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

by Tessa Candle

  As she rounded the last bend, her heart filled with hope. There was no smoke in the chimney. No sign of movement. She worked her way into the forest, to remain concealed as she approached closer to the house. When she reached the tree with the deep hole that she used as her personal cache, she crept forward to peer through the trees and watch the house.

  For a long time, nothing stirred except birds and insects. Maybe it was safe to go have a peek in the window. But at that moment a man came into view on the path and walked up to the house. His head was turned away, but Rosamond recognized his gait and the silver falcon head on his cane.

  Ruddy hell. She stopped breathing for a few heartbeats, then forced herself to be calm and breathe normally. He must have taken a carriage from the main road to get here so quickly. He could travel through Blackwood Park to remain unseen from the manor house.

  At least he could not hear or see her. She was safe for the moment.

  This was a very bad situation. If he was nosing around the Blackwood cottage, it meant he had already sorted out the Widow Colling had lived there, which was perhaps not a surprise, but it was very inconvenient. Rosamond needed somewhere safe to stay, away from her cousin’s scrutiny. She had hoped to use the cottage at Blackwood as a temporary refuge, but there was no longer any chance of that.

  Then she reminded herself that if he examined the cottage now, but found no sign of the widow, he would be less likely to come back. He had been banished from Blackwood, after all. Being caught trespassing a second time on the same property would be considered a very serious offence—particularly if a duke laid the charge.

  He was brazen, but he was not entirely incautious. He would have no reason to return once he had scoured the place for clues and satisfied himself that she was not living there. Yes, the timing could work to her advantage. Nothing remained in the cottage that would assist Screwe in finding her. Frobisher had already poked through and taken what little there was.

  Frobisher. How differently she felt about him now than when she watched him in the act of rummaging through her house. And how differently—even than that first irritation she felt against him—were her feelings then from what she experienced now, watching Screwe try her door and then pick the lock.

  She was not marvelling at his audacity as she had at Frobisher's. There was nothing sweet or endearing in any of Screwe's actions and no sign of good humour. It was funny how she—a woman without any other family or friends—could view this cousin of hers with loathing and contempt, as the last man on earth whom she would trust. Frobisher, essentially a stranger, showed himself to be more her friend than Screwe, nominally her guardian, had ever been.

  It was maddening that she could not be honest with Frobisher and tell him all. At this moment, he was the closest thing to a home that she had, and she betrayed him by sending him away. But it could not be helped.

  Cousin Peter finally picked the lock and went inside the cottage. She could not see well through the window, but she detected some movement around the house. She had a mad moment of temptation to barricade him in and light the place on fire. But of course, she would never do that, not even to a remorseless devil like her cousin.

  But she could shoot him in self-defence, if she had to. Her hunting rifle was still stowed in the tree.

  The gun was well wrapped in oil cloth; it should be in good nick. She should have returned it to Rutherford as it had only been lent to her by the old duke, but she was glad now that she had held onto it. Should she fetch it now, just in case? But there was not much point. It was unloaded, and there was no shot stored with it. Then again, Screwe would not know that, so it could be a deterrent if he came after her.

  He was taking his time snooping around in the house, so Rosamond decided to sneak closer to the tree where the gun was stored. As she turned, she met the frightened gaze of a child dressed in livery and a powdered wig, peeking out from behind the tree in question.

  Oakley. Or, Rosamond corrected herself, Catherine Johnson, posing as Oakley. Rosamond smiled. There they stood, two girls, dressed as boys, spying on the enemy.

  Catherine looked like she might be about to run, but Rosamond shook her head, put her finger to her lips. She decided not to alarm the child further, and left the gun where it was, instead turning back to watch Screwe. She could see no movement near the windows. He was probably in the back enclave that had served for Rosamond's bedroom.

  In a few moments, the door opened and Screwe strolled out. He looked unhappy and kicked a flower pot angrily, strewing her neat row of sea shells all about, then strode down the path to the open gate.

