Escaping Notice Read online

  The Earl’s Masquerade

  The Archer Family Regency Romance Series

  (Previously published as: Escaping Notice)

  By

  Amy Corwin

  The Earl’s Masquerade

  Amy Corwin

  Copyright 2012 by Amy Corwin

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Amy G. Padgett

  Publisher: Fireside Mysteries

  Editing Services Provided by: The Word Queen, http://www.thewordqueen.com

  Publishing History

  First Edition, 2012, published as Escaping Notice

  Second Edition, 2013, republished as The Earl’s Masquerade

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Archer Family Series

  The Second Sons Inquiry Agency Series

  Meet the Author

  Chapter One

  “ … the greatest mischiefs happen from small circumstances ….” —The Complete Servant

  April 18, 1819, Burnham-on-Sea Beach, Somerset

  Hugh Gerard Castle, sixth Earl of Monnow, woke slowly. His face burned. He rolled over and gritted his teeth, thinking he had overslept after a night of terrifying nightmares. But instead of linen sheets, he found sand and sharp rocks. Sea salt stiffened his shirt and breeches. High above, the sun glowed merrily, scorching his raw skin. Everything ached; even his eyelashes were sticky and painful to open.

  He rubbed his face, sat up and looked around. His hands cracked painfully when he flexed his fingers.

  Now fully awake, he winced as sudden grief kicked him in the gut. His left arm throbbed with the memory of losing his grip on Lionel’s collar. But he could not deny himself another quick glance, hoping …. He saw nothing but sand and rocks.

  The sea had taken his brother.

  Gritting his teeth, Hugh stood. He lurched forward, dizzy and sick as he searched hopelessly for any sign of his brother.

  The beach was empty except … something dirty-white clung to the wet sand, shifting with the movement of the waves. He stumbled along the shore, ignoring the pain when he grazed his bare foot against the sharp edge of a rock. The stinging gash left a dull streak of blood in his wake, until the sea silently crept forward to dilute and absorb it.

  He halted, weaving unsteadily. The object tumbling in the waves was a crumpled mass of canvas, tangled with a length of rope. Part of a ship’s rigging. The remains of his boat, Twilight, tumbled in the waves. Splintered wood and pieces of the hull littered the beach, crushed and abandoned like a broken toy.

  They should have been able to ride out the sudden squall. Yesterday — no, two days ago — he had inspected the Twilight from stem to stern. Her hulls had been scraped and re-painted in dry dock. She had been seaworthy, and both men were experienced sailors. They had been through worse storms together. The Twilight had never failed them.

  He could not believe she would ever fail them.

  In a flash of rage, he swore at the sea, then at himself. Why had he not listened to Lionel? Why had they not gone to visit the vicar instead?

  His hands shook until he fisted them. Finally, he rubbed his wrist, trying to forget the feeling of sudden weightlessness in his arm when the sea had pulled Lionel from his grasp.

  And the guilt of the relief — the accursed relief — when he had risen to the surface of the ocean, unencumbered by the burden of his brother’s body.

  His muscles shook uncontrollably, but despite his anguish, their last moments aboard the Twilight returned. The loose, unresponsive feel of the tiller in his hand haunted him.

  He stared at the sea. Finally, he turned away from the emptiness. Near battered chunks of the hull rocking in the waves, he spotted what looked like clothing … Lionel? He waded out and grabbed the bundle.

  Nothing!

  A spare shirt was tangled in the rudder — or what was left of the rudder.

  The bottom of it had broken off, but only half of the break showed the jagged edge where the wood had splintered. He ran his fingers along it. The other part of the “break” was smooth. Someone had sawn halfway through, leaving just a narrow section to hold the rudder together.

  Maybe he was wrong, mistaken. However, a warm, prickling flush ran up his back.

  The rudder had broken under his grip during the storm. He had been unable to turn about and force the bow into the wind. Even without the squall, they would have faced difficulties sailing back to Newport once the helm stopped responding.

  Deeper, ugly thoughts flashed into his mind. He had inspected the boat in dry dock. Surely he would have noticed if the rudder had been sawn almost in half. The damage had to have occurred after his inspection.

  Deliberate sabotage, unless he was just searching for some excuse for the tragedy, some way to ease the burn of grief eating at him.

  No. He was not wrong. Someone had tried to kill him, and had murdered Lionel instead. He rubbed the dried salt off his face.

  Time to pay the coachman to take whomever had killed Lionel straight to hell.

