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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “There ought to be a way to divert her interest to some topic other than spiteful gossip,” grumbled Elaine.

  “Air-dreams, my dear,” said Anne with a chuckle and a shake of her ebony head.

  “At least spare me her company. I am out.” She headed upstairs to her studio.

  Two weeks later, Elaine was perched on a rock with a sketchbook balanced on her lap. The site was her favorite place to idle away an hour or two in dreaming. Thus it seemed the ideal setting for Thornton’s poem, ‘The Secret Place,’ where one could come alone to contemplate the wonders of the world. Behind her was a shallow cave positioned halfway up a steep hill. The tiny lawn offered exquisite views of Bodmin Moor and the rugged Cornish coast with its ever-changing patterns of sunlight on water.

  She had pondered long over this verse, trying to decide if his words referred to the quiet beauty of a wind-ruffled pool hidden deep in a dark forest or to the wilder grandeur of the sparkling sea as viewed from the depths of the earth. In her own mind, nothing could equal the sea. There was another poem that she would interpret as the passionate fury of storm-tossed waves trying to overwhelm an ancient oak that stood on the edge of their domain, though perhaps she would not include that among the finished illustrations.

  Thornton’s verse always extolled the natural world—which had sometimes made her wonder if the man avoided human relationships—but she suspected that ‘The Siege’ was an allegory for a determined libertine’s campaign against a stubborn lady, though how that picture would arise in her five-and-twenty-year-old spinster’s mind she could not explain. But she was masquerading as a male in the publishing world. Perhaps she should illustrate it that way.

  She giggled. While she had never been the recipient of seductive looks, she had seen them bestowed on others during the month she had spent in London. Particularly by Devereaux and Staynes. But for now she would work on the ‘The Secret Place.’

  A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks as she picked up a pencil to block out her design. All else receded from awareness. Half an hour passed in oblivious concentration. Birds soared unnoticed overhead. An inquisitive squirrel paused to stare before returning to its own affairs. Shadows lengthened, reaching greedy fingers toward the rock on which she sat.

  “Who are you?” asked a voice, startling Elaine into leaving a jagged line on her sketch. She raised her head to see a young lady—a very young lady—with rich auburn curls and startling green eyes. The girl had obviously slipped a governess, for both her voice and her clothes were genteel, but she was a stranger.

  “I am Miss Elaine Thompson. Are you newly arrived? I don’t believe we have met before.” She shivered in sudden apprehension. No one had visited Treselyan Manor since her arrival—or for twenty years before that, if gossip could be trusted—and she had ceased to feel guilty over haunting a spot that lay on private property. Even worse, she could not recall who owned the estate. The last Treselyan interred in the churchyard had died more than a century earlier. What if the owner was someone she had met in town?

  “We finally got here late last night. I am Lady Helen Parrish. Do you live here, too?”

  “No. I live in the village, which means I am trespassing. Was this a planned visit? We had heard nothing of the family’s arrival.”

  “Actually, it is only me and Nana. And Toby, of course. He drove our carriage. They had to put a new roof on Westron Manor, so Nana brought me here for a few months.”

  “Will your parents be joining you?” asked Elaine. The child was amazing. She could not possibly be more than eight, yet she spoke and acted like an adult.

  Helen moved closer, her eyes taking in Elaine’s old blue gown and dark brown hair as if evaluating her exact place in society. Elaine had not encountered such calculating scrutiny since leaving London. “My mother died when I was born. Papa stays in town. I never see him.”

  “And who is your papa?”

  “The Earl of Bridgeport.”

  Elaine swayed, all the blood draining instantly from her head. Dear God! Had she really escaped him only to turn up on one of his doorsteps? But she fought down the panic. He had never visited Cornwall. Nor would he be likely to do so now that his daughter was in residence. She knew the man well enough to understand Lady Helen’s remark. The girl had never laid eyes on her father. Nor could Elaine blame her own ignorance on Anne. Her friend had only moved to Treselyan a few months before Elaine arrived. Keeping her smile firmly in place, she turned the discussion to impersonal topics. What was a child doing halfway up a dangerous hill… alone?

