Regency Masquerades: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Six Traditional Regency Romance Novels of Secrets and Disguises

by Brenda Hiatt

  “No, Cherry, it is I who was a fool,” he said quickly, lest she think him angry at her instead of at himself. “I cannot think why I had not considered that possibility before. As I said, I knew little or nothing of my uncle’s character, so it would be foolish in me to protest that he would have been incapable of treason.”

  At Miss Cherrystone’s gasp of dismay over the harsh word, he regarded her sympathetically. “Of course, this is still mere speculation on our part. Tomorrow I shall begin making discreet enquiries. Thank you for opening my eyes to the possibility.”

  “It is only one of many, my lord,” she hastened to assure him. “It is also quite reasonable to assume that he may simply have made unfortunate investments—or even sound ones that have not yet borne fruit. Pray do not convict your uncle until you are in possession of all the facts.”

  Gavin smiled. She truly seemed to care, not only about his feelings in the matter, but for his family honor. “No, of course I won’t.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It is late. Why do you not resume your perusal of those letters on the morrow? I shall do my detective work and you may do yours, and we can meet here tomorrow evening after dinner to discuss our progress.”

  Though her cheeks grew pink, she nodded without hesitation. “Very well, my lord. Let us hope that we both shall have good news to share.”

  She took her leave of him and left the room, carrying the bundle of letters. Gavin continued to smile after she had gone. He was already looking forward to the next evening. But first, he had much work to do, he realized, his smile disappearing.

  Reseating himself at his desk, he began to map out his best course of action for discovering the truth about his late Uncle Edmund and what had been done with the Seabrooke fortune.

  Frederica could feel herself trembling as she closed the door of the library behind her. How on earth, without even so much as flirting with her, could Lord Seabrooke do such things to her nerves? Taking three deep breaths, she looked up to see Mr. Coombes regarding her knowingly from his post near the front door. In no frame of mind to concoct explanations to counter his obvious suspicions, she merely nodded in his direction and proceeded to the stairs in as dignified a manner as she could manage. She was grateful that he did not seem disposed to say anything as she retreated.

  Back in her room, she peeped into the nursery to assure herself that Christabel was still sleeping peacefully before settling into a chair by the candle to continue reading through the letters. Instead of focusing on the words before her, however, she found herself replaying the scene that had just occurred in the library.

  Dreamily, she recalled every look, every word, that the earl had directed her way. True, he had not flirted in the least, but there had been a warmth, a friendliness, in his manner that meant far more to her than pretty phrases. Frederica realized that other than Miss Milliken, who stood almost in the position of a mother, she had never really had a close friend.

  The thought brought her up short. A friend? Did she consider Lord Seabrooke a friend? Yes, she had to admit that she did. How had she allowed that to happen? She had certainly never intended to become friends with the earl! And how would this development affect her plan? Could she tarnish a friend’s reputation in the eyes of the world—or even in the eyes of her brother—with a clear conscience?

  Frederica sighed. No, she could not. In vain she tried to summon her original resentment, her outrage, at what Lord Seabrooke had done. He had fooled her brother, hiding his lack of fortune to secure himself a wealthy bride. But now she was almost certain that his motives had not been completely selfish, that he had had Christabel’s welfare in mind as well as his own.

  He was still a rake, of course—she had met his mistress! She had to admit, though, that the memory of Miss Ariel Sheehan and her abrupt departure did not now call up anger so much as amusement—and perhaps a twinge of jealousy. At any rate, she had doubtless done a great deal to sour that relationship.

  Still, she could not go so far as to say that she actually wanted to marry Lord Seabrooke. Pride, if nothing else, revolted at the idea of having her hand forced in such a manner. But how was she now to prevent it?

  She thought hard. Of course, if it were to transpire that her suspicion was correct and the previous Lord Seabrooke had been a traitor to the realm, Thomas might well consider that fact enough of a deterrent. He would have no desire to be allied with such a family, she was certain, for Thomas was patriotic to a fault. Only with the utmost difficulty had she managed to dissuade him from enlisting before the end of the recent war. It was likely Lord Seabrooke’s military history that had convinced Thomas he must be an admirable man.

