Читать книгу: «Unmasked»
Nicola Cornick
is an international bestselling author and a
RITA® Award finalist, and her novels have received acclaim the world over
“A rising star of the Regency arena.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Nicola Cornick’s historical romances bring the sensual and elegant world of the Regency to vivid life.”
—Anna Campbell, author of Untouched
“Ms. Cornick has a brilliant talent for bringing her characters to life, and embracing the reader into her stories.”
—RomanceJunkies
Praise for Nicola’s previous HQN titles
“A powerful story, rich, witty and sensual—a divinely delicious treat.”
—Marilyn Rondeau, Reviewers International Organization, on Deceived
“Cornick masterfully blends misconceptions, vengeance, powerful emotions and the realization of great love into a touching story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4½ stars, on Deceived
“Cornick expertly spices her latest Regency historical with danger, while the sizzle she cooks up between her sinfully sexy hero and delightfully resourceful heroine is simply spectacular.”
—John Charles, Booklist, on Lord of Scandal
Nicola Cornick
Unmasked
Dear Reader,
From the Scarlet Pimpernel to Zorro, Robin Hood to William Wallace, the real-life legends and fictional stories of those who fight for freedom and justice have always inspired me. In Unmasked I have written an outlaw story of my own! Over the wild heather-clad hills and dales of Yorkshire ride a band of highwaywomen, taking from the rich to give to the poor, protecting the weak and setting right the injustices of society in true Robin Hood style. But the Glory Girls who ride in Unmasked are no ordinary outlaws. These are women who defy convention because they cannot bear to sit at home, confined by the traditional role of the Regency wife or widow, who see injustice and feel a burning need to take action.
Nick Falconer, the hero of Unmasked, is a man of honor, sworn to uphold the law, and when he is sent to bring the Glory Girls down he is determined to do his duty. But in Mari Osborne, the woman he suspects to be Glory, he finds someone very different from the criminal he is expecting, someone whose principles equal his own…. I loved writing my story of those dashing Regency outlaws the Glory Girls, and I hope you enjoy it, too!
Love from
This book is dedicated to Yorkshire,
county of my birth, for all the wild and
wonderful places that inspired me.
Unmasked
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
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
AUTHOR NOTE
PROLOGUE
London—April 1805
Daffodil—Deceit
“THE THINGS I DO for England.” Major Nick Falconer stood back and squinted at his reflection in the pier glass in the hall of the Marquis of Kinloss’s London mansion. The Marquis was out of Town, which Nick thought was probably all to the good. His great-uncle was notoriously high in the instep and might have cut up extremely rough had he seen his heir’s outrageous appearance.
Nick turned to the young man who was leaning against one of the marble pillars and watching him with amusement in his blue eyes.
“What do I look like, Anstruther?”
“You look quite shocking, sir,” Dexter Anstruther said politely. “The ribbon is a nice touch, as is the perfume and the patch.”
Nick laughed. “And the jacket? Quite dandified, I think.”
“Much worse than a dandy,” Anstruther said, a smile twitching his lips. “I beg your pardon, sir, but you look like a molly with extremely dubious sexual tastes. A rum cove, as my father would have said.”
“I do my poor best,” Nick said. He picked up his hat, a jaunty wide-brimmed affair with a flirtatious orange feather.
“This place you’re going to,” Anstruther said, “this club…”
“The Hen and Vulture,” Nick supplied.
“Yes.” Anstruther looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Is it really the case that one cannot be sure whether…I mean, there are men there, and women…”
“And the men may be dressed as women and the women as men,” Nick finished. He grinned. “So I understand. Far too shocking for youngsters like yourself to visit, Anstruther.”
“Men dressed as women,” Anstruther muttered, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “How could that possibly be attractive?”
“I believe the appeal of such a place lies in the ambiguity,” Nick said. “Apparently some of the most beautiful courtesans in London also attend and the skill is in telling them apart from the men in women’s clothes.”
“Good God,” Anstruther said faintly. “It’s so…unBritish.”
“Just count yourself lucky that you don’t have to come with me,” Nick said comfortingly. He looked at his companion, sober in his black evening dress. Dexter Anstruther had been assigned to assist him in his current mission by no lesser personage than the Home Secretary himself. The boy had only graduated from Oxford the previous year but he was clever, diplomatic and hardworking, and Nick’s current venture, to rein in the wilder excesses of his cousin the Earl of Rashleigh, required assistance from someone with absolute discretion. Dexter Anstruther fitted the bill perfectly.
“How would you dress if you were visiting the Hen and Vulture, Anstruther?” Nick inquired.
“Just as I am—as a repressed English gentleman,” Anstruther said ruefully, looking at Nick’s somewhat colorful outfit, “rather than the sort of mincing dandy I see before me—with the greatest of respect, sir.” He straightened, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “What if Lord Kinloss should hear of this, sir? He’ll have a fit. The heir to a Marquisate in a house of ill repute!”
