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

by Brenda Hiatt

  He sensed confidence in her tone, and an edge to it that challenged him to rally his spirits. But he gave himself another long minute before pulling upright again. “Time for the front, I expect. Go to it.”

  The scissors sliced through his shirt, and when she had severed it in two, she pulled the right half down his good arm and let it drop to the ground.

  That was easy enough, he was thinking just before she began to separate the fabric from the bloody mess at his left shoulder. Pain washed over him in fiery waves.

  “It’s stuck,” she murmured, putting the scissors to work again. Soon only a fragment of cloth remained directly over the wound. “This is going to hurt, I’m afraid.” Slowly, strand by strand, she pulled woolen threads free of the congealed blood.

  He took a deep breath, and then another. “Would you mind getting this over with in a hurry?”

  “It will be better,” Luke agreed. “Di—Mrs. Preston, will you put your arms around his chest and hold him in the chair?” Two surprisingly strong, black-sheathed arms secured him in place from behind as Luke took hold of the piece of cotton and snapped it loose.

  Kit heard a sharp cry of pain and hoped it hadn’t come from him. A damp towel was pressed against his forehead and a slim-fingered hand rested on his neck.

  “Well done, sir. I wish I could tell you it was over, but we’ve only just begun.”

  His head slowly cleared, although black spots danced in front of his eyes when he opened them again. “S-sorry to make so much trouble.” Was he whimpering, for pity’s sake?

  There was a swirl of activity around him then. Luke murmured instructions to the silent Mrs. Preston, and after a few moments a length of fabric was tied around his chest, holding him against the back of the chair. Then something cold and burning was pressed against his shoulder.

  “I shall tell you what we are doing. The bullet appears to have passed cleanly through a fleshy part of your shoulder, but it may have pushed bits of your shirt inside the wound. They will create problems later if not removed, so I mean to see to them as best I can. If I am forced to probe deeply, you will most definitely feel it.”

  She had already begun as she spoke, and he could feel it sure enough. He rather wanted to scream, and tears stung his eyes, but he held himself immobile as she worked. It was the least he could do.

  Some part of his ragged mind detached itself and remained almost coherent. He decided that for his sins he probably deserved all this. He hoped the measure of pain did not reflect the seriousness of his injury. He loathed feeling so damnably helpless, and above all, he feared it.

  After several years she stopped digging into his shoulder with some sort of metallic instrument of torture. He sagged against the bonds holding him to the chair, letting his head drop forward.

  “We’re nearly done,” she said in a calm voice. “I will clean the wound now and apply a paste of Saint-John’s-wort. It’s all we have tonight, but we shall send for better help and medications when the storm has passed.”

  Kit became aware of wind whistling over the chimney and window glass rattling in the panes. Rain pelted the slate roof of the cottage. He listened with all his attention, forcing himself to ignore what Luke was doing to his shredded shoulder. Fingers, soothing fingers, stroked through his hair. Mrs. Preston, he thought, trying to help.

  Disaster and miracles, both at once. He had tumbled into hell and, contrarily, fallen into the hands of angels. He heard mumbled words from Luke, and Mrs. Preston moved away from him. Scissors cut through the band of cotton holding him upright on the chair. With effort, he kept himself erect. “This is water,” Luke said, putting a cup against his lips.

  He drank greedily, welcoming the cool liquid against his parched mouth and throat. Then another vessel, a thin glass, was held to his mouth.

  “This is a bit of cider laced with laudanum. It will help you sleep.”

  He turned his head away. “I don’t want it.”

  “That is unfortunate. Drink it anyway.”

  “Dammit, I’ll not be drugged.” Determination scattered the tendrils of mist in his head. “I want to know what is happening.”

  Luke patted his good shoulder. “Nothing whatever will be happening after we get you into bed, not until the storm clears. Well, one or the other of us will watch for fever and stand ready to be of help, but the best thing for you right now is sleep. And without the laudanum—very little of it, I assure you—the pain will keep you awake.”

  “No, it won’t,” Kit assured her. “I can fall asleep within a minute, at will. I have the habit of it.”

