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

by Brenda Hiatt

Was he unstoppable? “You mustn’t feel obligated. I already have an escort in the sergeant. It is not at all necessary.”

  Apparently he was.

  “It will be my pleasure. Let us proceed!”

  Jeremy was quite pleased with the level of chagrin he had inspired in his mysterious lady from Spain. He thought she looked particularly fine today—her deep red walking dress was of the first stare, and its black ribbon trimmings echoed the color of her ever-present lace mantilla. For the first several minutes of their journey to the Tower, she would not speak to him at all and kept her head turned away towards the carriage window. He pretended not to notice, making small talk and idle comments about the sights of London they passed along the way.

  Eventually, however, she sighed and turned back to him.

  “Something puzzles me, Lord Danebridge. Perhaps you would be kind enough to enlighten me?”

  “Anything, dear lady.”

  “I understand that you have a doting family at your country seat eagerly awaiting your return, while you are detained here in London on urgent business. Yet you seem to have ample time to escort me to the theater and to the Tower, and you have made social commitments that extend through the next fortnight. Is this the way all Englishmen conduct urgent business?”

  He could tell by the light of battle in her green eyes that she thought she had issued a challenge he could not meet. He was so charmed by the way that light seemed to enliven her entire face, he almost hated to disappoint her.

  “My business unfortunately depends upon the actions of other people, over whom I have very little control,” he said with a perfectly serious face. “I have no choice but to wait upon them, and I must admit they are moving far more slowly than I could wish.”

  “How old is your son?”

  Jeremy smiled, thinking of Tobey. “He is a precocious seven-year-old, as interested in frogs as Latin.”

  She looked surprised. “Why, he is nearly of an age to be sent away to school! I thought he must be younger. Why does your wife not join you in the city?”

  This time she had caught him by surprise. “My wife?”

  “Yes. You never mention her. Last night I had thought perhaps she might be joining us at the theater.” She glanced at Sergeant Triss and then back at Jeremy. “To be perfectly frank, sir, I wonder at the propriety of being so much in your company in her absence.”

  “Allow me to set your mind at ease if that is all that is troubling you,” Jeremy said soberly. “My wife Anne died two years ago.”

  “Oh! I am sorry. I had no idea.”

  Was it true that he never mentioned Anne anymore? There had been a time when he could hardly converse without doing so, and an even longer time when he still constantly thought of her. Yet it was true, he realized, that he had hardly thought of Anne at all these last few days.

  “I can assure you that my friends would not be so ready to embrace you, señora, if they thought there was any question about our behavior.” Secretly, he was pleased that the matter had crossed her mind at all. Perhaps it meant she was not as indifferent to his charms as she pretended. Now that she knew he was a respectable widower, would her attitude towards him change?

  “Well, I suppose I am glad to hear that, at any rate,” she said and lapsed back into silence.

  The imposing White Tower at the heart of the complex that made up the Tower of London was visible to the passengers in the hackney long before it dropped them off near the foot of Tower Hill. Falcon had seen some spectacular fortresses and castles in Spain, but nothing she had seen prepared her for this.

  She suppressed a shiver as she and the two men approached the entrance. The foreboding outer walls rose above the moat, gloomy even on such a sunny spring afternoon.

  The menagerie was situated just to the right of the west entrance before the bridge that crossed the moat. The animals were housed in the crescent-shaped remains of the Lion Tower, a medieval relic with two connected sections. Large but ill-lit dens with iron gratings in the openings displayed the occupants to anyone who rang the bell for admittance and paid the keeper’s fee. Reluctantly Falcon allowed Lord Danebridge and Sergeant Triss to persuade her to view it.

  She had to admit afterwards that the big cats—lions, tigers, panthers and leopards—had impressed her with both their size and grace, although few had been inclined to move about. The “ant bear” and the intriguing raccoons from America had been more active and entertaining. She could not help feeling sympathy for all of the animals, cramped in spaces unnaturally small for them. But nothing could distract her for long from her main purpose in coming.