  But Frederica could not bring herself to hope that the earl’s uncle would prove to have been a traitor. Having served in the army himself, Lord Seabrooke would doubtless feel the disgrace all the more, and the thought of his pain disturbed her deeply—far more deeply than it should. Still, if there were no other way out of the match for her, this could always be the ace she held in reserve.

  Attempting again to focus on the letters she held, Frederica became aware of a pounding headache, brought on by her unwelcome musings. The letters could wait. Right now she wanted nothing so much as her bed and a dreamless sleep.

  When Frederica and Christabel returned from the Park the next morning, they were both in high spirits. Christabel’s were easily explained by the novel experience of feeding bread to a flock of ducks at one end of the Serpentine. Frederica preferred not to examine the cause of her own happy mood.

  “I’ll race you up the stairs,” she said playfully to her charge after she had ushered her quickly through the kitchen, which was empty as it always was at this hour. Christabel giggled with glee and bounded up the servants’ staircase with her nanny in hot pursuit. Though Frederica could easily have caught up with the child, she made a great show of trying and failing to pass her on the stairs. She knew that they were making more noise than they ought, but she was feeling strangely reckless today.

  At the top of the second flight, disaster struck. Christabel, laughing and looking back at her pursuer, ran headlong into Mr. Coombes, who was coming from the servant’s wing. Considerably startled, he stepped quickly back before stopping to scrutinize the disheveled little girl and the equally windblown Frederica, who had by now reached the landing.

  “So, Miss Cherrystone,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his pudgy face, “I see that the gossip I heard below stairs is true. The master is hiding one of his by-blows in this house, and you apparently helping him to do so! So much for your virtuous, prickly airs.”

  Frederica was aghast that he should speak so before Christabel, and it was with great effort that she restrained herself from setting him down sharply, realizing that that would likely do more harm than good.

  “Good day, Mr. Coombes,” she said coolly. “I see you have made Miss Christabel’s acquaintance. We are on our way to the nursery at the moment, but later I should like to have a word with you.” She hoped that enough of her anger showed in her eyes to dissuade him from further speech, but his smile only broadened.

  “I’ll be waiting right here,” he said suggestively. “Hurry back.”

  With a gasp of outrage, Frederica took Christabel firmly by the hand and hurried her up the last flight of stairs. Something would have to be done about that dreadful man at once, or there was no knowing what stories he might spread throughout belowstairs London concerning Lord Seabrooke!

  “Christabel, dear, why not build me a tower from these blocks until I return? I need to speak to Mr. Coombes for a moment.” She trembled lest the child ask what a “by-blow” was, but Christabel merely nodded and began eagerly to stack the blocks. Frederica dared to hope that no damage had been done by the encounter—at least to Christabel. Squaring her shoulders, she marched back down the stairs to the waiting butler.

  “Mr. Coombes,” she began as she reached the spot where he stood, that odious smile still on his face, “it was unpardonable in yo
u to use such language in front of a child. You will please refrain from doing so again.”

  “I daresay she’ll have to get used to it soon enough,” he said with unconcern. “His lordship can’t keep her hidden in the attics forever—or you either, though I can see why he might want to keep you to himself.”

  Frederica ignored that. “Lord Seabrooke has good reason to keep Christabel’s presence here a secret for the present. If you value your post, I would advise you to respect his wishes in the matter.”

  Coombes sidled closer to her. “Oh, I can keep my mouth shut, if it’s worth my while to do so. No doubt his lordship would be willing to expand the nanny’s, ah, duties, to see his secret preserved.” He seized her roughly before she realized what he intended and pulled her against him.

  “How dare you?” snapped Frederica, unwilling to scream for fear of drawing other servants to the scene. In spite of the butler’s greater strength, she felt confident of her ability to handle him. “I could have you dismissed for this!”

  “I think not, my pretty,” he replied with a chuckle. He moved his face within inches of hers. “Good butlers are rather harder to find than light-skirt nannies!”

