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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “I brought help, Nana,” the girl announced, kneeling solicitously beside the old lady and laying a trembling hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right now. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you, dear Helen,” the nurse managed in reply. “Who is he?”

  “Oh, dear. I don’t know.” She stood and turned to Mark. “I am Lady Helen Parrish and this is my nurse, Miss Beddoes.” She managed a creditable curtsy.

  “And I am your father, the Earl of Bridgeport,” he replied gravely. “Who is the housekeeper?”

  “Mrs. Burgess.” Wariness crept into Helen’s eyes, causing a strange tightness in Mark’s chest.

  “Good. Tell Burgess to summon a doctor. Then find Mrs. Burgess and ask her to come here. Nana needs more help than I can give her.” As Helen scampered out of the room, he carefully lifted the nurse and carried her into the adjacent room. She was unconscious from the pain by the time he laid her gently on the bed.

  Mark’s head swirled dizzily as he pulled up a chair and sat down. He had not even known his daughter’s name. Shame washed over him. How could he have treated her so shabbily? It was true that he had no particular use for children and that he’d been furious that she was a girl, but that was a selfish reaction to the prospect of doing it all again. It certainly wasn’t the child’s fault.

  Yet in six years he had not even bothered to inquire as to her name.

  His wife had written a month before the birth to say that her own nurse would care for the babe. That was the last time he had even considered arrangements, leaving details of her upbringing to the estate steward. He had known nothing of the nurse’s character or age. She must be nearly eighty and should have been pensioned off years ago. No matter how well behaved Helen might be, it was impossible for this woman to properly care for her. Burgess had hinted that escaping her nurse was a regular occurrence. A maid must immediately be found who could care for the child.

  Nana stirred, opening her eyes. Pain still twisted her face, but she seemed lucid.

  “Lord Bridgeport?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Yes. Have you no one to help care for Helen?”

  “There was adequate staff in Yorkshire, my lord,” she murmured. “Mrs. Burgess promised that Rose would help us as soon as she returns from her mother’s sickbed. There are no others available in so tiny a place as Treselyan.”

  Helen’s return prevented a response. She was accompanied by a bustling woman dressed in black.

  “I fear she has broken a hip,” Mark murmured to the housekeeper.

  “I pray not, for she will never again rise from her bed.”

  He nodded.

  Mrs. Burgess turned to Helen. “You must find Ro— Oh, dear, the lass is still at home with her ailing mother. Perhaps— But no, Cook went into the village to find a better joint for dinner. And Willy is fetching the doctor from Bodmin—but that could easily take three or four hours.”

  “Helen can give me a tour of the house and grounds,” offered Mark with a sigh. “Once the doctor arrives, perhaps you can arrange for the footman to look after her.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She turned to the nurse, who seemed to be drifting somewhere just short of unconsciousness. “Take some of this laudanum, Miss Beddoes. It will be a long wait until the doctor can see you.”

  Mark shook his head and headed for the door.

  “Are you really my papa?” asked Helen when they had left the nursery behind.

  “Yes.”

  “I have always wanted to meet you,” she continued in a rush. “But Nana says you are too busy to travel so far. Are we closer now?”

  “No. This is just as far as Westron, but I have business here.” What was he supposed to say to a child? Guilt was already gnawing at his conscience. How could he explain that he had given her not a single thought in six years? He glanced again at that face so like his own and shivered. “Have you been here long?”

  She glared as if it was a foolish question—which it was, of course. “About a month, I think. At least, that was what Miss Elaine said yesterday.”

  “Who is Miss Elaine?”

  Her face lit up. “My bestest friend. She tells me all about the world and birds and animals. And she taught me how to read books for myself so I do not need to wait for someone to tell me the stories. And she is showing me how to make pictures so they look pretty. She does the most fantastic drawings, often out of her head, for she does not need to see a real thing to paint it.”

  “Does she live here?” he asked in surprise, though if she did, surely Mrs. Burgess would have consigned Helen to the woman.

  “Of course not. She lives in the village with her friend, Miss Anne. But she likes to walk out on the moor and draw. I often see her there. And sometimes I go into the village to have tea with them. We all went to the vicarage one day. There was a fat old cat with a secret smile. I think he had just caught a mouse.” She jumped off the last step and laughed.

  Mark was becoming more horrified by the minute at this artless recital. “Do you go out alone?”

  She nodded. “Nana cannot walk more than a few steps anymore, but I am always very careful. Miss Elaine showed me places that are too dangerous to go and taught me how to read the clouds. I never leave the grounds when a storm is coming. She says the paths are dangerous with wind and wet. She thinks I should stay closer to the house, but that is boring, and she does not mind me visiting.”

  Mark’s head was swirling. Clearly she was not being properly cared for. Deciding that he must investigate the local spinsters that his daughter claimed as friends, he thrust aside annoyance and allowed Helen to introduce him to the house.

  It had not been used as a residence for a long time, though he believed that an uncle or cousin had lived there in his father’s youth. The furniture was heavy and dark, dating back at least a hundred years. The library was hardly worth the name, containing fewer than fifty volumes, most of them sermons. It was good to get outside.

