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

by Tessa Candle

  "No." Rosamond gave a theatrical sigh at the loss of her connection with the genius of augury. "I only saw what was lacking—not the mode of redress." Then she decided to add a few more words for mystical effect. "The hand is not precise. It grasps in the dark." She gave him her best frightening stare and projected a shadowy significance. "There are other ways of divining, but they come at very high prices."

  The man swallowed. “Ah well, as to that…” His voice trailed off as though he knew not how to proceed.

  Rosamond decided to assist him. "However, I am also known to give good advice of a non-magical kind. That is to say, if you tell me directly what you perceive your problem to be, I may be able to suggest a solution."

  The man struggled with himself for a few moments and then said, "Very well, but I tell you this in confidence…"

  Rosamond nodded sagely. "Ah, but that goes without saying. Is not the hermitage but one degree removed from the priest's confessional?"

  Chapter 30

  Frobisher, having finally seen Mr. Patton furnished with some tea, and having heard, in a half hour's conference, all he had to say about his progress, made sure the servant saw him out properly.

  Then Mr. Pines and Paul arrived. Pines could supply no fresh information about Mrs. Colling, but Frobisher personally handed them twenty pounds each, anyway, which made them both drop their jaws in disbelief. In fact, it made them both so rapturously happy that he could not recall ever spending forty pounds with greater satisfaction. Perhaps he should hand out money more often.

  He also told Paul to send his sister over the following week, if she should like a place in the Fenimore kitchen. This latter news made Mr. Pines smile even more broadly than Paul, and Frobisher could only shake his head. Young men were such fools. But it was none of his affair. He had his own foolishness to worry about.

  They left and he settled into thought, drumming his fingers on the pitifully smudged and dusty table.

  Aside from his errant servants, there was some cause for optimism. The planned improvements were all going very well. Patton had installed the new hermit, and the rose bushes had been transplanted. The materials and hedge bushes for the maze would arrive within the week, and in the meantime, the men would begin work on the smuggler's cave.

  It was faster progress than Frobisher had anticipated, and yet he was dissatisfied. These projects were not bringing him the diversion he had anticipated. It was as if something crucial were missing from his schemes.

  He tapped his lips. Then he rubbed his chin. He straightened his neck cloth. None of these movements being sufficient to jar loose the vague nagging feeling that was irritating him like an itch he could not scratch, he stood up and began to pace the parlour floor.

  Frobisher had never thought he would become so distracted by Mrs. Colling that he could not take joy in any other amusement than chasing after her, but so it was. No—he corrected himself—it was not mere amusement. The thrill of the chase was undeniable, but he also felt a genuine sense of urgency in finding her. And lately, this urgency was encroaching upon his lighter feelings of diversion. He was genuinely disturbed that he had not yet located her.

  Perhaps it had been the spectacle of the assault on Mrs. Steele that had unnerved him. It reminded him of how vulnerable people were to the evil designs of others—but women were doubly vulnerable. And Red Martha was on Mrs. Colling's trail. He really ought not delay his return to London. And he certainly would not dawdle about Fenimore merely to oversee his projects—not even to meet the new hermit.

  Frobisher scowled. If it were not for the visit of Lady Goodram, he could easily return to London now.

  He made for the door. A little fresh air would do him good, and he wanted to go check up on the potted flower that Mrs. Colling had consigned to his care—or rather to the care of the servants. He chuckled. Such sauciness.

  The jaunty tune in his heart compelled him to whistle, as he slipped out the door and headed along the shaded path to the building Meeks used as his plant nursery.

  Chapter 31

  Rosamond admired the pretty landscape of Fenimore as she strolled toward the manor—only wincing briefly at the dug up area where the rose bushes had previously been. She shook her head at the silliness of the aristocracy, and wondered if there were any truth to the accusation that the butler had made.