  “Who is Nana?” she asked ten minutes later when they had achieved an easy camaraderie.

  “My nurse. She does not travel well, so she is resting today,” stated Helen as though that was the most natural thing in the world.

  “But is not someone else looking after you?”

  “I wanted to explore. I’ve never been anywhere new before. This is very exciting, and the sea is even more fascinating than I expected.”

  “But dangerous to the unwary,” warned Elaine. There was much of Bridgeport in the girl, especially this determination to do as she pleased. It was a trait that could lead to odious self-indulgence—witness the girl’s father.

  Lady Helen turned wide eyes to the cave. “Are lions or bears hiding in there?”

  “Why don’t you go see?” suggested Elaine. “I didn’t take the time to check today.”

  The child’s eyes grew rounder, but she straightened her shoulders and marched toward the cave. Elaine turned back to her sketchbook, rapidly penciling in the rest of the scene. Since the cave was a barren pocket barely ten feet in diameter, Helen must return very soon.

  “It is empty,” announced the girl, sounding disappointed. “And I cannot see the sea from inside.”

  “That is true,” agreed Elaine. “The cave faces the moor, unlike this lawn, which also overlooks the Bristol Channel.”

  “I shall ask Toby to set up a playroom inside.”

  “It is fairly protected from the weather since it faces east. And it offers a lovely view,” agreed Elaine. “But it would be a good idea to wait until the next storm before deciding. The path can be treacherous, especially in wind and wet. You would not wish to injure yourself.”

  Helen thoughtfully looked around before nodding.

  “May I escort you back to the house?” asked Elaine lightly. “I have never seen it up close. No one has been inside for years except a few servants.”

  “All right. What were you doing up here?”

  “Drawing.”

  Helen stepped closer and looked at the page. “Why do you draw the sea as if looking out of the cave? That is not right.”

  “But I am not really drawing this scene,” explained Elaine. “I am drawing an idea that exists in my head and am only using this view as a guide.” She pointed to her sketch. “These rocks are a little like that point over there, but you can see that I’ve made them rougher and larger. Then there are the plants. This flowering shrub near the cave mouth is more typical of Kent than of Cornwall.”

  “I see!” exclaimed Helen. “It is a fantasy picture just like my storybooks.” She frowned. “This reminds me of one of my books.”

  “Which one?” asked Elaine idly.

  “Beauty and the Beast,” she replied instantly, and Elaine hid a smile. The content of the sketch was nothing like her illustrations for that work. Helen obviously had a sharp eye for style.

  The girl continued brightly. “That is my favorite story. Nana prefers others, but I make her read that one.”

  “Can you not read it for yourself?”

  “No. Nana says I ought to have a governess, but Papa has not yet sent one, and she is too afraid of his temper to ask.”

  “Has he a temper?” She had often suspected so, though she had never encountered it herself.

  “So Lily claims. She knew him when he lived at Westron with Mama. I heard her tell Jenny that he was right put out most of the time, snapping the heads off all and sundry. He
finally stormed off to London and hasn’t been back since.”

  “You should not repeat servants’ gossip, Lady Helen,” admonished Elaine. “They often misunderstand their betters. But surely Nana has taught you your letters, even without a proper governess.”

  “It is not part of her duties,” said Helen sadly. “She is getting on in years, you know, and cannot do as much as she would like.”

  “How old are you?” asked Elaine, appalled at the words.

  “Six.”

  Odious man, fumed Elaine. The girl should have long since acquired a governess. It was unconscionable that so bright a lass could not yet read. “Perhaps if Nana cannot write him, she could ask the steward to do so,” she suggested. “Your father must have forgotten how old you are getting.” More likely, he had forgotten her very existence.

