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

by Brenda Hiatt

  Lord Danebridge had been right, she hated to admit. Shaken as she was, she wished he were there with her now. She had struggled for so long, having his help since she had arrived in London had been in many ways a blessed relief. But the price! Her doubts about his interest in her had been confirmed when he began making advances. She did not think she could live with herself if she gave in and repaid him in the way that he obviously desired.

  Quite unhappily, she named him as her reference.

  “Lord Danebridge? Hm.”

  She waited while the banker consulted a list among the vast piles of paper on his desk. Finally he looked up and with a lift of his eyebrows informed her, “I think we can do business, madam, after all.”

  Jeremy had spent his morning making lists of his own. One listed all the reasons that convinced him Doña Alomar de Montero was not who she claimed to be. Another set out everything he had learned about her business in England, and a third assembled the bits and scraps of information he had left over.

  Having thus prepared himself, he set off late in the morning for Hatchard’s Bookshop, where he intended to purchase a copy of the most recent guide to the Peers of England. If the current Earl of Coudray had inherited two years ago, his background should most certainly be included in the latest edition.

  Hatchard’s, as always, was busy. As many people congregated there for social reasons as they did to purchase books. Jeremy managed to catch the attention of a clerk, who directed him to the proper shelf for the popular and essential peerage guides.

  “Conyngham, Cornwallis, Cottenham,” read Jeremy, leafing through the newest volume. “Coudray, Earl of.” He quickly scanned the pages outlining the background of the sixth earl. What information he found there confirmed what he had gleaned from the solicitor, Mr. Fallesby. The current earl was the son of the fifth earl’s brother. He had come into the title two years ago. Jeremy did not care what schools the man had attended, that the family seat was in Kent, or that the earl had a house in Bedford Square near the British Museum. However, the book did mention that the original heir to the title, one Myles Anthony Colburne, son of the fifth earl, had died in 1808—in Spain.

  There had to be more to the story than that. Surely Colburne had a family. If the señora was his daughter, that would make her the present earl’s cousin. But the book was focused upon the peers of the realm, not those who had failed to achieve that status. Obviously Colburne had left no male heirs.

  Frustrated, Jeremy snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf. He was not in a buying mood. Why would Miss Colburne, granddaughter of the fifth Earl of Coudray, masquerade as a Spanish doña?

  He would try going back to his club. Perhaps today some of the older members who had known the old earl or who paid more attention to ancient gossip would be there.

  “Danebridge! You devil. Thought you were still gadding about the continent in the company of generals and statesmen,” called an acquaintance from the middle of a knot of gentlemen near the bookshop door.

  Damn! Jeremy was also not in the mood to trade quips with a bunch of idle gents who had nothing to do with their time. But they caught his attention with their next words.

  “What do you make of the news about Spain this morning? You are usually quite expert on the state of foreign affairs.”

  “What news?” Today Jeremy had not even glanced at any of the morning papers.

  They told him, and Jeremy slowly shook his head. “I believe, gentlemen, that King Fernando is making a bigger mistake than may ever be realized in his lifetime. It is a sad day for Spain.”

  The gentlemen nodded, sobered by his response. One perked up again immediately, however, saying, “’Spect we’ll be seeing you about town then, eh, Danebridge? Going to the ball for the Wallinghams’ chit? S’posed to be a new crop of charmers in attendance—good chance to look ’em over.”

  “P’rhaps he’s not interested, gents,” said another of the company. “I’ve heard he’s been seen escorting the beautiful Spanish Spitfire.”

  “I will be there, gentlemen.” So saying, he took his leave. He saw no point in mentioning that he would be escorting the lady in question and had no interest in looking over the “new crop.” He decided to stop in at Mrs. Isham’s before going to his club.

  Falcon had made ambitious plans when she’d set off for the bank that morning. Optimistic that she would have reasonable funds once she finished that first errand, she had told Triss and Maggie that when they were done at the bank they would visit the Royal Exchange and perhaps several other nearby “sights of London” such as the city’s famous Guildhall.

