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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Your friend? He wants to bed you, if he hasn’t—” He cut that off. “What does he do that makes you disregard all that? Make you forget you have a child at home, and a husband too?”

  The pain in his voice was so raw she was moved to speak with equal honesty, though she knew it was a mistake. “He makes me laugh, that is all.”

  “Makes you laugh?” Nicholas sounded stunned. He drew back, and she was able to slip away from his imprisoning arm, and edge down the wall toward the opening. “Makes you laugh? Allegra, he’s useless. What’s he done in his life but seduce women and switch tailors? Laughter! How can you—you are carving me up, all I have been, all I have done, with his laughter!”

  There was no use defending Simon; he didn’t need it, and it would do no good. She had nothing but the truth, and that would not be enough. “You had better believe this, Nicholas, because I shan’t say it again. I have done nothing to betray you.”

  “Nothing yet, perhaps.” He pushed away from the wall and walked restlessly across the little grotto. He stopped where her mask lay, abandoned on the ground, and nudged it with his boot. “But then he might make you laugh again.” He looked up at her. “I will believe you if you come with me now. Come away from here, and from him. Now. Tonight.”

  “You will believe me then? Only then?” Her fingers were hurting, clenched tight like that, and she forced them to relax, to open, to lie gentle against her chest. “That isn’t belief, Nicholas, if I must prove it to you. And I won’t try. If you trust me, you will say no more.“

  He bent and picked up the mask, brushing the dirt off the white feather, studying it as if there was something written there. Now his voice was cool, all the pain stripped from it. “Come tonight, Allegra. Or don’t come at all.”

  Buy Allegra’s Song (a Drewe Sisters novella)

  Alicia Rasley

  Alicia Rasley is a RITA-award winning Regency novelist whose women’s fiction novel The Year She Fell has twice been a Kindle bestseller in the fiction category.

  Her articles on writing and the Regency period have been widely distributed, and many are collected on her website. She also blogs about writing and editing. Currently she teaches and tutors writers at two state colleges and in workshops around North America. She lives with her husband Jeff, another writer and a retired attorney. The elder of their sons is training to become a military officer, and the younger is a production assistant in Hollywood.

  Learn more about Alicia and her books at:

  www.AliciaRasley.com

  www.edittorrent.blogspot.com

  www.Facebook.com/Alicia-Rasley-author

  www.Twitter.com/AliciaRegency

  Subscribe to Alicia’s mailing list.

  Click here to learn more about Lynn Kerstan, co-author of Gwen’s Ghost

  The Redwyck Charm

  by Elena Greene

  Cover

  Chapters

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  Books by Elena Greene

  Excerpt from Lord Langdon’s Kiss

  About Elena Greene

  Chapter One

  Marcus Redwyck, seventh Earl of Amberley, slumped at his desk for a moment and gazed out of the window. The prospect from his study was usually a cheering one: a lawn sloping gently down toward a stream bordered by several fine willow trees. But the drab light of a rainy day in March muted all colors to a dull gray-green and robbed the stream of its sparkle. After a few moments, Marcus straightened and looked resolutely back at the neat columns of numbers before him. No, there was no mistake. He never made mistakes with figures.

  It was a relief to hear the familiar sound of Critchley clearing his throat.

  “Lord Plumbrook is here to see you, my lord.”

  Despite the start that this form of address still gave Marcus, he gave a perfunctory smile to the elderly butler, who had served the Redwycks of Redwyck Hall as long as he could remember.

  “Show him in, and bring us some sherry, please.”

  He rose from his chair and flexed muscles stiff from prolonged sitting, and forced yet another smile for the portly, middle-aged gentleman who entered his study a few moments later.

  “Good day, sir,” he said.

  “Good day, Marcus,” said Lord Plumbrook. “Or Amberley, as I should call you now. And no need to call me sir, either. You know you outrank me.”

  Marcus grimaced at the mention of his title. “Very well. You must forgive some lapses, though. You have been my good friend and advisor for so long I’m afraid it has become a habit with me.”