  He was moments from disappearing around the bend, when a branch snapped behind her. It must be Catherine. Rosamond suppressed an oath and crouched down low, praying he would not detect the movement.

  Her cousin paused and looked toward the forest. His evil gaze showed suspicion, but then his face assumed a tired expression. He did not approach the trees, but merely called, "If you are in there, fair cousin, why do you not come out? There is no need to hide. Come home to your protector and claim your inheritance. I am getting old, you know. I wish to hand over my burden before I shuffle off this mortal coil."

  Rosamond was not impressed by this feigned custodial concern. She knew very well that once she were within his sphere of influence, he would find a way of killing her. Indeed, old though he might be, she knew he would try to throttle her with his bare hands, or beat her to death with his nasty cane, if she set one foot outside of the forest.

  His suspicions apparently dwindled with this proclamation to the trees, and he spat on the ground, then moved on down the path.

  When he was out of sight, Rosamond breathed again. She turned to speak to Catherine, but found the girl was gone. Rosamond hoped she had made her way home to Blackwood manor and far away from danger.

  She went to the tree and reached down into the hole, but the gun she had stowed was no longer there.

  Chapter 56

  Rutherford was obviously irritated as they all climbed into the carriage, but Frobisher was glad he would have an opportunity for a proper chat with his friend. Or an improper chat. He wanted to see if his friend had ever detected anything off about him. And yet, he also did not want to talk to Rutherford about it. Indeed, he wanted to throw himself into the pursuit of Mrs. Colling—no, of Rosamond Delville, as was her true name—and forget all about Mr. Hatch.

  In any case, he could hardly embark on such a line of talk at the moment, not with Mr. Borland present. He needed some distraction. "Well, Mr. Borland, we have a bit of a journey before us. Would you oblige me by telling me everything you know about Miss Delville, the will, and her other circumstances?"

  As the man began to speak in the overwhelmingly tedious way that only lawyers can do, Frobisher focussed all his attention on the problem of the missing woman. He needed to glean any information that could help him find her quickly.

  Frobisher's ears picked up as Rutherford suddenly interrupted Mr, Borland. "Oh yes! I had forgotten about that bit. You will not believe this, Frobisher, but Miss Delville is actually a relative of Carrington Delville—you know, Devil."

  Frobisher smiled at the memory of Devil. They had gone to Oxford together. He was the worst character in their class, but a great deal of fun. He was relieved to recollect with absolute certainty that he had never been attracted to Delville, either. "I had not made the connection. His being long since dead, it never really occurred to me."

  "That is the most interesting part, Frobisher. I should not have thought of it myself, except that I had news from town. Apparently Delville has been sighted. He has not been dead all these years. He merely disappeared—the current report is to India—and because of the delicate arrangement of his affairs, never told anyone about it. What a story! Who could believe it of anyone else? But it sounds so much like the sort of thing he would do, that I blame myself for ever believing he was dead in the first place."

  Frobisher sat in stunned silence for a moment. Co
uld Devil really be alive? Of course he could, the bastard. "Well, you have a point, but you could hardly be blamed for believing him dead. Everyone did. And I think there must be more to the story—Delville most certainly owes everyone some explanation." Frobisher did not see how anyone could ignore the fact that Delville's clothing and family ring had been found on a corpse that was too far gone to be personally identifiable.

  "With Delville, there is always more to the story and explanation required." Rutherford shook his head and chuckled. "Do you remember the time he misappropriated Father Blake's wheelbarrow for that race?"

  Frobisher laughed sadly. "It was very bad of him—not so much the wheelbarrow theft, but bribing poor old widows to sit in the wheelbarrows while the bounders ran them around the village on a wager was beyond the pale. I am sure the whole thing was Devil's idea."

  Rutherford nodded. "The man came up with the oddest schemes for amusement. And he would bet on anything."

