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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Will you enlist with us, moonbeam?” he asked softly. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t. I mean to bring Timmy into the plot, and Fidgets, too. Just imagine how it will feel to be left behind, wondering what we are up to and fretting because you aren’t there to see it.”

  It was plain as a pikestaff that she had no choice in the matter. Kit would proceed with or without her, and someone in possession of a full deck of wits had to go along to keep an eye on him. “Oh, very well,” she said, turning to face him. “What part will I be playing this time?”

  “Why, the witch, of course. And so will I. A copy of your wig is being made for me to wear, and I shall have a lovely new cloak, too. Fidgets will play the Demon Owl from Hades, and I’ll think up a ghoulish role for Timmy.” He grinned. “Wait until you see the creepy setting I’ve selected for our drama. I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” She shook her head in profound disgust. “I can hardly wait.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We’re almost there,” Kit said, reaching for the silver-knobbed walking stick he’d borrowed, along with the crested coach and liveried footmen, from his brother. “Chin up, moonbeam. It won’t be as bad as you are imagining. In fact, I expect we’ll have ourselves a fine time tonight.”

  Lucy ceased pleating her skirts between stiff fingers long enough to glare at him.

  “None of that when we are inside,” he warned. “Remember, you adore me.”

  “Yes, and I am a twittering imbecile to boot. Fear not, sir. I know my part. But keep to your promise that we won’t stay overlong.”

  “I have already done so, merely by arranging for our late arrival. Be glad of it. We’ll not have to walk the gauntlet of a receiving line.”

  The carriage turned onto a circular drive and drew up in front of the entrance porch. Kit had been a guest at the house on two or three occasions when it still belonged to the Witherspoon family, as it had done for several generations of Witherspoons. But a series of bad harvests quickly plunged them into debt. The mortgages were called, the house was sold at auction, and Sir Basil Crawley had snagged himself a bargain.

  A footman let down the steps and Kit jumped out, turning to assist Lucy to the ground. Music floated down from the ballroom, light poured from every window, and a regiment of servants waited in the entrance hall to accept their cloaks and Kit’s hat and cane.

  “Welcome to Crawley Hall,” the butler said archly, gesturing to the sweeping staircase. “Follow me, if you please. Whom shall I announce?”

  “Not a soul,” Kit responded blithely, taking Lucy’s arm. “We prefer to enter quietly, seeing as how we are so late. M’fiancée took a devilish time primping herself out, didn’t you, m’dear? But I must say it was worth it.”

  And so it was, a thousandfold. Her ball dress was not one he’d have chosen for this occasion and the role she was to play, but it suited her to perfection. She might have been clothed in pure moonlight, so pale was the gauzy silk that draped gracefully and unadorned over her slender figure. An invisible thread studded with pearls had been woven through her hair, and three strands of pearls formed a high collar around her long, graceful neck. She wore kidskin gloves that reached above her elbows, pearly satin slippers, and carried a delicate ivory fan.

  Were he not already in love with her, he’d have tumbled head over heels at first sight of the elegant beauty who’d descended the staircase at Candale only a few hours before. She had been more than a little impressed with him as well, although she took care to give no sign of it. But when she thought he wasn’t looking, she cast admiring glances at the fine figure he cut in formal evening wear. It was almost worth enduring the constriction of a high starched collar and elaborately crafted neckcloth to see her regard him with unprecedented approval.

  She clutched at his arm as they slipped into the ballroom and took shelter in a quiet corner behind a potted orange tree. The company was thin, Kit saw immediately, no more than sixty or seventy people in a room meant to hold twice that number. A lively country dance was under way.

  No expense had been spared in decorating the ballroom, which had been undeniably shabby when last he saw it. Crimson brocade wallpaper and large gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, flamboyant chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the new and intricate parquet floor was waxed to a high sheen. Beside a burbling indoor fountain, the orchestra was ensconced on a satin-draped stage. The overall effect was showy, lavish, and of decidedly inferior taste.