  The little party crossed the moat and entered the outer ward of the fortress through the Byward Tower, where they were joined by one of the splendidly costumed yeoman warders as their guide. Falcon had no wish for an immediate tour and would have asked the way directly to the garrison barracks, but the warder had so much information to impart that he hardly paused for breath. It was nigh to impossible to interrupt him. By the time he came to pointing out the barracks, the visitors had heard the history of most of the thirteen inner ward towers and numerous other buildings as well.

  “Sergeant Triss and I have business at the barracks,” Falcon said quietly to Lord Danebridge. “You must excuse us for a few minutes. Perhaps you can even keep our devoted tour guide occupied—ask him some questions about the Roman walls, or find out who feeds the ravens. I’m sure he has plenty of stories to tell.”

  The baron thought he could do better than that. It was of utmost importance to him to learn the lady’s business here, but discretion was required.

  “You know I am happy to assist,” he said, wondering how much it was going to cost him to be rid of the warder and how quickly he could convince the fellow to disappear. The warders served under the Constable of the Royal Palace, an officer of the army. Perhaps the style of one military man to another would be the best approach.

  “I doubt that you will be allowed inside the barracks,” he warned as the señora turned to head across the parade ground towards the large, colorless building with Sergeant Triss. Not that Jeremy saw that as a problem, of course.

  The warder was fascinated by the tale of military intrigue that the baron told him, and with a suitable reward for his services went off in search of new visitors to guide. Jeremy had carefully walked in the direction of the adjacent St. Peter’s while they were talking, in hopes that the lady from Spain would pay him no further heed. If he pretended to be occupied with studying the exterior of the church, he thought he might still be able to hear whatever went on in front of the barracks entrance.

  Sergeant Triss went inside the barracks and returned a few minutes later to confer with the señora. Jeremy heard enough to realize that they had come seeking someone and that the person had been sent for. The name Timmins leapt out at him as one he recognized from the señorita’s letters.

  What was she doing? Rounding up a reunion? He still had no inkling of what her connection was to the three men.

  When Timmins arrived, Jeremy was bold enough to stop dissembling and simply stand and watch.

  Falcon had not realized how difficult it would be to hide the shock of recognition she felt when Timmins finally stepped outside of the barracks. Five years had changed her, and dressed as she was and partially hidden by her mantilla, she was confident that he would not recognize her. But her shock at seeing him came in part from the changes he had himself undergone—in her mind’s eye he had remained frozen exactly as he had been on that awful day during the retreat to Corunna.

  Triss’s words came back to her—“’e was wounded at Vittoria and got sent ’ome. Someone took pity and got ’im a job at the Tower barracks…” Timmins had been a young private with much to learn, but he had been a strong, sturdy fellow with a strong survival instinct. His loyalty to Sweeney had been his first mistake. But the man Falcon found before her now bore little resemblance to the one who had murdered her mother a thousand times in as many nightmares.

 
His once youthful face was marred by a long scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jaw, deeply furrowing his cheek. The eye on that side was covered by a patch. He walked unevenly, like Triss, and seemed unable to stand straight. Falcon looked at the bare, plain building where he spent his days and the even more forbidding surroundings and thought that if he were actually a prisoner his life would be little different from what it was now. The Tower was a prison. He had already paid a high price for his service.

  Forget him, her first instinct told her. Just say you’ve made a mistake and leave! But she reminded herself that Timmins might be the only link to finding the other two men. She had to carry out her plan.

  “Señor Timmins,” she said in thickly accented English. “I bring a message for you from a friend in Spain.”

  He looked puzzled and a little pale, but it was nothing compared to the shade he turned when she delivered the rest. “The message is, ‘Remember Astorga? Someone else does, too. There was a witness. Be on your guard.’”