  She had it in mind to stop at Rudkin and Bowles to check on the repairs to her mother’s harp, and as they would not be far from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, it occurred to her also to check on the progress of Corporal Pumphrey, although she had not made up her mind about that. She did intend to redeem her looking glass, and she wanted to arrange at last to have boots made for Triss from the Spanish leather she had brought to him.

  Dazed by the mixed fortune she met at the bank, however, she was inclined to cancel most of these plans by the time the trio left that august institution. She explained to her companions the news she had received.

  “Sure and everyone’s thinkin’ tis such a grand thing to have their king back, and he goes and does this,” said Maggie, shaking her head. “Poor lambs, what will become of them?”

  Falcon was despondent. “Nothing good, of that we can be certain. Maggie, I feel so helpless, and cut off as well.”

  “Missy, there’s naught ’ee can do about it, terrible though it be,” Triss said. “We can go back to the lodgings, and ’ee can be miserable all day, or we can get on with the plans ’ee made, which might lighten yer ’eart a bit despite ’ow ’ee feels.”

  “Whisht, you’re only after havin’ your boots made, old fool. Sure and she has reason enough to feel miserable.”

  Falcon hardly heard them. “I wish I had written more than one letter to Don Andrés since my arrival off the ship. I purposely delayed, hoping that we’d recover the stolen banknotes, so I would have better news! Now that I have, the news from Spain is disastrous. What if he needs the money now more than we do? What if there is some way we could help him? I do not know if he will receive any letters I send now.”

  “Never you mind, lass. You’ll write to him anyway, and to Carmen and to Doña Luisa.” Maggie said. “Someone will see the letters delivered. Don Andrés and Doña Luisa have many loyal friends. Let us go see this Royal Exchange—tis only right there by the corner!”

  Falcon allowed them to persuade her, although her heart felt like lead. She could only hope it would prove as sturdy as that metal; she was not certain she could bear losing a family all over again.

  Jeremy, of course, was disappointed to learn that the señora was out when he called at Charles Street. He had better luck at his club; less than an hour after he settled himself in the coffee room of Brookes’s to peruse the morning newspapers, old Lord Saltersby came in. The venerable viscount was exactly the sort of character Jeremy was seeking—a man who could not always remember his way home, but whose mind was a veritable catalogue of the past triumphs and tragedies of the ton. He was exceedingly thin and moved with such stiffness to his limbs that one expected to hear an audible creak with each step he took. He had probably known the old Earl of Coudray quite well.

  Opening conversation with the news of the day about matters in Spain, Jeremy had no difficulty bringing up the topic of the late earl’s lamented heir.

  “Lamented? Huh! No such thing. Never forgave the boy for marrying an Irish chit,” Lord Saltersby informed Jeremy. “Not until it was too late, anyway.”

  So, Colburne had indeed married. Jeremy was already pleased. He could quite see where his mystery lady got her beautiful coloring—her Irish mother, the lady in the miniature. “What do you mean by ‘not until too late’?” he asked the viscount.

  The elderly lord shook his head. “Lad and his family
were all killed in Spain during Moore’s retreat early in the war. Lord Coudray never got over it—’twas too late to reconcile then, you see.”

  “Do you recall any details of what happened?”

  “Should never have bought the boy a commission in the first place. Foolish business! Ought to have a law against first-born sons in the military. You drinking coffee?”

  Jeremy sighed. “Tea,” he said, signaling to a waiter who was lurking by the door. “Now then, Lord Coudray’s son…?”

  “I have it. Captain Myles Anthony Colburne, late of the Forty-third Regiment, his wife and daughter…”

  Jeremy’s heart beat a little faster. Officer of the Forty-third. And there was a daughter! This was just what he wanted. The fellow sounded almost as if he were reading it from the day’s paper. Jeremy had heard of people who could remember anything they’d seen just once. Perhaps the old viscount was one of them.

