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

by Brenda Hiatt

  “I know the life I wish for sounds dreadfully dull to you,” said Pen earnestly. “I wish you could understand how delightful it can be just to be part of a family. But your parents died so young, perhaps you cannot remember such things.”

  For an instant, vague memories of a soft voice, a playful touch, stole over Juliana.

  “No, I do not remember,” she said, shaking her head. “So don’t feel sorry for me, Pen. Grandpapa has always cared for me, and provided all the nursemaids and toys I wished for.”

  “That is not at all the same thing,” said Pen, frowning.

  “In any case, I do not wish for marriage, or children. Of course, Grandpapa has far different ideas,” she said, as they entered the shelter of a grove of trees.

  After she had told Pen about the match Grandpapa had arranged for her, her friend wrinkled her brow.

  “I think this Lord Amberley sounds very amiable,” she said, after a pause. “You cannot blame him for wishing to care for his tenants, and his family.”

  “Yes, yes, he is so virtuous he is even willing to marry a lowly tradesman’s daughter to save the family fortunes. Well, I have no desire to be part of such a sacrifice.” Juliana caught herself walking too quickly, then slowed down to accommodate Pen’s shorter stride.

  “If you find he is truly odious of course you should refuse him. But perhaps, once you become acquainted, you may find him more agreeable than you expect. You might even fall in love.”

  “You are too romantic! I do not believe I shall ever fall in love. In my experience, there are two kinds of men in the world: those like Grandpapa, benevolent tyrants who would manage women’s lives as if they had no will of their own, and the second sort, who merely take advantage. Think of poor Mrs. Frisby, whose husband spent all his wages before she saw a penny of them, and left her destitute. And think of what happened to Catherine. She wanted to escape her family, but made the mistake of asking help from that scoundrel Lord Verwood. He must have deserted her, for why else would she have allowed herself to be buried in the country with a gentleman farmer, of all things?”

  “I think you are wrong. I believe she loves Mr. Woodmere. She writes that she is happy beyond all her expectations, and he is everything that is good and kind. Now they are expecting a dear little baby.” Penelope sighed wistfully.

  Juliana could not share Pen’s feelings. Her heart felt heavy as she thought of Cat, forced to live in the distant north, bound by marriage to the unknown but undoubtedly rustic Mr. Woodmere. No wonder she wrote often, urging them to visit her.

  “She has written the same to me, but I am convinced Cat is merely putting a brave face on her troubles.” Juliana decided not to voice her worst fears. Cat’s mother had died in childbirth. What if the same happened to Cat, before either of them could even see her again?

  Pen shook her head. “I think Cat is happy with Mr. Woodmere. Why do you persist in thinking that men are all such tyrants? My own Papa always confided in my mother, and asked her advice on every matter of importance. They were totally devoted to one another.”

  “Such men are rare. Besides, I find the mere thought of being kissed or—or touched by a man thoroughly disgusting.”

  “I have always felt that to be kissed by a man who loved me would be one of the greatest joys imaginable.” Pen’s impish smile returned.

  “Well, I expect you will enjoy it very much when Mr. Welling kisses you. I, however, have already been kissed. Twice, and both times the gentlemen professed to be in love with me. The first was that toad Augustus Twickham, one of Grandpapa’s clerks, who thought to advance his career by wooing me.”

  “That must have been unpleasant.”

  “He tasted of stale cabbage soup.”

  “Ugh!”

  “Oh, and then there was that fool Charles Bentwood, whom I met this summer in Brighton. I admit, I was foolish enough to find him attractive on our first meeting. The next time we met, he found an occasion to seize me in his arms. He then proceeded to do a fine imitation of a bear intent on devouring me.”

  “That sounds more passionate.”

  “Not a bit of it. He stepped on my foot.”

  Penelope giggled. “Oh, I am sorry. I should not laugh. What happened then?”

  “When I cried out, he relaxed his hold slightly, which gave me the opportunity to slap his face as he deserved. Polly came to my rescue soon after, at which point he had the audacity to claim that only the deepest ardor had tempted him to pass the line. It was clear enough what had happened. Grandpapa must have refused his suit, since he is a younger son, and his brother is only a baronet. So he decided to see if he could compromise me into marriage.”

