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

by Brenda Hiatt

  When the ladies moved on he edged closer, casting about for some excuse to approach Gwendolyn again. Devil take it, how was he to make contact? Any moment now she might hail a vehicle and disappear.

  Recklessly, he wished for another miracle. If one of those coaches swept down as she crossed the street, he could leap out and save her. The drama of it tickled his fancy, and it was several moments before he realized his fantasy was coming true.

  At the next intersection, Gwendolyn moved ahead of the other women, speaking to them over her shoulder. At the same time, from a few yards away, something frightened a pair of matched grays pulling an elegant carriage. Panicked, they raced directly toward Gwendolyn.

  He was almost too late. Barely in time he launched himself into the street and managed to shove her away from the stampeding horses. Something hit him hard aside the head and he rolled into the gutter.

  As consciousness faded, he heard screams and saw the blond woman leaning over him. Not you, he thought with a twinge of regret. I don’t need you.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Two

  “He’ll live,” said a high-pitched male voice. “Beyond that I dare not prognosticate. Head injuries are unpredictable, and he has been unconscious a long time. That does not bode well.”

  Valerian lifted his eyelids a fraction. Slowly the room took focus—a bedroom, pleasantly furnished. It was late afternoon, to judge by the light slanting in through the window. He was lying in bed, covered with a soft blue wool blanket. At the foot of the bed was a short man in a black frock coat and bagwig. The sunlight glinted off the gold head of his cane. A physician, he realized, obscurely comforted to learn that at least the medical men still dressed properly.

  The physician was speaking to a broad-shouldered man. Maximilian Sevaric. Careful not to move, Valerian peered at them through his lashes. Once the roar in his ears subsided, he could even hear them.

  “So what are the possible consequences?” Sevaric’s voice was deep, authoritative, and impatient. “He saved my sister’s life, Dr. Murkin. I want him to have the best of treatment.”

  “I’ve cleaned the scalp wound,” the doctor said calmly. “He has no other injuries, beyond a few scrapes and bruises. But if there is swelling in the brain, he may well be mentally disordered for some time. Loss of memory, that sort of thing. Usually it is temporary, but complete amnesia is not unheard of. We’ll know nothing more until he wakes up.”

  When Sevaric glanced in his direction, Valerian immediately closed his eyes.

  Amnesia. The perfect solution! How better to account for his failure to know how the world went on during the hundred years he was dead? Casting back, he found no Proctor-implanted knowledge. The last he recalled, it was 1716, and George I was King of England.

  “And my sister?” Sevaric’s boots clicked as he paced the floor. “Was she hurt?”

  “Minor scratches and bruises. She insisted I see to the gentleman first, but I’ll tend her wounds now. Where is she?”

  Valerian heard more footsteps, the sound of a door closing, and low voices from an adjacent room. When he was sure he was alone, he opened his eyes and looked around curiously.

  The bedchamber was small and simply appointed. No heavy canopy or brocade drapes around the bed, alas. And he was clad in a linen nightshirt, the first time he’d ever worn anything in bed.

  His head throbbed abominably. Proctor’s little joke, no doubt. Apparently he was to experience all the dire consequences of being alive, although he wasn’t. Not really. Or was he?

  Tossing back the covers, he stumbled to the dressing table and looked into the mirror. Still nothing. “Francis?” He pressed his hand to his temple to stop the pounding so he could hear better. “What are the rules?”

  But all he heard were voices from the hallway, and as the door opened, he dove under the covers and lay like one dead.

  “Do you know this man?” That was Max Sevaric.

  “Never saw him until now,” replied a haughty male voice. “Did I fail to make myself clear? The agency sent me to the Pulteney Hotel with instructions to present myself to a Mr. Jocelyn Vayle. His luggage had been delivered and a reservation secured, but the gentleman had yet to arrive.”

  Jocelyn Vayle? Was that supposed to be his name? And who was the man who arrived to meet this Jocelyn Vayle? Valerian decided it was time to regain consciousness. Emitting a low moan, he shifted on the bed and opened his eyes.