  "And are we certain this man who has suddenly appeared is really Delville?" Frobisher was not convinced. It could be anyone, and his recent experiences with Miss Delville had made him sceptical about anyone's identity.

  Rutherford reached into his pocket for a flask and offered the other men a drink, which they both declined. He took a sip. "The identification is on quite good authority. He showed up at Whites in the company of Essington—Aldley's no count brother-in-law. Aldley recognized Delville straight away, though he is apparently a bit more tanned. And he introduced himself as Mr. Dee, if you can imagine. Still dodging creditors, no doubt."

  "Hard to believe his old creditors could find him out, after his being dead for so long. Has he been in town long enough to amass new debt?"

  "I could not say. But you know Devil does not dawdle in accomplishing these important goals. Anyway, what is interesting is that Delville was named as the original custodian of Miss Delville and her inheritance, but because he was apparently deceased, Screwe, as the alternate, was appointed in his place."

  "Does this help us?" Frobisher directed the question at Mr. Borland, who had been patiently waiting out the lengthy interruption to his own discourse.

  "It may, indeed. A court could place Mr. Delville in the position of trustee over Miss Delville's estate, without any need at all to prove the wrongdoing of Lord Screwe. Though any misappropriation would become apparent, for the old trustee would have to hand over an accounting to the new one."

  "Of course, that would mean getting him to reveal himself as Delville." Rutherford pursed his lips. "He may be having too much fun prancing about pretending to be Mr. Dee."

  "And I am not sure he would be more responsible with Miss Delville's inheritance—though he would at least never try to murder her for it."

  "No but—" Rutherford's face illuminated with a sudden realization. "Good Lord, Bish! If Delville is alive, do you realize he is the rightful Duke of Pallensley?"

  Frobisher whistled. "Is he now?" He laughed darkly. "I suppose almost anyone could be a more plausible successor to the Pallensley ducal seat than the current contender. Well, this development is going to upset a few people. And unless I miss my guess, he will have a very hard time proving his claim with the current heir presumptive challenging his identity. Do you think Devil will be unwilling to assist Miss Delville at the risk of guilt by association with her own convoluted web of false identities?"

  The weight of professional curiosity suddenly tilted Mr. Borland’s head. "I should think he would prefer to have a court determine him to be alive, and to be Mr. Delville, and through a case that requires no notice to his rival for the Pallensley Duchy. His identity could be affirmed by the courts before anyone was the wiser. Has this ostensible Duke of Pallensley been acknowledged at court?"

  Rutherford shook his head. "No, the prior Pallensley is very recently deceased. His current successor will not ignore this matter. Even if the would-be duke does not hear about it through the usual gossip, you can be certain that Lord Screwe will call him as a witness and he will naturally refuse to recognize Delville. I think we may prevail, however, if everyone else recognizes him."

  "Well, well, I can see some feathers are going to fly. But perhaps in the end it will help Miss Delville." Frobisher rubbed his chin roughly as he recalled her peril. "Rutherford, I hope you are not expecting this excursion to town to be at all a pleasure trip. We must find her with utmost haste."

  Chapter 57

  Rosamond was enveloped by the heady scent of rose blooms heated by the afternoon sun, as she crept through the Blackwood garden. The familiar fragrance was lovely, but brought on bittersweet memories, for she associated it with her visits to the old duke.

  It was fortunate she was well acquainted the layout of the house. Avoiding the servants would be tricky, but there was a secret passage that led to the old duke's sick room. She made her way along the wall of the manor and stopped to pull back a large curtain of ivy.

  The vines had reattached themselves in places, and Rosamond carefully pulled them loose so as not to break them. When there was enough slack for her to creep underneath the sheath of foliage, she reached in and found the door handle. It opened, and she thanked God. It would have been just her luck if someone had found the door and locked it.

  A short passage, musty and pitch black, led her through the wall of the manor and up some very steep stairs. She kept a hand on either side of the steps, bracing against stone walls as she ascended in the dark. At the top was a tiny door, at which she crouched.