  All remaining color drained from his face and for a moment Falcon thought he would faint. In a voice that was barely audible he asked, “Who sent you? Who sent this message?” Then with growing vehemence he continued, “Who is in Spain? Who is the witness? Who are you?”

  He took a step towards her, but Sergeant Triss moved between them. Timmins took a good look at him then, and began to shake. “I know you! Martin Triss! The Forty-third! What does this mean? Who is she?”

  Falcon kept a safe distance between herself and the distraught man, but moved out from behind Triss where he could see her. In a remarkably calm voice she managed to say, “I am only a messenger. Do you know a man named Pumphrey? I have the same message to give to him.”

  The man stared at her. Falcon began to fear that he would recognize her after all. It was a risk she had felt she must take.

  “Best place to find Pumphrey’s in a gutter somewhere,” Timmins mumbled. “Near St. Paul’s, likely. S’pposed to live in the Aldersgate Almshouse, but he’s never there.”

  Signaling to Triss to follow, Falcon turned on her heel and began to walk away.

  “Leave Pumphrey alone!” Timmins suddenly shouted after her. “He’s got devils enough without bringing back the past! And I don’t know where Sweeney is, if you want to know that!”

  He was screaming, now, his pale, scarred face distorted with fear and anger. “Go to the devil, and take your countrymen with you! Wish I’d never set foot in that accursed place! ‘Be on guard.’ What does that mean? What in hell am I supposed to do? Spanish witch! Go back to the devil! That’s who sent you! Go to the devil! Go to the devil!”

  When Falcon looked back, Timmins had collapsed, sobbing and chanting his last words over and over again. Two guards from the barracks had come out and were half-carrying him back inside.

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning brought gray skies and a threat of rain. At Fitzharding Street Jeremy, feeling as bleak as the weather, set aside a note from his son with the pile of other mail beside his empty breakfast plate. Tobey missed him. The lad’s laborious effort to set those sentiments on paper in a letter included with his grandmother’s told volumes more about how much than the actual words he had chosen.

  Jeremy missed Tobey, too. He had tried to send a letter each day since he had arrived back in England, but the night before last he had been so busy digging through the señorita’s letters looking for Sweeney’s name, he had neglected his parental duty. He pictured Tobey, dark head bent over the task of writing, or eagerly watching for mail from the village. He knew that what seemed a small oversight at this end would create a large, disappointing hole in his son’s day at the other end.

  Shaking his head, Jeremy gathered up the mail and rose to go upstairs and dress. He had an appointment at ten o’clock with Mr. Fallesby, and he did not want to be late. Working on this case had turned his normally well-ordered priorities topsy-turvy. It was all the fault of a certain green-eyed lady whose real name he did not even know.

  He should have taken advantage of her distressed state yesterday to pursue a line of questions, but he had not been able to make himself do so. She had been too shaken by the incident at the Tower to stay there after meeting Timmins. The trio had left immediately, searching out another hackney to convey them back to Charles Street. She had offered no explanations, even though it was obvious that Jeremy and half the people in the Tower could not have helped hearing Timmins’ shouted comments.

  Her conversation with Timmins had given Jeremy an important new clue—Astorga. Something had happened there. It was obviously the link between the three men she was seeking, and apparently connected her and the sergeant to them as well. He should have at least found out if she intended to look for the third man, Pumphrey, but all he had managed was a suggestion that St. Paul’s was worth seeing. He had not even been able to bring himself to mention the speculations about “the Spanish Spitfire” that had appeared in The Morning Chronicle yesterday after her performance at Drury Lane. He had been too concerned for her emotional state and distracted by his own irrational urges. He had felt an overwhelming desire to knock Timmins flat and whisk the señora out of harm’s way when the man began to rail at her. Jeremy had wanted to protect and comfort her. This, when he did not even know what game she was playing or whose side she might be on!

