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

by Brenda Hiatt

“Perhaps I should invite Harold,” he mused aloud. “The group is already so odd that his presence cannot possibly make it worse.” He bit his tongue, wondering why he had mentioned that. Disparaging his guests before he had Elaine’s agreement would not convince her to help him. His address was usually far better.

  “If they are such a trial, why not send them on their way and be done with it?” she asked.

  “After they have braved the journey all the way to Cornwall just to see me?”

  “You sound flattered.”

  Sarcastic was closer to the truth. “It is more a case of manners. I won’t encourage them to stay very long, though, so you needn’t worry on that score. Will you help?”

  She sighed. “I suppose so, though only if you cease this ridiculous flirtation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do not insult my intelligence. Your sudden warmth can only be ascribed to a masculine plot of reprisal. But you overstep your authority by doing so—vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. However high your title, you are not God. If I am going to help you with this little problem, I expect you to behave yourself. This is wasted effort anyway, for I will not succumb to your wiles. Now who is coming? And why would anyone travel this far if you are not close friends?”

  “Lord and Lady Means are probably outrunning creditors. I expect several others joined them on a lark. Carrington came along to lend me moral support. He really is a friend, you might recall.”

  “Vaguely. I doubt I met him more than twice. When will they arrive?”

  “I am not sure, though I expect it will be within the next couple of days.”

  “Anne and I had best move in immediately, then. Mrs. Burgess must be overwhelmed with work. But we cannot spend all our time with your guests. Anne will continue working with Helen, and I will not give up my usual activities.”

  “I doubt any of these folk will be up much before noon.”

  “I will not act as your official hostess,” she continued. “I will preside at meals if you insist, but anything more will be detrimental to my reputation.”

  “Very well.” His forehead was creased in a frown, but her tone had left no room for argument.

  “How bad is the servant situation?”

  “Improving, but it will not be pleasant. I found a housemaid and a kitchen-maid today, but there is no hope for more. Aside from the Burgesses, there are only two footmen. Perhaps that will encourage them all to leave soon.”

  “Since both Anne and I will be at the Manor, I can offer Lucy’s services for the duration. She can do most anything.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thompson. I will be eternally in your debt.”

  “Coming it too brown, my lord. Again.” She noted a cart approaching along the road and jumped. “I must go. Mr. Jessup looks to have concluded his business.”

  “Did you ride into town with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are welcome to return with me. I am driving a curricle and have a groom, so there would be no impropriety.”

  She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Thank you, my lord.” After a brief word with Mr. Jessup, she returned.

  They discussed what preparations needed to be made and considered possible entertainments for such a disparate group. It was a congenial meeting, Elaine admitted silently. He had even dropped his flirtation, though she did not seriously believe that he had abandoned his plans. He was too arrogant to concede the game to a mere female. This was but a short interlude while he developed a new strategy. By moving her into the house, he would have additional opportunities to pursue her.

  A nagging voice wondered if perhaps this house party was neither as spontaneous nor as unwanted as he claimed.

  Within moments of exiting the shop, they encountered Mr. Parrish. Elaine watched his eyes widen in shock at the sight of them—together.

  “Well, Cousin,” drawled Bridgeport. “What brings you to Cornwall?”

  “The Season was a dead bore this year,” lisped Harold. “I thought it might be amusing to see a bit of the countryside.” He flicked open a snuffbox and delicately partook of its contents, dusting his fingertips on a lace handkerchief.

  “Rusticating, I suppose,” observed Mark goadingly. “But as long as you are in the neighborhood, perhaps you would care to visit Treselyan. A few friends are arriving soon, including one of your most dedicated imitators. You must be ready for fashionable company after several days away from society.”

  “Imitators?” lisped Harold.

  “Mr. Reginald Taylor, budding fop.”

  “Indeed? It might be amusing. I shall join you tomorrow.” He turned to Elaine in mock surprise. “Fancy meeting you here. And in such unexpected company.”