  “That was certainly dreadful, but dearest Jule, you must believe that there are men who will value you as they should.”

  “I do not depend on it. My choices are to marry one of those fools, or remain an old maid in Grandpapa’s household.”

  “Lord Amberley does sound better than your other suitors.”

  “I am sure he is quite dreadfully respectable. If I marry him, no doubt he will expect me to live quietly in the country, so as not to embarrass his family with my vulgarity, and of course, he will expect me to bear him numerous children to ensure the succession.”

  “So you still hope to travel?”

  “Yes, but Grandpapa will not hear of it. He is convinced that only marriage with a peer of the realm will secure my happiness. I cannot think of a way to persuade him otherwise.”

  Pen squeezed her arm. “I know. It is difficult to know what to do.”

  “Perhaps I shall run away,” Juliana said lightly.

  “You are not serious, are you?” Pen stopped and stared at Juliana, her eyes wide.

  Juliana had spoken half in jest, but as they resumed their walk, she considered her words. “Perhaps. But this is different than the pranks we played at school. If I merely steal the housekeeping money and hide for a week or so, Grandpapa will only make Mrs. Frisby and the servants keep a stricter watch over me. No, I must think of a disguise, and also some way of supporting myself until he relents.”

  “Where would you go? What would you do?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Well, I think you should just stay, and meet Lord Amberley.”

  “That certainly would be the sensible thing to do,” Juliana replied, seeing that Pen looked upset. Perhaps Pen was thinking of Catherine, who had gotten herself in so much trouble by trying to run away with a rake. Whatever she did, Juliana would not repeat Cat’s mistake of trusting a man to help her out of her predicament. She would prove to Grandpapa that she knew how to resist the advances of unscrupulous males.

  “Can you guess who I saw yesterday while Aunt Mary and I were shopping at Grafton House?” asked Penelope, in an obvious attempt to divert Juliana’s mind.

  “No, who?”

  “Madame Bouchard. Do you remember her?”

  “Of course,” said Juliana, smiling at the memory of their old dancing-mistress, who had once graced the stage of the Paris Opera House. “How is she? I always wondered what happened to her after Miss Stratton dismissed her. And I still do not believe she ever carried on an affaire with Monsieur Dubois.”

  “We don’t know for certain that was why she left, Jule. Anyway, she now teaches at one of the dancing academies, and also lets out rooms in her house in Half Moon Street, mostly to opera dancers, I think. She seems to be well and happy.”

  “I am glad. She was always so kind and patient with us, when we must have irritated her beyond anything at times.”

  “You did not. You were the best dancer among us. I never could master any of the ballet steps she taught us, before Miss Stratton put a stop to it.”

  “Yes, all because the author of The Mirror of Graces lamented that ‘chaste minuet is banished, and, in place of dignity and grace, we behold strange wheelings on one leg; stretching out the other till our eye meets the garter’,” said Juliana, placing wicked emphasis on the last word.

  “�
��—and a variety of endless contortions, fitter for the zenana of an eastern satrap, or the gardens of Mahomet, than the ballroom of an Englishwoman of—of quality and virtue,’” Pen concluded primly.

  They both laughed. Arms linked, they continued to stroll, enjoying each other’s company and the fitful sunshine just beginning to pierce the gray veil overhead. But as they talked, a new idea began to revolve in Juliana’s head. She made no mention of it to Pen, knowing it would make Pen very uneasy. But by the time her carriage arrived to take her home, her plan was nearly complete.

  It seemed adventure beckoned her, after all.

  Chapter Three

  “You are going to London to court an heiress?”

  Marcus had not had much to smile about in the past weeks, but he could not stifle a grin at the deep revulsion in his sister’s voice.

  “Yes, Lucy, I am going to London. Lord Plumbrook has very kindly arranged for me to meet a young lady who happens to be an heiress. I am engaged to visit them in about a week, so that she and I can become better acquainted.”

