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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “My apologies, ma’am, but I’m afraid I cannot oblige you on this occasion. One of you must explain to me what is going on here, and the other young ladies are nowhere to be found.”

  Again she turned, showing him that splendid profile as she put a finger to her lips. Then she used it to make a negative gesture.

  “Ah. I had forgot. You cannot speak.”

  She nodded even more forcefully and repeated her go-away sign.

  “The thing is, my dear, I would bet a pony that you have a perfectly good voice. What I cannot reckon is why you are pretending otherwise. It’s all some part of these mysterious goings-on, to be sure, but singularly useless when directed at me. I am not your enemy, my dear.”

  Suddenly she bolted forward in the direction of the sands, but she halted almost immediately, her shoulders slumping in a gesture of unmistakable resignation.

  He moved slowly toward her. “I would be unable to catch you if you chose to run, you know.” When he was only a few feet away, she turned slightly. He saw a tear streak down her smooth cheek. Lucifer! Did she imagine he would do her harm?

  “I can speak,” she said quietly. “But I will tell you nothing.”

  “Not even how I can be of service to you?”

  She brushed away a second tear. “That is simple enough. Leave us, and forget you ever met us.”

  “I cannot do that, butterfly. You are in some sort of trouble, and I wish to help. Actually, I insist on helping.”

  “How can a smuggler be of any use? The last thing we require is a hunted criminal on the premises.”

  “Oh, my. You begin to sound exactly like Luke, or whatever her name is.”

  “We don’t know your name either,” she pointed out.

  “Christopher Etheridge,” he said easily. “Call me Kit. And you are…?”

  “I am being sought by people who must not be allowed to find me,” she said in a bleak voice.

  “Then we shall see to it they do not. I will help you, you may rely on it, and I would die before betraying you. As Luke never fails to remind me, I owe you my life. Consider that even a smuggler may have some claim to honor.”

  She turned her back to him again, arms clasped around her waist as if she were holding herself together by force of will.

  He remained where he was, giving her time. She was no more than eighteen or nineteen, he would guess, but he sensed enormous strength in her. At length, she came to a decision. Her spine went arrow straight, she lifted her chin, and without a word she wheeled to face him directly.

  With effort, he showed no reaction when he saw her right cheek, the one she had so carefully kept from his view until now. He looked at it, of course. He could not help himself. Marked out in angry red ridges, the scar covered most of her cheek. It resembled a piece of mirror glass struck hard by a pebble. There was a small round scar at the center with narrow lines radiating from it that were sometimes connected by other lines, much like a spiderweb.

  The injury could not have happened very long ago, a few weeks perhaps. It was healing cleanly, and he supposed that much of the redness would fade over time. But the scar would remain with her forever.

  He lifted his gaze to her eyes, which were shimmering with tears as she awaited his judgment. She expected revulsion, he knew. Perhaps worse. He felt nothing of the like, but for once his glib tongue failed him. How could there be words?

  He was enraged at what had been done to her. And he wanted to weep for her, but she would surely mistake his compassion for pity. In the end, not knowing what else to do, he slipped his arm from the sling, moved to her, and drew her into an embrace.

  She stiffened, resisting his sympathy, but he rubbed her back with one hand and combed through her hair with the other. Her unscarred cheek was pressed against his chest. He held her for a long time, rocking her gently, and at last she went limp against his body.

  Then the tears came. They soaked into his shirt as she wept soundlessly, the minutes passing one after the other while he could do nothing but hold her and wait.

  “Oh, dear,” she finally mumbled against his shoulder. “Forgive me. Truly, I have sworn n-never to be a watering pot when there is anyone to see me.”

  “Except perhaps this once,” he said mildly. “Tears heal a wounded heart, or so I believe.”

  “You are much mistaken, sir. I have cried buckets of them, and they serve only to swell up my eyes.”

  He tilted her chin with his thumb and gazed at her red-rimmed hazel eyes and the long dark lashes, spiky and clumped together with salty tears. “Not this time, I promise you.”

