had chased her. Her ribs were sore where the murderous wretch had kicked her. She felt her face. Her beard and brows were still in place.

  The immediate danger had abated, and yet her heart still pounded. And she knew why. She hated herself for such weakness, but she could not erase the lasting impression Frobisher had made upon her—hurtling down the street with flashing eyes, pulling the bastard away from the woman's door and punching him so hard Rosamond feared he might have broken his hand.

  It was satisfying to watch the filthy little worm get his face smashed. But more than that, the image that was burned into her mind was of Frobisher, brave, indifferent to his own safety, fiercely protecting a woman. So much for his reputation as a misogynist. And he was protecting Rosamond, too, though she was disguised as a man at the time, so she could not construe it as an act of gallantry toward her.

  But joy still surged in her heart—joy and thankfulness, and another feeling she had not had for a long time. He made her feel protected. He had helped her. He had done the right thing. He had proven himself to be more than just another selfish noble blackheart. Estranged as they were by the vast ocean separating their situations in life, she now felt there was a connection between them.

  And yet, was it not probable that this woman was Frobisher's beloved? Why else would he come rushing to her aid with such force? It was not a certainty, but it was a definite possibility.

  Rosamond wanted to slap herself. She could not be thinking like this. She was close to her twenty first birthday, and then she would be safe. Then, perhaps, she could let someone in, but not before. Until then no one could know her—not even valiant, spy-punching marquesses. And it did not matter if Frobisher had a sweetheart. It could mean nothing at all to her.

  Nothing at all.

  She forced herself to concentrate. She would go to Old Bailey Street and start making enquiries there. Surely someone could direct her to the law office. And then it would be up to Dorstly and Son whether anything might be done through the treacherous course of the law. And no more of this wondering what the marquess might be feeling nonsense.

  The office Rosamond finally found did not look promising. The building was run down, and the inside was dusty and cluttered.

  "Pardon me, I should like to speak to a lawyer," she said to a clerk who did not even look up from his tome when she entered.

  He lifted his heavily shadowed eyes and replied in an exhausted tone, "A very little experience speaking with lawyers would cure you of that desire promptly, I assure you. Let me save you the trouble, therefore, and advise you that there are not a half dozen lawyers in town worth paying for anything. And none of them have offices hereabouts."

  Rosamond wanted to laugh at this frank repulsion. How did his masters propose to make any money with a man like this in the front of the office? But instead she tried to sound manly and self-assured. "Very well, I will speak to you, then." She withdrew the last precious crown from her purse. "If you tell me what I need to know, you may have this."

  The man sighed and tilted his head, but gestured for her to proceed.

  "Let us say, hypothetically, that a father dies leaving a sole surviving child all he owns. It is held in trust until the child's twenty first year. But the trustee is corrupt, embezzles from the trust and later tries to kill the child. Is there any way when the child turns twenty-one, to get the money quickly, and in the meantime for the child to prevent the trustee from spending it all?"

  The tired clerk nodded. "Certainly. In the case you describe the estate shall devolve upon the child when he turns twenty-one. If there is a prima facie case that the trustee is in breach, the court may be asked to intervene, and the trustee may be made to repay what is owed—and more if it pleases the judge to punish him."

  Rosamond noted that he made no mention of the murder part. But why should he? There was no money to be made out of mere attempts at homicide. "Can it be done without revealing the identity and whereabouts of the child?"

  The eyes of the clerk suddenly sharpened into scrutiny. "At some point the child will have to prove his identity to the court. But many things may be done before that, and much may be kept in confidence as between the lawyer and the client." He licked his lips. "Are we speaking of a great deal of money?"

  "In the hypothetical, yes. Of course, one cannot forget the existence of the squandering trustee."

  "Hmmmm." The man frowned and looked sceptically at the lower class dress of the man before him, but seemed to come to an optimistic decision. "Let me just say that I will be of more good to you than either of the masters at this firm." He let out a derisive huff. "They are never here in any c
ase. Give me that crown as a retainer."

  "There is also a woman who was employed by the family before the trustee took custody of the child. She will be a useful witness, if she can be located."

  "Very well. We shall write down all the particulars you can supply, and I shall attempt to locate her." He reached out his open palm to receive the crown. "Do you wish to retain me, or not?"

  Rosamond handed him the coin with a pang.

  "Now, sir, I am in your confidence. I can reveal nothing of our communication to anyone. You can give me enough details for me to make a start, but I should warn you that I am motivated entirely by greed. If I make enquiries and decide there is not enough in it for me, I shall not proceed further. But if there is, as you say, a large estate to be considered, I am willing to work on a very reasonable contingency."

  "But are you a lawyer?"

  He lifted a brow and his sleepy eyes grew suddenly animated. "I am better than a lawyer. I am an intelligent but unscrupulous bastard. Ask any of the people I have clerked for."

  When Rosamond finally returned to Mrs. Holden's house in the evening, she was utterly exhausted, but her step was still animated with hope. So much had happened in the day, and so much possibility lay before her. She knew that the clerk—Mr. Trent, apparently—was not trustworthy, but so long as their interests coincided, she was sure he could be relied upon. He may be an unscrupulous bastard, but he was her unscrupulous bastard. Everyone should have at least one of those. The trick was keeping them on a short lead.

  As Mrs. Holden set a plate of white fish and potatoes in front of Rosamond in the parlour, she retrieved a slip of paper from her apron. "That came for you this afternoon."

  If the good woman was at all curious, she could have read it for herself, for it was not sealed in any way.

  "Thank you, madam." Rosamond took the note, trying to look much calmer than she felt.