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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “You challenged him? Only because your families have been feuding?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then why?”

  Max liked Vayle well enough, and trusted him, too. But this wasn’t his secret to tell. “I had a reason,” he said shortly, and pulled away from the tidying hands of his valet. “He knew what the challenge was about, and cravenly refused to meet me.”

  “He probably thought you would kill him. You’ve been in the army. I presume you know how to shoot.”

  “I told him I’d use a rapier if he preferred. And still he backed down.”

  “Did he apologize?”

  “An apology wouldn’t be sufficient.” Max yanked his coat on over the pleas of his valet to take care. “Besides, he said he doesn’t remember committing the offense, so won’t apologize for it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it.”

  Max didn’t appreciate Vayle playing the devil’s advocate, if that was what he was doing. But he reminded himself that Vayle couldn’t know what had transpired eighteen months ago. “He did it. There was a witness.”

  Vayle persisted. “A credible witness?”

  With sheer force of will, Max held onto his temper. “Yes.” Abruptly he crossed to the door. “Come on, if you’re coming. And you needn’t worry. There’s no honor in hurting women. The girl is out of it.”

  Vayle waited till they were out the door and halfway to St. James before he mused, “Honor. That’s important to you, is it?”

  Max didn’t deign to respond. He was a Sevaric, and an officer in the 52nd Light Infantry. That was answer enough.

  “Is there honor in buying up a man’s markers? At a premium? Rather indirect, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s all I can do. He won’t play cards with me any longer, he won’t meet me at dawn, and he’s no more than a worm. And if there’s dishonor, it’s in having to regard him at all.” He stopped in the middle of the path and glared at his new friend. “Dammit, Vayle, will you let me be? This isn’t your concern.”

  “Ah, but it is.” In the yellow light of the street lamp, Vayle looked much older, and much wiser. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Coo, and aren’t you the handsome one!”

  Vayle glanced at the filthy, broken fingernails gripping his sleeve, and then at the rouged face and bloodshot eyes of the latest whore to accost him during the long evening.

  He had his standards, despite a certain physical urgency after a hundred years without a woman. “You flatter me, my sweet.” He retrieved a coin from his pocket and pressed it in her hand. “Alas, I am not my own master tonight and dare not claim a stolen hour with you. Perhaps another time?”

  With a look of regret, the woman moved on to a fresh-faced youngster just entering the noisy gaming hell.

  The Devil’s Bedchamber was the fourth den of iniquity they had visited. Even in his wildest days Vayle had patronized only the most fashionable establishments, so this was his first venture into the stews. He might have enjoyed himself, had Max given him the slightest opportunity.

  ’Struth, the buxom redhead at the Hot Dice had been a lovely armful, with fresh-washed hair and a clear complexion. But he’d barely time to kiss her before his determined escort pulled him out the door and on the way to another gaming hell.

  Max insisted this ramble was meant to find someone who recognized Jocelyn Vayle. Yet in each hell, they stayed only long enough to make a circuit of the rooms. None of the preoccupied gamesters would recognize him even if they looked up from the dice and cards, and Vayle had long since realized he was merely an excuse.

  Max was here on some business of his own. And whatever it was, it had taken him off for the moment. Surprised to find himself alone, Vayle accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and strolled around the smoke-filled room.

  The roulette wheels had been rigged, he saw immediately, and probably the cards were marked. This was an establishment that played on young flats, distracting them with drink and women. At the tables he saw familiar faces, men who gamed at White’s and Brooks’s, men with titles and the gaming fever. Stupid men.

  Then he saw Robin Caine.

  The viscount’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. Eyes bright, he fanned his cards on the table and raked in a mound of notes and coins, adding them to an already large pile in front of him.

  Vayle’s heart sank. Nothing was more dangerous to an obsessive gambler than a lucky streak.

  The grumbling losers moved away, leaving Robin alone.

  “You are doing well, I see.” Taking a chair, Vayle propped his elbows on the table. “I have meant to thank you for teaching me the rules of hazard and quinze and macao.”