  “Mama, tell him he must not!”

  “Marcus my darling, is this truly necessary?” his mother asked.

  They both gazed at him intently, their dark brown eyes alight with curiosity and concern. Thus far he had managed to withhold the worst of the news from them; perhaps he could still soften the blow.

  “I am afraid it is necessary. You are both too intelligent not to understand our circumstances.”

  “I thought we were going to save the family fortunes by breeding hunters. I never thought you would resort to such a paltry scheme,” said Lucy.

  Marcus watched in fond amusement as she jumped up and paced restlessly about their dimly lit library, dusky curls bobbing, the skirt of her old blue dress swinging to a long, mannish stride. No doubt Mama had insisted she change for the evening; left to her own devices, his fifteen-year old sister would surely have spent the entire day in her riding-habit. However, there would probably come a day soon when she would find other interests beside horses, and perhaps wish to make her entry into society. He only hoped that he would be able to provide her with the means to do so, and also with a respectable dowry.

  “Lucy, I am afraid such a plan would take too long to prosecute,” he replied. “In fact, I have already sold Apollo to Lord Plumbrook.”

  “Apollo! We had such hopes of him. How could you?”

  Marcus tried not to think of the lively colt he had bred and trained himself into one of the finest hunters in the Cotswolds, or of their plan to begin breeding from him. Like all his other plans for improving the estate, it would not bear fruit quickly enough to do any good.

  “Lord Plumbrook offered me a very generous sum for Apollo, which I need in order to present a creditable appearance in London.”

  “Present a creditable appearance? I suppose you will have to dress like a dandy, and say all sorts of stupid flattering things to her!”

  “Something like that,” he said with a smile.

  “Well, this Miss Hutton sounds perfectly odious. Mama, you cannot wish Marcus to marry such a stupid chit?”

  “Lucy dear, please sit down and mind your language. Not that I do not agree with her,” said Mama. “I cannot like the thought of you offering for a woman whose only desire is to marry into the peerage.”

  Marcus glanced over toward his mother. Tall, slim and vivacious, she could almost have been taken for their older sister. Only a certain grace of demeanor and a silvering in her nearly-black hair betrayed that she was past forty.

  “Lord Plumbrook says Miss Hutton is quite pretty, and not at all vulgar in her manners or her speech,” Marcus offered.

  “She still sounds odious to me,” said Lucy.

  His mother made no response, merely leaning back gracefully on the sofa, closing her eyes in concentration. It was a pose he knew well, though it seemed hardly the time…

  A moment later, her eyes flew open.

  “I have it! A sea monster will do quite nicely!”

  “Or perhaps a giant octopus?” asked Marcus, trying to suppress a chuckle.

  She sat up, waving her hands enthusiastically. “Can you not picture it, darlings? A sea monster will attack the evil duke’s ship after he steals Francesca away, and he will drown, while she washes up on shore, clinging to a plank, only to be found on the beach by her lover, Alonzo. He has been suffering agonies since she was torn from his arms. At first, he believes she has died, but she awakens in his arms, and—”

  “Mama, it is not the time for your stories. Marcus is in trouble!” Lucy interrupted, with a frown.

  “Don’t you see? Now all I need to do is write several more chapters, send it off to the Minerva Press, and I am certain The Perils of Francesca will make quite a hit!”

  Marcus closed his eyes momentarily, touched and amused. Mama’s outlandish stories certainly enlivened their fireside, and no doubt helped to reconcile her to a quiet existence in the country. Perhaps The Perils of Francesca would even engage the interest of the editors at the Minerva Press, but it was ludicrous to think the proceeds would lift one-tenth of the debt currently facing their family.

  With only a slight tremor in his voice, he replied, “Thank you, but I would not wish you to rush your creative endeavors.”

  “For you, I shall make the effort.”

  Marcus shook his head and tried to smile, though his heart ached at his loved ones’ naive schemes to forestall his courtship of Miss Hutton. Perhaps it was time to let them know how matters stood; it would at least prepare them for the possibility that his courtship of Miss Hutton would not succeed.

