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

by Brenda Hiatt

  For a moment, the battle between duty to his houseguest and a chance to reminisce with his friends held Max in place. Before he could make the wrong choice, Vayle bowed and headed for a pair of doors guarded by two stern-faced footmen. The last thing he wanted was a moralistic ex-soldier hovering over him while he tossed the dice. A good man, Sevaric, but not the life of any party.

  The footmen bowed and opened the doors. Vayle entered a large, high-ceilinged room wreathed in cigar smoke and echoing with noise. The edgy excitement of gamesters charged the air. For the first time since waking up in the nineteenth century, Vayle felt right at home.

  He ambled from table to table, smiling when anyone glanced his way. For the most part, the men were intent on cards, dice, and one another, giving him a chance to observe the games in play.

  After two circuits of the room, Vayle swore under his breath. Now and again a game looked familiar, but closer examination proved otherwise. How was he to join in without knowing the rules?

  He decided to study a single game until he learned it. At the first table he approached, however, play was just breaking up. A young man, his head bent as he scribbled on a scrap of paper, muttered, “I’m played out, gentlemen. Here are my vowels, and you may be sure I shall honor them.”

  The other players gathered in the paper scraps and rose. One cast a disgusted look at the loser. “See that you do. Another delay like the last one and you’ll be blackballed.”

  They moved away, leaving the young man sitting alone, face buried in his hands. Auburn glinted in the brown of his hair. The sleeves of his coat were slightly frayed.

  Vayle started to back away, leaving the man to his misery, but then a shaking hand reached for a glass. He saw a pale-green bloodshot eye, a cheek puffy with drink and exhaustion, the corner of a turned-down, sulky mouth.

  Robin Caine! He was sure of it when the other hand fell to the baize table, revealing the face of a man about five years younger than he. Give or take a hundred years, of course.

  So this is what the charming, devil-may-care Caines had degenerated to—a listless, sotted wretch. No wonder the Afterlife Powers deemed him unsalvageable. At least Vayle didn’t have to worry about saving this loser. In contrast, enrapturing the grim Gwen seemed a simple task.

  But why was this pathetic young man a hopeless cause while a dedicated sinner like Vayle was accorded a second chance? Curiosity drew him to the table.

  “Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said with his sweetest smile. “But I am new to London and have no acquaintance among these gentlemen. You appear to be alone, so I thought perhaps…?” He let his voice fade into a hopeful question.

  Robin’s careless gesture sloshed brandy out of his glass, staining the sheet from which he had torn his vowels. “You shan’t gild your reputation by associating with the likes of me, but sit if you like. I could use the company, and my credit is good enough to buy you a drink. Tonight, at any rate. I don’t expect I’ll be welcomed at White’s in the future.”

  No great loss, Vayle thought privately as he took a chair across the table from Robin. However high-stakes the play, this gentleman’s club lacked an essential ingredient. He preferred a salon that provided an opportunity for gaming with a woman by one’s side, her soft breasts catching the light, she on fire at the heady action at the table and the sport to come. Ah, that was how a man should spend his evenings.

  But so long as he had to wait here, he might as well get to know his great-great-grand-nephew. This was Dorothea Caine’s brother, and he could provide an address for her. Vayle would have to be careful not to arouse suspicion, though.

  As Robin stared morosely at his empty glass, Vayle summoned a waiter. Soon a bottle of aged cognac was delivered. “Sevaric will sign for this,” he told the man.

  Robin’s head shot up.

  The servant lifted an eyebrow but nodded and moved away.

  “I’ll not drink anything a Sevaric paid for,” Robin declared with a return of spirit. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he regarded Vayle. “And what is your connection to that blackguard?”

  Caution, Vayle told himself. He would never get information about Dorothea if Robin distrusted him. Casually he replied, “I am his houseguest, but only because he took me in when I was injured in an accident. I scarcely know the man.” He filled both glasses and lifted his own in a toast. “To good times. I am Jocelyn Vayle, by the way.”

