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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “It’s not against you! It has naught to do with you.”

  “It does now. You’ve stolen my home.”

  “I’ve stolen nothing.” Max crossed his arms and retreated into haughtiness. But Vayle heard, or hoped he heard, the remorse under the anger. “I’m no thief, and I won’t have you saying that I am. Your brother was the one who gambled away the dowry and the home that was rightfully yours. Call him a thief, if you will. But not me.”

  “So you took advantage of his weakness.” With a grande dame’s scorn, she drew back from Max until she was barely visible in the shadows. “And yes, you stole my home as surely as if you’d broken into Robin’s desk and made off with that deed. Are you proud of yourself, Lord Sevaric?”

  In the light from the fire, his expression was indeed proud, and Vayle knew a certain despair. Max was stoking his anger, probably because it felt better than remorse.

  “You reap what you sow, Miss Caine. And your family has sown falsehood and libel about mine. Your brother won’t stop gambling, and he won’t stop losing. And now that he has nothing else to wager, he will be compelled to bring out what the Caines have hidden these last hundred years. And be assured that when he finally wagers the treasure, the truth will be known.”

  “The truth,” Dorie said icily, “is that your ancestors stole the treasure decades ago. There’s no libel involved. And I have proof.”

  “You can’t have any such proof. My family has never had the damned thing.”

  “Then why did your father taunt my uncle time and again? I saw the letter. ‘The treasure is most splendid,’ he wrote. ‘I am gazing upon it even as I write.’ He boasted of possession. Surely that is proof!”

  Max took a step back, clearly startled. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Lord Sevaric?” Doric’s voice was dangerously low. If she were a man, Vayle thought, she’d be flinging a glove in Max’s face.

  And Max backed down, as he would never have done with a man. “Of course not. If you say you saw a letter, I believe you saw a letter. But that does not mean it was from my father.”

  “I saw the seal. An italic S.” Boldly, she walked over and seized his right hand. He was too surprised to resist as she pulled off his signet ring and held it up to the light. “There! That is the seal I saw on the letter.”

  Max grabbed the ring and stuck it in his pocket. “Perhaps he did make such a boast. But it was part of his plan, I’m certain. He must have wanted to disorient your uncle into making some mistake that would reveal the treasure’s hiding place. He wasn’t… precisely in his right mind, near the end.”

  “Why such a complicated explanation, instead of the simple one? Which is that your family has had the treasure all along.”

  Vayle shifted uncomfortably, trying to make no sound. A muscle in his thigh had cramped, distracting him from the conversation. Still, it seemed as if he ought to know something about this mysterious treasure. His family’s vault had harbored any number of valued heirlooms, but they all belonged to his elder brother. Vayle had given them no mind, caring only that his allowance was paid quarterly.

  His brother had been especially partial to a folio of Shakespeare’s plays, though. Perhaps that was it.

  Max’s exasperated voice broke into his thoughts. “We have never had the Caine treasure. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you’ll believe the inventory that was done when I inherited. Everything we own, down to the last spoon, is listed.”

  “That would prove nothing. Your father wouldn’t list it, would he?”

  “The inventory was done by a solicitor’s firm after his death. Signed and sworn. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Vayle peered through the open door and saw Max pick up a lamp and walk behind the desk. He raised what looked like a decorative sword hanging on the wall. A narrow panel swung open and Max and Dorie vanished from view.

  A secret room! Vayle slipped into the study and surreptitiously moved closer to the desk. As he gazed at the panel door, a thrill pulsed through him. He could solve every problem between the Caines and Sevarics. Dorothea could reclaim her beloved Greenbriar Lodge, and should the treasure surface again, it would belong to the both of them.

  All he had to do was close the door without Max or Dorie seeing him, lower the sword to lock it, and they’d be bolted in for the night!

  No virile man, and Max Sevaric was surely that, could resist a beautiful woman in an enclosed space. And even if Dorie held him off, as she probably would, they would be compromised.