  She was glad to see the back of the disgruntled servant, though it had been amusing to read his palm, and informative to hear how matters really were at the Fenimore estate. Not all dealings were square, if the man's report was accurate. But she wanted to see more of the estate with her own eyes. It was important to know the territory, after all, in case one needed to make a hasty escape.

  As she approached the grand house, she diverted her course back to the servants’ entrance. She had thought she might pop in and introduce herself to some of the staff. It could not hurt to be on good terms with the people who managed the food.

  But as she approached the open doorway, she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of an angry voice coming from inside. It was Frobisher—she was sure of it. She cursed quietly. What was he doing back in the country, and so soon? By the sound of it, he was tearing a strip out of some poor servant. So there was some justice in the butler's report, after all.

  It was all she could do not to issue a snort of disdain when she heard him say, "The marquess of the manor should never have to have this conversation." His tone was one of icy contempt for his underlings—as though he were sullied merely by having to speak with a servant to say more than do this, or fetch me that.

  All her former dislike for the man came flooding back, and she decided that she should not hang about. If he were at home, she should avoid the main house entirely. She spied some of the outer work buildings and decided it would be better to have a wander around there. The superior marquess would never set a precious foot in a place where such menial labour was conducted.

  As she made her way to the workshops, she saw by the rows of potted plants, spades and stakes, that one of them was a plant nursery. A man was mixing manure into soil in a wheelbarrow.

  Rosamond loved plants. Perhaps she could volunteer to come and help him sometimes. She strode over smiling, ready to introduce herself.

  Chapter 32

  As Frobisher approached the plant nursery, he heard voices. Meeks must be talking to himself. He supposed it was an occupational hazard of such solitary work as gardening.

  But when he ducked under the vines surrounding the doorway into the slightly musty air of the plant bedecked workroom, he beheld a man standing beside Meeks, inspecting the very potted plant he had come to see.

  He had a strange smile on his face as he observed, "Well, I am sure his lordship will be most pleased."

  Frobisher sniffled at the horrid air. "And what is it that will please me?"

  Both parties turned in surprise to see him standing there. The stranger, in particular, positively blanched. He lowered his head and stepped away into the shadow beside the window.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord." Meeks stepped forward. "I did not expect—well, I was just showing Mr. Hatch, here, the lovely impatiens that your lordship wished me to take special care of."

  Mr. Hatch, was it? So this was the hermit Patton had found. All the better. He wanted to meet the man, and this would save him a trip to the hermitage. He certainly was a shy fellow and terribly thin. "What a coincidence. I am come to see this very plant. How is the little flower getting on?"

  Frobisher strode over to inspect the plant himself. He was certainly no expert, but it appeared to have recovered from the over-watering. "It looks very well indeed, Meeks. I hope you will keep up the good work."

  Meeks smiled and bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."

  Frobisher turned to Mr. Hatch. "Well then. And so you are the new hermit?"

  The man started at being noticed. He stood stick straight then bowed, speaking breathlessly. "Yes, my lord. And I thank your lordship for giving me the place."<
br />
  What? No I am eternally at your service? No so very humbled by your lordship's kind condescension? Frobisher laughed to himself. He greatly preferred the direct and frank thanks, though he did not much deserve it. There was something self-possessed about this man. Yes, he liked the look of the hermit. He was sure they would get along very well. "Oh, you may thank Mr. Patton for that." He tossed his lace-cuffed wrist to articulate his self-effacement. "I am informed that I never do anything useful, you see."

  Even in the shadows, the reddening of the man's face was apparent. He swallowed. "I—cannot imagine that, my lord."

  The poor man was terrified and lost for words. Frobisher was an ass for saying such a thing when Mr. Hatch could have no idea what he referred to. "Oh, please do not think my observation in anyway reflects upon you, Mr. Hatch." He turned back to the potted plant and fondled one of the leaves, smiling. "You see the person who left me this flower told me quite candidly that I was a useless prat who did nothing for myself, and had much better hand over to my staff any matter that required more than half a wit."