  Remembering one of Miss Milliken’s more unorthodox lessons, Frederica lifted one foot and brought her heel down hard on the man’s instep. He released her with a startled howl of pain.

  “You will not touch me again, Mr. Coombes! I do not threaten idly,” she informed him furiously.

  He appeared nearly as angry as she, his fleshy cheeks quivering with barely contained rage. “We shall see who gets dismissed over this, my fine lady!” he snarled. “When I’m done, you’ll not find another post in all of London!” He turned and stomped down the hallway towards the main staircase, his back rigid in his fury.

  Frederica watched him go with relief. She doubted that he would actually go to Lord Seabrooke with their encounter, as it would present him in a far worse light than it would her. And she doubted she would have to endure any more unwelcome advances from the man, either. Her only fear was that he might seek to spread malicious gossip about the earl out of spite.

  Well, if her theory about Christabel’s parents proved true, even that would be no threat, she realized. She would finish reading through the letters that afternoon and share her findings with Lord Seabrooke that evening.

  Her heart lighter at the thought, she mounted the stairs to the nursery.

  Chapter Nine

  Frederica slowly descended to the library at the appointed hour, ordering in her mind the things she wished to say to the earl. After reading through every one of the letters from Captain Browning, she felt that they supported her theory, but unfortunately offered no hard proof. She hoped to convince Lord Seabrooke to go a step further in the investigation. If he would not, she was determined to do so on her own. Proving Christabel’s legitimacy was rapidly becoming an obsession with her, keeping her thoughts from other, possibly more disturbing, matters.

  She tapped lightly on the library door and opened it upon receiving an answer from within. Her careful phrasings fled from her mind when she beheld Mr. Coombes standing by the earl’s desk, watching her mockingly as she advanced. Involuntarily, she met Lord Seabrooke’s eye, to find a silent question there. He was looking unwontedly somber.

  “Ah, Miss Cherrystone.” The earl’s formal tone immediately put her on her guard. “I’m glad you are here. Coombes has brought a serious accusation against you, and I have told him that I can take no action until I have heard your side of it.”

  Frederica glanced at the butler, then let her gaze slide away without acknowledging him. Not for nothing had Miss Milliken taught her how to administer the cut direct, though she had also impressed her charge that it was to be used only in certain, very limited, circumstances. Frederica felt certain that this was one of them.

  That Lord Seabrooke noticed was betrayed by a quick upward quirk of his lips, immediately controlled. Mr. Coombes stiffened perceptibly.

  “Accusation, my lord?” Frederica was pleased that she managed to keep her voice perfectly calm.

  It was too much for the butler. “I have proof, too, Miss High-and-Mighty,” he burst out, refusing to be talked about as though he were not present. “These things were found in your room!” He gestured towards a small pile of objects on the earl’s desk.

  Still Frederica would not deign to look at him. Instead, she stepped forward to examine the items indicated.

  “Coombes claims he discovered these things, which belong to two of the housemaids, in your chamber,” explained the earl.

  Gavin could not help but admire Miss Cherrystone’s coolness, her refusal to be ruffled. He had been considerably startled when his butler had approached him as he left the dining-room, and even more so when he heard the man’s accusations. It seemed inconceivable that they could be justified. For one thing, Coombes had never struck him as particularly trustworthy, even though he had come highly recommended. But he could not fathom what the man’s motive might be to bring such a charge falsely.

  “I have never seen any of these items before, my lord,” said Miss Cherrystone, still without showing any of the nervousness one might reasonably expect in a servant, even an innocent one, faced with such a situation. “Nor has Mr. Coombes ever been in my room. I’ll warrant he cannot even say with any certainty where it is.”

  Though she addressed herself only to the earl, Mr. Coombes began to bluster in response. “It’s on the top floor, of course. How could I not know, when you were running up and down the back stairs this very afternoon with that child, making enough noise to wake the dead.”

  “You encountered Christabel today, Coombes?” Gavin’s tone was conversational, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tell me, had you seen her before?”