  Honorable men married women they compromised, and Max was nothing if not honorable. ’Struth, he might even see it as a way to make up for stealing Dorie’s home.

  Padding to the narrow panel door, Vayle gently pulled it shut. Then, with infinite care, he slid the heavy sword into its latch.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” he murmured as he left the office, closing the door behind him.

  He sauntered down the hall, congratulating himself for his brilliant maneuver, imagining Max’s face when he discovered their entrapment. He was headed for the stairs to his bedroom when he saw a ghost.

  The apparition floated some distance above the floor, draped in white and wavering in the light of a single candle.

  A shaft of icy terror held him in place, until he realized a ghost was the last thing he had to fear. By the rood, he was a ghost. But he couldn’t bring himself to move, even when the spirit descended to the floor and advanced toward him.

  “What in the name of heaven are you doing here?” Gwen Sevaric demanded. She set her candle on a table and folded her arms, her small bare foot tapping as she waited for an explanation.

  Vayle broke out laughing. Now that he could see her clearly, he realized she had been standing on the stairs that led to the second floor. The white gown was her nightrail, an altogether pedestrian swath of flannel.

  “Well?” Her foot tapped double time as he moved closer, still laughing. “Should I call a footman to search your person?”

  That brought him up short. “Search my—? Oh, I see. You imagine I’ve been pilfering the family silver.” With a smile, he held out his arms. “Rummage away, Miss Sevaric. Anything you find is yours for the taking.”

  She took a quick step back, her cheeks flaming. “You are insufferable!”

  Repentant, he dropped his hands. “My apologies. It’s only that you startled me. At first sight, I actually thought you a… well, never mind that. And then you practically accused me of stealing, although that is no excuse for my ill-bred remark.”

  “I expect rakes to be offensive.” The embarrassed color in her cheeks had faded, and her voice resumed its usual acidity. “I am simply not accustomed to having one in the house. And you have not explained why you are roaming the halls without your boots.”

  He looked down and discovered that he was, indeed, bootless. “They are in the kitchen.” He needed to draw her away before she decided to inspect the rooms behind him. By now Max and Dorie were probably banging on the wall and yelling for help.

  Fortunately, the hidden sanctuary must be resistant to sound, because he heard nothing. But he spoke loudly to cover any stray noises. “I thought to make some tea and changed my mind, but perhaps we could brew a pot together.” He gestured to the back of the house, away from the study. “Or enjoy a glass of wine?”

  “That is an altogether improper suggestion, as you well know. Especially tonight, with Mrs. Fitzniggle in residence.”

  He choked back a laugh. “Mrs. F-Fitzniggle?”

  A wicked and, he suspected, unwilling grin curved her lips. “She is a distant relation and has her ear to every scrap of gossip in England. You did not fall out of the sky, Mr. Vayle. If you came here by ship, as we suspect, Mrs. Fitzniggle will soon discover which one carried a passenger matching your description. That’s why I invited her.”

  “So you can be rid of me,” he said, finishing her unspoken thought. “I regret that my presence is so distressing, but—”

  “Keep your
voice down,” she interrupted with a scowl. “I came to investigate because I heard noises, and if Mrs. Fitzniggle does the same, it will be a disaster. She is the highest of sticklers, and were she to find us alone together, dressed as we are, a parson would be summoned immediately.”

  “Indeed?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then by all means we must take care. Still, I look forward to meeting the redoubtable Mrs. Fitzniggle. The sooner she traces my origins the better, as I am such a burden to you. Perhaps we could arrange a meeting tomorrow morning? Where could we meet? It might help if an atlas and a globe were at hand for consultation.”

  To his relief, she accepted without comment his notion that in geography lay the key to his identity. Vayle willed her in the right direction, and she didn’t fail him. “Max has both in his study, and a map of England on the wall.”

  “Capital! He shan’t mind our meeting there, I’m certain, for I think he meant to spend the morning at Tattersall’s.” As that latest lie danced trippingly off his tongue, Vayle reminded himself it was all for a good cause. Even so, he hoped Francis and Proctor had taken the evening off.