  "I—" the man sputtered. "Surely not, my lord. Surely not a prat!" He looked even more mortified. "No one could possibly say such things of his lordship."

  "Oh," Frobisher laughed darkly, "many could say such things, and worse, I assure you. But I forgive you your doubts, as we have only just met."

  He could see that his jest was utterly failing to alleviate the man's fears. In fact, the new hermit looked like he wished nothing more than to sink into the clay floor. "Forgive me, please, Mr. Hatch. I should have introduced myself. I am Lord Fenimore, as I suppose you know. But it was terribly rude of me to take up my peculiar form of humour before I had even properly noticed you."

  "I am most honoured, my lord. Truly there is nothing at all to forgive."

  Frobisher coughed. "Well, I see I have stayed in this air as long as I can endure. Mr. Hatch, I hope you will permit me to call upon you soon."

  "I would be honoured, my lord."

  Frobisher patted the plant as though it were a pet to whom he was bidding a fond goodbye. "Meeks, do continue to take ever such care with this flower. I hope someday to return it to its remarkable owner. It is very important to me."

  "Yes, my lord. My very best care, my lord."

  He took his leave and plunged back out into fresh air, as a violent sneeze shook his frame. Blasted atmosphere in that place was oppressive. He wondered how Meeks could stand it.

  And it was wreaking havoc with his sense of smell, for he was sure he got a waft of some sort of perfume. He shook his head. Perhaps it was some unfamiliar flowering plant. He would take a walk and clear his lungs.

  Chapter 33

  Rosamond could hardly get out of the nursery fast enough. She was, unfortunately, forced to wait a reasonable interval to be sure that Frobisher was gone, before extricating herself from Meeks' proud expostulation on all of his many leafy projects. He viewed them as children, and it made her like the aging gardener very well.

  Yet she could hardly attend to his happy monologue, for she could only mull over the mortifying disaster she had endured. What had just occurred? Had he recognized her and made reference to the brazen insult in her note? At first she thought that was precisely what was happening.

  But then, she was confused by his apparent solicitousness that she not take his comments to heart. It was a reassurance that they were not intended to rebuke her. Surely, then, he did not recognize her—at least not as Mrs. Colling.

  Nor did he show any sign of recalling Mr. Hatch's face in connection with the rescue of the lady and her boy servant. He was kind. As his hermit, she was nothing more than a mere servant, yet he wished to put her at ease.

  How could she reconcile this with the awful upbraiding she had heard him give the house servant, or with the butler's report of unfair dealings? She could not. It did not make sense. Perhaps he was prone to swings in mood.

  And what of her own mood? As she approached the gate to the hermitage, she had to concede that her feelings were hardly calm. How her heart had soared when Frobisher spoke of the importance of returning the plant. Was this for her?

  Of course it was not. Rosamond did not exist for Frobisher. There was only Mrs. Colling and now Mr. Hatch, who did not possess the personal charms of Mrs. Colling.

  Her spirits ebbed as she stepped inside her joyless new dwelling.

  Chapter 34

  Frobisher dawdled his way back to the manor. He hoped that he might have missed his visitors, and have a chance at escaping to London after all.

  But when he enquired, he found that there had been no callers while he was walking. So he seated himself in the front parlour to ruminate and wrestle with his impulses. Seeing the flower had set his spirit ablaze once again. He needed to find Mrs. Colling. If only Lady Goodram had not arranged to visit.

  And yet, might he not leave a note of excuse and go? While Frobisher was still contemplating this unpardonably rude escape, his mother and Lady Goodram herself entered the parlour, Miss Dawling in tow.

  "Hello darling son," his mother purred. "Only look who I met at the door as I returned from my walk!"

  Frobisher managed to get through the pleasantries of greeting his guests while acting pleased—or at least not scowling. He was spared a second humiliation of inhospitable service, for tea and sandwiches arrived promptly. Apparently the servants had taken his warning to heart.