  “A safe enough promise,” she declared with a return of spirit, “since I cannot prove you wrong. You may be sure that I keep well away from mirrors since… since the accident.”

  He released her, except for the one hand he put gently on her shoulder to hold the connection between them. “Will you tell me what happened, my dear?”

  She sighed. “I suppose I must, since you have already found us out. But it is a long and unpleasant tale, sir. You are certain to find it tedious.”

  “That is most unlikely. I wish to hear every detail, or at least the ones that will direct me to how I can best be of service. But my sore ankle has begun to make its presence felt. Will that fine-looking rock seat us both, do you think?”

  When he was settled on one side of the flat stone, she stepped back and regarded him thoughtfully. “The sling is tangled every which way, sir. Shall I remove it and undo the knots?”

  “By all means.” She required a few moments to regain her composure and order her thoughts, he understood, bending his neck so that she could lift the shawl over his head. “May I know your name?”

  “Diana Evangeline Whitney,” she replied, sitting beside him with the shawl in her lap. “Under the circumstances, formality would be pointless. Please call me Diana. And my friend—there is only one, by the way—is Lucinda Jennet Preston.”

  His heart plunged to his feet. She was married! “There really is a Mrs. Preston then,” he said tightly.

  “A Miss Preston,” Diana corrected, working at the knot. “When it is called for, Lucy disguises herself as a widow. Unfortunately, she is compelled to use her own name when dealing with bankers and the like. But as no one knows her here in the north, it is probably safe enough.”

  Now it was Kit’s turn to regain his composure. The brief seconds he had thought Lucy beyond his reach had all but unmanned him.

  The significance of what had just happened struck him forcibly. So there it was. So now he knew without question. He was in love with her.

  Indeed, he had suspected as much. His generally reliable instincts had shouted the news when first he saw her, he realized on looking back at the scene. But at the time he’d been half buried in the sand with blood pouring out of him, and so much had happened since to distract him that he had never decided if his strong attraction to her might be a good deal more than that.

  Well, at least one problem had been put to rest. Love it was. Convincing her to feel likewise about him was another matter entirely, but he could not get about his wooing right away. Diana’s problems, whatever they might be, were clearly more urgent.

  “If she is playing the part of the widow when she isn’t playing Luke,” he said, “then who was it masquerading as that luminescent creature I saw last night?”

  “Oh, that was Lucy, too.” She glanced over at him. “You have been nosing about rather energetically for a man we thought not so very long ago to be knocking at death’s door.”

  He grinned. “Masquerades are not reserved for females, you know. But if that was Lucy on the cliff, how came she by the long hair?”

  “It’s a wig, of course, but—” She pressed her lips together.

  “But what?”

  “If you wish to know more, sir, you must ask her to explain. I am willing to tell you about myself and what Lucy has done on my behalf, but I’ll not speak of matters which relate to her in a personal way. She will be more than displea
sed to learn I have spoken with you at all.”

  He had no doubt of that. “Very well. I’ll not intrude, and if I forget myself, cut me off. Is it permitted to tell me why she was stalking the cliffs? Granted she was quite terrifying at first sight, and I presume she means to discourage company from dropping by. But this strikes me as a peculiar way to go about being unneighborly.”

  “I have never approved of the hauntings,” Diana said, “although Lucy is convinced they are effective. She may well be correct. While it is no secret that a reclusive widow has taken up residence in the cottage, no one has dared to pay a friendly call. Do you reside in the area, sir?”

  “These days I come and go, but I grew up within two hours’ ride of here.”

  “Then perhaps you are familiar with the story of the Lancashire Witches.” She finally succeeded in undoing the troublesome knot and stood to shake out the fringed shawl.

  “Never heard of them. Westmoreland runs more to sheep than witches.”