  “I am afraid matters are too desperate for that,” he said. “I hoped to conceal this from you, but Sir Barnaby Bentwood holds the mortgage on our lands. If matters do not improve quickly, he will be in a position to foreclose by the end of next month.”

  “Dearest, I would rather live in a cottage than have you make such a sacrifice of yourself,” said his mother. “I had always hoped that both of you would marry for love.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes at Mama’s romantic words, but added her objections. “Marcus, please do not marry Miss Hutton on my account. If you are thinking of using her dowry to finance my come-out, you may be perfectly easy. I have no wish to enter into society, and will be quite happy to live in a cottage. Even if we have to sell all our horses!”

  “You would not wish our lands to pass into Sir Barnaby’s hands, would you? You know what that would mean to our people?”

  Both Lucy and his mother paused at that, struck by this argument, as he had known they would be.

  “So you see, I have no choice but to do my best to win Miss Hutton’s hand. I only hope I can succeed.”

  “I have no doubt that you shall,” said his mother. “For all you have been obliged to live such a quiet life, poor boy, you are a Redwyck, and as handsome as any of your forebears. I only wish you could use your charm to woo someone more worthy of you.”

  She sighed, but Lucy snickered in true sisterly fashion.

  “Have you a scene to read to us tonight, Mama?” he asked, seeing his mother preparing to reprimand his little sister.

  As his mother began to read the latest installment of The Perils of Francesca, Marcus watched them both from his shabby wing chair. He could not take his mother’s praise too seriously. She was too fond a parent to be a judge of his assets. Only time would tell whether he would be able to win Miss Hutton’s hand and provide for these two, his nearest and dearest.

  “Please remain still, my lord. Do not try to help me.”

  Marcus restrained his impatience and obediently waited as Pridwell carefully drew the new black coat up over his shoulders. Unused to any more assistance than what was required to pull off his riding boots, Marcus had found it rather a trial to be obliged to sit quietly while his hair was painstakingly combed into a Windswept style, and to endure a lengthy lesson in the art of tying a cravat. Fashion was certainly a fatiguing business.

  Marcus re
minded himself that winning Miss Hutton’s hand might depend on his ability to strike just the right balance of respectability and elegance. He must forever be grateful to Pridwell for his assistance. The elderly valet had served Uncle Harold for over thirty years, but few younger men would have shown such zeal. He had guided Marcus to the most elegant tailors’ and bootmakers’ establishments, and through the arduous task of selecting from a bewildering variety of wares.

  “There, my lord,” said Pridwell, smoothing a wrinkle from Marcus’s sleeve. “I trust my work meets your approval.”

  Marcus surveyed himself in the mirror in the corner of the room. He had to admit the black coat did look rather elegant, perhaps even justifying the hole its purchase had made in his purse. He supposed the discreet Mathematical Tie and the subtle gray brocade of his waistcoat would also strike the correct balance between elegance and mourning. Then he looked down at the new, smoothly fitted pantaloons. Their subdued dove gray matched the rest of the ensemble. However…

  Looking abruptly back at Pridwell, he was shocked to see tears in the valet’s eyes.

  “Whatever is the matter, Pridwell?” he asked. “You have done your best; it is not your fault if you cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”

  “Oh no, my lord,” said the valet in a shaking voice. “If I may say so, you look splendid. Why, even my late master—God rest his soul—though a fine figure of a man, even in his prime he was not your equal.”

  Marcus stared at the man. Perhaps Pridwell had gone senile?

  Aloud, he asked, “Are you quite certain Weston measured me correctly for this coat? It seems rather tight, as do the… the pantaloons.”

  Pridwell straightened, reassuming his dignity. “Not at all, my lord. The loose-fitting coats you have been accustomed to wearing do not do justice to your lordship’s shoulders. If I may presume to say so, I have never seen a finer pair on any gentleman. As for the pantaloons, they are all the mode. And might I add—” He coughed discreetly. “Although of course they do not speak of such matters, the ladies are not at all averse to the sight of a well-muscled, er, thigh.”