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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “You are putting me to the blush,” Anne protested. “Shall we eat?”

  Elaine nodded.

  She was not quite as complacent about the arrival of Bridgeport as she had claimed. Not that he had entertained the slightest affection for her. But there was one aspect of his character that she had not mentioned. He had a quick temper, especially when his consequence was threatened.

  There had been no way she could both formally break off the betrothal and escape unnoticed. She had considered sending him a note, but had not been able to do so without betraying either her plans or her direction. As a result, he would have learned of her flight from her father, an insult he would not soon forget—not that she had worried about his reaction at the time.

  She remained quiet throughout their light meal, her mind mired in the events of eight years earlier. Staynes had been such a stranger that she had felt nothing for him, good or bad. Her fears had all centered on her father. Refusing the match he had ordained was blatantly unfilial. And once she did, no one would offer for her in the future. Fury at having a despised daughter permanently on his hands would have prompted Grimfield’s harshest restrictions. And so she had fled him.

  Escape had not been as hard as she had anticipated. The other aspect of her father’s rigidity was that he would never waste time or money chasing after a sinner. All she had needed to do was escape unnoticed and leave no obvious trail for him to follow.

  Mindful of the proprieties, she’d taken her maid along. They had slipped out of the house as soon as the butler finished closing up for the night. Her aunt was not social, keeping early hours even though she lived in London. With a wedding scheduled for the next day, the household was asleep by ten.

  Elaine had been able to hire a hackney on the corner that took them to the Swan with Two Necks where, using assumed names, they bought seats on the stage. With her unprepossessing wardrobe, no one suspected that she might be quality. Her only other evasion was to call herself Elaine when they arrived at Anne’s. If word of a Miss Thompson in the wilds of Cornwall reached Lord Grimfield, the difference in given name would discourage him from investigating. Thompson was common enough.

  Mark seethed. Miss Beddoes had indeed broken a hip—shattered it, in fact—and would be permanently confined to bed. Whatever remained of her life would be spent at Treselyan. He hoped for her sake—and, to some extent, for his own—that it would be short. This was a deuced inconvenient spot to find servants.

  The household was grossly understaffed, the demands caused by Helen, himself, and their small entourages taxing it to the limits. The accident simply made matters worse. Mrs. Burgess had found only two girls and one lad who wished to go into service. None were trained. The girls were fifteen and could do little more than care for Miss Beddoes, who needed round-the-clock nursing. Ted was officially a footman, but of necessity his duties included cleaning.

  Federsham’s nose was thoroughly out of joint from being ordered to clean his master’s room. He had finally condescended, making clear that unless it was a very temporary condition, he would find other employment.

  Rose’s mother had been suffering from influenza, which the girl had now caught. That left the Burgesses, Cook, and himself to look after Helen.

  Mark might have included Mr. Bowles in that group, but his meeting with the man had already convinced him that the steward was ineffectual and stupid. Replacing the man was an urgent need. And Helen was right. Mr. Bowles did indeed sport an angry face that remained so even through ingratiating fawning.

  “How delightful that you could find time in your busy schedule to visit so insignificant an estate, my lord,” Bowles gushed when Bridgeport called him into the library. “It is an honor to serve you, my lord, and a rare pleasure to make your acquaintance—”

  “Just so.” Mark interrupted what had promised to be a lengthy accolade. Bowles’s eyes blazed in fury, belying the smile that stretched his lipless mouth. “There are a number of changes I wish to make which we will discuss later. For now, I want you to augment the staff so that we have reasonable service.”