  “As does Lancashire these days. But two hundred years ago, over by Pendle Hill, a number of women were tried for the practice of witchcraft. It was all nonsense, to be sure, but they were condemned and hanged nonetheless. Most every Lancashire child grows up hearing the stories. Their parents, who were told the same stories when they were children, believe the witches still walk these hills, casting spells and doing wicked things to anyone who comes within reach.”

  “I see. Lucy is exploiting a local superstition to keep people away. Devilish clever of her.”

  “Foolhardy, in my opinion.” Diana draped the shawl around his neck and moved behind him. “But she won’t be stopped. Once Lucy gets something into her head, she is more stubborn than a Lancashire farmer, which is saying a great deal. Until a few weeks ago she had never set foot in Lancashire, but she soon heard the legends because there is no escaping them. And by purest coincidence, one of the poor women hanged was named Jennet Preston. That’s how she got the notion, and I’m sorry to say that she found someone—the apothecary who tended to you yesterday—who could show her how to make her cloak shine in the dark. He gave her an ointment that turns the trick, and off she went to strike terror into the hearts of poor cocklers and fishermen. Truth be told, I think she rather enjoys being the Lancashire Witch.”

  Kit burst out laughing.

  “It’s not in the least amusing, sir. One of these nights, someone who doesn’t believe in supernatural creatures will accost her to prove himself right.”

  Still chuckling, he allowed Diana to encase his arm in the sling and adjust the length. “I’m sure you are correct,” he said, trying to sound sincere. But oh, how he admired his witch for conceiving of the idea in the first place. And he wouldn’t object in the least to a night of haunting in company with Lucy. It was just the sort of adventure he most relished.

  “Is that comfortable?” Diana asked, holding the corners of the shawl behind his neck.

  “Perfectly. Tie it off, madam. And while you are about it, tell me about Miss Preston. Does she make a habit of wearing trousers?”

  “She has found it convenient from time to time, especially when she was meeting with me at my parents’”—her voice faltered—“at my uncle’s estate. She masqueraded as a gardener’s assistant then. And I think she sometimes wears trousers in her usual position, but you must ask her about that.”

  For all his compelling wish to learn more about Lucy, he knew he must stop prodding Diana for information. He felt her hands trembling against his nape as she secured the knot. “Perhaps I will one day. But the moment has come, I believe, for you to tell me your own story.”

  Without responding, she returned to her place on the rock and sat with her fingers tightly laced together.

  He was content to give her as much time as she required. It was early morning yet, barely an hour since dawn. The tide had moved in quickly since first he entered the cave, slowing when it reached the sloping rise that let to the cliffs. No more than twenty yards away, fluttery waves lapped at the sands. With shrill cries, a flock of sandpipers swept in and began to bustle about on whisker-thin legs.

  She released a long sigh. “So much has occurred that I can scarcely think how to tell you. It began last year, when my parents died of the typhus. Father was the fifteenth Baron Whitney of Willow Manor, which is located to the east of Lancaster, and the title passed to his brother, who is now my guardian. I met him once or twice when I was a child, but he had not called on us this last decade or more. Father would surely have made other provision for me, had he known what manner of man his brother has become since then. My uncle was livid to discover that his inheritance is confined to the title and the entailed portion of the estate. The Whitney fortune came to me, and is being held in trust until I turn one-and-twenty. He cannot touch a penny of it.”

  “What sort of man is he then?” Kit asked, although to be sure, her scar fairly well told the tale.

  She considered for a few moments. “A prodigiously foolish one, at bottom. When he took up residence at Willow Manor three months ago, it was primarily to escape his London creditors. I am guessing only, because he certainly does not confide in me, but it’s likely that he celebrated his inheritance rather lavishly, without understanding its limitations. Now he is deeply in debt, and he has already sold a number of paintings that rightly belong to me. He daren’t touch the valuable ones, of course, but he reckons that a mere female won’t notice a bit of pilfering.”

  “You should inform your trustees, Diana. Or the solicitor who managed your father’s affairs.”