  “Nothing to it,” Robin said lightly. He was intoxicated, but, Vayle thought, more from the victory than the brandy. “You have a knack for games. And you are a positive genius at fencing. I still cannot credit the thrashing you inflicted on Master Antonio.”

  Vayle shrugged with false modesty. “I enjoyed our lesson yesterday, and you did well for a beginner. As for Antonio, he made the mistake of underestimating a stranger. The next encounter will be more challenging.”

  “Well, my money will be on you.” The coins sifted through Robin’s fingers and clinked together on the felt tabletop. “Your style with a sword is like nothing I’ve ever seen. I’ve frequented Antonio’s for months. Never dared to try my hand until you gave me the chance, though. Will you continue my lessons?”

  “While I remain in London, yes.” Three weeks more, he reflected with a surprising pang of regret. He had no future, not here. Only a future in the past, if he managed to get back where he belonged.

  “Should my luck hold tonight, I’ll buy my own foil and mask.” Robin gestured at his winnings and added resolutely, “And my luck will hold.”

  “Care to put that to the test?” Max Sevaric inquired softly. He had come from nowhere, it seemed, but now he loomed over the table, eyes glittering with malice.

  Robin paled and automatically covered his winnings.

  Jumping to his feet, Vayle put his hand on Max’s rigid arm. Now he understood why Sevaric had combed the underbelly of London. “Lord Lynton was just leaving, and we should be on our way, too. No one here has recognized me. Let’s try somewhere else.”

  Max waved him away and put a flat, dusty box on the table. “Settle awhile, Vayle. Better yet, go off and amuse yourself with one of the women. I’m of a mind to play backgammon with this gentleman.” The last word dripped acid. “What do you say, Lynton?”

  Robin looked apprehensively at the backgammon box. “You’ve never played me directly. Always bought up my vowels instead. Why now?”

  “Because you’re here now.” Max pulled out a chair and sat across from Robin. “You’ve been remarkably evasive this last year, scampering from the tables the minute I arrived. It was you who avoided a confrontation, giving me no choice but to come at you by other means. However, I’d not have you think I ruined you secondhand. Better we end this thing face-to-face, don’t you think?”

  He opened the box and began to align the black pips in home position. “From what I hear, you fancy yourself an expert at backgammon. At that game, skill can make a difference. Luck, too, of course. Do you feel skillful tonight. Or just lucky?”

  Robin lifted his hands from his pile of coins. “Bloody right I do, on both counts.” The heat of expectation sent color to his cheeks as he gathered the red pips and lined them up on the board. “For once, I have something to wager. Put your money on the table, though. I’ve no faith in a Sevaric promise to pay up later.”

  With a sigh, Vayle lowered himself to his chair. He had been assigned to end this feud, but couldn’t even think of a way to scotch the coming engagement. Or maybe it was the coup de grâce, to judge by the look in Max’s eyes.

  Still, what kind of satisfaction could Max wrest from plucking a few pounds from Robin Caine?

  His intuition said the stakes were higher this night, but he
didn’t know what they were. “I wouldn’t trust dice in this establishment,” he advised, hefting the pair Max had dropped on the table. They felt balanced, and he was a good judge, but he doubted there was a honest set of bones in the Devil’s Bedchamber.

  “That’s why I paid one of the ladies to dig out her own backgammon set from upstairs,” Max said dryly, drawing his finger across the top of the dusty box. “It belonged to her father, hasn’t been used in years, and she swears it’s honest. Objections, Lynton?”

  Robin glanced nervously at Vayle. “What do you think?”

  “If the dice are loaded, I doubt Sevaric knows how to manipulate them,” he replied after a moment. Max would not cheat, he knew, even to destroy the Caines. “But I’ll be an impartial witness, and speak up if I detect a foul.”

  He saw nothing amiss through the first swift games. Luck ran evenly, and Robin won about twenty pounds. But the next three games went Max’s way. Although the men had been well-matched at the outset, Robin drank steadily while Max left his glass untouched.