  Chapter Two

  “The best proof of wisdom is to talk little, but to hear much ….” —The Complete Servant

  Turning away from the sea, Hugh took a deep breath of the clean, salt-tinged air and rolled his shoulders, pushing back the rage. Time to think clearly, decide on a course of action.

  The beach was mostly empty, except for a few small children collecting whateve
r the storm had tossed onto the sand. A girl and boy about seven years old fought over what looked like the piece of Twilight’s hull, painted with the boat’s name. The white paint and black letters still looked fresh and clean in the soft, morning sunshine.

  With a final tug, the boy wrested the piece away from the girl and yelled with glee, brandishing it in the air before dashing up a twisting path towards the village. The girl, noticing Hugh, gave him a tentative wave and then turned to run up the beach where a few more broken bits of wood floated in the surf.

  He glanced at the village. Yesterday, he had informed Twilight’s caretaker that he would return early this morning. Judging by the sun, the man ought to be worried by now.

  And if the children showed any adults what they had found, there would be little doubt that the Twilight had gone down in the storm with Hugh Gerard Castle, the Earl of Monnow, at her helm.

  In a few hours, everyone would believe him dead. He smiled grimly.

  That suited him. Let the saboteur breathe a sigh of satisfied relief. Let him feel safe and sleep soundly for a few nights. He would soon have cause for regret, for fear.

  In the meantime, if there was any truth in his speculations, Hugh now had time and the safe anonymity of his supposed death to investigate. He needed to think matters through. Although he felt calm enough, part of him understood that he was wrong. His body shook, trembling when he tried to walk. When he stared too long at the pale sky, all he saw was his last glimpse of Lionel’s white face.

  Well, he could not stand here all day, but he could not walk far with bare feet.

  His knees buckled as he tried to sit, landing with a thud next to the crumpled sail. He used his teeth to tear a few strips from it and methodically bound his feet, wrapping his right foot tightly to close the still-bleeding gash. His linen shirt and breeches were ripped and stained by salt, and his face was scratchy with a day’s growth of beard.

  He was a complete mess, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  He stood, wavered for a moment, and then strode to the road. He had a vague recollection of the area from sailing across the bay when he was a boy with his father. He was near Burnham-on-Sea, a few miles from Highbridge in Somerset.

  Five miles down the hot, dry thoroughfare, he stopped to rest, trying to ignore his growling stomach and bleeding feet. His cracked lips burned for water. He picked up a small, smooth rock and slipped it into his mouth, pretending it assuaged his thirst. He trudged on.

  Finally, to his relief, a young lad driving a cart loaded with kegs of salted cod rolled into view.

  “Hey!” Hugh hailed him, standing in the middle of the road.

  “Hallo, yourself,” the lad replied, slowing down and eyeing Hugh thoughtfully. “Move aside, there.”

  “Give me a ride?”

  The lad laughed and shook his head, flicking the reins to prevent the raw-boned draught horse from taking the opportunity to slow down. “Not for the likes of you. Like as not, I’ll be tossed in the sea for my troubles.”

  “I’ve no mind to steal a load of stinking fish, my lad. And I mean to get to Bath.” His lawyer lived in Bath nearly fifty miles away, but Hugh valued his judgment and he could certainly use his assistance.

  “Well, you could use a bath. That much is certain.”

  When the wagon did not stop, Hugh grabbed hold of the side and ran a few steps, swearing as the rocks in the road punched through the linen wrapped around his feet. With a final lunge, he heaved himself onto the side. He balanced his hips precariously on the edge before falling inside amidst the barrels.

  “What are you about?” The lad swore creatively between quick glances over his shoulder. “Get off! Get out of there, you old sot!”

  “I mean to stay,” Hugh answered, struggling to sit up. He finally managed to get to his knees. After swaying when the wagon bounced over a rut, he took a firm seat on one of the barrels. “I’ve no mind to rob you, though I might toss your body into the Channel if you don’t learn lesson or two in politeness.”

  “That’s rich coming from the likes o’ you!” The boy laughed, but did not halt the wagon. “You should’ve saved yourself the trouble of heaving yourself onto me wagon—I’m only going as far as Wells. That takes you south o’ your mark.”

  “South, maybe, but closer all the same. Now be quiet and drive, for I’ve a mind to shut my eyes.”

  “You can do as you likes and be sure I’d do the same!” came the lad’s insouciant reply. A few minutes later, he began whistling a jaunty tune.

  Despite his efforts, however, his whistle could not drown out the sounds of deep, slumberous breathing from atop the kegs of fish behind him.

  §

  “Wake up!”

