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

by Brenda Hiatt

  She held back as memories of torture in another small room, in this very house, nibbled at her courage. Damn the Caines for turning her into a frightened rabbit. She’d forgiven Robin everything but the loss of her mettle, which even her father’s constant rages had never eroded.

  But now she feared Jocelyn Vayle, if only because he was not the same man anymore. Not at all.

  Still, she’d followed him because he was up to something, as he had been since the moment they first encountered each other on a London street. It was time to find out what that was.

  As she moved inside, cobwebs brushed across her face and the stale odor of rotting wood assailed her nostrils. Vayle stepped aside and gestured to a grimy heap on the worm-ridden planks.

  “I believe you call this the treasure,” he said.

  She blinked. It looked like a mound of decaying garbage until he held the candle closer, and then she saw light reflecting from dust-covered sapphires and diamonds. Barely, she could make out the shape of a tiara standing above the other gems.

  Her hand reached out, hovering over the jewels, but she could not bring herself to touch them. The treasure. It must have lain in this spot for decades. “How did you know?” she whispered. “How could you possibly know it was here?”

  “I did not. It was a guess only. Had Max been more adept at carpentry, I’d never have found this room. The hole he created led me here.”

  Whirling around, she jabbed a finger at his chest. “So you are a thief! I’ve always suspected you insinuated yourself into our household for some devious purpose. Now you’ve been found out. All this time, you were searching for the treasure.”

  He gave her a smile touched with irony. “’Struth, Gwen, these jewels are of no earthly use to me. By rights they belong to Robin, but Max may wish to claim them on behalf of his wife. I suggest we leave them here for now, buried under a century of dust. Tomorrow you can show proof that Caines and Sevarics have clashed for years over something neither of them possessed.”

  “Dear God.” Unable to help herself, she brushed the filthy glaze from an enormous sapphire. “To think of the pain for so many people while the treasure lay hidden in this room.”

  Vayle’s hand shook, and he swore as hot wax slopped onto his hand. “A century of hatred. All for these baubles.”

  “You haven’t answered me. How did you know?”

  With a long sigh, he set the candle beside the treasure and clasped his hands behind his back. “You won’t be fobbed off with moonshine, will you? You are readied for a fight, set to go for my face if I serve up another trumped-up story. But you needn’t clench your fists like that. Lying to you has become unbearable.”

  Now that he finally admitted that he had lied, she felt no triumph. The pain in his eyes was too real for her to give way to accusations or caustic comments. “Then tell me the truth.”

  “The last time I saw these jewels,” he said evenly, “they were draped on Blanche Sevaric’s body. All but the tiara, which would not stay in place when we began to make love. She had taken a fancy to them after seeing a portrait of my mother in full court dress, wearing the gems presented our family by Queen Elizabeth. Blanche was unrelenting when she wanted something. I broke into my brother’s safe-box and carried off the trinkets. ’Twas meant to be for one night only, and I saw no harm in obliging her.”

  Gwen swayed, her cheeks drained of color. He reached for her but she backed away, both hands raised to hold him off. “Oh, God,” she murmured. “Oh, God.”

  When her shoulders met the wall, she leaned against it, needing the support. Her toes curled against the cold floor.

  This wasn’t Jocelyn Vayle. This man was older and more wise. Stronger, too, like one who had passed through fire. And she sensed honesty in his words. “Who are you?” she asked in a choked whisper.

  He regarded her silently for a moment. With the candle behind him, his face was all harsh line and shadow. She could not see his eyes.

  “You already know,” he replied gravely. “Unless you’ve decided I am mad.”

  She wanted to believe that, but madness could not account for the treasure, or for the sincerity in his voice.

  “You should run from a madman,” he advised. “Do so if you wish. I’ll not stop you.”

  She shook her head. “N-no. Not yet.”

