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

by Brenda Hiatt

  That made sense. Max halted with his hand on the door handle. “You’re right. I’ll look there first.”

  He flung the door open, and it banged against the wall, knocking a miniature portrait of his mother off its nail. Cursing under his breath, Max strode down the stairs, calling for his horse to be brought round.

  Vayle followed him to the hall. “Perhaps I ought to go with you.”

  It was clear Vayle didn’t think Max capable of controlling his temper. But he was in complete control. Absolute control. He just didn’t want Vayle there to hold him back when he found Robin Caine concealing his wife. “No.”

  A bewildered Wilson came in with Max’s hat and gloves, muttering about the ruined wedding breakfast. Max ignored him and yanked on the gloves. “I want you here, Vayle, in case Dorie’s gone to cover. It will take some time to track her down, and I need you to watch over my sister. Caine might decide to retaliate.”

  “Retaliate?” Vayle looked as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  “Yes, dammit, retaliate. If he thinks I’ve forced his sister into this, he might take revenge by hurting mine.”

  “Surely not!”

  Max was silent until Wilson trudged disconsolately away toward the dining room. “I wouldn’t put it past him to try.”

  Vayle shook his head, but with a glimmer of humor he said, “I’d back your sister against Robin Caine, in a fair fight.”

  “Well, a fair fight is just what you won’t get from a Caine.” He shrugged into his coat and went to the door. “So I have your agreement? You’ll stay here to protect Gwen?”

  “If I must. But it’ll be decidedly improper, if you’re gone for more than a day, me here alone with your sister.”

  “Propriety be damned.” Max pulled open the door, noting with displeasure the shadows deepening in the square. He didn’t have time to deal with Vayle’s prim sensibilities. “For God’s sake, I’m trusting you with her life. I can surely trust you with her virtue. And anyway, Mrs. Fitzniggle and Winnie will be here, and that’ll be chaperonage enough.”

  Vayle raised some other objections, but Max ignored them and mounted his horse. The groom handed him the reins, and he turned toward Piccadilly and Westminster Close, where Robin Caine holed up.

  When Max finally got a response to his door banging, he knew immediately that he was out of luck. Robin Caine suffered from more than just the night’s excess. He still wore his stained evening clothes, hanging onto the open door and blinking his red eyes as if the wan sunlight might blind him. Still drunk. Or drunk again, to judge by the bottle of blue ruin he clutched in one hand.

  Max shoved past, scanning the room for any evidence that his wife had been there. But the place was as decrepit as the night before. Dorie would have tidied up; somehow he knew that.

  Caine was different though, slumping there against the door. He looked as sorry as ever, but a light had gone out in his eyes. Max had seen it happen to the cockier recruits facing their first artillery barrage. They collapsed like a scaffolding that had lost its legs.

  “Whaddaya want?” Caine spoke carefully, but the gin showed in his slurring. “You got the damned deed last night. And you did the deed today, didn’t you?”

  It was no use talking to him, but Max tried anyway. “Where is your sister?”

  “M’sister?” Caine swung his bottle to his lips and groaned when he found it empty. He stumbled to the night table and with a shaking hand poured a glass of water and gulped it down. When he turned, he was clutching a screw of paper. “Ah, yes, my sister. My sister. My little baby sister Dorie.”

  He opened his hand and let the paper drop. A draft from the hearth sent it scuttling along the floor. Max caught and untwisted it to find a bill made out to him from a coal merchant. In some confusion, he turned it over. There he saw a message in a neat round hand: Robin, I must marry Lord Sevaric. There is nothing to be done about it. But do please come to St. Ann’s Marylebone, one o’clock. I need your support.

  The plea was restrained, but only the most heartless of fools could have missed it. Max balled the note and dropped it on the floor, then booted it toward the bed. “You miserable worm. She’s a Sevaric now, and I’ll see to it that she doesn’t turn to you for aid again.”

  He slammed the door behind him, and only then did he register Caine’s reply. “You’ll have to find her first.”