  “Of course, my lord. At once, though you must understand that it will take time. There is no one in the village we can call on, though surely we can find willing workers in Bodmin or possibly Plymouth. Or in Exeter, though that would take much longer, of course, it being on the other side of the next county; and not too many girls are happy to serve in so isolated a house these days, despite the owner being an earl. Then, of course, there are those pesky rumors about your lordship, not that I believe for one minute that such shocking tales are true, but one must contend with the credulous nature of the servant cla—”

  “Just do it!” snapped Bridgeport, cutting off the dithering voice and motioning him out of the library. Mark stormed off in another direction. He knew what the immediate future held all too well. The only person at Treselyan who was not already overburdened with work was himself. Thus the logical person to look after Helen was the girl’s father, the seventh Earl of Bridgeport. He had never had the slightest use for infants. But he swallowed both pride and trepidation, and agreed to accompany her on a walk he prayed would wear her out.

  What a naïve fool! The minx was in fine fettle. She dragged him hither and yon for two hours, showing him dozens of treasures, most of them dubious, and increasing his desire to join Federsham in quitting the premises.

  “Look, Papa!” she exclaimed again, pulling her hand out of his and running away from the cliff path.

  “What?” He tried to keep the surliness out of his voice. It wasn’t Helen’s fault that events had fallen out this way. But at the moment, he wished she had never been born—or at least that she were still in Yorkshire.

  She darted back with a stalk covered with tiny flowers. “Isn’t it pretty? And it matches your waistcoat.”

  He stared, hardly believing that so young a girl could be uttering the same inanities that he heard from every marriageable chit in town. But she was right. The golden flower was an almost perfect match. And her voice was sincere, something he heard so seldom he almost hadn’t recognized it. “It is lovely,” he agreed. “And it matches your dress as well.”

  She giggled. “I wish I could draw it, but there are so many curvy lines that it would never come out. I wonder—” She looked around, her voice breaking off as a brilliant smile lighted her face. “She’s here, she’s here! Miss Elaine, look what I found!”

  Mark jumped as Helen broke into a run. “Careful, Helen!” he shouted, fearing that she would trip and go over the cliff. Only then did he note the figure sitting on a rock some distance ahead. Her back was toward him, but she appeared younger than he had expected. A drawing pad lay in her lap.

  “Miss Elaine!” called Helen again, sliding to a halt beside her friend. A rapid conversation ensued as Mark sauntered closer. The woman pulled a second pad from a bag and seated Helen beside her.

  “Start with small things, Helen,” she was saying when he came within earshot. “Try to sketch a single flower. When you can do that to your satisfaction, try two or three together. Only then should you attempt the entire stalk.”

  Helen bent her head over the pad, teeth worrying her lower lip as she concentrated. Mark held back a moment, then shrugged as it became obvious that Helen had forgotten his presence.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asked, coming closer.

  Helen’s head jerked up. “Sorry, Papa, this is Miss Elaine. She draws pretty pictures and is teaching me how to do it, too. Miss Elaine, this is my father, the Earl of Bridgeport.”

  Elaine had herself firmly in hand. She had known that this moment must come sooner or later. From the first sound of his voice, she had been schooling her face into neutrality. The discomfort could not last long. Despite their history, they were strangers. Turning her head to face her former betrothed, she nodded. “My lord.”

  “You!” He froze.

  He had not changed much, Elaine noted, unless it was to grow even more impossi
bly handsome. He showed none of the signs of dissipation that she had expected from so unabashedly debauched a man. His chestnut locks were cut short in the latest fashion. Shock had intensified the green of his eyes. It was only now that she realized just how closely Helen resembled him. Or had she deliberately refused to recognize that similarity? For eight years she had ignored his existence, reminded of it only when his name showed up on the society page.

  Helen’s chatter finally registered and Elaine tensed. She had been staring far too long. Bridgeport’s temper seemed on the verge of explosion.

  Mark heard none of Helen’s explanation of his arrival and Nana’s fall. Nor did he hear her description of the lessons Miss Elaine had taught her. He was caught in a storm of fury, experiencing again the rage and humiliation he had suffered that day in St. George’s. He wanted to strangle her. But he could hardly vent his anger in front of a child.

