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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Of course not. But it takes only one.”

  “An ogre? Are you sure? Did someone spurn your smiles? Surely you need not fear rejection.” He turned the page and chuckled again. Griffin hung from a tree, his forked tongue hissing. “You’ve a delightful eye for character, my dear. He is pure poison, though too few see it. But except for ungentlemanly insults, you should be safe enough. He prefers country innocents of fourteen or so.”

  “I had heard rumors, though no one will confirm them to young ladies. Yet he clearly seeks me out. Though I try to avoid him, he is forever popping up.”

  “Like a weed?”

  She laughed. “Exactly. Bindweed, most likely. One moment the room is quite congenial, the next it contains Mr. Griffin. One cannot root him out.”

  “So circumvent him. You might befriend Mr. Hempbury. Not only is he fascinated by birds and other natural wonders, but Griffin cannot tolerate the fellow.”

  “Th-thank you,” she stammered.

  When she was nervous she seemed quite young, and very unspoiled. Perhaps she had reason to fear the snake after all.

  Gray returned her pad. “Au revoir, my dear artist. It has been a most delightful meeting. I needed a chuckle after a frustrating day. But be careful whom you parody. There are those who lose all humor when they are the subject.”

  Stepping past her, he grinned at the damaged wall her skirts had hidden. That explained this convenient excess of palms.

  Buy The Rake and the Wallflower

  Allison Lane

  Award-winning author Allison Lane has enjoyed a lifelong affair with books. Born in Minnesota, she earned degrees in mathematics and computer science from the University of Illinois, then embarked on careers designing computer software and teaching classical piano before settling on writing novels whose themes usually involve trust. Among her many writing awards is the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award and finaling for RWA’s RITA award. When not crafting her next novel, she indulges in reading and traveling. Allison and her husband currently reside in California with their very cute dog Midas.

  Learn more about Allison and her books at:

  www.Eclectics.com/AllisonLane

  www.Twitter.com/AllisonLaneBook

  The Lady from Spain

  by Gail Eastwood

  Cover

  Chapters

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

  Books by Gail Eastwood

  Excerpt from The Captain’s Dilemma

  About Gail Eastwood

  Chapter One

  People were staring. The young woman standing by the parlor desk in the Plough and Hammer Inn could sense it even without turning, as if their curious looks touched her like inquisitive hands. Fragments of murmured conversation rustled at the edges of the room, and she held little doubt that they centered on her. It does me no harm, she reminded herself, straightening her stance just a little. Let them look.

  At least they had the grace not to confront her openly, unlike the proprietor of the inn. Haloed by light from the window behind him and safely situated behind the parlor desk, the big, ruddy-faced fellow eyed her silently, inspecting her through a haze of pipe smoke as if he had not heard a single word she’d just said.

  She had known her peculiar dress and speech would attract notice in this tiny Wiltshire village, although certainly she had never expected the inn to be so busy. It appeared that half the population of Wickenden had business there on this fine spring day, along with passengers from several coaches. But Falcon Colburne did not believe for a minute that the man in front of her was deaf.

  Raising her chin an eloquent fraction of an inch, she answered his rude stare with a determined stare of her own. For now, it suited her purposes to be taken for a foreigner—as long as it did not cost her a bed to sleep in. But if this man thought that he might deny her a room just because she appeared to be cut from a different cloth than his usual patrons, he had better think again!

  “Two adjoining rooms with a parlor,” she repeated, giving her words a definite Hispanic inflection. This time she summoned a tone of severe authority that gave a cutting edge to her voice. In her nineteen years she had overcome far greater obstacles than this plump, pompous, pipe-smoking proprietor. She wanted him to know it.

  “Ahem. Yes, well, madam,” the man said at last, finally removing the pipe from his mouth and lowering his gaze to the desk. “Happens I do still have two adjoining rooms, although I don’t know as you’ll find them suitable. And the best I can give you is a parlor across the passage from them.” He sounded as if he hoped she would refuse.