  She took the glass from Mrs. Preston, who had been holding it, and poked a finger at his chest. “I saved your life tonight, sir. You owe me a favor in return. And what I want is for you to drink this down to the very last drop without further protest. Agreed?”

  “What a fierce creature you are,” he murmured with genuine admiration. “But I’m wet all over, you know. You won’t want me soiling that bed. I shall sleep on the floor by the hearth.”

  “Rubbish. It will be easier for me to deal with your wound if I can reach you. And I don’t care if the bedding gets wet.”

  “Of course not, since I’ll be the one sleeping there. At the least, can we do something about these boots? The right one feels like a sausage casing.”

  She frowned. “I’d forgot about your foot. But it will hurt dreadfully if I try to pull off the boot.”

  “Then cut it off. You’ll do better with the knife, I expect.” She removed it from the sheath and knelt by his right leg, frowning as she considered the best approach. Finally she slipped the blade between the fabric of his trousers and the top of the boot. “I don’t believe this is going to work, sir. I am bound to cut you.”

  “I’ll squawk if you do. Give it a try, anyway.”

  She gripped the hilt, angled the sharp blade against the rim of the boot, and began to saw through the fold of leather and heavy stitching. Finally she succeeded in breaking through and was able to slice quickly to the sole. Carefully, she removed the boot and used the scissors to cut away his wet, sandy stocking.

  His foot and ankle were swollen, but he reckoned the injury was no more serious than a sprain. He would be limping for a few days, but he’d be able to get around.

  He glanced up to see Luke holding out the glass of drugged cider. He’d hoped she had forgot, but no such luck. “I’ll make you a deal,” he offered. “Permit me to remove these wet trousers and get into bed. Then I’ll swallow your bloody witch’s brew.”

  Her eyes widened.

  Was she alarmed? he wondered. It wasn’t as though he intended to strip directly in front of her.

  Not this time, at any rate.

  “Agreed,” she snapped. “We’ll wait in the back room. Call when you are safely under the blanket, or if you encounter any difficulties.”

  To his annoyance, Luke took the laudanum with her. So much for his plan to dump it somewhere and maintain he’d drunk it like a good lad. Luke wouldn’t have believed him, of course, but neither would she have risked giving him a second dose. Well, she had outwitted him, so he would have to swallow his medicine like a good loser.

  He unbuttoned his trousers and peeled them down his legs, using the one good arm remaining to him. It took an amazingly long time, and he was sweating profusely when they were finally heaped on the floor. Lacking the strength to pick them up, he left them where they lay and limped to the narrow cot. After a considerable struggle, he got himself settled with the blanket covering him and lowered his head to the thin, bumpy pillow. He wondered which one of them slept here, Mrs. Preston or Luke. “I’m snug in bed,” he called.

  When Luke came into the room, he produced a wide yawn. “I c’n scarcely keep my eyes open,” he said in a weak voice.

  “Humbug.” She put a hand behind his head, raised it up, and held the glass to his lips.

  Casting her a scorching look, he obediently swallowed the cider. “The least you can do is tell me your real name.”
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  “I have done all I intend to do on your behalf this night,” she advised him sternly. “Now do me one single kindness, sir, and go directly to sleep.”

  He regarded her hazily. She was wavering in and out of his rapidly clouding vision. “I believe that I shall call you Lucy then.”

  “You cannot!” She shook her head. “That is Mrs. Preston’s name.”

  “Ah. Unfortunate.” This time his yawn was real. “G’night, moonbeam. I plan to dream about you.”

  Chapter Three

  Lucy put a finger to her lips, warning Diana to remain silent. Although Kit had begun to snore lightly, she wouldn’t have put it past him to be dissembling.

  Standing side by side, they watched him closely for several minutes. He never moved, and the rhythm of his breathing remained steady, but still she could not be absolutely certain.

  “I think he’s well asleep,” she said in a booming tone. “And the poker will be heated through by now. Go ahead and secure his wrists with the rope, Mrs. Preston. We mustn’t have him thrashing about while I cauterize the wound.”