  A pair of rather lovely hazel eyes, flecked with gold, stared down at him from a few inches away. Skeptical eyes, in a feminine face.

  “Ah. I rather thought he was awake,” Gwen said crisply. “His mouth was twitching.”

  It was not, he wanted to say, offended. Forcing a disoriented expression, he groaned deeply. There was nothing like a play for sympathy to win over the ladies.

  Gwen, still bent over him for a close inspection, didn’t seem impressed. “He looks fine to me,” she declared, leaning back.

  “Thank God.” Max came to her side, and soon the bed was surrounded with people, all gazing at him from close range.

  Valerian felt like a particularly interesting bug pinned to a blotter. “Wh-where am I?” he murmured.

  “You were brought to my home after the accident,” Max told him. “I am Max Sevaric.”

  “Accident?” Valerian reached to his head. This time he didn’t have to fake the groan. “I don’t remember. What happened?”

  “A carriage nearly ran my sister down, and you pushed her out of the way just in time. You have no recollection of it?”

  “Is she all right?” Valerian interrupted. “Your sister. Was she hurt?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Gwen put in. “Surely you cannot have forgot an act of supreme heroism?” Her voice was tinged with sarcasm.

  He sighed soulfully. “I’m afraid so. But I am glad to have been of service, if indeed I was.”

  “I warned you,” the doctor said to Max in an undertone. “Clearly his mind is uncertain.”

  The devil you say, Valerian almost retorted, but instead he brought his brows together in a frown of concentration. “Disordered? Is it? ’Struth, my head hurts like the devil, though I can see you well enough and your words make sense. But I don’t know who you are.” His brow furrowed. “Now that I consider it, I don’t know who I am.”

  “Oh, my.” The pudgy woman from the corner of the bed laid a hand on her heart and tilted her head as if praying. “The poor boy.”

  Valerian recognized the elderly lady who had been walking with Gwen before the accident. Her chaperone, he supposed. He could already tell she was much kinder than her young charge. He winced a bit in her direction, and she said “Oh, my” again and patted the coverlet over his leg.

  “There is nothing to worry about just now. You’ll be better in a trice.” Despite his bracing words, Max wore a look of concern. “And your name is Jocelyn Vayle.”

  “Are you sure?” Valerian managed another frown, though all that manipulation of his brow made his bruised temple ache the worse. “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “We found calling cards in the pocket of your coat, and the address of the Pulteney Hotel written on one of them. Apparently you were expected there. I sent a footman to inquire, and he has just now returned with your luggage and valet.”

  Valerian’s gaze shifted to the slender man with a hooked nose and colorless eyes. He was standing behind Gwen, an expression of imperious indifference on his face. He didn’t look like a valet, but perhaps in this benighted century, valets no longer looked like servants. “You are my valet?”

  “If you approve.” Only a fool would not, his tone implied. An insolent instant too late, he added, “Sir. I am Clootie. Sent by the Hobson Agency. You may be assured I have vast experience in all matters of proper attire and am wholly dedicated to fulfilling your every wish.”

  It was an odd thing for a manservant to say. But Clootie could only be an emissary from the Powers. Such a haughty valet would appeal to Pro
ctor’s perverse sense of irony.

  On pure instinct, Valerian disliked the man. He put it down to Clootie’s association with Proctor. But there was nothing for it but to rub along as best they could. Heaven knew he required a valet, as he couldn’t shave or dress himself without the use of a mirror.

  Gwen bent over him again. It was a solicitous pose, but there was no hint of solicitude in her narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “Do you truly remember nothing of the accident, Mr. Vayle? Not your name, or where you came from? What is the very last thing you recall?”

  He made a helpless gesture. He could hardly reply , but he worried she might detect a direct lie. She had sharp eyes.

  “Gwen.” Max tugged her away from the bed. Valerian instantly warmed to him. “Mr. Vayle has been injured. We must not press him.”

  “Exactly.” The doctor stopped gathering up his supplies long enough to say firmly, “He must rest. Only with rest can he be expected to recover his memory.”