  “True, I had not anticipated running into either of you when I came to town today,” she replied calmly. “But life does not always progress as one would like. I thought I had seen the last of you when I left home.”

  He grimaced. “Just so.”

  “Until tomorrow, Cousin,” said Bridgeport, piloting Elaine away. He had not liked the tenor of that last exchange.

  The two stopped at several shops before finally reaching the inn. Mark’s curricle was painted dark green, with the wheels picked out in gold. The seat was of light green leather in a shade Elaine had never before seen—almost the color of willow leaves. Bridgeport’s steeds were perfectly matched chestnuts, their coats only one shade brighter than the earl’s own hair. He helped her onto the seat, climbed up beside her and ordered his groom to release the horses. But when the man swung onto his perch, an ominous crack filled the air.

  “Damnation,” muttered the earl, pulling his team to a halt.

  The ostler leaped forward to hold the horses, while Mickey jumped down to examine the curricle.

  Mark snubbed the ribbons, a ferocious frown marring his forehead. “You can enjoy a cup of tea while I see what the problem is.” He escorted Elaine inside to a private parlor, waiting only until a servant bustled in with a tray of sandwiches and cakes before excusing himself.

  Elaine smiled in amusement. Her parlor overlooked the stable yard, its windows opened to catch the warm spring breeze. If Bridgeport had wished to hurry her away so that she would not hear the details of the incident, he had failed.

  “Look ’ere at the axle,” Mickey urged as soon as the earl returned to the yard. “Someone done this deliberate-like.”

  Mark swore luridly enough to raise Elaine’s color. “It is sawed half through. But why would anyone want to keep me in town?”

  The groom cleared his throat several times before venturing an opinion. “Perhaps ’twas meant to cause a accident, milord. With only the two of us, ’twould have taken a while to crack. Might not ’ave ’appened ’til we was ’alfway ’ome. There’s a right nasty stretch about there.”

  “That is even more fantastic,” scoffed Bridgeport. “No one has any cause to wish me injury.” Except Hardwicke, but he was not yet in the area.

  “Pardon me, my lord,” said another voice. Elaine glanced out to see the ostler, his hat in his hand and a frown on his face. “Mayhap it weren’t meant for you. The fancy gentleman what’s been here the last fortnight has a curricle the same color as your own, though nowhere near the quality, as anyone what knows carriages can tell. But he’s set up the backs of more than one man hereabouts. None of my lads seen anyone near your rig, my lord, sorry as I am to admit such laxity. But it might have been a prank on the other gentleman.”

  Speculation continued in the stable yard, but Elaine was no longer listening. Mr. Parrish had been in Bodmin for a fortnight, which was longer than Bridgeport had been at the Manor. But the rumors about Bridgeport had started a fortnight earlier. It could not be a coincidence. Parrish. It was exactly the sort of underhanded campaign he would wage.

  Harold Parrish was eight years her senior. They had been only the slightest of acquaintances despite residing on neighboring estates. He had been packed off to school before she left the nursery, and he paid little at
tention to children when home on holidays.

  But she knew many stories about him, both from neighborhood gossip before she left home and from Anne’s cousin. Harold was a dishonorable and vindictive man who lashed out against anyone he considered his enemy, usually in sneaky ways. When Squire Perkins had annoyed him the year Elaine was ten, Parrish had retaliated with a whispering campaign that destroyed the man’s reputation. If Harold had not been exposed as the author of the rumors, Perkins might never have recovered. As it was, there were still folk who believed there must have been some foundation for the tales. Where there is smoke, there must be fire—the credo of the gossip. If Bridgeport had annoyed his cousin, that could explain the rumors that had flown round the area since Harold’s arrival.

  Bridgeport returned to the parlor. “The curricle cannot be repaired before tomorrow,” he announced. “But the inn has a gig we can use to return home. Will that be acceptable? It cannot accommodate Mickey, but he must remain here to supervise the repairs anyway.”

  “I trust you will behave yourself,” she stated.

  “My word of honor.”