  He turned his attention to the others guests, recognizing several wealthy landowners and a few notable parvenus. Not one of Westmoreland’s aristocratic families was represented, although they must have received invitations. If Crawley was so bold as to send a card to the Earl of Kendal, he’d not have overlooked peers of lesser distinction.

  “I do believe,” Kit remarked to Lucy, “that I quite outrank everyone here. And considering how frightfully low on the order of precedence we younger sons of earls are to be found, that is something of an accomplishment.”

  “How pleased you must be. But is that of any significance?”

  Trust her to come directly to the point. “It is to our advantage, I believe. No one with a speck of good breeding will approach us, which I am sure you are delighted to hear. But more consequential is the pronounced smell of ambition in the air. I surmise that Sir Basil has a fancy to climb the social ladder, and a wife of impeccable birth and breeding would give him a great boost up.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Her brow furrowed. “That would explain a good deal, wouldn’t it? I wish we knew more about his origins. Diana said only that he used to live in Manchester and that he was granted a knighthood on recommendation of the Prince Regent.”

  “Then we may assume he purchased it, at least indirectly. Prinny is in debt up to his several chins. When my brother has sniffed out how Sir Basil came by his money, I’ll be very much surprised if he acquired it honestly.”

  “Where do you suppose he is? I see no one matching the description Diana provided me.”

  “Nor do I. Not precisely a cordial host, our dear Sir Basil. But perhaps he is disappointed at the turnout and considers the few guests that did show up to be unworthy of his attention.”

  “Which would make him nearly as toplofty as the highest ranking gentleman in the room,” she observed with a sly smile. “We came here only to meet him, Kit. There can be no reason to stay if he’s already toddled off to bed.”

  “Nice try, moonbeam, but we’ll keep our anchor in the water a bit longer. The cotillion is forming, I see. Would you care to dance?”

  Her cheeks drained of color. “No, please. I am quite sure I’ve already forgot the steps.”

  “Then we shall make a grand circuit, arm in arm. You will gaze insipidly at me while I look down my nose at everyone else.” He threaded her arm through his, feeling her tension, keenly attuned to her mood and to the warmth of her body and the faint fragrance of lavender that hovered about her. Ordering his unruly body to behave itself, he led her in procession along the edge of the dance floor, smiling coolly at the people he knew without approaching them and ostentatiously ignoring the others.

  Lucy despised the role she was playing this night, he knew, but he was even less at ease. In other circumstances, he’d have greeted old acquaintances instead of shunning them, danced with the prettiest girls and with the wallflowers, too, and flirted with all the dowagers. He was unused to walking high in the instep, as he was doing now, and found it devilish unpleasant.

  They were making the turn that would lead them in front of the orchestra’s stage when he glanced toward the ballroom door and saw five men enter. One, a large stocky man with spiky black hair, he recognized immediately. It was the man who had shot him.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucy asked softly, following the question with a fatuous giggle.

  Good girl! “Don’t be obvious about it, but steal a look at the men who just came into the room. Could any one of them be Crawley?”

  “Yes,�
� she whispered after a moment. “He’s the tall man with the beaked nose. But we must leave here immediately. Bartholomew Pugg is with him.”

  Kit seized a flute of champagne from a passing servant and turned to Lucy, shielding her with his body. “Who the devil is Bartholomew Pugg?”

  “The Bow Street Runner. The one who came to the cottage. The one who is coming this way right now.”

  “Damn.” Feigning a laugh, he held the glass to her lips. She sipped obediently, pretending to look into his eyes while she watched the Runner. A tiny shrug of her left shoulder told Kit when Pugg was close to them, and on which side. With a move designed to appear casual, he drifted a turn, keeping himself between Lucy and the spot where the Runner had halted. He felt the man’s sharp gaze pronging into his back.

  “What are we to do?” Lucy mouthed silently.

  “Nothing. Go on as you are. Touch my cheek and act besotted.”

  Her fingers lifted to his face and curled around his jaw. For a moment he nearly forgot the Runner, and why they were there, and everything else on the planet.