  “I’ll see that a message is given to Mrs. Fitzniggle by the maid who brings her morning chocolate. Is nine o’clock too early?”

  “For a rake?” he inquired with a deliberately ostentatious bow. “Generally, I would say yes. But I’ll exert myself this once to accommodate you. Will you join us, Miss Sevaric?”

  A smile flickered and vanished before she nodded. Gwen Sevaric had a smile lovely enough to match her lovely eyes. He wished it would remain long enough to be enjoyed.

  “I dare not leave you alone with Mrs. Fitzniggle,” she said crisply. “You would charm her into doing whatever you wanted her to do, and I’m not at all sure what that is.”

  “Is she beautiful?” he asked with a wink.

  Gwen picked up her candle. “She is passing sixty years old and has a nose like the beak of a macaw. But I will be there to chaperone, in case you are tempted.” Without a farewell, she made her way to the staircase.

  A trick of the light outlined her body under the dense folds of flannel, and he noted with appreciation her shapely legs, rounded bottom, and slender waist.

  Perhaps a man could be found for her after all.

  Yes, a good night’s work, he reflected as he opened the door to his bedchamber. With luck, Dorie and Max were even now locked in a passionate embrace, and it remained only for Mrs. Fitzniggle to do her duty and discover them. Then—then the feud would be over.

  He couldn’t suppress a certain envy. In Max’s place, with some other woman, he would certainly be taking full advantage of the situation. As it was, desire hummed in every part of his body. Some parts were practically singing an oratorio.

  He stripped off his clothes, random thoughts playing in his head.

  Could he have been killed, had Max not thrown him to the ground before the robber’s bullet hit? He was, after all, already dead.

  For a split second, when he heard the sound of the ricocheting shot, he had relived that earlier death. No harm done this time. Perhaps his guardian Francis had been paying attention for a change.

  On the whole, he’d rather rely on Max Sevaric when the bullets started flying.

  Then there was that blasted treasure everyone was disputing. The Shakespeare folio was a definite possibility. As he recalled, it was a hefty book, not easily concealed. But what if—? A vague memory tickled at his mind and disappeared before he could grab hold of it.

  More to the point, had Proctor granted him any supernatural powers? On at least two occasions he had wished for some unlikely occurrence, and willy-nilly his wish had come true.

  The runaway carriage that gave him a chance to rescue Gwen and Max’s lucky throw of the dice were the most obvious examples. And Gwen had chosen exactly the right place for tomorrow morning’s encounter with Mrs. Fitzniggle, who would be a prime witness when Max and Dorie were found together.

  Coincidental, perhaps. And he knew damned well that wishing for something didn’t make it happen, because he had been wishing for a woman ever since he recovered from the accident. If his wishes had any power behind them, he would not be sleeping alone tonight.

  The sheets felt like ice against his naked body as he stretched out in the bed. Within a few hours, the forced union of the Caine and Sevaric families would put an end to the feud. Oh, there would be squabbles galore, but Max’s obvious desire for his bride and Dorie’s common sense would bring them to terms in short order.

  Which left only Gwen.

  She should marry Robin, of course. That would complete the circle and join the families forever. Another excellent idea, he thought—Robin and Gwen. The perfect solution.

  But he spent the rest of the night with his arms crossed behind his neck, staring at the ceiling, wanting something else entirely. Something as elusive as the missing treasure.

  When Clootie arrived with a basin steaming with hot water for his morning shave, Vayle still didn’t know what it was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dorie could hardly believe it. A secret office, concealed behind a wall! How very like a Sevaric to build such a place, a sanctuary for hiding away and scheming to ruin.

  As Lord Sevaric raised the lamp, Dorie could see the extent of this folly. There were no windows, so his was the only light, and the corners of the room were hidden in darkness. She got the impression of ledger books scattered on the bare floor and desk. And she could smell dust everywhere. Probably no maid had ever been allowed in here.

