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

by Brenda Hiatt

  It was moving parallel with the top of the hill a considerable distance away, but then it turned and began to descend. At first the shape, somewhat triangular, seemed to be floating several inches above the ground. But as it came nearer he discerned the outline of a glowing hooded cape.

  Fascinated, he saw it angle slightly away from him, heading toward the cleft in the limestone crag where Luke had brought him up from the sands last night. Or that was his guess, from the direction it had taken.

  Kit put no credit in ghosts and hobgoblins. That was a flesh-and-blood creature stalking the hills, to what purpose he could not imagine, and he’d bet a pony it was Luke’s lithe body under the cape.

  A moment later he changed his mind. A play of wind lifted the hood from her head, and instead of Luke’s boyish cap of hair, he saw long tresses flowing behind her like a bridal veil. If left to fall down her back, the hair would reach to the woman’s waist.

  So it wasn’t Luke after all. Mrs. Preston, perhaps? The long mane of hair could well have been concealed under her hat and veil when last he saw her. The two ladies must be sisters, he decided. He’d known a good many women in his life, many of them intimately, but had never before seen hair of that unusual moonlight color. It must be peculiar to Luke’s family.

  The revelation, such as it was, explained nothing of any use. So what that the women were sisters? That did not account for their several disguises, especially this particularly bizarre one. As he watched, the caped figure appeared to sink into the bowels of the earth.

  It occurred to him that anyone unacquainted with the mysterious goings-on at the cottage would likely take fright at what he had just seen. The figure had been walking along the cliff, he would guess, precisely to terrify anyone who might be out on the sands. Had he not known about the rugged path, the one he had climbed with such effort, he might have been spooked into giving credit to otherworldly apparitions.

  What were they hiding?

  He had nearly reached the front door when a whirring sound caused him to spin around. A small shape whizzed past his head, arced a turn, and swooped toward him.

  “Bloody hell!” He regarded the owl with displeasure. “You scared the devil out of me.”

  The owl flew past and circled again.

  “Want inside, do you?” Kit opened the door. “Well, come on then.”

  Fidgets flew into the room and dropped something small and brown at Kit’s feet.

  “What’s this?” In the dim firelight, it was hard to tell. A small rodent of some sort, he guessed, poking it gently with the walking stick. A deceased rodent.

  The owl, now perched on the coat peg, began making those familiar snoring noises. She looked, Kit thought, rather pleased with herself.

  “If this is a gift,” Kit advised her kindly, “you really shouldn’t have. And here I didn’t get you anything. Tell you what, Fidgets. It’s the thought that counts. Why don’t you take this luscious morsel outside and have yourself a snack?”

  The owl tilted her head, regarding him from shiny eyes.

  There was no help for it. Kit wasn’t churlish enough to refuse the offering, so he lifted the limp creature on the tip of the walking stick and placed it on a saucer. “Yum. I’ll have it for breakfast. How very thoughtful of you.” He wondered if Fidgets meant to perch there watching him until he ate the thing. “But trust me, bird, I cannot fertilize your eggs, or however it is you owls make more owls. Besides, I’m a ramshackle fellow. All the ladies will tell you so. I’d only break your heart.”

  He set the saucer on the table, not sure how to proceed. He certainly didn’t relish the thought of two round eyes fixed on him for the next several hours. “It’s a lovely night,” he said firmly, pointing to the open door. “A pretty young thing like you should be out kicking up your claws.”

  To his surprise, the owl flew out of the cottage.

  Before she could change her mind, he hurried to close the door. For a moment he considered opening it long enough to toss the rodent outside, where it could make a meal for some other creature. But what if Fidgets found out what he’d done?

  He must be out of his wits to worry about offending a bird’s sensibilities. What next? he wondered, stirring the fire with a poker. A would-be witch stalking the headlands and a besotted owl delivering love tokens to the reluctant object of her affections.