  “Helen,” he managed at last. “I want you to return home now. Take the pad and the flower and work on your drawing so I can see it later. Cook will give you some of the macaroons she was baking this morning. Miss Thompson and I are acquainted and have some things we must discuss alone.”

  Helen opened her mouth in obvious protest, but Elaine intervened. “That is a wonderful idea, Helen. When you finish the flower, perhaps you can draw your favorite toy. Nana would love to see all your pictures, and I will look at the new ones tomorrow.”

  Mark’s fury increased when Helen smiled and took herself happily back to the house. Mary Thompson had changed since he had last seen her—so much so that he was amazed that he had recognized her. She had been small, gangly, and dark, with insipid gray eyes and a nondescript face, clad always in clothes that were unfashionable, ill-fitting, and excessively prim.

  But she was no longer a girl. While remaining far from the latest crack, today’s gown caressed a woman’s curvaceous figure that made his fingers itch to follow suit. The green muslin and bright sunlight proved that her eyes were actually gray-green, staring composedly from under dark brown hair and brows. A few extra pounds filled in the hollowed cheeks and angular chin to give her face a casual prettiness he had never expected. She had abandoned her former shyness and now looked him squarely in the eye. Paradoxically, her improved appearance, quiet composure, and general air of well-being further inflamed his fury.

  “So this is where you crawled off to,” he snapped.

  “Hardly crawled, my lord. But yes, I have lived here since leaving London.”

  “Very clever to choose a village attached to one of my own estates. That is that last place anyone would think to look for you.”

  “How arrogant! I made no attempt to hide from you. In fact, I only learned the ownership of the property when Helen moved here last month.”

  “Really?” he sneered.

  “The house has stood empty for so long that no one discusses the owner. And since the property still bears the name Treselyan Manor, how should I connect it to you?”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “To live with a friend.”

  “I owe you something,” he growled. “Perhaps I should complain to your father and get your allowance stopped.”

  Elaine burst into laughter. “Be my guest,” she invited. “There is no allowance to stop, for he has no idea where I am.”

  “Even better.” Her laughter raised his fury another notch. “He can haul you home and chastise you as you deserve.”

  “I will never go back.” Steel spiked her voice. “For the first time in my life, I am doing exactly what I want without interference. If there is any shred of decency in you, forget you ever saw me, not that telling Grimfield would matter. Chances are he would not even bother to verify your words. He disowned me when I walked out, and would probably rejoice at the image of me living modestly. It might even change his opinion that I will roast for all of eternity, but his desires no longer affect me. Even if he came here, there would be nothing beyond an unpleasant scene or two. I am of age and need no longer submit to his dictates.”

  Mark stared, unable to believe that she could be serious. But he knew he would not call her bluff. “How do you live with no allowance?”

  “Frankly, my lord, that is none of your business.” Her eyes flashed in challenge.

  He frowned. “Does your friend know of your shameful conduct?”

  “Of course, not that she believes for an instant that it was shameful. If anything meets that definition, it is your own.”

  “What?” His face darkened.

  “In general terms, my lord. You know your reputation as well as I do, not that I believe you to be a murderer. But there is little in your conduct then or now to demand respect.”

  “I will not get into a vulgar brawl with you, so cease trying to provoke me. You have no concept of what constitutes proper behavior.”

  “In your world that might be true. But despite my birth, I do not belong to that circle that considers itself superior to the rest of humanity. I am a simple woman leading a simple life. But I too have no wish for a brawl. I trust you will not be staying long, my lord.”

  “Too long. Miss Beddoes broke her hip, and it will take time to find someone else to care for Helen. I do not wish you to encourage her hoydenish tendencies, by the way. She needs a proper teacher.”