  “It happened just before the turn of the new year. I can’t seem to recollect where…”

  Jeremy leaped into the breach. “Astorga?” It was only a guess.

  “Astorga. That could be it.” The old man paused as if searching for information from all that was stored in his brain.

  “Was it a battle? I don’t recall…”

  “No, no battle there.”

  Jeremy decided to try a different tack. “What about the Irish wife? I take it that Lord Coudray opposed the match?”

  “Stubborn fool, he was. Runs in that family. I met the girl once—charmer, she was. Strong-minded, too. Anyone could see they were inseparable, those two. The boy met her in Ireland while posted there with his first regiment. Moved up to Captain when he came into the Forty-third.”

  It all fit. The uniform and regalia she had, the miniatures. Except for the one thing. “You say the whole family was killed? How many children had they?”

  “Only the one daughter.”

  “So the title would have gone to the present line within a generation anyway, if he had lived.” Jeremy sighed. He still did not have all the pieces. But he had moved a giant step closer. “Thank you for talking with me, Lord Saltersby. Care for a newspaper? I think I see the waiter coming now with a fresh pot of coffee just for you.”

  Jeremy stopped by Mrs. Isham’s late that afternoon on his way home, and twice the next day, all without seeing Doña Alomar. She did not wish to see him until they were due to go to the theater, she insisted, according to Mrs. Isham’s footman.

  Jeremy wanted to know how she had managed at the bank, and he wanted to know if she was aware of the upheaval happening in Spain. More than that, he wanted to know what she thought about it, how she felt about it, and how it affected her. He wanted to know if she would give Tobey any more lessons. He wanted to know if she was Miss Colburne. He wanted—devil take it, he most wanted just to be with her. He finally admitted it to himself as he dressed for the theater Tuesday evening. He had not realized how difficult it would be to spend an entire day without her, let alone nearly two. It was a very bad sign.

  For once, she was not quite ready when he arrived at the lodgings in Charles Street. Mrs. Isham’s footman invited him to take a seat in the small parlor off the entry passage, but Jeremy did not sit. He prowled the perimeter of the room, fidgeting with the single cream-colored rose he had brought as a peace-offering. Had Anne ever reduced him to such a state of nervous anticipation? She must have, although he did not recall it. At any rate, he had been younger in the days when he had courted her. To be feeling this way now was quite ridiculous for someone of his age.

  A few minutes later he heard the señora’s light tread on the stairs and went out into the passage to meet her. Really, if she was Miss Colburne, he must stop thinking of her as a señora. But that was not yet proven.

  Whoever she was, she looked more magnificent this night than he had ever seen her. Under a light-weight opera cape of gray cloth lined with rose, she was wearing the green evening dress that had been in the missing trunk, along with the pearl and emerald jewels. Her black lace mantilla fell straight down her back from the high comb in her hair. She held her head proudly.

  “You look stunning,” he declared when she reached the last step. “All of London will fall at your feet tonight, without a doubt.”

  “All of London cannot possibly fit in the Covent Garden Theater,” she replied. With a graceful movement of her head, she adjusted her mantilla so it fell forward over her shoulders. He noticed, however, that she could not help smiling.

  “They may be lining the streets clamoring for a glimpse of you. May I be the first to pay homage?” He bowed and presented her with the rose. “I thought it was precisely the color of your skin.” The smooth softness of its petals had put him in mind of her skin as well, but he did not say so. It might be too much. He wanted the evening to go well, and was very pleased he had dissuaded his mother from accompanying them. “Now that I have put you and the rose together, I see that I am mistaken—you are fairer still than this poor flower.”

  “And you have primed your tongue with silver to speak like a bard. It is lovely, thank you. Are we seeing Shakespeare again this time?” She touched the rose against her cheek for just a moment, softness touching softness. Then, she tucked it behind her ear beneath the mantilla. The effect was very dashing.