  Well, he had wanted one last adventure before coming to grips with his future. At nine-and-twenty, a man ought to have chosen a profession and made himself useful. Or so his brother pointed out rather too often. Of late, and without pleasure, Kit had begun to agree. But he enjoyed useless activities, so long as they were exciting, and every profession considered suitable for the son of an earl struck him as crushingly boring.

  He had once thought of enlisting in the Royal Navy, but James wouldn’t hear of it. One brother in the military would suffice, he had decreed, and Alex was by then a captain in the 44th Foot. Besides, James had reminded him, taking orders and adhering to strict discipline was not in his nature. Kit had no argument for that.

  In fact, the only thing he had ever truly wanted was an enormous family—a dozen kids at the least—and a house near the water so that he could sail. Given that much, he would gladly dig ditches or quarry shale to put food on the table.

  He placed two more logs on the grate. It would not come to manual labor, he knew. There was money—how much, he’d no idea—willed him by his mother and held in trust by his brother, to be released at the earl’s discretion. So far James had not parted with a groat of it, preferring to keep the funds invested until Kit showed signs of settling down.

  Just as well. Had James signed over the inheritance, he’d likely have squandered the whole on gifts for the ladies whose favors he enjoyed or rounds of drinks in the taprooms where he spent many of his evenings. Money streamed through his fingers like water. Kit knew better than to ask his brother to release what was rightfully his because it would be needed later, for his children.

  Meantime there was the mystery of Luke and Mrs. Preston to unriddle. Surely one of them would return to the cottage before very much longer. He went to the cot, slipped between the rough blankets, and adjusted his arm in the sling. Except for a low, steady throbbing, his shoulder scarcely hurt at all. By tomorrow, he should be able to get around without difficulty, although Luke would toss him out on his ear if she knew it.

  He meant to tell her, though, as soon as she came back. Show her, if necessary. It was past time they both started to give over the truth.

  But no one came in through the front door, or through the door that was barred, and his eyelids began to feel like lead weights.

  He tried to stay awake by reviewing what he had learned about the pearly-haired sisters. Very little, he had to admit, and every new detail left him more puzzled than before. If that had been Mrs. Preston walking on the hillside, where was Luke? And where was it Mrs. Preston was headed when she vanished? Was there something of interest at the bottom of the cliff?

  After a while his thoughts began tripping over one another until they were hopelessly entangled. He wondered why Mrs. Preston wore that black veil over her face. He wondered if he was really falling in love with Luke, as he suspected, or merely indulging himself in a pleasurable fantasy. How came it that an owl had chosen him as its mate? He recalled the rodent in the saucer and wondered if he ought to get up and do something about it.

  Somewhere along the way, lavender-scented and relentless, sleep washed over him like the tide in Morecambe Bay.

  Chapter Six

  The sound of groaning hinges prodded Kit awake. Cracking his lids the barest fraction, he saw Mrs. Preston sweep in from the back room carrying a lantern, an umbrella, and a small satchel. As before, she wore a severe black dress, long-sleeved and cut high at the neck, concealing every inch of her skin. Her hair and face were covered by the veiled hat.

  She had also, he noted with interest, grown nearly two inches taller.

  After placing the lantern near the
hearth and the satchel and umbrella by the front door, she gathered dishes from the shelf where they were stowed and carried them over to the table. Then she froze.

  Ah yes. The rodent. Kit decided that this was not a good time to pretend to be asleep. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

  The veil lifted slightly as she swung her head in his direction, offering him a glimpse of Luke’s firm chin. “I expect you are wondering about the chap in the saucer,” he said. “Fidgets brought it in last night. A love offering, unless I am very much mistaken, and no doubt I am expected to swallow it whole. Thus far, I’ve been unable to bring myself to do so.”

  With deliberation she set down the dishes and flatware, picked up the saucer, went to the door, and threw the rodent unceremoniously outside. She sent the saucer flying, too.