  The rooms were probably tiny or above the kitchen, but Falcon did not care. They represented a small victory nonetheless. She nodded.

  “Sign on the line, then, if you please. The girl will show you up.” He slid the register over to her with an air of resignation.

  Falcon drew the folds of the black lace mantilla covering her hair and part of her face a little closer around her. Sign on the line! It was such a simple act, for most people. But Miss Falcarrah Sophia Colburne, nicknamed “Falcon” by her father’s regiment, was supposed to be dead.

  Resolutely she dipped the pen in the ink, but she hesitated when she looked down at the book. The blank space in the register spoke volumes to her, seeming to symbolize all that she had lost. For a moment she fought to quell the sudden heartache that assailed her. Would she never become used to these awkward moments? Why should she care what she wrote in the book? Finally with a decisive flourish she filled the space with the name she had used during her journey from Spain and upon her arrival in Portsmouth just the previous night.

  “Doña Sofia Christina Ynez Alomar de Montero,” the innkeeper read aloud as he turned the book around to view her signature. “That’s a considerable name.” He cocked an eyebrow skeptically as he eyed Falcon again. “We don’t see too many foreigners passing through here.” He paused as if waiting for her to explain herself, or reconsider.

  Falcon said nothing. Who she was and what she was doing there were no concern of his. She let her gaze stray to the window beyond him, which afforded a view of the stableyard. She could see her manservant Carlos unloading trunks and boxes from their hired carriage. Could he manage it all alone? Where were the porters? At least here we need not fear thieves around every corner as we did in war-ravaged Spain.

  “I hope you’ll find everything that you need here and enjoy your stay,” the innkeeper finished lamely when she continued to remain silent. He nodded to the young maid who was waiting to escort the guests upstairs.

  I hope so, too, Falcon agreed silently as she turned to follow the girl, although in her mind “here” meant England and enjoyment was far removed from her purpose in coming.

  As she moved away, the scent of pipe tobacco blended into a mix of other smells—an overpowering scent of lavender water from one middle-aged woman, the smell of horse and sweat from a small beady-eyed man. She found it easier to keep her eyes straight ahead on the maid than to meet the stares of all the people who filled the small parlor. Only once did she glance up. The maid, sashaying through the crowd, paused to direct a saucy toss of her head toward one particular gentleman, and Falcon was overcome by curiosity to see who had merited such special recognition.

  There was no mistaking the girl’s intended target. He was a little taller than the other men standing around him, although not enough so to make him stand out by this alone. From the collar points and coat Falcon could glimpse through the crowd, his clothes appeared to be somewhat more fashionable than those around him, but again, not so much as would make him distinctive. It was his posture that she noticed at once. Even in that crowded room he had a military bearing that she was certain she could recognize anywhere—a proud, erect stance that no country farmer could ever match. His dark hair looked touched by sunlight, and his angular face showed a strength that made her think at once of army officers she had known in Spain.

  That must be why he seems familiar, she thought. I
t was highly unlikely that she would have seen him anywhere before—after all, she had only arrived in England yesterday! Unless, of course, he had served in Spain in the early days of Napoleon’s war. However, thinking of officers and the military reminded her suddenly of the one thing she had forgotten to do. With no other warning than a small exclamation of surprise she turned and reversed her course.

  Lieutenant Major Jeremy Hazelton, Lord Danebridge, would undoubtedly have ducked into the nearest shadowed corner had there been one available at the moment he discovered the young señora’s gaze upon him. He had been watching her with particular care, it was true, but he had the best of reasons to wish to avoid attracting her notice. He did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed when she suddenly whirled around and headed back towards the innkeeper. What the devil was she doing?

