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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “It was only a question.” Valerian tried, without much hope, to right the situation. “I thought we could be honest here in Heaven.”

  The image of the two Sevarics faded, and the wall reappeared. Francis moved, or floated, to Proctor, and the two engaged in a long whispered discussion. Now and again Valerian heard words like “recalcitrant,” “degenerate,” and “hopeless case.” His heart sinking, he wondered if he should go to his knees and beg another chance.

  But he couldn’t make himself do it. Not to Proctor, that marble-hearted, censorious brute. Obviously Proctor had never experienced any of the things that made life worth living—passion, curiosity, the sheer excitement of not knowing what the next moment would bring. Proctor had never been human. And if he was an angel, he gave the species a bad name.

  “For your sake only, Francis,” Proctor said finally, and even in his defiant mood, Valerian felt relief shoot through him. “With a soul like his to guard, I, too, should be close to despair. And don’t imagine I shall allow you to intercede on his behalf once we send him back. He must succeed, or fail, on his own.”

  As their voices lowered again, Valerian cocked his head, trying to hear their discussion. He wasn’t altogether sure they were truly speaking. All he sensed was a flow of energy between them.

  The energy flow increased, and Valerian could hear again. “Oh, very well, Francis, if you insist,” Proctor said grudgingly. “Now and again you may play a part, but I shall monitor you carefully. And his motives must be pure. Given his usual attitude, I doubt you’ll have occasion to take action.”

  Then, without seeming to move, Francis materialized at Valerian’s side, placing a hand on his forearm. Valerian saw it without feeling his touch.

  “Behave,” Francis whispered urgently. “Proctor is losing patience with you.”

  Brandy. Women. Life, Valerian reminded himself, mustering a tone of humility. “I apologize, gentlemen. Only tell me what you expect and I shall do my best.“

  From behind him, Valerian heard a grunt of disbelief. But the wall dissolved again and he saw a slender young man with his own green eyes, mobile mouth, and high cheekbones. There the resemblance ended. The youngster had a weak chin, dull brown hair, and the pastiness of a man who spent all his time indoors. Indeed, he was seated at a green baize table, holding a fistful of cards and wearing the grim expression of a loser.

  “Robin Caine.” To judge from the dry tone, Proctor disapproved of this young man even more than of Valerian. “Viscount Lynton, the great-great-grandson of your elder brother. You see what a poor specimen your family has dwindled to. He is addicted to drink and gaming, not unlike yourself at his age. Indeed, he has no other interests. In our opinion he is a lost cause, at least in his current existence, and we shall not hold you responsible for salvaging him. But you will have to deal with him nonetheless, hence the introduction.”

  Robin’s image faded, to be replaced by a lovely girl. Valerian sat up straight, something like a pulse thrumming in his veins.

  “Dorothea Caine,“ Proctor said. “Robin’s sister.”

  Like Sevaric, Dorothea was frowning, only this frown was more fetching, the slightest wrinkle between her perfectly arched brows. Wherever she was, the sun must be shining, because she raised her hand to shield her gray-green eyes. With the other hand, she brushed aside a windblown strand of auburn hair. What she looked at must have pleased her, for the frown dissolved into a sweet secret smile.

  Now this is a Caine, he thought—full-blooded and true-bred. Almost, Valerian felt a twinge of desire. But a liaison with Dorothea would border on some sort of incest, he reckoned, even though a century separated them. Still, he’d always enjoyed the company of beautiful women, whether or not he could bed them.

  His task, whatever it was, appeared more promising, or at least more interesting, with Dorothea in the picture.

  The wall became a wall again and Proctor moved in front of him, a stern look on his gaunt face. “All four of these people are unhappy, for different reasons. It will be your responsibility to change that, save for Robin. He need not concern you.” Proctor looked up, concentrating fiercely, as if communing with Something or Someone elsewhere. Then he nodded and focused his cold, colorless eyes on Valerian.