  “Today is pretty,” observed Helen, holding her face up to the sun. “It is often foggy or rainy here. Nana complained about the damp when we first arrived. She suffers dreadfully from rheumatism. Jenny often has a hard time making her comfortable.”

  “Who is Jenny?”

  “One of the nursery maids at home. She looks after Nana and Lily looks after me.”

  “Why did they not come with you?” he questioned idly.

  “Nana wondered that too, but the orders were to send only the two of us, so she assumed there were other maids here. Lily and Jenny were happy enough to get a holiday.”

  “Let us look at the stables,” suggested Mark as his guilt increased. It was his own unthinking words that had led to that order.

  “There is not much to see,” said Helen with a shrug. “Mr. Bowles keeps his horse here because his cottage has no stable, and there is another that Mrs. Burgess uses with the gig, but that is all. Toby wanted to keep a pair to use with our coach, but Mr. Bowles said it was a waste of money for nought but an old lady and a brat. I heard them arguing about it just after we arrived.”

  “Toby is the groom?”

  “No, that is Freddie. Toby is our coachman from Westron. He wanted to teach me to ride, but Mr. Bowles refused to let us use his horse, and the other is unaccustomed to a saddle.”

  “Mr. Bowles is the steward, I believe.”

  She nodded. “I don’t like him. He has an angry face.”

  “Most people do during an argument. Or did you say something to upset him?”

  She giggled. “No, he never talks to me, though he is annoyed that we came. He will be even more annoyed to see you. I don’t think he likes people much. Or maybe he doesn’t like to answer questions. Anyway, Miss Elaine showed me how to draw eyes and mouths so that the face can be happy or sad or angry. Mr. Bowles always has an angry face. Mrs. Burgess usually has a happy face. Jenny had a sad face when we left, though she is usually happy. Burgess has what Miss Elaine calls a butler’s face. It shows nothing. She also says that
many people use a false face so that no one can tell what they are really thinking. Mrs. Hedges in the village is like that. She wants to know everyone’s secrets, so she pretends to be friendly. But I saw her hit a little boy when she thought no one was looking. And yesterday she kicked the vicar’s cat.”

  And what could he say to that? For a child of barely six years, Helen was a very astute observer. He frowned as they entered the stable. Though in reasonable condition, he could see deficiencies. As with the grounds, there was neglect. It was long past time that he visited here.

  “I wish I could ride,” continued a wistful Helen, interrupting his thoughts. “It would be ever so much more fun than walking. But Nana said I must wait until I am older and we return to Westron.”

  Mark remained silent, but inwardly he seethed. He must find her a governess. And he must revisit Yorkshire. The steward could not have been properly supervising her upbringing. Was he also neglecting his estate duties? Nelson was right, devil take him. Even the best employees turned lazy if they were not adequately managed.

  Chapter Five

  Elaine frowned at the parchment pinned to the drawing board on her easel. Her hand hesitated a moment before adding two lines and broadening a third. Finally, she smiled and laid down her pen. Only then did she realize that Anne was standing in the doorway.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Exquisite. Your skill improves every day.”

  Slipping the drawing into a folio with a dozen others, Elaine stretched. “Have you been back long? I did not hear you come in.”

  “No more than five minutes, but it is nearly time for dinner.” She hesitated, but there was no point in putting off the news. “Lord Bridgeport arrived at the Manor this afternoon.”

  Elaine paled. “I have feared a visit ever since I learned that he owned it. It would seem that my luck is on the turn again.” She paused to frown. “Or perhaps not. What would he gain from pestering me?”

  “It must at least be embarrassing to meet him again.”

  “For whom?” she exclaimed. “Certainly not for me. I only met the man six times in my life.”

  “What?” Anne countered in amazement. “But you were betrothed to him!”

  “You know it was an arranged match. I did not even learn of it until after everything was settled. He was cold, arrogant, and contemptuous, interested only in getting an heir, and he thought me a boring child unworthy of his notice. He only accompanied me to my first ball out of duty. After that he stood up with me if we happened to be at the same function—which rarely occurred, for even then he eschewed the marriage mart rounds. That certainly hasn’t changed if one can believe the gossip columns.”

  “You shock me!” replied Anne. “He offered for you yet paid you not the least attention?”

  “Why did you think I cried off? Not because I deplore society—though I will never fit in, so that played a role. It was because he would never have lifted a finger to support me against his mother’s tyranny. With my aunt so infirm, I was spending much of my time with Lady Bridgeport, and it was obvious that we would never agree on anything, yet he would have left me in her keeping.” She shrugged.

  “Why have you said nothing of this before?”

  “Why should I? It was over.”

  “The tale is bound to come out,” insisted Anne.

  “Fustian! No one has connected me with him before, and he can hardly wish to publicize my identity. What man would remind the world that he has been jilted? Such a disclosure would be ungentlemanly. Despite everything, he has never been less than honorable.”

  “I cannot believe that he is honorable,” protested Anne. “By your own words, I know him to be a rake, a gamester, and a man who scorns to even go through the motions of respecting his betrothed. I heard more than the fact of his arrival. Mrs. Hedges claims that he is rusticating because he killed a man.”