  “So much for love,” Kit said mournfully as she returned to the shelf and grabbed a half loaf of bread, a hunk of smoked ham, and a wedge of cheese. She flung them onto a platter with a decided thunk.

  “Is that our breakfast?” he inquired, sitting up.

  Ignoring him, she filled a battered metal tankard with ale from a large pitcher and set it with the food.

  One tankard. “Are you going out, ma’am?”

  She slammed a knife and fork on the table.

  “May I ask where?” he persisted, solely to annoy her. She’d no intention of telling him, he was certain.

  Shaking her head, she went to the door. Then she turned back and approached the cot with clear reluctance, pointing to his shoulder.

  “Are you inquiring about my health?” he asked, amused. “Indeed, I am precisely at the mark where I require no further medical assistance but cannot leave here in the foreseeable future without doing severe damage to my constitution.”

  He was fairly certain she muttered an oath behind that heavy veil.

  “I’ll be gone in a week or so,” he assured her with a grin. “Probably to post the banns, if Fidgets has her way with me. Shall I presume that Luke is lurking about in case I need her—er, him—while you are away?”

  Tossing her hands in the air in a gesture of disgust, she flounced across the room, grabbed the umbrella and satchel, and departed in a huff.

  Temper, temper, he thought, laughing aloud. But where could she be off to in such a rush? It was still pitch-dark outside, he’d observed when she opened the door.

  The dirt floor was cool under his feet when he stood to test his bruised ankle. Although painful, it felt sound enough that he decided to do without the cane for the time being. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders against the chilly predawn air, limped to the table, and tucked into his breakfast. After so many meals of bread and soup, he’d a wolf in his stomach. It was as well the ladies were not present to see him demolish every morsel without resorting to civilized manners.

  There had been no sound from the other room, and he wondered if the long-haired sister was in there. When he’d finished his ale, he went to the door and listened as he had done the previous night, hearing nothing. “Hullo?” He rapped on the door. “Anyone there?”

  No reply, which was as he’d expected.

  “I require help, please.” He put a quaver in his voice. “Quickly. I tore open my wound and it is bleeding in a gush.”

  Either she didn’t believe him or she didn’t care. The door remained firmly closed.

  Lucifer! These females were hard as standing stones. Without much hope, he tried the latch and was astonished when the door swung open to reveal a windowless cubicle no larger than a stable stall.

  Feeling foolish, Kit went back to retrieve the lantern and set about examining the few items stored in the room. There was a three-legged stool, a good-size portmanteau, a wicker cage, and a long wooden box. He raised the lid and sifted through the contents, finding blankets, towels, candles, and at the very bottom, his leather saddle pack. He took it out and unclasped the buckles.

  Someone had sorted through the contents, he could tell. The two shirts and half-dozen handkerchiefs were folded more neatly than he’d ever folded anything in his life. Nothing appeared to be missing, though. The searcher must have been disappointed to find so little, but on his adventures he never carried anything that might serve to identify him.

  Returning the lid to the box, he seated himself atop it and considered whether it would be worth the effort to try to pull on a shirt. Unlike most females of his acquaintance, Luke seemed singularly unimpressed by the sight of his manly torso, which left him no good reason to continue leaving it bare. And even the soft thin wool of his shirt would offer protection from the cold when he went outside to explore, as he fully intended to do.

  He discovered almost immediately that trying to dress himself had been a bad idea, but once started, he was determined to finish the job. A long painful time later, punctuated by searing oaths and any number of pauses to rest, he finally succeeded in stuffing both arms through the sleeves and tugging the shirt over his head.

  Fresh blood—not enough to signify, he hoped—seeped through the bandage and spotted the shirt. He waited awhile to see if he’d done himself injury, still sitting on the box and looking carefully around the room in case he had missed anything.

  A carpet of sorts, made of tightly woven straw and about four feet square, lay under the portmanteau. Nothing odd about that, to be sure, but his gaze kept straying back to it. There was something about its position that felt wrong. The box, cage, and stool were neatly set against the wall, but the portmanteau rested nearly dead center in the room.