  “You will be granted one month, by Earth-time, to fulfill your tasks. When you take form again, remember that on Christmas morning the feud must be at an end. Moreover, Dorothea Caine, Max Sevaric, and Gwendolyn Sevaric must be happy and at peace. Now, as I have far, far better things to do, I will leave Francis to explain the rest.”

  “You think I will fail,” Valerian said flatly.

  “Yes.” Proctor’s image began to shimmer. “I greatly fear that all too soon, you will be back to torment me. But if it matters, no creature in the universe wants you to succeed more than I do.”

  In a blink, Proctor disappeared.

  “Well.” Valerian lapsed back in his chair with a sigh. “I’m glad he isn’t God.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there actually a God, Francis, or is this all some never-ending nightmare?”

  Francis’s face glowed brightly. “Of course God exists. He is, always was, always will be. What is the point otherwise?”

  “I have no idea,” Valerian said glumly. Brandy. Women. Life. That was the point, he told himself. “So, what happens next?”

  “You will be returned to Earth, one hundred years after your last visit there. I shall provide you with everything you require to get started, but beyond that I must leave you on your own. To others, you will appear perfectly normal, and in most ways you can function like a mortal man. Alas, that means you are subject to all the foibles and temptations you experienced when you were truly alive. Your ability to resist and overcome your own faults will determine your success.”

  “You sound nearly as pessimistic about that as Proctor.” Valerian stood. “If I’ve been dead for a century, Francis, how will I know how to go on? Surely things have changed.”

  “Human nature has not. As for the details, you must be clever and improvise.” He stepped forward and placed his fingertips at Valerian’s temples. “Are you prepared to go?”

  “Yes. Wait! One question first. If God exists, why is Proctor in charge of everything?”

  “But he is not,” Francis said kindly. “Proctor manages a portion of Creation, nothing more. There are many others like him, appointed to deal with galaxies and worlds you cannot begin to imagine.”

  Valerian frowned. “But why would a deity leave a whole universe in the hands of stiff-rumped bureaucrats?”

  “That you must ask Him, son, if ever you have the opportunity. For the most part, God communes with those who reach out to him in sincere and selfless prayer.” Francis sighed. “There are few enough of those. Most who pray are greedy and ask for foolish things. I’ve always suspected He devotes Himself to innocent babies because only they are pure of soul. I know that I would do that, given the chance.”

  “Instead, you are stuck with me.”

  Francis gazed solemnly into his eyes. “I do His will. Perhaps you will remember me, Valerian, when you return to Earth. I do not know. But I shall be with you, always praying for your success.“

  “Pray hard, Francis. I want nothing more than to reclaim my life just as it was when I left it.”

  Francis began to shimmer, and Valerian caught his last words from what seemed like a great distance.

  “I want better for you than that.”

  Chapter 1

  November, 1816

  His nose was cold.

  Valerian reached automatically to rub it and realized that he actually felt the touch of a leather glove against flesh. His eyes shot open.

  The dark bare branches of a tree met his gaze. Beyond the tree, he saw the pale blue of a winter sky. He was seated on a wrought-iron bench in what appeared to be a park. Distantly, he heard the rattle of wheels, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and the sound of human voices.

  By God, he was alive!

  For a few mi
nutes he savored the pleasure of simple physical sensations. Sucking in a long breath of cool air, he expelled it and watched steam rise from his lips. He wriggled his toes, flexed his arms, and yawned deliciously.

  Alive, sentient, everything intact.

  It occurred to him that while all his parts appeared to be in place, they might not be the same parts that had presumably been entombed in the Caine family vault a century ago.

  He was wearing a heavy, ankle-length coat with capes at the shoulders. Undoing the buttons, he opened it and stretched out his legs. Supple boots, sporting tassels, reached to just below his knees. From there, a fawn-colored fabric was practically molded to his thighs. With some pleasure, he recognized his own well-shaped, muscular legs and the prominent, clearly defined bulge at their apex.

  No complaints so far, he thought, examining a waistcoat which, to his astonishment, halted at his waist instead of reaching to midthigh. It was singularly devoid of embroidery. Over it, a dark-blue jacket with brass buttons was similarly plain.