  She did not get far. She no sooner turned than she collided with the first of two women who had dutifully fallen into step behind her. Jeremy suppressed a chuckle. Could she really be so impulsive and forgetful? A moment earlier he had been admiring her proud and competent handling of the innkeeper. Surely she knew the women were behind her—he assumed that they were her servants. One was a tall, sharp-featured woman with a slight limp; the other was a small, dark, nervous woman clutching a basket and several wrapped parcels.

  “Saints preserve us, child!” the tall woman exclaimed in an unmistakably Irish brogue. “What are ye about?”

  The young “señora” reached out to steady her, apologizing and whispering, “I forgot to ask for directions!” “Olvide que queria preguntar direcciones,” she belatedly repeated in Spanish.

  Jeremy did not fail to note that English had come to the young woman’s mind first. Her accent had also diminished noticeably. Both observations merely reinforced the ones he had made about her in Portsmouth the previous evening. Doña Alomar de Montero, indeed, he thought. You are no more Spanish than I am.

  He believed that she might well be a nobleman’s wife. There was something aristocratic about her bearing and speech, and a hint of expense in the fine black satin and exquisite, form-fitting cut of her fringed Spanish gown. Perhaps a widow, although black was a fashionable color for Spanish women regardless of mourning or marital state.

  He also suspected that she was beautiful. She kept her mantilla, draped in generous folds from a tall comb at the back of her head, drawn partly across her face to hide her features, as was the custom in Spain. The seductive glimpses of smooth skin and luminescent eyes that it allowed tantalized and piqued his curiosity while frustrating his attempts to gain a good look at her.

  Still, he had seen enough to know that she did not have the famous dark eyes of classic Spain, nor was her skin the dusky, golden Spanish color. No indeed, her skin was the color of fine porcelain, and her eyes were a light, clear, enchanting green. A magnificent green—like sunlight on the leaves in a forest.

  He pushed the thought away instantly, chastising himself. He must not allow himself to be distracted by a pair of eyes—or anything else for that matter. If the doña was not a Spanish lady, then who was she? What was she doing here? Unfortunately for him, the government had made it his business to find out.

  She had returned to the innkeeper.

  “Excuse me,” she said in Spanish, clearly assuming that the innkeeper would understand her. Then in flawless, accented English she proceeded to inquire after one of the residents of the village.

  “I am certain you must know him,” she finished. “He is a war veteran, a Cornishman who lives here now. Can you direct me to his house?”

  If the innkeeper’s eyebrows had been raised in curiosity before this, now they nearly shot off the top of his head. Jeremy was tempted to check the position of his own—he was simply astonished that this young woman would make her affairs known so publicly, no matter who or what she was.

  The beefy hosteller took a deep, thoughtful pull on his pipe. “Old Martin Triss, eh? Now what would you be wanting with the likes of him?” The man narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “How do I know he would want me telling you where he lives?”

  The young woman sighed in exasperation and fished a coin out of her reticule. “He is expecting me,” she said with only the slightest hint of hesitation. “He will thank you for helping me.”

  Clamping the thin stem of his pipe between his teeth, the innkeeper tore a scrap out of his receipt book and wrote on the back of it.

  “Cottram Row?” she asked, peering at it. “How would I find that?”

  The man sighed, as if she had asked far too much. Only the reward of another coin convinced him to explain how she should go.

  “Gracias. Thank you.”

  Jeremy echoed the sentiment silently as he watched his subject turn and thread her way back through the room, apparently unmindful of the additional stir she had created among the crowd. She did not appear to look his way again, for which he was also grateful. Perhaps he was mistaken in thinking she had taken note of him. Certainly she could not have done a better job of providing him with information he wanted to know.

  He continued to stare after she rejoined the other women at the doorway and moved out of sight. Was she extremely clever, or extremely careless? She seemed to make many mistakes. He had noticed her hesitation before she signed her name in the register. He had also observed her nervous glance towards the window, which had called his attention to her luggage and the servant unloading it outside. The anxiety he’d read in that glance told him to inspect her baggage as soon as possible, for it could prove a rich source of information.