  To judge by the disarray, the current Lord Sevaric seldom ventured into this place. Even now, as he looked for the document he promised would prove all, he was straightening the books on the desk. “Here it is,” he declared, tugging a sheaf of papers from under the blotter.

  But he didn’t give them to her. Instead, he set the candle on the table and, bending low over the pages, scanned the document. “Come here and see. There’s nothing on this list that resembles your treasure.”

  Dorie stayed where she was, several feet away. She didn’t want to stand there next to him and watch his finger travel down the list of his father’s possessions. She didn’t want to see how much the Sevarics owned now they had ruined the Caines.

  “I don’t care.”

  Sevaric glanced up, startled. “But you wanted proof. Here it is.”

  “I don’t care about what you call proof. Your father could have hidden it in some drawer somewhere. He had a secret office, so why not a secret drawer?”

  Stepping back, Sevaric gestured toward the desk. “There’s no secret drawer in here. Look for yourself.”

  “But don’t you see, I don’t care!” She closed her fists tight again, and her eyes, and finally her mouth. None of it mattered—not the feud, not the treasure, nothing but her home. And he had stolen that, and it mattered naught that he’d done it legally. It was all she had, and he had taken it, and all it meant to him was another item to list in that damned inventory.

  Blinded by tears she wouldn’t let fall, she ran to the door and wrenched at it. But it didn’t give. Cursing her own stupidity, she rubbed at her eyes and took hold of the handle again and yanked. It turned, but the door didn’t open.

  Sevaric was beside her in an instant. “Let me try.”

  He had no better luck. “The latch is down on the other side. It must have fallen when the door shut.”

  “But you left the door open!”

  Sevaric studied the door as if it contained some answer to this puzzle. “Perhaps a draft blew it shut.”

  “More likely,” Dorie said bitterly, “it’s your father’s ghost. His final revenge on the Caines—locking me in here with a Sevaric.”

  He looked hard at her once and then resolutely ignored her. “It opens inward, so I can’t very easily smash the latch. But I might as well try—”

  And before she knew what he meant, Lord Sevaric drew back and then shoved himself forward, crashing his broad shoulder against the thick oak door
. It shuddered but didn’t move. Again and again he tried, resolution and exertion darkening his face. Finally, when the front panels were splintered but the frame itself was unaffected, Doric cried, “Enough!”

  She wouldn’t admit that she worried about his shoulder. “Brute force will not work, Lord Sevaric. Else you certainly would have broken through to Portman Square by now! Perhaps we should try using our minds instead?”

  He was breathing hard, but managed to reply, “If you have any brilliant ideas, please share them with me.”

  “Mr. Vayle was going to prepare tea for us. He is probably returning just now. If we shout, surely he will hear us and set us free.”

  As she might have expected, Sevaric responded to this sensible suggestion with a hint of scorn. “I think if he were about, he would have heard the ruckus I just made. But shout if you like, and I will join you.”

  She felt foolish, pressing her mouth against the crack between the door and the frame and calling out, “Help!” Her first few cries were a bit ladylike, as if she were trying to signal a chaperone across a ballroom. Then Sevaric added his baritone boom and, emboldened, she took a deep gulp of breath and shouted, “Help! We are trapped!”

  A few moments later, her throat was sore and her fists raw from pounding on the door, and her cries became feeble again. Sevaric also quit calling out, and though he didn’t say it, she knew that he was thinking “I told you so.”

  He said only, “Likely Vayle is still in the kitchen, trying to figure how to use the stove. Or perhaps he got halfway there and forgot what he was about and went off to bed. He hasn’t much of a memory, has Vayle.”

  Dorie would have liked to defend Mr. Vayle, who had, in their brief acquaintance, been quite kind to her. But there was no denying that he had failed utterly as a rescuer. “Perhaps he came back and saw the study empty and thought we had gone.”

  “It hardly matters now. We are stuck here, I think, until morning.”

  Morning. “What time is it?”