  At least the puzzle pieces were beginning to come together. He wanted one more piece—some clue to her real identity—before he reported to his superiors. He had hopes that his interview with the solicitor this morning would give him that piece—if he played his cards cleverly enough. He had also put a man onto the task of checking the theater ticket offices in case that might help to locate the mysterious Sweeney. Perhaps this case would be closed soon, after all. The sooner, the better, before he began to feel any more inappropriate urges.

  The grayness of the day reflected Falcon’s state of mind that morning, also. Ever restless, she roamed through her sitting room in the lodging house, distraught and disconcerted. Her meeting with Timmins had rocked the foundations of everything she believed. During the five years she had spent waiting for it, she had imagined many scenarios and many ways to seek her revenge, but the reality had been nothing like any of her visions.

  Yes, she had wanted to instill fear when she met the three men again, if such a thing were possible. She had wanted to stir the ghosts of the past against them, and had hoped they would suffer nightmares and sleepless nights while visions of Astorga visited them. She had wanted them to wonder how their crime could come back to haunt them now—after five years of freedom, and in a place so far away. The beginning of her revenge was to have been watching them live in fear of they knew not what or who, never knowing if or when they would be called to pay for what they’d done. If that had not proven enough to unravel and destroy them, she would have pushed the stakes higher.

  It had seemed only a fitting retribution for the murder of her parents and the nightmare her own life had become ever since that day. But she had never imagined Timmins as such a sad shadow of the man he had been, half destroyed already. Oh, she had succeeded in her aim admirably, but she had never imagined how such success would make her feel. As she had watched him disintegrate and be led away, it felt as though she had thrust a knife into her own heart.

  Why did she feel so pained by what she had done? These men had murdered two loving, innocent people and left a young girl to die. Fully believing they had committed three murders, they had lied to cover up their crime and had gone on to live out their lives. They deserved to be punished, did they not? What the law had failed to do could still be achieved in other ways! Falcon was the only witness to their deed. Why else had she survived but to accomplish this? Her own reaction confused her profoundly.

  Seeking consolation, she opened the leather case that contained her mother’s harp and took out the instrument. As a child, she had always imagined that the angel carved on it was a special guardian. She ran her hands over the wooden fra
me, tracing the carved decorations. How much she had hoped to see the harp repaired and restrung. But for the loss of her trunk, she might have been playing this now, finding solace in its music instead of the object itself. She stroked a finger across the strings, releasing the discordant sound into the room. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the look of astonishment on her father’s face as the life went out of him. She could still hear her mother’s anguished cries cut short in an instant, as if it had only happened yesterday.

  She remembered little else of that day, but she remembered the looks on the faces of the three soldiers whose actions they had never expected. Timmins and Pumphrey had looked scared. She had never felt that excused them—she had scorned them as too weak to resist evil and had hated them for their weakness. Sweeney was the one who had looked absolutely unperturbed. She remembered watching him wipe her father’s blood off his sword.

  Falcon let the tears come, sitting down and cradling her mother’s harp against her. She would get herself in hand in a moment. Action was the only answer to this emotional pummeling. She had things to do.

  Jeremy sat on the bench in the outer office of Twyford, Fallesby, Grant and Cox, watching the clerks go about their business while they studiously ignored him. They had developed the art of being unimpressed to a fine degree, and it rather amused him. I’d wager that they would ignore Prinny himself once he stated his business, Jeremy thought.

  Eventually he was escorted up the stairs to Mr. Fallesby’s small, dark office and was seated in the large wing chair.

  “I salute your taste in furnishings, Mr. Fallesby. A man can actually be comfortable in a chair that offers so much space.”

  The venerable Mr. Fallesby merely looked up from the piece of paper he was studying. “And how may I help you, today, Lord Danebridge?”

  Jeremy had no objection at all to coming straight to the point. “I’ve come on a matter concerning a young woman who met with you two days ago. She was attired in Spanish style clothing at the time—I’m certain you know who I mean.” He gave the elderly attorney a knowing look, as if they were fellow conspirators sharing a secret.