  “Good.” She waited until they had cleared Bodmin—and Bridgeport had gotten over his pique at having to drive so plodding a creature as the inn’s horse—before saying anything of her suspicions. “You are aware of the rumors that have been circulating about you.”

  “Of course. The subject arose at the squire’s dinner, as you must recall.”

  “Had you heard the newest ones?”

  “What?”

  “You have squandered every penny you inherited, thus making it impossible to pay your bills.”

  “No wonder that employment office demanded a quarter’s wages in advance,” he murmured to himself before responding to her. “Do you believe them?”

  “I find it hard to imagine you wasting money on a new roof at Westron if you are that badly dipped, my lord.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “What have you done to annoy your cousin?”

  His hands jerked on the ribbons, making the horse jib. “What?”

  “I do not know Mr. Parrish well, but I know a lot about him,” she stated. “He has used spurious stories in the past to retaliate against those he dislikes. His arrival coincides with the first of the rumors. Since you did not show up until later, without even warning Burgess that you were coming, I can’t help but connect the two.”

  Bridgeport frowned. “I cannot imagine what grievance he might harbor. We seldom see each other, for we move in different circles. In fact, we have never been close, even attending different schools. Our respective mothers were mortal enemies, so his family rarely visited and mine never went there. Our fathers were twins and rued the schism, but both were incapable of overruling their wives. Are you sure Harold is behind these rumors?”

  “No, but it’s his style.” She told him about Squire Perkins. “That thought has been nibbling at my mind for days, though I could not call it into focus until I saw Mr. Parrish in Bodmin.”

  “I wonder what he blames me for. Many of these same rumors were titillating London just before I left.”

  “Is that what prompted this unexpected visit?” she dared.

  “In part. I was not responsible for Wainright’s death, as his doctor was quick to point out. But it seemed reasonable to absent myself until society uncovers some new scandal. It shouldn’t take long. The truth is too obvious.”

  “Along with the tale of your sudden impoverishment is the claim that you killed Wainright so that you could wed his very wealthy wife.”

  “Absurd,” he snapped before breaking into laughter. “Dear Lord! The story in town is that I stripped him of his fortune—by cheating, of course.”

  “I am amazed that you admit such a charge. I always understood that cheating was considered to be even more dastardly than murder.”

  “True, but it is so ridiculous as to be funny.”

  “Your cousin was never very bright. He is cunning, however; enough to tailor the scandal to the audience’s sensibilities—cheating in town; reneging on tradesmen’s bills in the country. But he has ignored the fact that many people have access to both worlds. Are you sure you have given him no cause for displeasure?”

  “Not enough to trigger this kind of retaliation. I turned down a request to invest in a canal venture being proposed by some of his cronies, but that was after the rumors started and was the first time I had seen him in several months.”

  Elaine remained silent for some minutes. “Perhaps it is not a good idea to include him in this party.”

  “Why? There will not be a soul there who hasn’t heard the stories.”

  “I cannot explain it, but I do not believe he will stop at rumors. By your own admission this house party is already burdened with odd characters. He is manipulative and delights in inciting trouble.”

  “It is too late to change anything.” He shrugged. “But there is nothing to bother about. Harold is an annoyance, but no more.” With that, he deliberately turned the conversation away from his cousin. He did not wish to discuss Harold until he had had the time to consider this very peculiar situation.

  Elaine made no attempt to resume the topic. Bridgeport knew his cousin better than she did. His unwillingness to discuss the subject was typical male arrogance. She was only a female, after all, and no more than a mild acquaintance at that. It was surprising that he condescended to match wits with her in the quotation game they had been playing. She really ought to cease that particular activity. It was far more seductive than his flirting.

  Chapter Nine

  Elaine escaped the Manor into the relative calm of the Treselyan rose arbor. The day had been hectic, not that she minded hard work. But she could not understand herself. Why had she agreed to be a part of this farce?