  “Oh, good. I must find him when we return. It is no use talking to Nana. She will simply dither forever, or else do something silly like leave Lily and Jenny at Westron. Mrs. Burgess was horrified to find we had brought no maids.”

  “Do you make so much work then?” asked Elaine in surprise.

  “Nana needs a lot of help,” explained Helen. “We let her think she is in charge, but usually Lily looks after me and Jenny looks after Nana. Old age is getting her down. She was my mother’s nurse, and my grandmother’s as well.”

  Helen continued to chatter about her life as they returned to the house. The girl alternated between childish silliness and a startling maturity, undoubtedly arising from her upbringing. It was obvious that she had taken on the role of protector, looking after her elderly nurse and seeing to many of her own needs.

  From Helen’s description, the nurse sounded a loving incompetent at best and a senile invalid at worst. Allowing the woman to leave the nursery maids behind also cast doubt on the competence of the Westron housekeeper and steward. At the very least, they would have needed the servants during the grueling week of travel that brought them to Cornwall.

  “Where did you find her, Miss Thompson?” asked Burgess when they at last presented themselves at the door. Anxiety troubled his eyes despite his wooden countenance.

  “On Lookout Peak.” Burgess’s expression changed to horror.

  “I want to show Miss Elaine around the house,” announced Helen. “She has never been here before.”

  “Of course, my lady,” answered Burgess smoothly. “But perhaps you could first find Mrs. Burgess and ask that a tea tray be readied.”

  Elaine started to protest the need but was stopped by the command in Burgess’s eyes. As soon as Helen left, he relaxed. “Pardon me, Miss Thompson, but this was a complete surprise. The message announcing their arrival must have gone astray.”

  “Is Rose not yet returned from her mother’s sickbed?” Rose was the only housemaid at Treselyan.

  He shook his head.

  “You have a problem, then. From Lady Helen’s comments, I deduce that her nurse needs at least as much care as the child and that both nursery maids were left behind.”

  “Exactly. Is there anyone in the village who would be willing to work here during their stay?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Betsy Higgins just accepted a post near Wadebridge and Lisa Smith is still abed with an inflammation of the lungs. You will have to send to Bodmin. And someone must instill a little caution in that girl. I was near the cave when she came upon me. She seemed fascinated by the place.”

  Burgess paled.

  Elaine shook her head. “We both know how impassable that path is after a storm. One slip and she would be over the side.”

  “We must forbid her to leave the grounds.”

  “Miss Becklin has more experience with children than I, but I suspect Lady Helen is the sort to balk at obedience. On the other hand, she seems very intelligent. Perhaps explaining the dangers would have more effect.”

  Helen returned and guided Elaine through the house. It was old-fashioned, worn, and neglected—hardly surprising given the estate’s history. But Elaine was able to make enthusiastic remarks about the well-proportioned rooms and the beautifully textured paneling in the hall and the library. Helen finally returned to the drawing room where Burgess produced a tea tray. Though her hands shook, Helen managed the teapot and passed a plate of cakes and scones, successfully carrying off the role of lady of the manor while she chattered about her recent journey. Only then did Elaine excuse herself.

  But once she was alone, her footsteps lagged. The afternoon’s confrontation had triggered too many memories and had opened a Pandora’s box of emotions. Uppermost was an unexpected wave of sorrow that she would never have a child of her own. She had vowed eight years earlier never to marry, and her determination had not wavered. But she had not considered the ramifications of that decision. Not having been around children, she had given them no thought—until today.

  She blinked back a tear and deliberately turned her mind to poetry and the progress of her sketches. One afternoon with a precocious child could neither destroy her contentment nor change her plans for the future. This was merely shock. It would soon recede, and in the meantime she would concentrate on the present.

  But Anne was too perceptive. “What happened?” she demanded as soon as her friend appeared in the parlor.

  Nothing,” denied Elaine. “I spent a most enjoyable afternoon sketching on the cliffs. I believe this may be my best illustration yet.” Her tone was perfect, but she had never mastered the art of controlling her face—at least not around Anne.