  There was no reaction from the man on the cot.

  Releasing a sigh, Lucy crossed to the fireplace. “I think we can safely speak, Diana. The laudanum appears to have sent him off, and may the devil take him up and fly away with him.”

  “Don’t say such things, I beg you. What if he were to die?”

  “Oh, he’ll do no such thing.” That would make life far too easy, Lucy thought irritably. “The blackguard will live to make us a great deal of trouble caring for him, and a great deal more trying to rid ourselves of him.”

  Diana removed the veiled hat and worked at the pins attaching the brown wig to her hair. “How do you conclude that he’s a blackguard?”

  “It’s perfectly obvious. He was smuggling contraband of some sort when he got himself shot. And even if he’d chanced to be delivering a sermon at Westminster Abbey when the bullet hit him, the man is patently a scoundrel.”

  Diana had not left her position beside the cot. “He looks like a lamb.”

  “Pah!”

  “Well, lamb is not the correct word, I know. But he doesn’t strike me as the least bit dangerous.”

  “Don’t be deceived by his looks. Males often appear innocent, even vulnerable, when they are asleep. I recall gazing down at Henry Tumbridge, the devil’s spawn if ever there was one, all snug in his bed, with his sweet face so wonderfully peaceful that I imagined I had misjudged his capacity for evil. The very next day he set fire to the stable.”

  “You cannot compare a child with a grown man,” Diana protested. “I fear you have been a governess too long to maintain any perspective. At the least you must grant that he is exceedingly handsome.”

  “And he is well aware of it, too.” Lucy added water to the tea kettle and hung it over the fire. “He is also aware that I am a female.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I’m not in the least surprised. This disguise was never meant to be seen at close range, and in all the turmoil, I didn’t think to alter my voice.”

  Diana finished detaching the wig and shook out her heavy auburn hair. “You haven’t told me what happened. Where did you come upon him?”

  “Make the tea, will you? Yours always tastes so much better than mine. And to be honest, I believe I must sit for a few minutes.”

  While Diana set out the crockery and measured the tea leaves, Lucy gave her a carefully censored description of the events on Morecambe Bay. She omitted the long struggle to dig Kit’s leg from under the box and skimmed over the arduous return to shore. Diana need not know they had escaped just ahead of the incoming tide.

  “That’s perfectly awful,” Diana said when she was finished. “The others simply left him there? Who were they?”

  “I’ve no idea, except that there were two separate groups of men—Kit’s band of smugglers and the ones who robbed them. He was in no condition to explain what occurred before my arrival.”

  “His name is Kit? What else do you know about him?”

  “Nothing whatever.” Lucy had placed herself where she could see his face in case he showed signs of distress. Or of eavesdropping. “Nor have I the slightest notion what we are to do with him. If he takes a fever, I suppose we’ll have to find a doctor.”

  “Shouldn’t we do that in any case?” Diana poured hot water into the teapot. “Is there one in Silverdale?”

  “Not likely. I imagine we’ll have to send to Beetham, or even farther. Robbie will know. He’s promised to bring a load of firewood and provisions tomorrow, although he’ll not arrive until the storm has passed.”

  “Kit speaks well, I noticed. He cannot be a common smuggler.”

  Not common in any way, Lucy agreed silently. He was certainly a most uncommon nuisance. Because of him, her plan was unraveling, and she could not think how to weave it together again. Clearly a whole new scheme had to be devised, one that allowed for Kit and weeded him away before he could do any more damage.

  She combed her fingers through her hair, a habit she had acquired soon after it was shorn. She could not seem to help making sure the rest was still there. “We must revise our scheme immediately, Diana. It’s true we’ve no idea if our unwelcome patient will recover swiftly or take a turn for the worse, or what to do in either circumstance. But we have to begin somewhere.”

  Diana strained tea into the chipped ceramic mugs. “You are forever telling me that everything will work out for the best. Shall we assume that Robbie will arrive in good time, and that Kit will have slept peacefully through the night?”