  He waved Lord Plumbrook to a chair covered in worn, cracked leather, and took the other beside it, away from the desk with its neat stacks of account books and papers. Critchley poured them several glasses of sherry and left, his tread slow and painful. No doubt he was suffering a relapse of his gout, but Marcus knew better than to say anything. The one time he had expressed the wish that he could provide Critchley with a comfortable pension, the loyal old retainer had behaved as if his pride had just been dealt a mortal blow.

  “Demmed fine stuff, this,” said Lord Plumbrook, as he leaned back in his chair and savored his wine. “Whatever his faults, your uncle did have a discerning palate.”

  Marcus made no answer. At the mention of his uncle, anger, guilt and helpless frustration coursed through him, feelings that had been mounting ever since he had received word of the previous earl’s sudden death and begun to learn the extent of the disaster left behind. In his careless way, Uncle Harold had always been kind to Marcus and his family, readily offering them all a home when Marcus’s own father died, over fifteen years ago. Even in the depths of gloom, Marcus found it difficult to hate him.

  “That bad, is it?”

  Marcus recognized the kind intent behind Lord Plumbrook’s gruff question, and answered with equal candor.

  “I’m afraid it is worse. Bentwood holds the mortgages on our lands, everything except Redwyck Hall itself.”

  “Bentwood! That greedy upstart!”

  Marcus was not surprised by the revulsion in Lord Plumbrook’s voice at the mention of Sir Barnaby Bentwood, infamous throughout the Cotswolds for both his grasping ways and his shortsighted treatment of his tenants. No doubt Lord Plumbrook did not relish the idea of Bentwood as a neighbor. Marcus had his own reasons for detesting the man.

  “I had hoped the sale of the town house would enable me to meet the next few payments,” he continued. “That was before I learned that the town house is mortgaged as well. I have wracked my brains for a way to meet the next payment, and failed. By midsummer, Bentwood will be in a position to foreclose. I do not expect he will exercise any forbearance in the matter.”

  “Good God! Did your uncle have any plan to meet his obligations?”

  “I believe he hoped to restore the family fortunes with some lucky investments,” Marcus replied, unable to keep a bitter note from his voice.

  “So the fool was gambling on the ’Change as well as at the table. And the curricle race? I suppose he hoped to win a handsome sum off that?”

  “Quite possibly,” said Marcus, with a wry smile. He remembered feeling shock, but also a guilty sense of relief, at the news that his uncle had broken his neck. At the time he had thought there was still some hope of halting the family’s headlong plunge into ruin. Now he knew better.

  “So what do you plan to do now?” Lord Plumbrook asked, looking at Marcus keenly from under his bushy eyebrows.

  “I must find a tenant for the Hall. It is a fine old place, so perhaps I can find someone willing to take it, ill-furnished as it is. With any luck, the rents should enable me to set Mama and Lucy up in a small house or cottage somewhere.”

  “And as for yourself?”

  “I shall seek employment.”

  “Where? To do what?”

  “The only thing I’m fit for. I shall seek a position as a steward on some gentleman’s estate.”

  “A steward? I’ll admit you are qualified, what with having tried to keep
this ramshackle place in order while your uncle played ducks and drakes with the family fortune. I’ve never seen anyone with a better head for figures. But who do you think would employ an earl as their steward?”

  “I shall revert to calling myself Mr. Redwyck. If that does not answer, perhaps I shall go to America, or India, or somewhere where I am allowed to pursue gainful occupation.”

  Lord Plumbrook sat back in his chair, swirling the dregs in his glass for a few moments, his brow furrowed.

  “I admire your fortitude, lad,” he said after a moment. “I do think I have a better plan to offer you. It’s something I have been thinking about for some time now.”

  He paused again, as if seeking the right words to make a ticklish suggestion. Marcus thought he knew what his friend was about to say.

  “If you are thinking of offering me a loan, sir, I’m very grateful, but I cannot accept. It would be many years before I could repay you. I could not put you in such a position.”

  “No, I was not thinking of a loan.”

  Marcus felt curiosity and the faintest stirring of hope at Lord Plumbrook’s words. Perhaps he did have some scheme in mind—but what could it be?