  “Perhaps there are clues in his luggage,” Gwen said stubbornly. “I shall examine the contents and—”

  “Oh my, that would not be proper,” the older woman protested. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You cannot rummage through a gentleman’s unmentionables, Gwen.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Max said, “but only if you’ve no objection, Mr. Vayle.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Valerian replied, waving his hand. “At least, I hope that is the case. Do let me know what you find, because no one is more curious than I about my past.” That was the right note to strike, he thought, concerned but admirably candid. “And where am I to go from here, Lord Sevaric? I cannot impose on your hospitality much longer. Did I perchance have any money in my pockets?”

  “A hundred pounds,” Max said, as if it were no great sum. “But you are not to think of leaving until your health is recovered. We are obliged to you, Mr. Vayle, and Sevarics always honor their debts.”

  Sevaric. Even after a century, that name unnerved him. Once, a man who looked very much like this Max had shouted, “Sevarics always avenge dishonor!”

  The room suddenly felt close and hot. Valerian turned a wavering smile on the five people hovering over him. “Forgive me, but I fear I require a bit of privacy. And perhaps the services of my valet for a few minutes.”

  Max understood and gestured commandingly toward the door. Within seconds the room was vacated except for Clootie, who fetched the chamber pot from under the bed.

  “I seem to be functioning normally,” Valerian said when the valet had resettled him under the sheets.

  “Whyever not?” Clootie inquired over his shoulder as he carried the ceramic container into the privy room.

  Valerian had not realized he spoke aloud and reminded himself that he must be careful. What amazed him would seem ordinary to everyone else. They would not understand that he was feeling out the parameters of his new existence. But he could always invoke the head injury to explain his disorientation.

  “Are you familiar with London?” he asked when Clootie returned.

  “Of course.” The valet’s lips stretched into a thin, knowing smile. “Especially the sorts of places a young gentleman might enjoy visiting. You have only to inquire.”

  Apparently in this century valets functioned as panderers as well as dressers. It was something to keep in mind, certainly. “Perhaps later,” Valerian temporized. “First we ought to come to terms, I suppose. I would like to employ you, but for some reason I expect my stay to be temporary.”

  “My wages were paid in advance,” Clootie replied. Again he smiled in that knowing way, a smile that never made it to his eyes. “For precisely one month.”

  No doubt about it, this man had been sent by Proctor. Could Clootie be, in fact, his Guardian in disguise? It was quite a disguise, if so. “Would your first name happen to be Francis?”

  Clootie’s eyes flashed. “Indeed not. Why would you think so?”

  Valerian settled back onto the pillows, oddly disappointed. Francis, he knew somehow, wouldn’t lie. “I meant no offense. Perhaps you remind me of someone I once knew.”

  “That may well be true,” Clootie said, his voice ominous. “But I can assure you, his name was not Francis.”

  Before Valerian could follow up on that curious statement, Max entered the room, his arms full of paper.

  “I’ve brought a few newsrags, if you feel up to scanning them. A name, or an event, may prod your memory.” He put them on the table beside the bed. “Clootie, a cot in the dressing room next door is being readied for you. You may go and unpack Mr. Vayle’s luggage. And Vayle, the doctor says you are to sleep as much as possible. Use the bellpull if you require any service.” He nodded and left.

  A military man indeed, Valerian reflected as Clootie exited without a word. Max Sevaric knew how to give orders.

  He stared at the ceiling. In the center was a plaster medallion of a star radiating beams. “Francis? Are things going as they ought?”

  Silence.

  Without pleasure, Valerian considered that he might have to accomplish his tasks without Heavenly Help. A nuisance, that. But he shouldn’t forget Clootie, though the help he had suggested wasn’t precisely heavenly. The addresses of places where young men enjoyed themselves. After a century spent nowhere, he was ready for a bit of enjoyment.

  He was lying. About what, Gwen didn’t know. But she trusted her instincts, and they were shrieking. Jocelyn Vayle, if that was his true name, was a liar.