  “No, m’lord. I’d heard talk, but if you wanted to keep her a secret, it was not for me to go prying,” he said self-righteously. “You’d do well to hire someone to watch her that can behave more discreetly.”

  Seabrooke glanced at Miss Cherrystone, whose mouth had tightened at the words.

  “By discreet, I presume Mr. Coombes means someone who will accept his unwelcome advances in return for his promise of secrecy,” she said acidly, for the first time admitting to having heard the butler, though she kept her eyes on Lord Seabrooke. “He threatened to have me dismissed when I refused, and this is apparently the method he has chosen.” She waved contemptuously at the objects on the desk.

  “Ye little hussy!” cried Mr. Coombes, his cultivated accent slipping. “No one will believe an underhousekeeper, or a bastard’s nanny, or whatever ye are, over me! I never touched ’er, m’lord, I swear it!” He turned back to the earl, belatedly attempting to repair his tattered dignity.

  “Thank you, Miss Cherrystone, that will be all for now,” said Gavin evenly. He wanted her out of the room before he gave in to the temptation to do violence to Coombes. She left quietly and he turned on the butler the moment the door was closed.

  “You will leave this house at once, Mr. Coombes,” he said, his voice deadly. The thought of this man pawing Miss Cherrystone filled him with an almost unreasoning fury. “Leave an address with Mrs. Abbott, and your things will be delivered to you in the morning, along with your wages owing.”

  “What?” Coombes was plainly thunderstruck. “You mean to take her word over mine? Why, the little minx tried to seduce me in the back hallway!” A more observant man might have taken warning from the earl’s blazing eyes, but Coombes plunged on. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer, neither. She even—”

  He was forcefully interrupted by a shattering blow to his jaw.

  “Get out.” Gavin’s voice quivered with rage as he glared down at his erstwhile butler. “Do not say another word, or I may not be answerable for my actions.”

  Coombes scrambled to his feet, anger and fear fighting for supremacy in his face. With his hand on the library door, he turned. “Don’t expect me to keep yer precious secret once I’m gone, yer lordship,”
he sneered. “All of London will know about the brat by the end of the week. We’ll see what yer fine rich bride-to-be has to say about that!” With this parting shot, he was gone.

  Gavin waited until he heard the front door slam as well, then slowly began to relax. What on earth had come over him? He had never been especially prone to violence, though his skill was well regarded at Gentleman Jackson’s. In fact, he could not recall striking another man in anger since his schooldays. Coombes was a scoundrel, of course—his final words had proved that clearly—but even so, Gavin had overreacted. Why?

  Cherry’s face, with her wide, understanding green eyes, rose before him. That Coombes should have attempted to… Anger assailed him again. Was that it? Was he developing a tendre for Christabel’s nanny? It seemed unlikely in the extreme. She was not at all in his usual style; in fact, she was positively plain, except for those eyes. No doubt he merely felt obliged to protect her, as he would a sister or a friend.

  Unused to probing his sentiments in this way, Gavin crossed to the bell-pull and gave it a vigorous tug. He was engaged to be married. He had already given his mistress her congé. He could not afford any such attraction, and therefore it could not exist.

  The door opened presently and his valet peered around it inquiringly. “Ask Miss Cherrystone to come down if you would, Metzger.”

  She deserved to know the outcome of his interview with Coombes, and besides, they had yet to trade the results of their separate investigations that day. Idly smoothing his hair with his fingers, Gavin went to seat himself at his desk.

  It was with some trepidation that Frederica answered the summons. She had reached her room only a moment ago and had not yet had time to organize her thoughts in light of Mr. Coombes’s unexpected attack. She attempted to do so as she followed Metzger downstairs.

  The butler’s accusations were preposterous, of course, and obviously not very well thought out. Still, her defense must amount to her word against his, and it seemed only logical that Lord Seabrooke would be more inclined to believe a man who had lived in his household for some time than a female who had resided there merely a week. The only witness she could summon for her conduct was Christabel, and Frederica knew already that she would rather be dismissed than subject the child to Mr. Coombes’s evil tongue again. Squaring her shoulders, she walked through the library door when Metzger held it open, ready to meet her fate.