  Temptation proved stronger than suspicion. Robin swallowed a mouthful and then another before wiping his chin with his sleeve. “Robin Caine, Viscount Lynton, but call me Robin. My ancestors would turn over in their graves if they heard me use the title. Nothing left of it but an inscription in some old registers anyway.”

  “Indeed? I fancied that viscounts inherited estates and fortunes as a matter of course.”

  “They sometimes do, and I might have. But I got only a few derelict properties after my uncle gambled the good ’uns away.” He gulped down the rest of his brandy and held out his glass for more. “So I managed to lose most of those and what remained of the family fortune. Hardly matters, does it? When I die, the title will revert to the Crown and there will be nothing left. Nothing at all.”

  At this bleak prediction, Vayle’s heart sank. “Surely matters are not so grim. One day you’ll marry and sire an heir.”

  Robin laughed mirthlessly. “Marry? Who would marry a Caine?”

  It was too much to take in. In his day, even Caine younger sons were highly prized on the marriage market. Why, Vayle himself could have claimed an earl’s daughter, had he been of any mind to wed. And now Robin, who ought to know, was sneering that no one would marry a Caine.

  Vayle wasn’t going to waste his concern on Robin, who was no part of his task. Besides, this poor wastrel was likely to put a bullet in his head before he could get to the altar. But Dorothea… How could he be expected to ensure her happiness if no one would marry her?

  He couldn’t think about that just yet. To imagine the once-proud name of Caine could now make even a beauty like Dorothea ineligible. “Still, the title need not revert to the Crown, need it? Have you no relations? Some distant cousin to continue the line?”

  Robin shook his head. “Not a one. Believe me, Vayle, the Caines are done for. But I do have a sister. Dorie. She lives in the country.”

  “Aha.” Vayle leaned forward, propping his chin on his wrists. Dorothea. Finally. “So you still own a country estate?”

  “Estate?” Robin laughed without humor. “Not likely. Greenbriar Lodge is a rundown hovel in Surrey, scarcely livable even for m’sister. Dorie always makes the best of things, though. She’s spent the last year fixing up the house and trying to help the tenant farmers work the land.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll succeed. I hope so.”

  “Surrey, you say.” At least Surrey was still a British possession, he thought with some relief. “I used to hunt there. Where exactly is Greenbriar Lodge?”

  Robin shrugged. “The backside of nowhere, but I send mail to the Thruppence Inn at Croydon. Give me London any time. Even in the bad times, there is something to do here. I’d go mad on a farm.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” As Robin sank into another brown study, Vayle congratulated himself on his subtle interrogation. Without alerting Robin, he’d learned the whereabouts of Dorothea Caine. And now he could start fixing her life. Marriage to a rich man was the only solution to her problems. The image he’d seen in the Afterlife vision flashed across his mind. Surely such a beautiful woman didn’t require an untarnished name. He’d need only to introduce several potential suitors and let nature take its course.

  But first she must be brought to London. Tomorrow he would dispatch a letter to the Thruppence Inn, signed “A Friend,” informing Dorothea that Robin was in trouble and needed her help.

  To his gratification, the tasks assigned by Proctor were proving rather simple to accomplish. Over dinner, Max had suggested another scheme that played right into his hands. Gwendolyn should get out more, he had said, and
Vayle’s unfortunate amnesia was a perfect excuse to drag her to balls and such. It was a clever plan, Vayle had to admit, and one that would introduce him to a more interesting crowd.

  A crowd that included the fairer sex. He would trade a week in this tiresome club for one hour with a fascinating woman. Thank heavens he would soon be back in 1716, where men were men and proved it in the bedchamber.

  He fingered the cards strewn over the table and looked across at his sullen relation. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to teach me how to play?” he inquired into the silence.

  Robin regarded him suspiciously. “I’m not such a flat to be cozened by that old ploy.”

  “Ploy? Dear me no. I am perfectly serious about requiring lessons, although I cannot explain”—he thought a moment—“unless you can be trusted with a confidence.”

  Looking flattered, Robin nodded.