  She still had hold of her wits, it seemed. “He is bound to know me,” she murmured into his neckcloth. “I was Mrs. Preston then, but although he saw my face only in the dim light from the fireplace, he’s the sort who could pick me out in a crowd of thousands.”

  Kit, reckoning he could find her in a crowd of millions, took her certainty to heart. “We’ll do best to get it over with then. I am going to steer us in his direction. Take the glass, Lucy, and follow your instincts.”

  The orchestra’s music cooperated, by luck swinging into a bouncy rhythm that practically begged people to dance. Kit swept Lucy into his arms and improvised a jig, aiming himself at the Runner. Seconds later they collided. Lucy sloshed champagne over Pugg before dropping the glass, which shattered on the floor. He staggered backward, champagne streaming down his ill-fitted coat.

  Kit regarded what happened next with considerable awe. Lucy brushed at the Runner’s coat with both hands. “Oh my heavens!” she exclaimed in a tone nearly an octave higher than her usual husky alto. “How terribly clumsy of me. I have ruined your coat.”

  “’Tis nothing, ma’am.” Pugg held up a pair of gnarled hands. “I assure you.”

  “Kittikins says I’ve no head for champagne, but I do love it so. The bubbles go up through my nostrils and make me quite giddy. Do I know you, sir?”

  Her knees bent, and Pugg grabbed her elbow to hold her upright. For what seemed to Kit an infinite time, he studied her face. Then he turned his gaze to Kit for a long moment before looking back at Lucy.

  “If we had met, I would recall the time and place,” he said in a flat voice. “Perhaps I do. Too soon to tell.”

  As a servant arrived to sweep up the glass, Pugg released her and gave a short bow. “My apologies, madam, for stepping into your path.”

  “It was my fault entirely,” Kit said, taking Lucy’s arm. “Come, beloved. We are in the way of the dancers.”

  “How could you fling me at him in such a way?” she demanded when they had seated themselves on one of the padded benches that lined the wall.

  “It was effective, was it not? Now we are certain that he failed to recognize you. He has left the room without speaking to Crawley, which he would surely have done if his suspicions were aroused.”

  “But they are. He did recognize me. I saw it in his eyes. I cannot guess why he said it was too soon to tell when he already knew, unless he meant to throw us off our guard.”

  “Look happy as we converse,” Kit reminded her, relaxing his shoulders against the wall and stretching out his legs. “Perhaps he meant precisely what he said—too soon to tell. Pugg is a Runner, not one of Crawley’s minions, and he needn’t report everything he learns.”

  She smiled at him blissfully, but her voice could have scorched paint from a wall. “He will be snooping about Candale and watching our every move, you may be sure of it. There can be no more visits to Diana, Kit, and your unholy drama will have to be called off.”

  “We’ll see. Meantime, Crawley is looking in our direction.” He took her hand and began to play with her fingers. “I suspect he has no great regard for females, so when he comes over to greet us, confirm his opinion by being exceptionally goose-witted. I’m hoping to draw him into a private conversa—”

  “You’ll not leave me here alone, Kit. I won’t have it!”

  He looked up and saw fear trembling behind the fire in her eyes. Lucy had just faced down a Bow Street Runner, but the prospect of spending a few minutes among strangers in a ballroom was unbearable to her. Well, so be it. “We are inseparable, don’t you know? I’ll not abandon you, but in turn you must convince him that it is perfectly safe to speak freely in your company.”

  “Because I have the intelligence of a doorstop. Yes, I do understand.”

  “Take no insult, moonbeam. He will think much the same of me, if all goes well. Ah, here he comes. This would be a good time to fondle any part of me that takes your fancy.”

  She chose his knee. And she was making such good work of it when Crawley made his bow that Kit could only gaze blankly at the man he’d taken so much trouble to meet.

  “You are most welcome to my home,” Crawley intoned in a stiff voice. “I beg your pardon for failing to greet you when you arrived.”