  He smiled. “You always amaze me, Gwendolyn Sevaric. Until we met, I never understood how beautiful a thing is truth. But you burn with it, like a clear, bright flame. And you may be the only creature alive who could understand and accept this improbable tale.” Stepping forward, he bowed, lifted her icy hand, and pressed his lips to her palm. “I am Valerian Caine.”

  Her vision blurred then, and her knees gave way.

  With a swift motion he caught her up, pressing her body against his, murmuring something at her ear. She was too dizzy to make out the words, but aware enough to feel solid muscle and the strength of his arms.

  “But you are real,” she managed from a constricted throat. “You are here. I am touching you.”

  “To my profound delight,” he said. “’Struth, holding you has been the most pleasurable of my experiences in this century. But my time here has nearly run out, and you are cold. Can you stand without my support?”

  In reply, she loosed her arms and let them fall to her sides.

  He released her, shrugged out of his robe, and helped her put it on. She felt the warmth of his body in the folds of velvet as the dressing gown settled around her, and the elusive scent of lemony soap and fragrant snuff.

  “That’s better,” he said, securing the tie at her waist. His hands lingered there as he gazed into her eyes. “Do you understand, Gwen? I truly am Valerian Caine, the same man who died here at Greenbriar Lodge a hundred years ago.”

  She could not explain why she believed him. Perhaps they had both run mad. And yet, for the first time, she trusted him, her instincts stronger than the logical part of her brain that told her everything he’d said was impossible, a bizarre ploy to let him snaffle the treasure and escape.

  “Will you explain?” she asked helplessly. “Can you?”

  “That’s my girl! And I shall try, if allowed to do so. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Just after midnight, I think. The clock in my room showed close to twelve when I went after you.”

  “Ah.” He exhaled slowly. “In that case, I may well disappear at any moment. But let us go someplace warmer and more comfortable while I’m still here. The kitchen? I don’t wish to rouse anyone as we talk.”

  Her heart jumped to her throat. “Why would you disappear?”

  “Because I’ve failed,” he said after a moment. “Or so that I cannot tell you things you are not supposed to know. Or just because it’s Christmas.” He picked up the candle. “If I vanish, ’tis not because I wish it. But don’t be surprised.”

  She took hold of his hand. “As if anything could surprise me now.”

  When they got to the kitchen, Valerian stirred the banked fire and added wood from the brazier. Then he sat across from Gwen at a trestle table, both her hands resting in his.

  It was his fault, the hundred years of feuding. After the duel, when the first grievances faded, only the treasure kept the vendetta alive. And he was responsible for its disappearance. Locating it in this century was a meager achievement, considering the damage he’d done. But at least his brief new life had some meaning now.

  How much time did he have? Knowing Proctor, not much, so he started with the most important thing on his mind. It did not translate well into words.

  “Miss Sevaric—Gwen—you are splendid and… that is… if only I’d met you when I was truly mortal, I would have—” His voice faded off.

  ’Struth, he’d have been too caught up in his own pleasures to bother with a slender, bright-eyed chit whose beauty of spirit lay beyond his vision. The man he’d been would not have made the effort to know her, or appreciated the intricate personality that enthralled him now.

  �
�It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “We were born in two different times and are not permitted a future together. Not that you’d put up with a scoundrel like me in any case. I only wanted you to know of my… er… deep regard.”

  He couldn’t say the word “love.” He’d never said it before, to any woman. And now, what good would it do?

  If only her eyes were not so clear, fixed on him with unwavering trust. At this moment, she was ready to believe anything he told her and brave enough to accept what no one else would.

  “Valerian?”

  He squeezed her hands. That she used his name said more than a thousand words.

  “We should get on about this while we can,” he said gruffly. “Stop me when you have questions, because I scarcely know how to tell the story. Where should I begin?”

  Her brow furrowed. “With the easy part, I think. I’d rather work up to—well, how you came to be alive again. What happened before, with the treasure and the duel?”