  She heard nothing, and the door was cold. The room must be empty. She pushed open the small portal, and crawled through to emerge from the side of the fireplace into the old duke's sick chamber.

  The curtains were drawn, permitting only a few rays of light to enter, and all the furniture was covered in sheets. Rosamond shivered. It was like a pall pulled over the old duke's memory.

  And yet, she knew she was being foolishly romantic and impractical. Life must go on. There was no reason why the room should not be closed up when it was no longer in use. Rutherford's only memories of this room would have been that it was the place he watched his uncle die.

  For Rosamond there was much more. This was the chamber where, for an hour or two every day, she read stories and talked to the old duke, laughed with him, took tea with him. It was the place where her imaginary family lived, until it died.

  As she passed the bed she saw, laid upon a single pillow, the book she had last read the old duke—the one she had left for Lady Goodram to return.

  Rosamond stopped and smiled at the volume. "Well, you made your way home. That makes one of us." She was happy to know that Rutherford had left it here, to rest with the memories of the old duke. It made her like him a smidge better.

  It was hard for her to drag herself away from the room, but she had business to attend to. It would be best to find Mrs. Johnson's rooms before the household retired that evening. It was the only place Rosamond might approach her and remain concealed from everyone else. Her business was with Mrs. Johnson, alone. She did not need any gossipy guests or house servants revealing her presence to the whole neighbourhood. People were miserable at keeping secrets.

  Rosamond ran her finger over the cover of the book in one final caress before proceeding on.

  Mrs. Johnson's suites were probably situated in the west wing, where guests were typically lodged. Rosamond had stayed there herself, at first, when the old duke had found her, bedraggled and half starved, hiding in one of the outer buildings.

  When she reached the entrance to the old duke's chamber, she removed her boots and tucked them into her pack, then opened the door quietly and peeked down the hall both ways. Empty. She craned her neck to scan the stairway. No one was upon it, but she could hear the servants moving about with tinkling trays of china on the floor below.

  She stepped out and crept in stocking feet down the hall toward the west wing. When she was almost at the very end, she heard someone emerging from a room and lurched into the nearest chamber, closing
the door as quietly as she could behind her.

  Rosamond listened carefully and heard the steps travel down the hall, growing fainter as whoever it was moved away. But then the footfall paused and turned back. Rosamond held her breath as the footstep neared the doorway she stood behind, then stopped immediately outside.

  "Oakley?" came a woman's voice. "Are you in there? We are to accompany Lady Goodram and Miss Dawling for a picnic. You must get ready."

  It must be Mrs. Johnson's voice. She searched her memory and found it was familiar. Her heart ached, and she almost called out, but stopped herself. She needed to look like Rosamond, not some strange man, before she presented herself to Mrs. Johnson.

  And yet, maybe if she tore off her beard and spoke with her true voice, Mrs. Johnson would recognize her before she screamed and alerted the entire household.

  Rosamond was reaching for the door handle when she felt the muzzle of a gun in her back, and a voice behind her said, "Remove your hand from the door, and turn around very slowly."

  Chapter 58

  The air in the back rooms of Frobisher's London home was cool and refreshing after the hot carriage ride. He inhaled deeply. The servants had expected their master home soon, and had his usual haunts scented with lemon sachet.

  Chilled champagne was set out and waiting for him, the finest crystal glasses sat with ice chips cooling them, and plates of amuse bouches lay invitingly upon a table in the study where Frobisher preferred to entertain gentleman guests.

  As he waited for Rutherford and Mr. Borland to join him, he remarked upon how much more pleasant his domestic arrangements were here, compared to how they had recently been at the Fenimore estate. He pushed down the errant thoughts of Mr. Hatch and what he might think of the place. His mind was so quick to disobey the strict, self-imposed embargo on the topic of the hermit.