  He did not attend to his mother and Lady Goodram's chatter as he thought about making the trip back to London after they left. He could get a dinner basket packed for him and leave right away. He would be sorry not to have Paul along for the company, but Frobisher knew how much Paul's parents relied upon their boy.

  "You may ask the marquess himself, if it is not so." His mother laughed, but her eyes were glittering.

  What had he missed? "Ask me what? Forgive me, I did not hear you."

  "I believe it was more that you did not attend." His mother pursed her lips in disapproval. "I was telling Lady Goodram that, unlike Miss Dawling's overly ardent suitors, you have been utterly resistant to showing even a modicum of civility to the young ladies of my acquaintance. No one need fear that their daughters' hearts will be imperilled by your relentlessly charming manners."

  "I will not deny it." Frobisher was already bored. He hoped that this visit would not turn into another attempt at hurling an eligible woman at him. He looked at Miss Dawling. Her face was calm and unreadable. She endeavoured not at all to overcome its plainness by giving coquettish looks or even assuming a pleasing expression. This put him at ease. "As I understand it, both Miss Dawling and I are in a similar predicament, each of us being forced to retreat from unwanted society. She will no doubt value a sojourn in a place where there are no young men at all bent on persecuting her."

  Miss Dawling's smile only revealed a little mirth. "You may wonder at it, as I have heard your own experiences make you suspicious of all my sex. However you are quite right. The less attention I receive, the better pleased I will be. I could do with a sabbatical from the ceaseless barrage of cavalier attentions—all of which, no matter how odious, apparently merit the appellation of gallantry. I am very well aware that anyone might withstand my personal charms, and I therefore know from what quarter these gallants derive their attraction to me. My portion and rank radiate a sublime beauty that is irresistible."

  Frobisher laughed internally at this last comment. Her dry remarks were utterly scathing and without the vanity usual to young woman of her rank. He liked her despite himself. True, he might even befriend her, if it would not make his mother bay after them like a bloodhound. To best reward Miss Dawling's refreshing frankness, he gave only a genteel nod, offset by a churlish look.

  Lady Goodram looked from Miss Dawling to Frobisher and laughed. "Well, I can see I have discharged my duty well. The Duke of Grendleridge will be most pleased to see his daughter so effectively delivered from peril."

  Frobisher's mother perked up at this comment. "So you
are here on an errand from Grendleridge?"

  "And here I thought you could not resist my company," Frobisher quipped.

  "Oh, you know me. There are few things that will pry me away from London, not even the company of my most beloved acquaintance—of which you number, of course Frobisher, though you know I came to see Rutherford and his delightful new duchess. And may I add that I fail to understand why all the young people insist on removing to the countryside, these days. Very unpleasant."

  "Indeed." Frobisher's mother gave him a look. "And I assure you I do not reside here for my own satisfaction, but only for the benefit of my son—else I should be as happily ensconced in London as you, Lady Goodram."

  Frobisher lowered his lids slightly and said in a blasé voice, "If you wish it, I shall return to London immediately, Mama. Only in return you must forbear from hovering around me and throwing me into the unwanted society of debutantes."

  "Of highborn debutantes, my ungrateful boy." Frobisher's mother was undaunted and turned to address Lady Goodram. "You see, my son thinks too well of himself now that he is a marquess. He cares not for the pedigree of others."

  Miss Dawling deigned to throw in one arid remark. "How singular."

  "Indeed it is," his mother continued. "And so I must resort to picking out the most beautiful young ladies to parade in front of him, but he is also indifferent to these, and he blames me for my efforts."

  "Well, Grendleridge has rather the opposite problem." Lady Goodram smiled affectionately at Miss Dawling. "He knew I was making a visit to Bartholmer and asked me to take his daughter with me. He wanted to remove her from the city for a time, as the suitors were a great nuisance—one of them so much so, that Grendleridge feared he should be forced into a duel."

  Miss Dawling looked sceptical. "I doubt it should ever have come to that, but you know how my father is."