  “The accident has left me a trifle disoriented, but I’d rather not have that generally known. People would be forever watching for signs of dementia.” When Robin drew away, Vayle waved a hand. “I’m not truly demented. Not at all. But my behavior might seem, on occasion, a trifle odd, because I have lost memory of a few trivial things. Recent history, for one. I do recall earlier events, say, most everything that occurred before the last century.”

  “I wasn’t a great hand at history either,” Robin said sympathetically. “Never missed it much, I must say.”

  “Alas, I’ve also forgotten the rules of dice and card games, which I do miss, as you can imagine. A pity that, because instinct tells me I was fond of gaming.” With nimble fingers and intense pleasure, he stacked the deck and cut it and shuffled the cards. “’Struth, I must once have had some facility with the pasteboards, as you see.”

  “I’d be doing you no favor, teaching you to play,” Robin said darkly. “You apprehend what a lust for gaming has done to me. Those are the Devil’s Books. Better you leave them alone.”

  Vayle tilted his head, surprised. Could there yet be a remnant of decency left in the boy? Unfortunately, that couldn’t be encouraged, or Vayle wouldn’t pick up the new games.

  “I’ll learn to play in any case, or possibly my memory will improve. I only thought we might seek out each other’s company now and again. For all his kindness to me, Sevaric is something of a dull dog.”

  With his thumb, he feathered the deck and spread it in a fan on the table. “Of course I’d repay you for the lessons. Not with money, for I have little, but I’m accounted a good shot and am a past master at fencing. Does either interest you?”

  Robin’s face lit up. “I long to fence and shoot. Box, too, if you know how. But if you’ve lost your memory…”

  “A good point.” So Robin had never learned the manly sports? Vayle shook his head, wondering what sort of upbringing the boy had had. “I will have to test my skills and see what remains. Let’s start with foils. Is there some place we can meet for swordplay?”

  “Antonio’s,” Robin said, fumbling in his pocket. “Here is my card. Only let me know when you’d like to begin. For now, I can sketch the rules for quinze. It’s by far the simplest of the card games.”

  Robin was a good teacher. His motions were surer as he dealt out the cards. Even his voice took on some authority when he explained the rules for quinze, which indeed seemed childishly simple. Vayle grasped the basics quickly and won the second hand.

  “What the devil?” Max’s harsh voice broke into his lesson.

  “Sevaric.” Robin struggled to his feet and stood swaying from side to side like a small boat in a storm.

  Caught between them, since Max was firmly planted behind his chair, Vayle could only raise his hands in a calming gesture. “There you are. What took you so long?” Playing dumb, he looked from Robin to Max quizzically. “Do you two know each other?”

  Max’s face darkened, and Robin looked mulish. Neither would answer the question. Finally Max declared, “You are my guest, Vayle, and I must ask you to respect one rule. You do not know this man. You will not acknowledge him. Understand?”

  With a negligent shrug, Vayle pushed from the table, forcing Max to back away. “I meant no offense. I’d not realized you had a quarrel with him. He seems harmless enough to me.”

  “He’s a Caine. That means all he does is harm.” Max was still taut with anger, and his words were sharp as grape shot. “There is nothing more to be said. Let’s go.”

  Turning on his heel, Sevaric strode away with the assurance of an officer who’d given an order and expected to be obeyed.

  Vayle looked at Robin, expecting rage in response to Sevaric’s insult. But though his eyes blazed with anger, Robin’s face was pale and his hands were jammed into his pockets. His voice was barely audible. “You’d best do what he says.”

  Vayle patted the pocket where he’d stuffed Robin’s card. “Our secret,” he said softly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Five

  “Absolutely not!” Gwen rose from the couch to confront her brother. He was wearing his implacable face, though experience should have taught him it did nothing but raise her hackles.

  “Come on, Gwen, look at him. I’ve had him out to the clubs three nights in a row, and even so he’s as hale as a horse. So you can’t use him as an excuse. We have agreed that your career as a hermit is at an end.”

  “Fustian. We have not agreed. You have made up your mind, that’s all.” She shook her head, exasperated. “Sometimes you forget that you are no longer Major Lord Sevaric.”