  “Have you given any thought to marriage?”

  “You are thinking I should pay court to some heiress?” Marcus tried to keep the revulsion out of his voice as he asked the question.

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  He sighed. “I suppose such marriages are a Redwyck tradition. But time is short, and I am not acquainted with any heiresses. I’d hoped to find more honorable means of restoring the family fortunes.”

  “Well, it so happens I have someone in mind. It’s a Miss Juliana Hutton. She is the granddaughter of Josiah Hutton. He’s a Cit but very respectable, and could buy and sell twenty estates like yours. Years ago when I was a young fool and ran aground, he loaned me enough money to get me afloat again. Never demanded a penny of interest, but when his granddaughter was born he asked if I would act as her godfather. Poor girl was orphaned a few years later. Parents lost at sea while sailing along the coast of Scotland. Now she’s all Hutton has left, and his dearest wish is to see his great-grandson a lord.”

  “So Miss Hutton is to be induced to fulfill his ambitions? Or does she share them?” Marcus didn’t know which was worse: an unwilling bride, or one who would accept him for a title alone.

  “Who can say what’s in a young chit’s head?” asked Lord Plumbrook. “Miss Hutton has never confided in me. You know I don’t care for London, only go up once or twice during the Season when m’wife needs me as host for her parties. But Lady Plumbrook took the girl about last spring, and says there is nothing in her speech or manners to put you to the blush. Hutton made sure she was educated at a most select school. And don’t be thinking she’s any sort of antidote! She’s quite lovely, yellow hair, blue eyes, all that sort of thing.”

  “I am surprised such a paragon still remains unwed.” Marcus could not keep a touch of skepticism from his voice at Lord Plumbrook’s unmitigated praise of Miss Hutton.

  “According to Amelia, she’s had a dozen offers, but refused them all.”

  “If Miss Hutton has turned away so many suitors, why do you think she would consider my suit?”

  “You outrank all of them, for one thing.” Lord Plumbrook must have seen Marcus wince, for he instantly added, “I expect it’s Hutton who is impressed by your title. No doubt Miss Hutton is like most foolish chits of her age, and has some romantic fancies of marrying for love.”

  “What, are you saying I should deceive her by pretending to fall in love with her?”

  “No, no, nothing so extreme! Just get to know the girl, talk to her, and see where matters progress from there.”

  “I’m afraid I’m far better versed in sheep breeding and crop rotations than in gossip or fashion. I shouldn’t know what to say to her.”

  “Come, come! You Redwyck men have always been able to win the favor of any woman you choose to pursue. Handsome, smooth-tongued devils, the lot of you. If the first Baron Redwyck could turn Queen Elizabeth up sweet, there’s no reason you can’t do the same with Miss Hutton, if you would but try.”

  Marcus frowned. Whatever history said, he had no reason to believe in the legendary Redwyck charm. If the trait truly existed, it must have skipped his generation.

  “Do you think she would be willing to overlook my–my disfigurement?”

  “What, that paltry limp? No doubt she will find it romantic. A few years ago they were all out of their minds over that poet fellow. Byron, you know. And his limp was more pronounced than yours.”

  “I doubt she’d find it romantic if she knew I had broken my leg falling through the attic floor, while searching for family heirlooms to sell,” he said, remembering another young lady who had quite certainly not seen anything romantic in his plight.

  “So you don’t tell her. You may not like the idea of an arranged marriage, but this is a golden opportunity. Don’t pass it up. I’m not just saying this because I don’t fancy the thought of Bentwood as a neighbor. Damn it, I’m fond of you. I should hate to see strangers living at the Hall. I had rather see you here, with a wife and a bevy of brats around you to carry on the name.”

  Lord Plumbrook paused to draw breath, and continued, “Think about it! You’ll be able to restore the Hall to what it once was. You’ll be able to arrange for Lucy to be brought out in style.”

  “Lucy would not thank you for that suggestion,” he replied, with a glimmer of a smile at the thought of his hoydenish little sister. “But you are right. Very well, I will court this heiress of yours, to the best of my ability.”