“I’ll probably recognize plenty of other peers in there,” Nick said, “so no one will be able to point the finger.”
Anstruther shook his head in disbelief. “It is difficult to believe, seeing you like that, sir, that you have a certain reputation for ruthlessness.”
Nick was adjusting his outrageously lacy collar. “Thank you, Anstruther. Unfortunately I also have the bad luck to be Rashleigh’s cousin.”
“And the best shot in England and one of Gentleman Jackson’s finest,” Anstruther said, with an air of hero worship.
Nick smiled. “More to the point, Anstruther, Lord Hawkesbury knows I’ll be discreet because no matter how much I hate my cousin, this is a family matter.” He tilted his head to one side and patted the patch on his cheek. “Too much, do you think?”
“You look like a whorehouse madam, sir.”
“Just the style I was attempting,” Nick said.
“Lord Hawkesbury said that this was a delicate business,” Anstruther said, shifting from one foot to the other, as though he was not quite comfortable to be in the same room as a man in such dubious attire. “A matter that could cause repercussions through the top ranks of society, he said.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “It is damnably delicate. You know that my foolish cousin Rashleigh has borrowed heavily from the sprigs of the nobility, Anstruther. He has targeted those youths with generous allowances and lax guardians. And now that his activities are exposed there are peers lining up from Aberdeen to Anglesey threatening to see him in hell. Lord Hawkesbury wants Rashleigh warned off tonight and the money repaid before one of them kills him.”
Nick stopped, thinking that in better times Dexter Anstruther himself might have been one of Rashleigh’s targets. The boy’s father, whilst not titled, had been from a good family and had had a tidy fortune—until he had gambled it all away.
“I had heard that Lord Rashleigh was a scoundrel,” Anstruther said gruffly. “I know he’s your cousin, sir, but he’s still bad Ton.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Nick said affably. “Never could stand Rashleigh myself. He comes from the dissolute branch of the family. My mother’s brothers were all worse than scoundrels.”
“Dashed nuisance that you have to go to this so-called club,” Anstruther observed. “Did you try calling on your cousin at home, sir?”
Nick laughed. “Yes, I tried. He declines to see me. We have not spoken for several years and last time we met he damned me to perdition for refusing to advance him a loan.”
“A pity he is a habitué of the Hen and Vulture rather than Whites,” Anstruther said. “You could have had a pleasant evening there.”
“Whites blackballed him years ago,” Nick said.
“You don’t surprise me. Unwholesome fellow.” Anstruther shifted uncomfortably once more. “I heard Lord Hawkesbury say that he was robbed blind by one of his mistresses a few years back? He said it was the talk of the Ton for a while.”
Nick’s mouth set in a thin line. “Yes, it was. She was a Russian girl. Rashleigh’s side of the family had estates there, inherited from his grandmother. He told me once how he had sold his serfs off to the highest bidder.” His fist clenched in an instinctive gesture of anger and repudiation. “I think—” his tone hardened “—that that was when I really started to hate him.”
He could see that Anstruther was staring at him but he did not elaborate. Nick had spent his adult life in the army, fighting for honor and freedom and principle, to defend the weak and preserve the things that he believed to be right. It was a moral code he believed in, a belief that had only been strengthened by the violent death of his wife some three years earlier. But his cousin, in contrast, treated human life as though it were a commodity to be bought and sold, as though people’s very souls were of no account. He sneered at the weak and crushed them under his aristocratic heel. Rashleigh had laughed at the reformers and sworn that those who wanted to abolish slavery were soft in the head. And in Nick’s book that made Robert Rashleigh the scum of the earth.
Nick adjusted his hat to a more rakish angle. “That’ll do. I’m off.”
“Good luck, sir,” Anstruther said, holding the door for him. “You are sure you do not need me to accompany you?”
Nick looked him up and down. “A selfless offer, Anstruther, but in that outfit you would stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.” He slapped the younger man on the back. “I shall see you later, when I am confident you will be able to report to Lord Hawkesbury on a job well done.”
Out in the street it was a brisk April night with a cold breeze whipping the ragged clouds across the moon. Nick settled back in a hackney carriage and winced in the draught from the ill-fitting door. He had no appetite for this errand and no time for his cousin, but for the sake of his family’s good name, he knew he had had to take the Home Secretary’s commission. As the carriage clattered through London’s streets he thought, with no degree of affection at all, about his errant cousin and the trouble that he had caused from the day of his birth. There was no doubt, as Anstruther had said, that the Earl of Rashleigh was worse than a scoundrel.
The hack drew up abruptly and Nick sighed and jumped down, pushing the plumed hat down farther on his head as a gust of wind threatened to take it off. His current garb, he reflected, was about as far from his army uniform as could be.