  She was an intelligent, educated woman lauded by many for her common sense. Yet she had agreed—with hardly a protest—to move into the house of a man who was openly trying to seduce her, and to entertain a group of London ladies and gentlemen no different from those who had made her life miserable in the past. The house party could only cause pain, so why had she accepted the invitation? Surely it wasn’t because the exalted Earl of Bridgeport vowed he needed her!

  All the anguish of her brief sojourn in London returned with new and frightening understanding. She had been an outsider that Season, a child sneaking downstairs to glimpse the glittering world of adults and saddened to discover that even growing up would not provide entry and acceptance. She had found much that shocked her in the ton, especially among Bridgeport’s very fast acquaintances, but her strongest emotion had been a yearning to belong—not admitted at the time, of course, because wanting to sin was a sin in itself.

  Was that why she had agreed to join this party? Did the certainty of snubs and set-downs fade beside the prospect of again touching the glittering world of London?

  She shivered. Never! She was no longer that abject creature who had cowered through a month of engagements, though some similarities remained. Her wardrobe was still unfashionable, her hair plain, her social graces limited. On the positive side, she had the confidence to ignore spite.

  The big question mark was Lord Bridgeport. He had ceased all overt flirtation in Bodmin and had treated her as a casual friend ever since. But she refused to believe that he had abandoned his plans. Would he resume his campaign? Or would his London friends draw him back into his usual habits? That was what she hoped for—the opportunity to fade into the background and become invisible to him, as had been the case in town.

  A more serious problem was Mr. Parrish. He had arrived barely an hour before, but it was already obvious that he was bent on fostering strife.

  “Decided to swallow your pride, cousin?” he had lisped scornfully, staring at Elaine, who was unquestionably disheveled after a day spent helping Mrs. Burgess turn out nine bedchambers.

  “Odd way to describe your presence,” countered Bridgeport, surprising Elaine with his support.

&nbs
p; Harold snorted, but his response was drowned out.

  “Papa! Papa! Guess what I found!” shouted an excited Helen, arriving at that moment with Anne in tow.

  “What?” Mark smiled indulgently at his daughter, squatting to bring his eyes level with hers. Elaine was amazed by both his tolerance and his apparent affection.

  She wasn’t the only one. Harold gaped.

  “There is a tiny horse in the stable that Toby says I may ride. Can I, please? Please?”

  “It is a pony, and I bought it in Bodmin yesterday so that I can teach you. But first he is badly in need of a name. Suppose you visit Nana when she wakes and decide on one. We will christen him when we begin lessons tomorrow morning.”

  “Really?” Her green eyes grew rounder until they seemed to fill her face.

  “Yes, really. Now you may have noticed that we have a guest. Are your manners ready?”

  She nodded, spotting Harold for the first time.

  Mark straightened. “Helen, may I present our cousin, Mr. Parrish? Harold, my daughter, Lady Helen Parrish and our friend, Miss Becklin.”

  Harold returned the barest nod, staring down his long nose. If so rigid and confined a body was capable of stiffening, his did.

  “I don’t think I like him,” decided Helen. “He has a secret face, and lavender looks better on ladies.”

  “Whatever your feelings, it is impolite to say that aloud,” chided Anne softly. “Apologize, and then we will go find Nana.”

  “I am sorry for being impolite,” Helen stated with a sigh. The words were accompanied by a glare as she turned to head upstairs.

  “What is a child and her governess doing using the front door?” demanded Harold haughtily.

  “Miss Becklin is not her governess, and I won’t have her treated like one,” declared Mark. “She and Miss Thompson are friends who have kindly agreed to help me organize this gathering and entertain Helen until her new governess arrives. Her nurse broke a hip last week.”

  Elaine had remained silent, though she had wanted to strike Harold’s sneering face more than once. It was unconscionable that she had committed Anne to such abuse. If Harold was so critical, the earl’s London friends were likely to be worse. Whatever her own obscure motives, she should have at least put off accepting this invitation until she had discussed it with Anne. Bridgeport could dampen direct attacks in company, but nothing he did would prevent those subtle insults that society ladies were so adept at delivering.