  “Good lad! I thought you’d see reason.” Lord Plumbrook’s cheeks puffed out in a satisfied smile. “I’ll write to Hutton immediately, and arrange for you to introduce yourself.”

  Lord Plumbrook remained only a few more minutes, discussing the projected meeting, before taking his leave. Marcus saw him out, then paused on the steps, gazing out at the undulating hills and woods that surrounded the Hall.

  He wished Lord Plumbrook had been able to tell him more about Miss Hutton. Did she perhaps rebel against the fate decreed for her? He felt a twinge of pity for the girl. If she proved unwilling, he would have to withdraw his suit and deal with the consequences.

  However, it seemed more likely that she was merely being selective in her choice of husband, knowing her grandfather’s wealth would outweigh her lowly pedigree in the eyes of many an impoverished peer. Perhaps she looked for not only a title in her suitor, but also fashion and elegance. Marcus remembered what Lord Plumbrook had said about her education, and immediately the image formed in his mind of a coldly ambitious young lady, trained from birth for marriage into the upper echelons of the aristocracy. What would life be like with such a companion?

  He chided himself. It was not the time for second thoughts; in a few hours Lord Plumbrook would be penning his letter to Miss Hutton’s grandfather. There was a multitude of matters to arrange before he himself left for London, but somehow he felt too restless to start. He thought of going to the stables, but the prospect of a ride down muddy lanes under dripping trees held little appeal.

  Abruptly turning on his heel, he crossed the entrance hall and swiftly walked down a long corridor, ignoring the pain as his leg protested the sudden exertion after too many hours of inactivity. A few minutes later, he reached his destination, the long gallery containing the only paintings remaining at Redwyck Hall. All of the landscapes and still lifes been sold long since to pay servants’ wages and defray pressing debts, but here the images of his ancestors still remained.

  He slowed as he entered the gallery. Tall windows to one side let in a feeble ray of sunshine as the clouds parted momentarily, lighting up the portrait of Harold, first Baron Redwyck. A sea captain, privateer and reputedly one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorite courtiers. Despite his mustache, his pointed beard and the stiff lace ruff that framed his face, the first Baron Redwyck seemed uncannily famil
iar. The brown hair, the forehead, the aquiline nose, all were just what Marcus was used to seeing in the mirror each morning. The eyes… It was difficult to see their exact color in the two hundred year old painting; Marcus thought it likely to be the same hazel as his own. There was a bold light in his ancestor’s eyes, and the hint of a triumphant smile about his mouth, too.

  Damned pirate, Marcus thought, and moved on, past more portraits of gentlemen and ladies, and the occasional family grouping. All the gentlemen bore the same aristocratic visage, with the same hint of roguishness.

  There was Marcus, the first Earl, reputed to have won the charming Nell Gwynne’s favors before she decided to bestow them on King Charles II. Attired in the rich red of his state robes, wearing a jeweled chain around his neck, his dark brown hair in long, luxuriant curls, Marcus’s ancestor had that same curst devil-may-care expression in his eyes.

  Damned popinjay!

  Marcus limped on, past bewigged and powdered gentlemen, and smiling ladies whose dresses seemed in imminent danger of slipping off their curved, white shoulders. There, finally, was Sir Joshua Reynolds’ portrait of Marcus’s grandfather, Charles Redwyck, the fifth Earl, in his powdered wig, and with the same arrogant look in his eyes. Marcus had no memory of the fifth Earl, but as a boy he had thoroughly enjoyed reading through his grandfather’s account of all the adventures he’d enjoyed on his Grand Tour.

  Beside his grandfather’s portrait was a smaller one of Uncle Harold. Marcus gazed for a moment into those languidly smiling hazel eyes.

  “Damn you all,” he said, aloud this time.

  They had all gone their own ways, pursuing pleasure and adventures as they wished, losing and regaining fortunes with equal recklessness and fathering who knew how many bastards. Had they ever worried about them? Had they ever wasted a thought on any of those whose livelihood depended on them, on their tenants, the laborers who worked the land, generations of loyal servants? Marcus doubted it.