  Her own feigned optimism was coming back to bite her, Lucy thought sourly. But until now she had truly believed they had a reasonable chance of bringing this off. It had not been so easy a matter to persuade Diana, though. She was fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

  Nonetheless, she had been a rock of support this evening. Lucy considered that wonder as she watched Diana sit in the chair across from her. How lovely she was. But already, so soon, she had learned to keep the right side of her face turned away. “You didn’t answer my question, Lucy.”

  “I beg your pardon, but it is difficult to imagine what the ‘best’ might be. For now, let us consider the immediate future. I shall keep watch on him tonight, of course, but since he is in your bed, where are you to sleep? If you take my pallet by the hearth, you’ll be forced to wear the wig and veil in case he wakes up.”

  “I’d rather not. The wig scratches and the pins give me the headache. I shall stay in the other room.”

  “Unthinkable. There is no heat in there.”

  “We’ll leave the door open, then, and I’ll wrap myself up in layers of clothes. Where I spend the rest of the night is the least of our problems, Lucy. What of the morning? Shall I be Mrs. Preston again, or will you?”

  Lucy sipped at the strong hot tea. “And now poor Mrs. Preston is mute. What an incredibly stupid idea that was! When I thought of it, I reckoned that later I could take over the role without him recognizing the change of voices. It failed to dawn on me that whichever of us played the part thereafter would be compelled to remain silent.”

  “He was weak and in pain. He’s had a draft of laudanum. Perhaps he won’t remember that Mrs. Preston is unable to speak.”

  “Oh, he’ll remember. Nothing escapes him, I’m sorry to say.” He had even flirted with her, for heaven’s sake, although it was only to demonstrate that he’d seen through her disguise. And, she suspected, to show her how clever he was. “I’ll be Luke tomorrow, unless Robbie fails to arrive and I am forced to go into Silverdale. Kit can go on wondering why I am dressed in trousers until I come up with a plausible explanation.” Lucy rubbed the back of her neck, which ached with tension. “There’s another problem. I fear that Kit’s smugglers were heading for our cave to stash their booty. We must relocate ourselves as soon as possible.”

  “But why? Didn’t you say the robbers made off with—with the booty?”

  “Some of it. The rest was loa
ded on a wagon, which must be several feet underwater by now. Drat! I forgot about the horse. We unhooked him from the wagon and brought him ashore. He’s in the cave. There’s nothing to feed him with, but I should take him some water and remove his saddle.”

  “I’ll do it. But why are you so worried about the smugglers? They might have been going somewhere else entirely.”

  “Perhaps. I suppose the question is irrelevant now. Kit is here, he knows about us, and we must depart as soon as may be.” Diana looked alarmed. “For where? We have no place to go.”

  “Of course we do,” Lucy lied smoothly. “There are thousands of places, and we have only to make a selection. But leave that to me. I shall think on it later. At the moment I cannot seem to put two coherent thoughts together in a row.” She swallowed the last of her tea. “We’ll be guessing from here on out, but you mustn’t worry. If all else fails, we shall simply make a run for it.”

  Diana rose and went to fill a battered metal bucket from the oak barrel that held their supply of water. “We ought to set the barrel outside to catch the rainwater,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s nearly empty.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Lucy was relieved to hear a return of spirit in Diana’s voice. When there was something of use for her to do, she invariably shook off her mopes and set to work. But most times she was left on her own, with nothing to distract her from her unhappy thoughts. “I’d much rather drag a barrel out into a storm, you know, than tend to a large unpredictable animal.”

  “Nonsense. One day I shall teach you to ride, and I promise that you’ll come to love horses as much as I do. May I take the carrots we were saving for tomorrow’s soup?”

  “By all means. Give him anything you can find that he will eat. And bring up the saddle pack, if it is not too heavy to carry.”

  When Diana had ignited a lantern and departed with the carrots, Lucy rose with a groan and went to examine the bandage on Kit’s shoulder. Blood had seeped through, but not terribly much of it, and the rust-colored stain was already dry to the touch. Perhaps he would live after all, the wretch.