  “Ah.” Unfortunately, Gwen’s easy part cast him in an ugly light. Swallowing his pride, he let go her hands and propped his chin on his fists. Staring down at the table, he recalled the events that took place here a century ago.

  “I had been Blanche Sevaric’s lover for several months. Her husband was supposedly in Dorset on business, but I expect he knew he was being cuckolded and decided to put an end to it. That particular night he galloped into the courtyard with sufficient clatter to make his presence known.”

  Gwen’s silence worried him. At least she was still there, waiting for him to resume his story.

  “Blanche panicked, insisting I conceal myself while she fobbed him off. But I dressed and went outside, ignoring her directions to the priest hole. Only a coward would hide. And Sevaric had the right to meet me, although my reputation with sword and pistol made it virtual suicide to call me out. ’Struth, I didn’t expect he would, but the man was ever a fool.”

  He closed his eyes, and as if on Proctor’s screen, the scene played out before him. “Within minutes we were faced off in the road. I chose pistols, thinking to wound him only. But he raved on and on about the vile ways he’d punish Blanche for her infidelity. So I shot to kill.”

  “And so did he,” Gwen said tonelessly.

  “That was his intent, but Sevaric fired wildly. For a split second I thought he’d missed. Then his bullet ricocheted off a stone and struck me in the temple. Or so I’ve been told. At the time I felt a sudden pain and nothing more.”

  She gave him a stricken look. “I cannot bear to think of you dead.”

  “But I’ve been dead for a hundred years,” he reminded her. “Tis long over and done with, Gwen.”

  “That is difficult to apprehend while you are sitting here in front of me.” With obvious deliberation, she changed the subject. “Do you look now as you did before?”

  “I think so. The parts of me I can see directly, like my hands and legs, appear the same as they were. But I’m unable to see my reflection in a mirror.” He chuckled. “Ever since I dismissed my valet, Robin has been shaving me.”

  She leaned over to look, and her finger brushed the side of his jaw. “He missed a spot, just here.”

  That touch, so intimate, sent heat coursing through his body. If he hoped to make it through whatever time was left without betraying himself, he had to put some distance between them. Summoning a neutral smile, he came to his feet. “Robin’s hand was shaking like an aspen through the entire procedure,” he said lightly. “I’m surprised he didn’t slit my throat.”

  She blinked. “Would you have died again?”

  “Devil if I know. It’s been guesswork since I awoke in Hyde Park a month ago, tempted to imagine I’d dreamed everything of the past and was truly alive. But whenever I pass by a window or a mirror and fail to see my image, I’m reminded that I do not belong here and will not be allowed to stay.”

  “Why is it others can see your reflection? I’ve done so.” She flushed. “Sometimes I looked at your reflection so you wouldn’t be aware I was really looking at you.”

  He halted his pacing, arrested by the significance of her confession. “Have you now?”

  “I could not help myself,” she said in a tiny voice. “You are excessively handsome.”

  His chest swelled. That artless compliment touched him in a way all the flattery he’d grown accustomed to had never done. But he was unable to recall a single one of the facile responses that had always come with ease to his lips when a woman praised him. Just as well, since Gwen had no patience with elaborate duplicity.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  She tilted her head. “I’d like to have seen you with lace at your neck and wrists, wearing rich velvet coats and embroidered waistcoats. Did you powder your hair? Or wear a periwig? I’ve always hated those. In portraits, they make a man look downright silly.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said with a laugh. “I wore my own hair, unpowdered, long and tied back in a queue. ’Twasn’t the fashion, but I was vain enough to set my own style.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she retorted. But then her face grew serious. “What about the treasure, Valerian? Did you put it in that room?”

  “Not I. Apparently Blanche hid the jewels in the priest hole while her husband and her lover were busy killing each other. Looking to her future, I expect. The gems would have brought her a fortune, even pried from their settings and sold individually. I’ve no idea why she failed to reclaim them.”

  “She never had the opportunity. She died of influenza not long after the duel. From all accounts the house was then closed up, until a Caine won it on a wager some years later. It stayed in your family after that.”

