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

by Brenda Hiatt

  But she had to, because Dorothea would be expecting a reply to her letter. With effort, she skipped to the part about coming to Greenbriar for Christmas. The answer had to be no, but there was no graceful way to phrase it.

  She could pretend to be ill, of course, but that would likely bring Max rushing home. And that wouldn’t be right. Max should be with his wife on their first Christmas together.

  There was that word again. Sister. Dorothea appealed to her as a sister. Begged for her counsel, as if she had any to offer. Of course Gwen knew why Max hated Lynton, but she could not tell Dorothea anything of the truth. It was a wonder she’d managed to speak of it to Vayle last night.

  Leaning back in her chair, she gazed blankly at a portrait of her father on the salon wall.

  Vayle knew. Dear God, she had confessed every shameful moment to a… a houseguest! A rackety ornament of a man whose sole virtue was his unquestionable charm.

  And kindness. The servants adored him. Winnie and Mrs. Fitzniggle were in his pocket. Perhaps it wasn’t kindness at all. Perhaps it was just that he knew how to win people over so he could use them to his advantage.

  She shifted uncomfortably on the hard-backed chair. The old arguments for disliking him, the ones she’d used to convince herself since he took up residence in Sevaric House, sounded empty to her now. Every instinct screamed that he was not what he seemed, but everything he said and did put the lie to that.

  Except his friendship with Lynton. That alone was reason to mistrust him. Her father’s eyes glared back at her from the portrait as if in warning.

  Could Lynton and Vayle be in league together? she thought suddenly. What if Vayle had deliberately planted himself in the Sevaric household to gain access to the treasure? They might have prearranged the accident when Vayle supposedly saved her life. It was possible.

  It was ridiculous. She was nearly run down by that carriage, and no one could have planned for her presence on that particular street at that exact moment.

  Besides, Max was a superb judge of men. He’d had to be, as commander of a battalion, and he held Vayle in regard. She knew nothing of men at all, except what she had learned from her father and the Caines, and none of that was good. Still, her brother proved that men could be honorable. And if he trusted Vayle…

  Oh, damn. Nothing made sense to her anymore.

  A familiar dizziness clouded her mind, the same dismal confusion she experienced whenever she tried to fathom the mystery that was Jocelyn Vayle.

  She picked up the pen and began to write. “Dear…”

  Even the correct way to address Dorothea eluded her. “Lady Sevaric” was too formal and “Dorothea” felt wrong. She lacked the courage, or the optimism, to write “Dear Sister.”

  How wonderful it would be, to have a sister, someone to confide in and feel close to. She’d never had a friend, except Anathea, but they were not true intimates. They had met in a bookstore only a few months ago. For the first time in her life, Gwen had a female of her own age to shop with and take an ice at Gunter’s. But Anathea was the daughter of a duke, and once she married there would be no more excursions.

  Gwen nibbled at the tip of her pen. What was the use? She could not give Dorothea what she wanted, on any count.

  Maybe she ought to write a letter to Max instead, suggesting he tell his wife about the Incident. She knew he would never do so until she gave her consent. On that thought, she put “Max” after “Dear” and was beginning a sentence wishing him well on the marriage when a scratch at the door interrupted her work.

  Vayle stepped inside and gave one of his elaborate bows. “Pardon me for disturbing you, Miss Sevaric, but I wished to assure myself of… that is, well, after… ” He came to a halt and held out his arms in a gesture of surrender.

  Vayle at a loss for words was so astonishing she could scarcely muster a reply. They gazed at each other for a long moment.

  “You mean, after I cried into your neckcloth,” she said finally. “For that you must forgive me, sir. I am generally in better control of myself.”

  “Too much so, I fear.” He clasped his arms behind his back. “I’d not have you regret sharing a confidence with me, Gwendolyn.”

  She nearly protested his use of her first name, but then bit her tongue.

  “I’m glad you did,” he added in a soft voice. “But the aftermath is awkward, is it not? Do you feel uncomfortable with me now?”

  “No more than usual,” she lied.