  Back in the street, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the marriage contract his solicitor had hastily prepared this morning. He narrowed his eyes in the fading light and read the fourth clause: And upon the marriage of Dorothea Caine and Maximilian, Lord Sevaric, will be conveyed to Dorothea the property Greenbriar Lodge, west of Croydon, Surrey, and all its contents and grounds.

  She must have taken refuge at the lodge she regarded as her home. Without letting himself think about why she might need refuge, Max guided his horse to the Brighton road. Croydon was just twenty miles northeast of his Sussex estate, so he wouldn’t need to spend more than a few moments at Greenbriar Lodge. He would just collect his runaway bride and take her home.

  Near Croydon, his mare threw a shoe, and he had to walk her two miles to a village and wait out the darkness in a stable. His service pelisse was warm enough, and the hay a better mattress than he’d known on some Peninsular nights, but he couldn’t sleep in the gathering chill.

  He’d experienced worse, much worse. There was the night he crouched in a trench, sniper fire overhead and, next to him, whispering for his mama, a trooper bleeding to death despite Max’s frantic amateur doctoring. And the night after Waterloo, when he searched the battlefield for what remained of his regiment, stepping from body to body, for there was no bare ground between them.

  But peace had weakened him. Now the discomfort of two consecutive cold sleepless nights made him reflect on his misery and wonder how his life had taken this turn. A simple quest for vengeance, a victory at backgammon, nothing untoward, and yet here he was, far from his bed in the iron dark, chasing a woman who didn’t want him.

  There would be a bed at Greenbriar Lodge, he told himself drowsily, and a woman to go in it, and if she didn’t want him, well, she was his wife. She would have to make her peace soon enough, or else.

  He was too weary to decide what “else” would be, so he closed his eyes and imagined her face. When first he had seen her, he thought that face another dirty Caine trick; she was too pretty, too dangerous to his cause.

  But by happenstance and by law, they were allied now, and that face, that sweet stubborn mouth and those wary eyes, gave him comfort more than caution. It would be pleasant, and something more than pleasant, to see that face every evening in the candlelight, to caress it in the darkness, to kiss it in the night.

  Of course, bringing her round would likely take some persuasion, and he wasn’t much good at that. He was a soldier, used to issuing orders and commanding obedience. He didn’t think that would work with Dorie.

  No, she would need some lighter touch, a bit of cozening. For a moment he wished he’d brought Vayle along to argue the case, for there wasn’t anyone better at cozening than Vayle. But that would have been the milksop’s way, to let another fight his battle.

  About seven, the blacksmith arrived, yawning and scratching. Setting to work, he directed Max to the local taproom where hot coffee and warm crumpets might be attained. Mindful of a bride’s sensibilities, Max bespoke a room and cleaned up as best he could.

  He gazed at his dark-stubbled face in the mirror and thought he had never looked so uncozening. But he had no razor nor even a change of clothes. At least none in his regiment would ever know how grossly unprepared he set out for this battle.

  The sun was full in a pale blue sky when he saw a newly painted wooden sign announcing Greenbriar Lodge. He reined in on the rutted lane. Seeing the name made the anger rise in him. That his wife would live here, of all places—but, he reminded himself, she couldn’t know what dark memories Greenbriar Lodge held. It was just the last refuge she had, on
ce her brother lost all else.

  In his mind, the lodge was malevolent, dark and squatting and evil. But as he crossed a bridge and the grove of trees parted to reveal the house, he saw it was just a building after all. The evil he had expected to feel wasn’t there. Perhaps it had died with Hugo Caine, or vanished when Max won it.

  Or perhaps it withered away when Dorie moved in.

  This was just a hunting lodge—a compact, two-story stone cottage, square and masculine and dwarfed by its nearby stables, surrounded by rocky fields ineffectively plowed for farming. But there were signs of feminine activity in the newly swept circular drive, the neat flower beds, the freshly painted window boxes, the Christmas greenery over the door.

  Max, a landowner himself, could interpret the state of this small farm. There wasn’t money or manpower for any real improvement like graveling the lane, replacing the roof, grading the fields. But he could tell Dorie had achieved a good deal with hard work, limited materials, and gallantry.