  “Perhaps. I know little of such matters. My education was confined to the learning and accomplishments deemed suitable for a young lady who is expected only to marry well. Indeed, I have been pampered my entire life—until just recently—with no aspirations beyond a London Season and a bevy of handsome suitors from which to make my selection.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “The loss of a few trivial possessions means nothing to me, sir. I loved my parents and was plunged into grief when they died. My uncle could have sold everything with my blessings, so long as he left me in peace to mourn them. But he did not.”

  “Have you no other relations to stay with?”

  “None whatever, I’m afraid. Mama’s brother and his wife went out to India, where they died some years ago, and their only son was killed in the Peninsular War. Perhaps there are distant connections somewhere, but I know nothing of them.”

  “My own family is much the same,” he said by way of distraction when she wiped away a tear. “Nary an aunt or an uncle, no cousins, and my parents died in a snowstorm when I was a nipper. But I have two older brothers, and things are looking up because one has already produced a fine pair of sons.”

  She gave him a smile that caught at his heart. “I’m not altogether alone, you know. I have Lucy. But I must explain how that came about, for it is a great wonder to me. She was one of the teachers when I arrived at Miss Wetherwood’s academy, terrified and shy because I had never before been among strangers. Lucy took me under her wing the first two years, and then she left the school to accept another position. Something happened to drive her away, but she will not say what it was. A few of the teachers envied her because she was popular with the students, and I expect they created difficulties for her.

  “In any case, we set up a correspondence, although why she bothered with me is a mystery. I never had the slightest thing of interest to say in my letters, being totally absorbed with fashion and schoolgirl crushes on the dance master and the riding instructor. She always replied, though, even after I left school and wrote her infrequently. She had not heard of my parents’ death until two months ago, when I sent a letter begging for her help. There was no one else to ask, you see. And without any questions, she came immediately.”

  Kit nodded, unsurprised. Lucy would do no less for a friend. However little he knew of her, practically speaking, he had already seen evidence of her courage and her loyalty, two virtues he profoundly respected. But much as he longed
to hear more about the woman he intended to marry, Diana had not yet come to the heart of her own story. “What led you to call on her, my dear? The brutality of your uncle?”

  “He isn’t a brute, Kit. He is stupid and greedy, yes, and so excessively superstitious that he consults fortune-tellers and astrologers before making the slightest decision. I suspect that one of them advised him to marry me off to his own advantage, for nothing else could account for his insistence that I wed the man he has chosen. His name is Sir Basil Crawley, and where my uncle found him I know not, but apparently they have come to an agreement that includes a large settlement. Why Sir Basil is so determined to take me to wife is equally unclear. The arrangement was made before ever we were introduced.”

  “And when you were,” Kit said, “you took him in dislike.”

  “Loathing would be the better word. I cannot explain exactly why. He is not ill-looking, although he is at least twice my age, and he was polite enough in a distant way. But I had the distinct impression that he was wholly indifferent to me. Gentlemen, the few I have met, were always drawn to my—” She waved a hand. “This is difficult. Before the injury to my face, I’m afraid I was quite vain about my appearance. I was accustomed to being much admired and had come to expect it. But Sir Basil did not seem to see me, if that makes any sense.”

  “Perhaps he did not wish you to think he wanted to marry you only for your beauty, even if that were the truth of it. Have you considered that he might have observed you from a distance at an earlier time, been enchanted by you, and applied to your guardian for your hand?”

  “I’m not an idiot, sir!”

  Kit realized that he had offended her, although he was not certain why his innocuous observation made her so angry. He thought his suggestion quite reasonable, even if it proved to be inaccurate. But there was fire in her eyes when she stood to face him and fury in her voice.

  “I may have wished for flattery and admiring glances from a suitor, but Sir Basil’s failure to give them to me is nothing to the point. Had he composed sonnets to my beauty and gone on bended knee to profess his adoration, it would not have swayed me in the slightest. Under no circumstances would I agree to marry such a repellent man. He has eyes like a lizard’s, sir, and ice where his heart should be. Had I not good reason to escape him, would I be hiding in a cave, for pity’s sake?”