  “’Struth, you can barely look me in the eye. I’d rather you ring a peal over me than fob me off with sarcasm.”

  The pen she was holding fell from her hand. She fumbled for it under the writing table, glad for an excuse to hide her reaction.

  He had the right of it. Telling him the story, all of it, had eased her mind considerably. Even though she’d cried herself to sleep, the night was untormented by the horrible dreams that had plagued her since the abduction. It appeared that sharing the experience with another person had indeed lessened her burden, and she was grateful.

  Why was it so hard to tell him that?

  She found the pen and pretended to examine it, as if a fall to the thick carpet might have dulled the point. The intimacy of last night had not ended when she went to bed. She woke up with the memory of strong arms holding her close, the scent of him in her nostrils, and an ache at the core of her body. He had replaced the nightmare with other dreams, with longings so futile she dared not admit they existed.

  She wanted him to hold her again, and if she showed him any weakness at all, even a careless expression of gratitude, he might discover it.

  Lost in thought, she didn’t notice he had crossed the room until he was right behind her.

  “Will you go to Greenbriar for Christmas?” he asked.

  She glanced back to find him looking at Dorothea’s letter. In a swift motion, she turned it face down. “This is private correspondence, Mr. Vayle. You should be ashamed.”

  “I’ve greater sins to account for than reading over your shoulder,” he said airily. “’Tis a good idea, you know. Families should be together at Christmas.”

  Her hands clenched. “I can’t go there. It’s out of the question.”

  “Ah.” He came around the table and stood directly in front of her. “I hadn’t realized.”

  She looked into his eyes, which were gentle with concern, and quickly lowered her gaze. He saw too much. Understood her too well. He threatened the small secure place she was trying to build for herself. “Go away.”

  “It was to Greenbriar that Caine took you,” he said as if she’d not spoken. “Naturally you do not wish to return there. Perhaps Max and his bride will come to London for the holidays if you suggest that in your reply.”

  “I may. If you ever give me the opportunity to pen a response.”

  “I daresay Max is aware you were imprisoned at the very house his wife so values,” he continued thoughtfully. “No doubt that is making their situation all the more difficult. What a coil. As long as you refuse to set foot in Greenbriar Lodge, it will be an issue of conflict for them. Have you considered—”

  “Mr. Vayle, where I go and what I do is not your affair. One day, for my brother’s sake and when the memories are not so raw, I’ll doubtless pluck up the courage to go there again. Meantime, have you no one else to disturb?”

  “You have the courage now,” he said bluntly. “I wonder why that has escaped your notice.”

  She gave him a direct look. “How many times must I ask you to leave?”

  “You wish to be alone?” He feigned an astonished expression. “’Tis snowing, you know. Not a day for excursions. I was just about to send for refreshments and challenge you to a game of chess.”

  Before she could make another objection to his presence, there was a knock at the door and the butler stepped inside. His face wore a look of grim disapproval.

  “Miss Sevaric, Lord Lynton begs a few moments of your time.”

  All the air went out of her in a
whoosh.

  “Thank you, Wilson,” Vayle said smoothly. “Allow us another few minutes to finish our business and then show him in.”

  Her cry of protest came out in a squeak, and Wilson was gone before she found her voice again. “How dare you!” She lurched to her feet, the chair toppling over behind her.

  Vayle took a step back as she came at him, raising one arm to protect his face from her long fingernails. He had known Gwen would not take this well.

  Gritting his teeth, he allowed her to pummel his shoulders and chest until the first fury was spent. She subsided rather more quickly than he’d expected, and with relief he drew her into his arms.

  “How could you?” she murmured into his lapel.

  “’Twas necessary, Gwen. Your brother is married to Robin’s sister. The two of you must come to terms if this feud is ever to end.”

  “Come to terms? This is not a business transaction. Have you forgot already what I told you last night? What the Caines did to me?”