  “Absurd!” scoffed Elaine. “Where would even a Nosy Parker like Mrs. Hedges hear such a thing? I can just see it. An earl kills a man, escapes to rusticate in the country, then announces his dilemma to all and sundry, so they will know to turn the runners away.”

  Anne laughed. “It might have been servants, of course. But you must recall that Mrs. Hedges corresponds regularly with a cousin who lives in London. The woman writes every bit of scandal she hears. And Mrs. Hedges claims that the tale was all over Bodmin yesterday—including the detail that the earl was on his way to Cornwall.”

  “Who is he supposed to have killed?”

  “It seems his lordship was conducting an affair with the newly married Lady Wainright. Her husband discovered the arrangement and challenged Bridgeport to a duel. Desirous of winning the fair beauty and her substantial fortune for himself, he cunningly tipped his sword in a slow poison acquired from a friend who recently returned from South America. When he pinked Wainright in the arm, the poison entered his body, killing him in less than a week.”

  Elaine doubled over with laughter. It took some time to regain her breath. “I will credit the liaison, for he has never hidden the fact that he is a rake. I might even credit the duel. But a South American poison? How can people be so credulous?”

  “There is more,” said Anne grimly. “His parents died three years ago in a carriage accident. But the circumstances were so odd that many suspect that it was not accidental. He had always been at odds with them and came into a considerable fortune on their deaths.”

  “I know that he was flirting with poverty when I knew him, for his allowance was not large, and his gaming was legendary. But this is the first I have heard that their deaths might not be natural. And you know I always read the London papers. What happened?”

  “Again, I know only what Mrs. Hedges claims. They were returning home from a dinner party when an oak tree fell, crushing the coach. It happened on the estate grounds, just inside the gates. All were killed, including two of the horses.”

  “Trees do occasionally come down,” pointed out Elaine.

  “True, but this was a clear night with no wind. There had been no rain for some time, and the groundskeeper was amazed that the tree would fall for there was no evidence of rot.”

  “I suppose people believe that it was deliberately tampered with.”

  “That is the story currently making the rounds.”

  “But why was it not rumored earlier? Such a delicious tale would certainly have made the gossip columns, especially considering the new Bridgeport’s notoriety.”

  “Without evidence, who would dare hint at so dastardly a deed?” asked Anne. “But with this latest death, many lips appear to have become unsealed.”

  “Lack of evidence has never killed any rumor, which leaves me curious about why it should surface now—and in Cornwall, of all places. But whatever the truth, it cannot touch us.”

  “I suppose you are right,” conceded Anne. “But I cannot forget your arrival, my dear—so frightened and forlorn. Your peace is too hard-won to give it up without a fight.”

  “What fustian! I was exhausted from a four-day journey on the common stage and terrified that my father would pursue me. Bridgeport—or Staynes as he was styled then—had nothing to do with it.”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood. After all, I do not really know what happened. I was so down-pin at the time that I could rouse little curiosity, and I never asked afterward, fearing a discussion would distress you.”

  “Not at all. I already told you I barely knew the man. The real problem was my father. You well know how he is.”

  Anne shuddered. “Had he not mellowed at all then?”

  “Quite the reverse. Each year his beliefs grew more rigid, and he became more judgmental. I rarely saw him after you left, for he sent me to live with his sister, but his demeanor upon my return told me that nothing had changed. Aunt Fanny accompanied me home, of course. We were not even into the house before he berated her for allowing me to expose myself like a Paphian—my traveling gown came to my neck but did not cover it. When I objected, he d
emanded that I spend two hours on my knees in prayer, asking forgiveness for immodesty, disobedience, and speaking out of turn. Following a supper of bread and water, he informed me that I would be married in one month and would spend the interim in London with my great-aunt.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “Exactly. He made it clear what the penalty would be if I objected. Not that I would have, for I was thrilled at the idea of marriage, believing nothing could be worse than staying at home. And that was true, though barely. Lord Staynes turned out to be a notorious rake with no intention of abandoning his pleasures. His mother was just like Father—dictatorial and delighted to administer punishment. The only difference was that Lady Bridgeport made her own rules instead of enforcing strict adherence to Biblical injunctions.”

  “I am certainly glad you came to me then.”

  “As am I. You have opened my mind to wondrous ideas. Much of what I know and most of what I believe, I learned from you, Anne. And if you had not championed my talent to Mr. Beringer, I would never have had the opportunity to make a career of my art. But what I am today began even before I arrived. I never really considered it before, but jilting Lord Staynes was the best thing I ever did. It freed me of much more than an unwanted betrothal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Elaine frowned, trying to express concepts that she barely understood. “That was the first decision I had ever made for myself. It was terrifying, but at the same time, it was empowering. I cannot really describe the feeling. After seventeen years of doing exactly as I was told, thinking and acting on my own was a remarkable experience.”

  “Empowering,” repeated Anne. “Yes, it would be.”

  “But freedom without knowledge is worthless,” declared Elaine, embarrassed to have talked so much. “And you are entirely responsible for that. Even if many of your ideas originated with Mary Wollstonecraft, it was your teaching that brought them to life.”