  He felt an unfamiliar twist of remorse, remembering the blisters on Dorie’s hands. She had tried so hard to make this a home, and he had taken it away from her.

  Well, he could make it up to her now. Never again would she have to scrape paint and weave straw. Sevaric Hall awaited her, with its army of gardeners and maids, and she need do nothing more than approve menus and greet guests.

  An old man shuffled out to take the mare. He jerked his head toward the house. “She didn’t ’spect you till tomorrow.”

  That was heartening, to hear she was waiting for him. At least Dorie hadn’t lost her senses and forgot their wedding entirely. Indeed, when she appeared in the front doorway, lovely and guarded, he took a conciliatory approach.

  “I’ll have no more of those Caine tricks, madam.”

  She sucked in her breath, then withdrew inside and slammed the door. On the front steps, Max paused in some irritation to evaluate what had gone wrong with his strategy. Perhaps the “madam“ was too coldly formal? But he could hardly call her Miss Caine, could he? There was always Lady Sevaric. He imagined he’d get used to that eventually. But right now, the title still signified his mother to him. And he didn’t feel very filial, not after catching a glimpse of his wife’s bare arm when the shawl fell away from it.

  Dorothea. He could call her that. Or Dorie. She shouldn’t take offense at her own name, not when they were wed.

  That decided, Max knocked on the door and, receiving no answer, tried the handle. The door swung open. Deftly avoiding the greenery tacked along the frame, he entered a narrow hallway. Ropes of evergreen branches hung along the curved staircase, and a gilded cone dangled by a ribbon from the sconce. The house smelled not of evil but of Christmas, pine and cinnamon and wood smoke.

  By instinct Max found his way to the parlor. In this cheerful, light-filled room Dorie sat militantly, surrounded by dangerously feminine paraphernalia—a sewing box, a basket full of straw hats, ribbons and bows, and a tabby cat.

  Compared to the cat, Dorie seemed almost approachable. At least she didn’t hiss when Max entered the room. As she bent over her ribbons, her cheeks were a bit flushed, though that might have been a reflection of the flames in the hearth.

  She wore an old faded gown, but she was still pretty with her curls falling about her shawl. He decided she would always be pretty, in any circumstances, and that thought was chased by another—You are lost, old sport. Lost.

  If he had to lose himself, best to do it with his lawfully wedded wife. She was legally required to find him.

  He maintained an awkward but he hoped authoritative silence until she finally deigned to look at him. “Please sit down, sir.”

  Put that way, it sounded like a challenge. Max reminded himself that he was being conciliatory. “Thank you.” After a moment he added, “Dorie.”

  That startled her, and she flushed more deeply. “Molly is bringing tea. You must be chilled from your ride.”

  This could go on for hours, this careful politesse. But Max was already weary of it. “Look,” he said abruptly, “you shouldn’t have run off like that. I was worried.”

  “You mean you were embarrassed that the bride missed the bridal breakfast.”

  He dismissed this with a shrug. “The staff was disappointed. Wilson especially. He would have liked to show off the Charles II china to you, I think.”

  Too late he recalled that the Charles II china had come to them fifty years ago, along with other contents of the Caines’ secondary estate, when Robert Caine’s card turned up red instead of black. But Dorie only said, “I am sorry then. Had I know that Wilson was so kind to honor me that way, I would have—”

  “Stayed?”

  “I would have thanked him especially.”

  “You can thank him yet.” He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock. “I will send word for him and the rest of the staff to meet us tonight at Sevaric Hall.”

  “Sevaric Hall?” She frowned as if he had suggested she follow him to the Black Hole of Calcutta. “No, I mean to remain here.”

  “But—” He forgot all about conciliation. “But we are wed, dammit. We are supposed to live together.”

  Dorie went back to her plaiting, her eyes cast down, her fingers moving in controlled agitation over the straw. “I didn’t say we couldn’t live together.”

  “You said you meant to stay here.”

  “You are my husband. You may stay, too.”