  He drew in a breath. “I will never forget. But Robin wishes to beg your forgiveness and explain a few things I believe you should know. Listen to him, please. Only that. Then tell him to go to the devil if you wish, or have at him as you just did me.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “Agreed. And Robin deserves worse.” He lifted her chin with his fingertip. “This is really for you, Gwen, but you can’t see that now. So do it for Max.”

  “Damn you. That’s not fair.”

  “I know.” After a hug, he set her back. “Should this become too difficult, or if you are on the verge of killing him, call for me. I’ll wait in the passageway, and I promise not to listen through the keyhole.”

  Wilson appeared again, still frowning. “Mrs. Fitzniggle and Miss Crake are not at home. Shall I instruct Lord Lynton to return on another occasion?”

  Vayle regarded him with concealed impatience. “That won’t be necessary, as Lynton is family now. I’ll see to it the proprieties are observed.” Behind him, Gwen made a strangled noise.

  “Very good, sir.” Shaking his head, the butler withdrew, and a moment later Robin Caine stepped into the room, moving with conspicuous difficulty. The left side of his face was a startling shade of purple, and so distended he might have been harboring a tennis ball in his cheek. When he bowed, a low moan escaped his tight lips.

  “My heavens! What has happened to you?” Gwen shot an accusing look at Vayle.

  He shrugged.

  “Forgive me for intruding,” Lynton said, his words mushy and barely audible. “I had an accident and cannot speak well. Perhaps I should come back another day.”

  “I think not,” Vayle said before Gwen jumped in to agree. “No time like the present, I always say.”

  Gwen clutched at her skirt and Robin at his lapels. They looked everywhere but at each other, putting him in mind of rabbits, noses twitching and eyes casting about for a place to hide.

  “Since a spectator would be de trop,” he said, “I’ll be off. But should you require assistance, Miss Sevaric, I shall remain in the vicinity.” He took his time closing the door, but Gwen and Robin maintained a stony silence. Just as well. The first wrong word from Robin and he’d have rushed back in.

  Restlessly, he paced the long passageway, checking his timepiece so often that he finally kept it in his hand instead of returning it to his watch pocket. Time did not always fly, he decided when what had felt like hours counted to a mere fifteen minutes.

  In silent acknowledgment of their mutual anxiety, Wilson brought him a large glass of brandy. Whenever he passed the open door of the dining room, he saw the butler lurking just inside, making a show of polishing the silver. Soon the upstairs maid found an excuse to dust the library, and even the tweeny invented errands to keep her nearby.

  The cook, a large kitchen knife in her hand, hurried into the dining room, muttering something about checking the dumbwaiter. She sent it up and down, up and down, while Wilson stood nearby, rubbing on the same tray he’d begun polishing a half hour ago.

  The entire staff hovered within calling distance of the salon, poised to rescue their mistress from the scurrilous Robin Caine. Servants always knew, Vayle reflected. Gwen thought only Max was aware she’d been abducted, but these people had lived with the feud, too, and shared bits of information belowstairs. Now, silently, each one confirmed a deep affection for her.

  He could well understand their regard. Although he bore the marks of Gwen’s rage on his body, the pleasure of holding her afterward had more than compensated for the bruises. If all went as he hoped, what excuse would he find to take her in his arms again?

  Surprised at where his thoughts were leading, he checked his watch. Sixty-seven minutes. ’Struth, if a man wanted to taste of eternity, he’d only to care deeply about a result for which he was forced to wait.

  And wait.

  Just when he was ready to launch himself into the salon, Gwen opened the door. Her eyes narrowed to see him standing inches away, but after a moment she stepped aside and gestured him to enter.

  Robin stood by a window, one hand clutching a limp handkerchief. There were traces of moisture on his cheeks. Vayle had never seen a man weep in his former life, and until now he’d not thought it a manly thing to do. But of late, he was changing his mind about a great many things.

  “My brother-in-law,” Gwen said quietly, “has explained what happened at Greenbriar. And some of what his own life has been like as a pawn of his uncle, in the same way I was my father’s unwilling servant. We have agreed to start afresh.”

  Vayle took his first painless breath in several hours. “You will cry friends?”