  Kit detached Lucy’s hand from his knee and stood. “You would be Sir Basil then? Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Christopher Valliant, and the beauty is m’fiancée, Miss Lucinda Jennet. C’mon, puss, up you go! Make a proper curtsy to our host.”

  She rose, staggering a trifle, and managed a dip before grasping Kit’s arm to regain her balance. “I can’t think why I am so clumsy of a sudden, sir.” She fluttered her lashes. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Sir Basil Crawley,” he replied, looking pained. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jennet.”

  “She’s had a bit too much champagne,” Kit confided in a whisper. “Goes right to her head, it does, but she will keep tippling. Don’t much care for the stuff m’self.”

  “Might I offer you something more to your taste then? Although I have been in residence here for only a few weeks, I made it a point of urgency to establish a prime cellar, and there is quite a passable vintage decanted in my study. Will you join me, sir? My cousin, Mrs. Milque, will be pleased to introduce Miss Jennet to some of the other guests while we become better acquainted.”

  Lucy grasped Kit’s arm and clung like a limpet. “But I don’t want to meet these tiresome people,” she whined.

  Slicing Crawley a man-to-man look, Kit shrugged. “Another time, perhaps. She has already plowed into a gentleman and spilled her drink over him. No telling what she’ll get up to next, especially if she thinks I’ve deserted her. She don’t like letting me out of her sight. Isn’t that right, puss?”

  She hiccuped.

  “Bring her along then,” Crawley said in a resigned tone. “I quite understand her reluctance to mingle in this company. Take no insult, but Westmoreland society is not at all what I had hoped it to be.”

  With Lucy teetering alongside him, still clutching his arm, Kit followed Crawley from the ballroom into the passageway. He wondered what had become of the man who had put a bullet in his shoulder. With all that had happened since first he saw him, Kit had lost track of his location. Just as well. If they came face-to-face, he might have been tempted to do something rash. The confrontation with Pugg had been enough of a rumpus for one night, he supposed, and beating his onetime assailant to a pulp would attract far too much attention of the wrong kind.

  Reluctantly, Kit consigned his personal grievance to the distant future. At the very least, he had learned this night that Crawley was more than a persistent suitor for Diana’s hand. He was in league with the ruffians who had been terrorizing peaceful smugglers in order to stock his wine cellar, and at least one of those thugs had no scruples about killing.

  Crawley ushered his guests into a dim room overcrowded with fu
rniture. A large desk was covered with ledgers and stacks of paper, all neatly ordered, showing him to be a man of precise habits. After directing Lucy and Kit to a sofa near the fireplace, he went to an array of crystal decanters on the mahogany sideboard.

  “I regret that the earl was unable to join us this evening,” he said, filling two glasses with wine and reaching for a third.

  “None for my puss,” Kit advised him. Lucy had rested her head on his shoulder and turned a vacant gaze to the ceiling, her expression so stupefied that it was all he could do to keep from laughing. “As for Kendal, he can’t be pried from the house these days. Not since that squalling brat took up residence, although why he wanted another when he’s got an heir stashed away at Harrow escapes me. But there it is. He has become quite a bore.”

  “The countess is his second wife, I understand. No doubt she wanted children of her own.”

  “Most like. And he is well under her thumb already, I can tell you. It’s all very well to be in love with one’s wife, but quite another thing to hand over the reins. When Lucinda and I are leg-shackled, I mean to call the shots.” He wrapped an arm around her limp body. “There is much to be said for choosing a bride in possession of a large fortune and very few wits.”

  Crawley handed him a glass of wine. “Will you reside in Westmoreland after you are wed?”

  “It is undecided. She fancies a London town house, and for that matter, so do I. But her money will soon run out if I spend it as we both wish, and then where would we be? Her family wants us to settle in Devon, of course, so that they can keep an eye on me.” He forced an aggrieved look to his face. “They’re in trade, you know. Don’t pass that around. M’brother is none too happy about it, but without sixpence to scratch with, it’s not as if I could marry within my own class.”