  After several careless moves, Robin had lost his stake. His eyes were bleary and his hand shook as he pushed his last few coins across the table. “I’m played out,” he muttered.

  “Are you?” Max sat straight as a lance in his chair. “Have you nothing else, nothing at all, to wager?”

  “What’s the point of continuing?” Vayle put in. Max was after something that smelled of disaster. “Call it off now. The boy’s drunk.”

  Robin’s face set into a pugnacious expression. “I’m sober as a judge. Bad streak, that’s all. Take my vowel if I lose the next game.”

  “I think not,” Max said coldly. “I have a great many of your vowels already, purchased from creditors who had no hope of collecting on them. Come up with something solid, Lynton. Shall we say, the treasure?”

  “You know damn well I don’t have it,” Robin shot back with renewed fire. “The Sevarics stole it a hundred years ago. Hell, if I had it, don’t you think I’d be living at high water? The way you do,” he added sourly.

  Vayle looked from one man to the other. What the devil was this treasure everyone kept talking about? Dorie had mentioned it, too. “Exactly what is the prize in dispute?”

  Both men ignored him.

  “You are wrong,” Max said in an icy tone. “I’ve no idea what became of it, and am sick to death of defending myself on the subject. Put the treasure, or anything else you still own, on the table now. Otherwise we’ll call it quits. Your choice.”

  Robin took a long swig of wine, his eyes hollow with misery. He made a move as if to stand, and then his gaze fell on the winnings in front of Max. He sat down and refilled his glass. “Greenbriar,” he said. “I have title to that.”

  Max leaned back and crossed his arms, looking ominously pleased. “You still own a property?”

  “Not much of one,” Robin said through clenched teeth. “A run-down house and a scrap of land. But it’s worth more than you’ve got there.”

  “I wonder that you gambled away the Lynton estate and your own town house in London while clinging to such a trifle.”

  “Didn’t think anyone else would want it,” Robin said after a beat.

  But his voice trembled, and Vayle knew he was thinking of his sister.

  Anger sent heat to his ears and fingertips. Sevaric knew exactly what he was about, an act so repellent Vayle had not imagined him capable of it. Max had set out to win Dorie’s home after she’d begged him to spare it.

  Killing the last Sevaric male would end the feud, he thought savagely. At the moment, it was damnably tempting to call Max out.

  But he had been sent as a peacemaker. His nails dug into his palms as he dredged every ounce of self-control from his limited reserve. “Sevaric, you cannot want to be saddled with a run-down country shack. Let us go. I have the headache again. That accident—”

  “I’ll put all the markers I’ve bought against Greenbriar Lodge,” Max interrupted. “This is your last chance to come about, Lynton. Take it or leave it.”

  Robin studied the dregs of claret in his glass. “You aren’t that stupid. Why gamble a fortune against a ramshackle farm?”

  “It seems I am not ready for the game to be over. So far you’ve been a tedious opponent, scarcely worth my time. But if you can find your backbone under that yellow streak, have at me. You need win only one match to bring me down.”

  A tense silence fell over the table. The raucous sounds of drunken men, shrill women, and dice hitting the table faded in the hush. Max Sevaric and Robin Caine locked gazes while Vayle sent frantic prayers to Heaven.

  “I’ll do it!” Robin blurted. “Greenbriar Lodge against the markers.”

  From that moment, there was no stopping them.

  As the dice rolled across the table and the pips moved around the board, Vayle couldn’t determine which man to back. The course of the feud hung in the balance, and his own fate was suspended next to it. If the Heavenly Powers were being fair, they would grant him some way to affect the outcome.

  Neither family would concede until the other was in ruins. If Robin won this game, he would have the resources to continue the fight. But if he lost, he’d be left with nothing at all.

  Vayle frowned. No doubt Proctor meant for him to reconcile the Caines and Sevarics, but he’d not spelled out the terms. To the contrary, his instructions had been astonishingly vague. “On Christmas morning, the feud must be at an end.”

  A Sevaric victory would accomplish that, his most difficult task. And it would achieve most of the rest, too, because Max and Gwen were bound to be happy at the outcome.