  “You met someone.”

  “A young girl only.” She could already see the next question forming. “Lady Helen is a delightful child who just arrived at Treselyan Manor, being the owner’s only daughter. She and her nurse will be staying here for some months.”

  Anne looked interested. She had thrown herself into the life of the community from the moment of moving to Cornwall. “I had not heard of her arrival. I suppose her parents are in London for the Season.”

  “Her father lives there year around. Her mother died in childbirth. Has Lucy started dinner yet?”

  But her attempt to turn the subject failed. If anything, it piqued Anne’s curiosity. “Who is Lady Helen’s father?” she asked quietly.

  “The Earl of Bridgeport,” said Elaine with a sigh.

  “Oh, dear Lord! I had no idea he owned Treselyan!” gasped Anne.

  “Nor did I, but it is unlikely he will appear. You know as well as I that he is firmly fixed in London. If anything, Lady Helen’s presence will make a visit even less likely.”

  “True.”

  But Elaine could not shake the trepidation that had filled her from the moment Helen revealed her parentage. Or the curiosity.

  Chapter Three

  The knob turned and a furious thrust slammed the bedroom door into the wall.

  “I knew it!” shouted Lord Wainright. “Strumpet! You will leave immediately for the Grange. As for you, sir, name your seconds!”

  Bridgeport, in the final stages of the night’s exertions, was a little slow taking in what was happening. He had never pegged Wainright as the jealous sort. After all, Lady Wainright was well-known for her dalliances. He pulled the coverlet over his back as two footmen appeared in the doorway, poor Hawkins imprisoned between them. Bridgeport abhorred messy scenes, and this was the messiest he had ever seen.

  Well, it was too late for circumspection now. And he could hardly deny culpability considering his present position. With unabashed sangfroid, he finished what he had started, rolled off Lady Wainright—who was on the verge of either swooning or hysterics—and sat up.

  “Let Hawkins go. He can hardly spoil your surprise by warning me at this point,” he ordered calmly, his low voice carrying enough menace that the footmen complied without a single glance at their master.

  Wainright frowned at his minions. “Leave us.” It was a measure of Bridgeport’s powerful presence that all three servants glanced at him for permission before turning toward the stairs.

  “Get dress
ed,” the baron ordered his wife.

  Bridgeport said nothing. Despite his appearance of calm disdain, his mind was racing in useless circles. In fifteen years of enjoying life, he had never faced so embarrassing or potentially explosive a situation. Normally he stayed away from recent brides, but Wainright already had an heir, and Lady Wainright had caught his attention at a moment when pressing need overwhelmed caution.

  “Name your seconds, sirrah,” repeated Wainright.

  The earl complied. Dueling was illegal, but refusing a challenge would make him a laughingstock. Yet it was a nasty business. Why had the fellow suddenly decided to cut up stiff? It was common knowledge that the lady had been generous with her favors even before embarking on a second marriage, and Bridgeport knew of at least three others who had enjoyed her in the months since, one as recently as last night. Wainright was no paragon himself.

  Questions continued to bedevil his mind long after the baron dragged his wife away. Nothing made sense.

  “What on earth made you choose swords rather than pistols?” demanded Carrington as they waited in a foggy dawn at Chalk Farm for Wainright and Albright to appear. “The man is an execrable marksman.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Bridgeport. “But his skills at fencing are roughly equal to my own. I have no desire to kill him, nor do I wish to be killed. With pistols, I would feel compelled to delope since I was clearly in the wrong. He might get lucky and hit me. But as we agreed that first blood will determine the winner, neither of us is likely to seriously damage the other.”

  “You are a strange man, Mark.”

  “Not at all. I feel blessed that he only challenged me. He might have chosen to shoot me where I lay. If I had had any inkling that he cared, I never would have touched his wife. And this may not be the end of it. She clearly craves variety. Both Devereaux and Millhouse have had her recently. Wroxleigh is still involved with her, and there may be others.”