  “Which I am not?” she said softly, but he was suddenly aware of the fury that burned beneath her calm exterior. “Arrogant man! Just what do you consider makes one a proper companion for your daughter? Until two days ago, you had never set eyes on the girl, ignoring her as you would any other worthless thing that might clutter up your life. She is nought but a despicable female, after all. How dare you criticize me when you have left your only child in the care of a woman who should have been pensioned off fifteen years ago? To help her in Yorkshire, Nana had only a pair of nursery maids who after six years in service have reached the grand age of fourteen. They and your daughter spend much of their time caring for the nurse, who was barely mobile even before you forced them into a brutal journey to Cornwall. Not that I believe for a minute that you care a fig for that, or you would not have ordered them here in the first place. Your neglect is criminal, sir. Helen is six years old, but had received not one minute of instruction in reading or writing. Nor does she know the first thing about needlework, music, art, or any other accomplishment society expects of a lady. She should have had a governess two years ago. She should have started riding three years ago. But you are so immersed in your own dishonorable affairs, you have spent not a single minute considering what is best for your child.”

  “How dare you criticize me for a situation you understand not at all!” he snapped.

  “Nor do you, my lord,” she replied, rising to glare into his face. She stood uphill from him, making her eyes nearly level with his. “Mary Wollstonecraft was right, you know. Despite the self-serving falsehoods men like you cling to, women are rational creatures whose minds can and should be improved by education. That child has one of the finest brains I have ever encountered. In less than a month of acquaintance, seeing her only sporadically and briefly in places like this, where there are a thousand distractions, I have taught her to read and write, and have discovered that she has a wonderful eye for line and form. I will not seek her out, for I have never done so. But if she comes to me, I will not repudiate our friendship. You may be her father, but you are a complete stranger. Your admonitions will carry little weight. If you wish to develop any rapport with her, you might try correcting some of her educational deficiencies yourself. She is starving for knowledge.”

  Collecting her bag, Elaine strode briskly back to the village.

  Mark was left seething and speechless. How dare the chit speak to him like that? He despised managing women. Never would he submit to the demands of one. Ignoring the content of her words, he concentrated on their impropriety. It gave him a new grievance.

  Her account was growing longer. It was bad enough that she had jilted him, but the dramatic way i
n which she’d done it established her as his bane.

  The embarrassment had not died. Some wag had devised that accursed nickname, assuring that memory of his shame remained sharp. His later betrothals had heaped further ridicule on his head. Without Miss Thompson’s actions, those mishaps would have quickly faded into obscurity, but her jilting kept society’s gossips focused on his every move.

  He owed her for the thousand pricks that stabbed his pride each year, for the myriad sidelong glances and veiled allusions that eroded his consequence, and for creating the atmosphere in which scurrilous rumors seemed credible.

  And now she dared berate him over Helen.

  He squared his shoulders. It was time to carry out his vow of vengeance. He had tried before, sending agents to the properties of everyone to whom she was related, but he had not found her. How ironic that she had been camped on his own doorstep all the time. There must be some way to settle his score.

  A plan suddenly sprang full-blown to mind. His experienced eye had detected the passion that simmered just beneath her surface. At five-and-twenty, after years away from anything resembling society, she was ripe for seduction. It would require no effort at all to make her fall in love with him. Let her experience the pain of repudiation when he spurned her.

  For the first time since recognizing her, he smiled.

  Chapter Six

  Elaine paused in the doorway of Squire Sutton’s drawing room, struck dumb for at least the hundredth time by the garish embellishments that good man’s wife had insisted upon six years earlier. It was done in the worst imaginable taste, using the Egyptian theme that had been popular for some years now. Elaine had seen a quite magnificent Egyptian drawing room in London, but Mrs. Sutton had allowed neither common sense nor aesthetics to hold sway. Instead, she had chosen the most flamboyant of furnishings—crocodile settees, lion-headed chairs with clawed feet that threatened to put holes in the incongruous floral Aubusson carpet, two sphinxes, a mantle supported by winged caryatids that appeared more Greek than Egyptian, a distinctly Chinese screen, and an oppressive number of ornately carved tables.