  “I dare not hope for that,” Robin said. “Miss Sevaric has forgiven me, but—”

  “You must call me Gwen,” she interrupted. “Remember our plans.”

  “G-Gwen. I’ll try not to forget.”

  “What plans?” Vayle inquired, feeling left out.

  “I have decided to accept Dorothea’s invitation, and Robin will come with me to Greenbriar for Christmas. That will be rather a surprise to Max, because we don’t intend to let him know in advance.”

  “He’s apt to put a bullet in me before I step out of the coach,” Robin said glumly.

  Gwen sighed. “As you see, Robin does not anticipate a warm welcome. And I fear he is right. Nevertheless, we both think Christmas is the best time to effect a reconciliation between our families. When Max sees for himself that we are in accord, he will come around.”

  “If he hasn’t shot me first.”

  When Gwen fired him a dark look, Robin held out his hands. “I’ve promised I will go, whatever the consequences. Thing is, for the first time since I can remember, I value my life and have a strong desire to keep it.”

  Vayle knew exactly how he felt. “’Tis an excellent plan. When do we leave?”

  Gwen regarded him with surprise. “You wish to accompany us?”

  “Of course he does,” Robin exclaimed.

  “It will be deadly dull for you,” Gwen warned. “A small country house, little entertainment, and probably a good deal of tension as we adjust to one another.”

  A ball of ice lodged in his throat. She didn’t want him there. The family was closing a circle from which he was excluded. I made this happen, he wanted to protest, but he knew that wasn’t true. He’d set a few events in motion, but Robin and Gwen—mostly Gwen—were the true architects of peace. On her own, Gwen had overcome her fear of returning to Greenbriar for the sake of her family. Robin had summoned the courage to face Max at the scene of his own crimes.

  Jocelyn Vayle was not family. He had no place with them, not anymore. And why should he care, really? In four days he would be gone and soon forgotten.

  He managed an indifferent smile. “As you say, Miss Sevaric, I’d only be underfoot at Greenbriar.”

  To his surprise, she came up to him and put a hand against his chest. “Please think about it. You will be most welcome if you choose to join us.”

>   “I can vouch for that,” Robin said fervently.

  Vayle let out the breath he’d been holding and put a hand over Gwen’s. Her eyes blazed up at him, wide and guileless, sending heat through his entire body. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I want very much to be with you at Christmas.”

  As if disturbed by the singular intimacy of the moment, Gwen tugged her hand free and marched to the writing table. “In that case, I must send word to Dorothea, omitting Robin’s name. We think it better to arrive on Christmas Eve, Mr. Vayle, in hopes the spirit of that holy night will work some magic for us all.”

  “And that allows two more days for this swelling to go down,” Robin said, rubbing his cheek.

  “Yes, yes,” said Gwen, waving a hand at both men. “We’ll leave Tuesday morning, but for now do take yourselves off while I write this letter. It has been a long day.” Then she looked over at Robin. “But a good one.”

  After a few words with Robin, Vayle sent him on his way and headed upstairs to his chamber. Clootie was there, brushing a bottle-green coat. He bowed, a speculative look on his dour face. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Vayle nodded to him absently, trying to decide what to do with himself for the rest of the day. Gwen wished some time alone, and Robin could not appear in public with that monstrous jaw.

  “I was sorry to learn you did not venture to Mrs. Benson’s establishment last night,” Clootie said in a sour voice. “The young woman selected for you was most disappointed.”

  “What?” Vayle glanced up. “Oh, yes, the brothel. I’d forgot about it.”

  “Indeed?” Clootie raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps tonight then. Shall I send word?”

  Vayle opened his mouth, but the yes he’d begun to form failed to emerge. Surprised, he went to the window and gazed outside. His room overlooked the street, usually a dreary sight, but transformed now by the gentle snowfall. Barely an inch so far, he observed, but enough to dust tree branches and the tops of passing coaches with a mantle of purest white.

  The compelling desire to bed a woman, any woman at all, was unnaturally absent. He felt as if a mantle of snow enveloped him, too.