  English fashion had certainly declined since his previous lifetime. Still, his chest remained broad and his shoulders wide. He peeled off a glove. His hands had been among his chiefest vanities, and he was relieved to see once again the long slender fingers, graceful and strong, always admired by the ladies.

  He felt his face and it, too, was familiar, but when he reached behind his neck to touch his hair, his hand met on a high collar. He removed his curly-brimmed, unadorned hat, horrified to discover that his thick, luxuriant hair was clipped to scarcely an inch in length anywhere on his scalp. He plucked a few strands and examined them closely. Chestnut brown, with a hint of auburn. Still his own hair, what was left of it.

  Damn. He had loved the sensation of a woman’s fingers loosing the ribbon at his queue, stroking his long hair as he kissed her and becoming entangled as he drove her to climax.

  No lace at his wrists, and none at his throat—only a starched cloth wrapped around his neck. So far, he had no reason to admire the modern age. Or perhaps he had been revivified as a working man, one who couldn’t afford fancy dress. He supposed he should be grateful. Proctor might have materialized him as a beggar wearing rags.

  But rubbing the coat’s lapel between his fingers, he discerned quality in the fabric and cut. This was most certainly gentleman’s garb.

  The gentlemen of the nineteenth century, he concluded, were a benighted lot.

  Once he’d rediscovered his physical form, he had time to wonder where he was. Coming to his feet, he followed a narrow path through the copse of oaks until he came to an open patch of winter-brown grass. Just beyond was the curve of a busy road, and with some relief, he recognized it immediately.

  This was Hyde Park, the eastern edge near Park Lane.

  But nothing else was familiar. The road was wider and the traffic heavier than he remembered. In his day, only the wealthiest Londoners could afford to ride rather than walk, but now he counted dozens of carriages rushing by. Perhaps in the century past, London had become more affluent, or the carriages had become cheaper as well as lighter and more graceful.

  He did see a few pedestrians on the side paths, swathed in heavy cloaks against the chill. Even the gentlemen looked drab as sparrows. And where were their weapons? No courtier in Valerian’s day would stride about the streets without a fine short sword to ward off footpads or respond to an impromptu challenge.

  London must have become damnably dull in his absence.

  Across the way he saw a row of ground-floor shops. With windows. The weak winter sun glanced off the glass, turning it mirrorlike. Valerian felt a surge of excitement. Now he could see if he retained the good looks that his women loved.

  Of course, it meant risking his life. Cautiously, he approached the road edge. A coal wagon sped by, followed closely by an odd-looking contrivance drawn by two horses, the driver perched on a flimsy bench high above large, narrow wheels. Steeling himself, Valerian waited for the next break in traffic and then dashed across the street. He barely missed getting stomped by a rearing cart horse, but made it safely to the other side. Taking a relieved breath, he approached a shop window to examine his reflection.

  And saw nothing. Or, rather, he saw people passing behind him on the walk, and vehicles in the street. He touched the pane of glass where his face should have been looking back at him. It was solid and ungiving.

  By the rood, was he invisible? A ghost in fact, even though he could see and feel his body when he looked directly at his hands and legs and feet?

  Valerian planted himself in the middle of the walk to test the reaction of passersby. A gentleman took care to walk around him, and a pair of young women giggled and regarded him from beneath fluttering lashes before separating to go by. He turned and doffed his hat when he saw they had paused to look back at him. Giggling even louder, they scurried away.

  Yes, indeed, other people could see him. But why could he not see his own reflection? He spied a haberdashery two shops down and entered. Immediately a clerk hurried to assist him, bowing obsequiously and nattering about the fine quality of Mason-David’s headwear.

  Valerian ignored him and marched directly to a large cheval mirror. He saw only an earnest young man holding out a tall-crowned felt hat for the approval, apparently, of the adjacent hat rack.

  ’Struth, he must be invisible only to himself. Others, like this shop boy, found nothing amiss. That was a relief. But his inability to see his reflection was a subtle reminder that he existed in this world only by the grace of Proctor, and only for a short few weeks.