  Should I believe that she is truly going to call on this Cornishman? he wondered. If the fellow was a contact, did she hope to lend innocence to their meeting by her openness? Or was this public revelation a ruse to distract from her real purpose in Wickenden? What would a foreign agent be doing in this little village? Perhaps there was some other explanation for all this, although he could not fathom what it might be. If, however, she was merely confident that there was no one here who might be interested in her affairs, she was quite mistaken.

  The lieutenant-major turned his attention back to the matter of booking his own room, wondering how much time he had before the mysterious señora might set out to attend to her business. He was confident that the friendly young chambermaid, offered the proper incentive, would not hesitate to divulge the location of the “Spanish lady’s” rooms.

  Chapter Two

  “This Sergeant Triss and yourself’ll be the talk o’ the town tonight—the topic o’ the evenin’ round every hearth,” the Irishwoman fussed at Falcon as the little party of women made their way along the dark inner passage of the Plow and Hammer’s upper floor.

  “Tisn’t proper for a respectable young lady such as ye are to go traipsin’ off to that Cornishman’s cottage, for one thing. And to make it plain in front of all those people! What of your reputation? I don’t know how I ever let ye go in there to be bookin’ the rooms for yourself in the first place. Tisn’t proper at all!”

  Falcon smiled, knowing full well that she had not given her Irish duenna any say in the matter. She did not reply, however, as the maid leading the way in front of them stopped just then by a door near the far end of the passage.

  Over the kitchens, indeed, Falcon thought with a grim smile as she noticed their proximity to the service stairs. For once she would have liked to be wrong. However, as she followed the girl into the indicated room, she found that it appeared to be perfectly serviceable. It was plain but large enough to boast two windows, and it contained a pair of chairs and a small table in addition to a bed large enough for her to share comfortably with Maggie. A door led to an adjoining small room for Benita, her Spanish maid.

  “Parlor’s just across the passage there,” the chambermaid said with a nod towards the room entrance. “Shall you be wantin’ tea sent up?”

  Falcon shook her head and dismissed the girl, requesting only wash water and fresh towels. She turned then to her two companions, but at once the Irishwoman be
gan to sputter again.

  “No tea? Never tell me ye expect to be goin’ off at this hour to call on that man! Ye’ve not had so much as a night’s rest or a drop o’ China broth to restore ye, child! What’s more, tisn’t right to go appearin’ on his doorstep when he hasn’t a notion what day or even what week to be expectin’ ye. At the least ye should send round a note to him.”

  Well accustomed to her traveling companion’s occasional rants, Falcon chuckled. The older woman’s strong opinions were as much a part of her as the Irish twinkle in her eye. “Don’t be a scold, Maggie. You know very well how long I have waited for this reunion. Do you truly believe that I would put off making this call for even another quarter-hour, now that we are finally here?”

  “I believe as ye’ve waited this long already, it would not harm ye to wait a bit longer. Send for the man to call on ye here, as is proper.”

  “Ah, Maggie, after some of what you’ve been through, I never thought I’d see you daunted by the prospect of taking a little stroll without some tea to fortify you,” Falcon said, cocking an eyebrow and holding back her laughter.”

  As she expected, the Irish woman’s pride rose to her challenge. “Whisht, now! As if that would ever stop Margaret Meara. Me grandfather would roll over in his grave…”

  “Good, then. As soon as we have washed up, we can start off.” She held up a hand to forestall any further protests. “I believe it is perfectly proper for a woman to call on a gentleman about a matter of business, and this call is not only for pleasure. Triss should be on the lookout for us, for I sent a letter by the packet boat when we were only about a week from making port to give him an idea when we might arrive. And as far as tea, why, we can have some when we return, if Triss does not do right by us, Maggie. Do you imagine that a mere Cornishman does not know his social duty? You had better not let him catch you thinking that way!”