  Max took a deep breath and held it until he was certain he could moderate his voice. Even so, his tone almost made the arriving Molly drop her tea tray. “Stay here? When my own home is hardly a dozen miles away, and far more comfortable?”

  Dorie sent Molly on her way and set aside her plaiting to pour tea. “Oh, well, if comfort means so much to you, decidedly you should go to your own home.” The barest hint of reproach entered her voice. “I have tried to make Greenbriar comfortable, but no doubt you are used to finer places. So I will not plead with you to join me here. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of any comfort.”

  That galled him. Max Sevaric was not a man enslaved by his own comfort. Far from it. Someday he would tell her about those cold and wet nights in the trenches around Lisbon, but for now he wanted to get one thing straight. “You are my wife. You are coming with me.”

  “I am staying here. I have work to do.” With that, she pushed her teacup to the side and took up the unfinished bonnet.

  “My wife has no need to work, dammit. Put that down.”

  Dorie slanted him a defiant look. “I have an order for ten bonnets. And I am one who keeps her promises.”

  He wanted to argue the point, but he’d also always believed in keeping promises. Grudgingly he said, “When you’re done with those, that will be an end to it.”

  “But I’ve other work, too.” She waved her needle, and he noticed now the cracks in the plaster, the gaps in the wainscoting, the threadbare carpet. “I am pledged to restore this lodge. I’ve spent the last year on it, and I have much left to do. It’s not just for me,” she added, “but also for Molly and Tim, who live in back. I promised they would always have a home here.”

  More promises. He could hardly tell her she shouldn’t keep promises, since he always did so himself. But truly, he must stop her from making any more of them. “I’ve no objection to that. And as for restoring this place, well, I’ll hire workers to do it. You shan’t be needed at all and can take your rightful place at Sevaric Hall.”

  “No!” She looked startled at her own vehemence. “Forgive me, but I do not want or need hired workers. This is my responsibility, and I shan’t delegate it to another.”

  Max suppressed a groan. She was impossible. But she was his wife, even if she preferred to ignore it. “I am going to Sevaric Hall. And you are coming with me.”

  Her mouth set mutinously as she stabbed her needle into a ribbon. She tied up the thread before replying, “I will not go willingly. If you mean to force me, to abduct me, well, then you are no gentlema
n.”

  This enraged him more than anything else she had said. Sevarics did not force women, or abduct them from their homes. With a wrench he returned to the present, to his lady wife and her lady’s parlor. “I do not force women. But we are wed. There is nothing to be done about that. I have no wish to live separately from my wife.”

  The frown between her brows unwrinkled. More quietly, she said, “I understand. It’s just that I was not anticipating becoming your wife. The lodge restoration has been my constancy. I have devoted everything to it, and I cannot simply quit this and start another life. Not yet. Not till I’m ready.”

  He didn’t want to wait. But she was regarding him with those gray eyes, half-hopeful, half-wary, and he remembered the words they had spoken only a day ago. Till death do us part. That was what marriage was, he thought, permanence.

  Already he knew his strategy. Send to Sevaric Hall for clothing and supplies, and write to Gwen to tell her where he was. No, he realized, he couldn’t tell her he was at Greenbriar Lodge. He’d just tell her he was safe, and not to expect him back for a week or so. This campaign wouldn’t take more than a week, surely.

  “If I must,” he said ungraciously, “I will stay for the time being. Help you with this restoration.”

  Dorie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it tight. A blush crept up her cheeks. “I thank you. But you understand, when I said I am not ready to assume the duties of your wife, well, I also meant“—she screwed up her face and blushed redder and in a strangled voice concluded—“conjugal duties.”

  It was a not-unexpected setback, but hard to take nonetheless. “I understand,” he said stiffly. “We shall have separate beds, you are saying.”

  “Separate rooms,” she whispered.

  Courage, he told himself. Persistence will win the day. “As you wish.” In all his years of soldiering, Max had never expected to make such an unconditional surrender. But then, he never expected to gain such a victory either.

  For just a moment, her eyes glowed, and then she had to lower her head to hide from his appraisal. She was glad he was staying.