  “We will see Shakespeare, but not his work.” At her puzzled look he laughed. “A statue of Shakespeare guards the stairway at Covent Garden, so we will undoubtedly see him. However, the play is a tale adapted from the Arabian Nights, called Shahzeman and Gulnare.”

  “Goodness! It sounds quite exotic.”

  It also sounded like something far less likely to take up all her attention as Richard the Third had done, Falcon thought. She had wondered more than once if she might not have found Sweeney the first time at Drury Lane if she had been less absorbed by the drama on the stage. But I was not expecting to see him then, she reminded herself. This time she had an advantage; she knew he had purchased tickets and she would be actively seeking him.

  She had vowed before God to find these men, trusting that she would know what to do when she found them. After her failure to exact retribution from Timmins and Pumphrey, Sweeney was the only one left. She had buried her rage so deeply during the years when she could do nothing, she dared not predict now what might occur when she allowed it to come out.

  There would be no compassion for Sweeney. He had been a leader. He had been her father’s fellow officer. His betrayal of that trust was nearly as shocking as the savagery of the crime he had committed. Even death seemed too easy a punishment for him. He did not seem human.

  Distracted by these thoughts in the carriage as it made its way to Covent Garden, she did not notice Lord Danebridge speaking to her until her took her hand.

  “You are lost in thoughts this evening,” he said, finally catching her attention. “I have asked you three questions and you have not responded to one of them. May I surmise that you are thinking about this fellow that you hope to find? Perhaps if you were to describe him to me, I would be better able to help you look for him.”

  How could she describe Sweeney? He is a monster disguised as an ordinary man. Yet of course the baron was right—it made sense to have two pairs of eyes searching the theater, for she had seen how large a place was Drury Lane, and she assumed the Covent Garden theater was equally grand.

  “He is not terribly distinctive,” she began. “He is perhaps a little tall—in fact, I suppose he would be said to possess an elegant figure. His hair is blond, or at least it was—how fortunate we are that it is the custom for the men to remove their hats! He is about your age. Do we know what sort of tickets he purchased? There are so many places to look! If we only knew whether he was to be seated in one of the galleries, or the boxes, or the pit… If he has seats above ours, we might never see him at all!”

  He placed her hand between both of his own and looked at her consideringly. “I can see how much this means to you. Have no doubt, if he is here, we shall find h
im.”

  His eyes held such strength and confidence, she could not help but believe him. She hated to admit that during her self-imposed separation she had missed him. She nodded. “Forgive me. What were the questions I so rudely ignored?”

  He chuckled. “I had asked if you met with success at the bank yesterday, and if you spent your time enjoyably these past two days.”

  That was only two. “You were right that I was viewed rather dubiously at the bank, but I am happy to report that I was successful in the end. I did give your name as a reference.”

  Had she spent her time enjoyably? She could not say so. After visiting the Royal Exchange and the Guildhall yesterday, she had stopped in briefly to check on her harp and tried unsuccessfully to redeem her looking-glass from the pawnbroker. She had then retired to Charles Street, lacking the heart to do more. Today she had stayed in, pondering the turn her life would soon take once she succeeded in finding Sweeney.

  “I thought I would find you in better spirits after our success on Sunday, señora. You must know by now that if there is any service at all that I may perform to help you, you need only speak.”

  Yes, she knew that. Perhaps his third question had been inquiring why she was so dispirited. “I thank you for that, but some things have no remedy,” she answered, unwilling to address it. “It is not your fault, or anyone’s.”

  They arrived at the theater some minutes later, but due to the traffic, they were not as early as they had hoped to be.

  “Let us descend from our carriage here and walk the rest of the distance—it is only a block or two. We will get there much sooner than if we wait here in the carriage until we reach the door,” Lord Danebridge said.

  He then revealed to her his plan: he had extravagantly purchased box seats on both sides of the theater. They would sit in one set of seats for the first half of the program, studying the theater and hunting for her quarry. They would change to the other seats during the interval, if they had not yet met with success, and study the audience again from the other side. This answered the problem of not seeing the galleries and slips situated above their own boxes.