  Hugh sat up and groaned. His body felt as stiff as his clothing. The cart had come to a halt in a narrow alley, and two roughly-dressed men were unloading the barrels. The lad who had driven the wagon was staring down at Hugh, hands planted on his slim hips.

  “If you helps unload, Mr. Blackstone says you can have a pint o’ ale, bread and fish. If you be quick, I’ll take you down the road a bit toward Bath as well.”

  “Done!” Hugh winced when his feet touched the ground, but he ignored the pain and hauled the barrel, on which he had been sitting, into the back of the shop.

  “I’m Tom,” the lad called on Hugh’s second trip to the wagon.

  He nodded but did not answer. His clenched jaw ached as he forced back a groan when he stubbed a toe against one of the wagon wheels. Behind him, a line of bloody footprints trailed across the wooden floor.

  Hefting the last barrel, Hugh let out a sigh of relief and carried it inside. He set it down with the others and stretched his back. Sleeping in the cart hadn’t done him much good. He felt bruised and battered. Barely able to swallow, he rubbed his parched lips and joined the men as they crowded around a rough table.

  “So, what’s your name?” Tom picked up the ragged bits of linen covering several tin plates laden with food. He threw the cloths down on a spindly wooden chair and sat down, before tossing a crusty loaf of bread to Hugh.

  Hugh tore the loaf in half and handed Tom the largest piece, though in truth, he could cheerfully have eaten the entire thing.

  “Hugh,” he answered, after taking a long draft of beer. The liquid slipped down his throat in a refreshing, malty stream. Aware of the ache in his belly, he took a huge bite of the crust, savoring the rich taste of creamy butter and the soft, yeasty scent of the bread.

  Tom nodded, before studying the cheese and cutting a large slice. “Well, Hugh, there be cheese and fish. And a few more sips of beer left.” He paused to take a large bite of a deep yellow wedge of cheese. He chewed methodically while eying Hugh. “You’re a bit rough, mate, if you don’t mind my saying. Hate to be in your way if you was to be annoyed.”

  Hugh’s brows rose in surprise. He must look worse than he thought, for he was generally held to be a mild, amiable man. In truth, his acquaintances routinely described him as “placid” or “easygoing,” much to his annoyance.

  “I’ve had some trifling difficulties.” He wolfed down a large hunk of cheese and bread before draining his tankard of beer.

  Snorting, Tom shook his head. “I’ll be bound the other fellow you had difficulties with came off a mite worse.”

  “Not yet,” Hugh replied easily enough, though a slow, burning anger flared in his belly at the unwitting reminder of the accident. Lionel.

  “Is that why you’re off to Bath?”

  “Yes. There’s someone I need to find.”

  “Poor bloke.”

  Poor, indeed.

  Chapter Three

  “When preparing for a journey, care should be taken ….”—The Complete Servant

  April 19, 1819, Chipping Wycombe, Buckinghamshire

  As usual, Edward Brown-Leigh’s two elderly maiden aunts could not comprehend his reasoning or the necessity of placing his frog in the tea pot. Naturally, he assured them, he had carefully emptied the
pot and replaced the boiling tea with suitably tepid pond water. While he was only eleven years old, he was not a complete idiot – despite what they told him.

  It was the perfect environment for a frog. The pot had both a lid and a natural opening for air.

  However, when Aunt Esther recovered her ability to speak coherently, she stated in no uncertain terms that she could no longer be expected to care for such a thoughtless little beast.

  “But Aunt, that’s redundant, isn’t it? Thoughtless little beast?” Edward protested, emphasizing the word “redundant,” which he had just learned the previous day. “Aren’t all beasts thoughtless by their very nature, since they can’t think? Rationally, that is. And I’m not sure frogs really aren’t thoughtless. Or beasts, for that matter. Aren’t they amphibians?”

  His aunt’s face turned a shade of red he had never seen before. He watched her with interest and hoped his logical response would finally win an argument with at least one of his hitherto irrational aunts.

  “I have had enough of you, young man!” Aunt Esther sputtered, her voice fractured by the series of deep breaths she sucked in as if the room lacked air.

  Edward glanced at the open window and then back at his aunt. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. There really was plenty of air.

  “Shall I open the other window?” he offered politely.

  “Be quiet!” She waved a lace-edged handkerchief in front of her face.

  Could she smell the frog now residing in Edward’s pocket?

  He worked to keep his face expressionless. Everyone knew frogs did not smell — at least not particularly. The amphibian wriggled. He clamped his hand round it, fearing it would escape into the room. If it did, his Aunt Esther would have it destroyed. She did not approve of animals in the house.