  Curious, he went over to it and lifted it off the carpet. His instincts were abuzz, raising the hair on his arms and driving the blood through his veins in a pounding awareness he had long since learned to trust. Setting the portmanteau on the dirt floor, he bent over and raised one corner of the straw mat, not over-surprised to see a hinged trapdoor.

  One mystery solved, he thought, folding the carpet over itself to give him access. There was a slim piece of rope wrapped around one of the wooden boards, but he left it long enough to go back and wrestle his arm into the makeshift sling. The bleeding had stopped, fortunately, and the few drops of blood on his shirt were already drying to a rusty brown.

  He brought the lantern closer, set it beside the trapdoor, and gingerly pulled the rope. The door lifted soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. He folded it all the way back and peered down, but even when he lifted the lantern directly over the opening, he could see no more than two or three stairs that had been hewn into the limestone. Beyond was darkness, although he scented salty air and the musty smell of rotting seaweed.

  Familiar odors, they were. He had set foot in more than one seacoast cave during his desultory career as a smuggler, and several had boasted tunnels leading to concealed exits.

  Kit lowered himself to the floor and swung his feet into the opening. Since his one good arm was occupied with holding the lantern, he could manage only a slow, awkward descent down the steep, moisture-slick stairs. For once, he chose to be cautious. The steps were narrow, and should he lose his footing, there was no telling how far he would fall.

  At last he reached the bottom, finding himself in a small grotto. A ragged slice of pale light came through an opening directly ahead, just wide enough to slip through if he went sideways. He set down the lantern on the bottom stair, noticing that several pieces of luggage had been stowed in the darkest curve of the grotto. They were of excellent quality, much finer than the shabby portmanteau in the cottage. Jason’s saddle was draped over the largest of them.

  Blood pulsed in his ears. He thrived on adventure, always had, and this one was a cracker. Tiptoeing to the break in the limestone grotto, he peered out.

  Another cave, perhaps thirty feet long and exceptionally high and wide until it narrowed to a smaller entrance, opened onto Morecambe Bay. Jason was tethered to one of the water-worn boulders that littered the floor of the cave, nibbling at a stack of new-cut grass. Small pink crabs scuttled over the sand and rocks, taking strict care to keep well dis
tant from the horse.

  As he stood there a fresh sea breeze lifted his hair and billowed the sleeves of his shirt. And the same breeze, stronger at the entrance of the cave, played with the long, curly auburn hair of the woman who was seated on a flat rock with her back to him, looking out into the dawn.

  The other Mrs. Preston, no doubt. This time she was clad in a long-sleeved dress of hunter green. She sat motionless, her back straight, unaware that she had been discovered.

  Something about her, perhaps her grave stillness, held him in place. He was reluctant to startle her or, worse, to alarm her, and an uneasy sensation tingled at his spine. He felt pain and longing resonating in his body and, most particularly, in the region of his heart. All his protective instincts went on fire. Whoever she was, she needed help.

  It finally dawned on him that she did not possess the long, straight, pearly hair he had been expecting. This woman could not have been the specter he’d seen walking the cliffs last night, and Luke was already ruled out because her hair, while the right color, was even shorter than his own. Could there be three women instead of two hiding out in this remote cottage?

  While he was considering the best way to approach her, Jason took the matter out of his hands. Kit was standing downwind, but the sea breeze had filtered through the splice in the rocks, bounced off the grotto walls behind him, and carried his odor back to the horse. Scenting a longtime friend, the bay lifted his muzzle and whickered.

  The woman turned her head then, and he got the barest glimpse of a beautiful profile before she jumped to her feet. Keeping her back to him, she gestured him frantically to go away.

  “It’s only the gimpy lodger,” he said, taking a few steps in her direction. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

  Her gestures grew wilder.

  He stopped. “You wish me to leave, I take it.”

  She nodded vigorously.