  That left only Dorie. If Max took Greenbriar Lodge, she would be left homeless. But not for long, Vayle reflected, his innate optimism surfacing. He’d only to find her a husband, and with her astonishing beauty that would not be difficult. Yes, better for him if Max came out on top.

  And yet, what of Robin? He was the last Caine, the only male heir of a family that had endured for centuries. His own blood, Vayle thought with a shiver. Robin was not one of his tasks, though, so why should he care?

  But he did.

  Still torn, he wrenched his attention back to the game. Robin was playing like a man possessed. His drunken lassitude had vanished with the chance of redeeming himself, and the dice cooperated. At the end, Max was pinned in.

  Only a roll of double sixes could save him. One chance in six-and-thirty.

  As Max shook the dice in the leather cup, the gazes of all three men fixed on the board.

  Vayle clenched his fists to keep from grabbing the dice. Only a disaster could bring an end to the give-and-take that had kept the two families at odds. If Max lost now, he would pursue the feud long past Christmas Day. And Proctor would relegate Valerian Caine to—

  He didn’t even want to contemplate the possibilities.

  Double sixes, he murmured under his breath. Help me, Francis.

  The dice tumbled from the cup, rolled across the green baize table, and came to a stop.

  Chapter Ten

  Robin Caine led them up a dark twisted flight of stairs, apologizing under his breath for the broken banister and the steps littered with old newspapers. After skirting the protruding plank on the top step, Max wasn’t surprised at the door that shrieked as it opened, and the debris-ridden room revealed when Lynton lit a candle.

  It wasn’t so much the bare mattress under the taped-up window that confirmed his impressions. Max had lived in much worse accommodations on the Peninsula. It was the empty gin bottle on the table, and the pile of clothes in the corner, and the dirty chamberpot left out in the middle of the floor.

  The whole place reeked of failure. Weak and wasted—that was the Caine legacy now.

  But not in the sister. Max watched for some resemblance as Lynton squatted to root around in the papers under the table. Brother and sister both had that red-tinted hair, though Lynton’s was dirty and lifeless. And they shared the fair complexion, only what was ivory and rose in the sister
was pasty and florid in the brother.

  The slender build, the straight back. There was some similarity. But he couldn’t imagine the rosy-cheeked Miss Caine wheezing from the exertion of rising to her feet. He couldn’t imagine her in a room like this, or in a life like this.

  Lynton must have been thinking about her, too, for he peered at the Greenbriar deed for a long moment before folding it up again. “I didn’t tell you this when I staked the lodge. But m’sister Dorie lives there.”

  Max only nodded.

  Lynton dropped the deed on the table and moved back to let Max pick it up. “You’ll give her some time to find another situation?”

  Vayle, who had been silent through all this, shot a scowl at Max. “Don’t you worry. He’ll do what’s right.”

  Whether he wants to or not, Vayle was implying, and Max felt a stirring of anger. But then, it was clear Vayle felt some strange sympathy for Lynton. Max couldn’t. He’d spent his own youth seeing boys of far worse backgrounds die bravely for principles that were only words to Lynton. Honor and country and loyalty. Any one of them deserved life more than this worthless sod.

  Max pocketed the deed and walked to the door. But Vayle lingered at the table, staring at its scatter of fripperies. Max saw nothing of much interest there—an old snuffbox, a few cufflinks, a woman’s ivory fan, things Lynton couldn’t pawn or gamble away.

  Vayle was transfixed. He picked up the snuffbox and pried it open. There was nothing inside, snuff being more expensive and less essential than gin. Nonetheless, he brought it closer and inhaled. “Where did you get this?”

  Lynton had been slumped on the bed, head in hands, but he looked up at this. “Family heirloom.” He shot a glare at Max. “One of the few that weren’t stolen from us.”

  Max intended to leave without a fight, so he pressed his back against the door and clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut.

  Lynton glanced at the fists and hastily turned back to Vayle. “It’s almost a century old.”

  “More than that,” Vayle said absently. “It’s from the time of Queen Anne.”