  In that time, he had to make the acquaintance of three people he wasn’t sure he could recognize, assuming he was able to locate them at all in this teeming city. He had to get to know them well enough to end a feud he didn’t understand. Then he must see to it they were happy by Christmas Day.

  Suddenly aware of the awesome task that lay ahead of him, he walked past the disappointed shop attendant and out into the chill afternoon. He stood at the street corner, gazing left and right, debating his next move. He had to track down the Sevarics and the Caines, and they might not even be in London.

  A few yards away, a handsome black carriage lumbered to a halt. He was wondering how one went about hiring such a conveyance when the door opened and three women emerged and walked toward him.

  Valerian found himself face-to-face with the plain girl he had last seen on a blank wall, handing a cup to Maximilian Sevaric.

  Gwendolyn. The freckle-faced sister. She was flanked on one side by a plump, elderly woman who regarded him with apparent approval. To her left, a beautiful and lissome blond lady gazed at him with even greater delight.

  Automatically, he removed his hat and made a gallant leg. The blonde and the old lady smiled. The ginger-haired girl frowned, hooked her arms around the elbows of her companions, and drew them past, the heels of her half boots clicking on the pavement.

  It was a miracle. Here was the very girl he had been seeking, walking down the street. She would lead him to the others, and they would lead him back to his former life.

  It must have been Francis’s doing. No doubt Proctor would rather have revivified him in distant Devonshire, but Francis had his interests at heart. Here he was, at the right time, in the right place, and with the right girl in sight.

  Turning on his heel, he followed the three women from a distance, pondering what to do next. Ladies of Quality spoke to no man before being formally introduced, at least when he had been t’other side of the grave. And if the lovely blonde seemed ready to violate that social rule, Gwendolyn did not.

  He trailed them for several blocks, fading back into the crowd whenever they stopped to look in a shop window. When they turned into a side street, he halted, momentarily confused. There was nothing in that direction, was there?

  But in the century he had been dead, everything had changed. Doubtfully, he approached the corner and found beyond it a street where there had once been nothing but a rocky field. The ladies were a dozen y
ards ahead, entering an establishment with a sign over the doorway that read Gunter’s.

  What sort of place was it? he wondered. Would a man go in there? He certainly didn’t want to follow them into a shop that specialized in lady’s undergarments. Crossing the street, he leaned against a brick wall and tried to look inconspicuous.

  After a few minutes, it occurred to him to check his clothes for pockets. Sure enough, in the greatcoat he found a card labeled “Pulteney’s Hotel,” followed by an address. He recognized the street, but not the establishment.

  Much to his astonishment, there was also a pocket in one of the odd, tail-like contrivances hanging over his buttocks. What had possessed men, he wondered, to abandon jackets that ended evenly at the knees, back to front? Glancing down, he couldn’t help but admire the fitted breeches that sculpted his legs, but those tails! Most absurd.

  The pocket held a slender wallet containing folded paper. Money, he decided after studying the notes, although he had no idea how much they were worth. Whatever happened to gold and silver coins?

  With a sigh, he edged around the corner and folded his arms, deciding to wait out of sight until Gwendolyn emerged. Then he would follow her, at a distance, and discover where she lived. Now and again he saw people hailing coaches that were clearly for hire. What would he do if Gwendolyn did the same and made off before he could discover her direction?

  Nearly half an hour passed before he saw the three women come out of Gunter’s and stroll down the street, chatting happily. When Gwendolyn glanced over her shoulder, he ducked into a tobacco shop, and when he emerged, they had disappeared.

  Breathlessly, he hurried in the direction they’d been walking, but he had lost them. He went back to the closest intersection and tried three directions before spotting the plumed lavender hat of the blond beauty half a block ahead. The ladies had paused to look at something in a shop window. Once again he turned his back, pretending to examine a display of chamber pots in the window next to him. Those looked the same, at least in shape, he decided, although he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to pizzle in a pot adorned with lilies and nymphs.