  The amnesia was suspect enough, and all those groans were a bit too theatrical to be plausible. Still, she might have dismissed her suspicions as fanciful if she hadn’t been watching his face when Max invited him to stay. She couldn’t mistake the gleam of triumph in her rescuer’s green eyes. He had been counting on this very opportunity.

  The hall was deserted as she waited outside the sickroom door. As soon as her brother came out, she took him by the arm and pulled him into the little sitting room she shared with Winnie.

  Max was clearly annoyed by her high-handedness, but he closed the door and with exaggerated patience, gestured her to speak.

  Gwen took a deep breath and launched into her prepared monologue. Unfortunately, she was too upset to give it in the way she had prepared, in the quiet reasonable tone that worked best with her brother. “Max, what are you thinking, inviting him to take up residence with us? We don’t know anything about him!” Even to her own ears, her question sounded more like an accusation.

  And as she might have predicted, Max’s face grew cold and stern. “He saved your life. That’s all I need to know, and all you need to know.”

  Stay calm, she told herself. Reasonable. She sat on the edge of the couch and clasped her hands in her lap in a penitent manner. “Yes, he did rescue me. And it’s not that I fail to be grateful, for I am. But Max, he could be anyone! He won’t give us a spoonful of information about his past, so that we might question his friends and family.”

  “He doesn’t know his past, do you recall? He lost his memory by taking the impact that might have killed you.”

  Her hands unclasped and then tightened into fists. “Don’t you think that was rather convenient, this loss of memory?”

  “Convenient? Blasted inconvenient, I’d say. And if you’re implying he’s lying about it, you’re wrong. I’ve seen the same thing many times after a battle. It usually doesn’t last, this loss of memory, but it’s disorienting. Went through it myself after Ciudad Rodrigo. I knew my name well enough, but couldn’t remember any of the events of the battle. Shock, you know.”

  “Perhaps.” Gwen couldn’t disguise her skepticism.

  Her brother’s face clouded over. “What are you suggesting?”

  “If he’s lost his memory, how is it he came to call you ‘Lord Sevaric’? You introduced yourself as Max Sevaric. How does he know you are a lord?”

  Max shook his head. “What a mind you have, to seize on a detail like that. He might have seen a coat of arms somewhere. Or looked around him and pre
sumed this was a nobleman’s house. Needn’t be any suspicious reason at all.”

  “But I saw the look in his eyes when you invited him to stay with us. He was almost gleeful, as if his plan had succeeded.”

  “His plan? What plan? Come now, Gwen, you can’t think that he arranged that carriage accident? Threw himself in front of it? Risked his life just to insinuate himself into our household? What possible reason could he have?”

  Put that way, it did seem rather unlikely. But Gwen couldn’t give it up. “He might be a criminal, in hiding from the law. Or he could be hoping to steal something from us.”

  “What rubbish!”

  The sun was setting outside, and Max crossed to the table and turned up the lamp. In the glow that framed him, Gwen could see his jaw tightening.

  “He’s an honest fellow, I can tell. And a courageous one, too, with quick instincts. I’d have him guard my back without a qualm.”

  Gwen sighed and let it drop. Her brother was a plain man. Oh, not in appearance. He had, as their mother used to declare, got all the family’s dark dramatic looks, and now, scowling at her, resembled nothing so much as one of Lord Byron’s heroes.

  But in his character, Max was plain. Even simple. He had no patience with ambiguity. A man was good, or he was bad, and a bad man couldn’t have a good trait like courage. Her rescuer had courage, and therefore he must be entirely good.

  She sometimes wished she could share her brother’s idealism, but she had been born a skeptic. And life had done nothing to dispel her belief that appearances couldn’t be trusted, especially where men were concerned.

  Certainly this man’s appearance—so demonically tempting—couldn’t be trusted. She’d known that the moment she first saw him, those startlingly clear green eyes narrowed at her in surprise and anticipation. He didn’t look at her as a man might look at a woman he wanted. Gwen had never been the recipient of such a look, but she had seen enough of them directed at her friend Anathea to know the difference.