  Max flushed and looked back down at the invitation cards, and Gwen regretted her sharp words. Not that she was wrong. In his high-handed moments, Max could be as tyrannical as their father.

  But she shouldn’t have criticized him in front of an outsider, especially one who lounged against the mantel, observing them with ironic detachment. She glared at him and said to her brother, “Only four days ago he was all but dead. It’s far too soon for him to be gallivanting about.”

  The prospective gallivanter stood by the fireplace with a glass of sherry in his hand, radiating the languid, constrained energy of a healthy cat. Gwen hated to admit it, but his dress was wasted on this simple family occasion. Vayle was resplendent enough for Carlton House.

  Impatiently, Max looked up from the desk where he was sorting through invitations.

  “I don’t mean to snap orders at you, my dear.” Max took one invitation out of the pack and tossed the rest into a basket. “But our guest must be presented to society if he is to encounter any acquaintances he might have in London. He’s been to the major clubs, and yesterday we rode in Hyde Park, but he should be seen at ton parties, too. And in company with the both of us, to lend him credit.”

  He mended a pen and started scrawling a note, an acceptance, she supposed. “You are well aware how newcomers are dealt with by the high sticklers. He requires your help, and you owe him that and more.”

  She looked over, expecting Vayle to deny it, but he only gave her a seraphic smile.

  Contemptible wretch. He was gallant only when it suited him. Still, what did she expect? He was a man. Some few were kind, like Max, while others used force, but all turned despot when it came to getting their own way.

  But that didn’t mean masculine arrogance should go unchallenged. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned pointedly away from Vayle. “In fact, you are the one using Mr. Vayle as an excuse to drag me where I do not wish to go.”

  “I won’t deny it,” Max said after a moment. “But I’m acting for your own good, and on that count you must trust me. Do you doubt I have your best interest at heart?”

  She did not doubt it, although she wasn’t going to say so. Nor would she object to Max’s bullheaded assurance that he knew what was best for her, not while Vayle watched the proceedings with unconcealed fascination.

  “Why must it be Lady Sefton’s ball?” she asked instead. “Or any ball whatever, since we’ve no idea if Mr. Vayle can even dance.” She lifted a brow. “Can you, sir?”

>   Vayle uncoiled from his position and with exaggerated bewilderment looked down at his form in the tight garments. No doubt he found it appealing, for he smiled that sleek smile.

  “’Struth, I’ve no idea. Perhaps you should put me through my paces this afternoon. And if I fail the test, you can teach me.”

  “Absolutely n—”

  “An excellent idea!” Max interrupted, pushing away from the desk. “There’s a pianoforte in the upstairs salon, and Miss Crake is an accomplished musician.”

  He yanked on the bell rope. “I’ll have the servants roll up the carpet. Gwen, find Winnie and put on your dancing shoes.”

  Ten minutes later Max was still issuing orders, this time from a chair next to the piano. “With only two of you there’s no point trying any country dances, so I suggest we concentrate on the waltz. Winnie, play a bit and see if Vayle recognizes the meter.”

  Frustrated beyond endurance, Gwen went to the window and stared out into a gray afternoon. This was absurd. She had never danced in public, and had endured lessons only when Max insisted on hiring a caper merchant. Mr. Popplewell got on everyone’s nerves, even Winnie’s, and had been dismissed after a few weeks.

  Moreover, on the rare occasions Max had coerced her into joining him at a ball, he never danced either. Hypocrite! Tonight, while he stood on the sidelines as usual, she would be compelled to make a spectacle of herself.

  Even here, in this private room, the thought of touching Jocelyn Vayle sent shivers down her back. He was beautiful. And he was dangerous, with those emerald eyes that saw too much and revealed nothing. In his presence she was always conscious of her appearance, like a crabapple set down next to a peach.

  She turned her head just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. He had removed his coat and looked elegantly slender in tight doeskin pantaloons, white shirt, and a peacock-blue waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.

  His thick hair shone auburn under the chandelier as he stood, hands clasped behind his back, listening attentively to the music. When he became aware of her regard, he glanced in her direction and smiled.