  “Ah. That’s why I’d no idea Greenbriar Lodge was the same place I often met with Blanche. It had another name then. I cannot recall what it was. Until the coach drew up yesterday, I never realized that I was coming back to the last place I had seen on this earth.”

  He leaned his shoulders against the wall and folded his arms. This house was his own gateway to the Afterlife, a hundred years ago and again within the next few hours. Or seconds. Such irony, he thought. Proctor might have a sense of humor after all.

  Gwen was silent for a long time, staring at her clasped hands resting on the table. She looked small and defenseless in the velvet robe. It had slipped over one shoulder, pulling the collar of her nightrail with it, and her bare skin was nearly translucent in the dim light of the candle. Behind her, fire from the kitchen hearth transformed her tousled hair to a red-gold halo.

  He would love her, if he could.

  Perhaps he already did. It was difficult to know because he’d never loved anyone, not that he could remember. Both his parents died when he was in leading strings, and his brother was cold-natured even as a child. A stern uncle raised them until William was old enough to take the reins. From then on, William discharged his duty as heir to the title with zeal, while his irresponsible younger brother ran wild.

  He had admired William, distantly. And he’d been infatuated with women from the very day his voice began to change, pursuing any number of them with genuine passion over the years. Even so, the notion of choosing one woman and being faithful to her had never occurred to him.

  Until now, when it was impossible.

  Gwen lifted her head. “Can you tell me what happened after you died?”

  “I’d rather not. Most is so vague in my mind I could scarcely begin to describe it, and if telling you is forbidden, I might be called back immediately.”

  “Then do not,” she said firmly. “I want above all things for you to stay as long as possible. But is it prohibited to explain how you came to be here now?”

  He gave it some thought. In fact, he could be snatched away at any moment, for any reason or no reason at all. Proctor had never outlined the rules.

  Why not tell her as much as he could? Not about the foggy, tedious Afterlife, though, because Gwen was a virtuous woman and would certainly experience something altogethe
r different. A just God would not permit her to fall into Proctor’s clutches.

  “I was offered a second chance,” he said. “Not that I deserved anything of the sort, given my record before and after I died.”

  “Indeed?” She regarded him owlishly. “Were you very wicked?”

  “I fear so. Not malevolent, ’struth, but assuredly selfish and dedicated to my own pleasures. If I ever did a truly virtuous deed, I cannot recall it. Nevertheless, I was assigned to put an end to the feud between your family and mine. And if I succeeded, there was to be a reward, although—”

  “But you did succeed,” Gwen interrupted. “Some wounds will take awhile to heal, but none of us will pursue this idiotic quarrel another inch. The Caines and Sevarics are reconciled.” Her eyes grew wide. “So what is your reward? Will you now go to Heaven?”

  He laughed. “Not likely. As I understand it, Heaven is far beyond my reach.”

  “Oh, dear Lord. Surely not hell.”

  “Oh, I’ll likely find my way there by one route or another, but not immediately. Eternal damnation, like salvation, apparently requires considerable dedication. As a reward I was offered something that I, in my ignorance, valued even more than paradise, the chance to reclaim my former life.”

  “As Valerian Caine?” She frowned. “But how is that possible?”

  “How is it possible I am here now, a hundred years later? Believe me, Gwen, I’ve not a clue. Had I accomplished the tasks assigned me, I was to survive the duel and continue from there, doubtless finding more inventive ways to sin.”

  She cast him a dark look. “And will you?”

  “I’ll not have the opportunity. If the feud is now ended, I had precious little to do with it. And that was only the first of my tasks. By Christmas day, Dorothea and Max were to be happy and at peace.”

  “But they are! Did you see them tonight, Valerian? They are so in love the air around them fairly burns.”

  “As you say. But that was their doing, not mine.”

  “You’d a hand in it. I’ve always suspected you shut them in my father’s sanctuary just so they’d be compromised.”