From the outside the Hen and Vulture looked much the same as any low tavern in the Brick Hill area. The shutters were closed and from within came the flicker of candlelight, the mingled smell of ale and stale smoke, and the roar of voices and laughter. Nick squared his shoulders. He had been called upon to perform some unusual roles during his career in the Seventh Dragoon Guards but none had taken him anywhere quite like this.
He pushed open the door.
Inside it was so dark that for a moment Nick could not see properly, then his eyes adjusted to the light and he headed for a quiet corner, sliding along the wooden bench behind a rough ale-stained table. The room was almost full. Despite the tavern’s reputation, there were only one or two outrageously clad men. One was dressed in an embroidered corset and a trailing golden robe with satin-lined sleeves. He had a well-powdered wig, ear pendants and a beauty patch on one cheekbone that was a match for Nick’s.
The inn servant—a slender youth who could actually have been a girl—slopped a beaker of ale down onto the table and gave Nick a flirtatious smile, which he returned in good measure as he slipped the payment into the youth’s hand. He looked around the room. As far as he could see, Rashleigh had not yet arrived.
Nick took a mouthful of the ale. It tasted like dirty water and he put the tankard down again quickly. It was threatening to be a long evening if the drink was so poor. He glanced around the room again and caught the eye of a strikingly pretty, masked woman in a tight crimson gown. Like him she was sitting alone in a quiet corner. It looked as though she was waiting for someone. She held Nick’s gaze for a long moment and despite their surroundings, despite his outrageous garb sufficient to confuse anyone as to the true nature of his sexual interest, a connection flashed between them that was so intense he felt it like a kick in the stomach.
The girl got up, walked slowly across the room and slid into the seat beside him.
“Hello, darling.” Her voice was warm, inviting and very definitely feminine.
Nick thought quickly. In showing more than a fleeting interest in the girl he had no doubt made her think that he was a potential customer. The sort of whores who paraded their wares in places like the Vulture, male or female, did not in general interest him, but he supposed that he would draw less attention if he pretended an attraction to this one, and that would not be very difficult for she was extremely pretty.
He had barely looked at another woman in the three years since his wife had died. Anna had been his childhood sweetheart and their marriage had been an understood thing from the first, an eminently sensible arrangement between two families. They had married when Nick was one and twenty and he had confidently expected to live very happily ever after. It had therefore been both a shock and a disillusionment to find that the reality of their marriage had not lived up to its early promise. Anna was delicate and could not follow the drum and he was young and determined to serve abroad and so they had spent much of their time apart. Nick had told himself that it did not matter, that it was a good enough marriage, better than many, but he knew something was lacking. And so it might have continued for years had not an opportunist robbery in a London street turned violent and he had lost his wife in one vicious moment. He had finally been forced to confront his failure and guilt, and the grief had overwhelmed him, not only for Anna but also for what might have been. His distance from home and the sheer helplessness of his situation only served to compound his remorse, but by the time he had received the news of her death and returned to England, Anna was cold in her grave and his heart was even colder.
He had never felt an interest in another woman since but he looked at this one now and felt an unexpectedly strong pull of attraction. As she leaned toward him he could smell a fresh flower scent on her, light and sweet. He felt her silken warmth wrap about him, a far cry from the stale perfume and sweat he had expected. The sensation went straight to his head—and to his groin. He could not remember the last time he had noticed the scent of a woman but this one filled his senses. It made him feel restless and disturbed in a way he could not quite explain, as though he was dishonoring Anna’s memory in some way. He pushed the feeling away and gave the girl a long, slow smile in return. This was, after all, only business.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
The girl looked him straight in the eyes. “Several things spring to mind,” she murmured.
She was not shy then. She was not even pretending to be shy. Nick did not mind. He disliked artifice in any form. A direct man himself, he preferred bluntness in his dealing with others and whatever she was, she seemed honest.
He allowed himself a moment to study her. She had blond hair that curled about her face, and behind her velvet mask her wide-set, candid eyes were so dark Nick thought they were black until a stray beam of candlelight shone on them and showed up the tiny flecks of green and gold in their depths. She was wearing far too much paint for a young girl but the deep cherry-red of her lips was alluring and drew his gaze. She ran her fingers lightly but deliberately over the lace that edged the low-cut bodice of her gown, back and forth gently across the swell of her breasts, and Nick’s eyes followed the movement and he felt the lust slam through his body in response.
He looked up to see her watching him, a knowing look in her eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was a little rough.
She gave him a small, secretive smile. “Molly.”
Nick laughed. It was a good choice for a place like the Vulture but he doubted it was her real name.
Molly moved a little closer to him. Her slippery satin thigh pressed gently against his leg and once again he felt desire as hard and hot as a punch in the gut. Damnation. He had always considered himself to have iron self-discipline but the only iron thing about him at present was his erection, which was swelling with each provocative slide of Molly’s satin skirts against his thigh.
“And who are you?” she whispered in his ear. Her voice was low, slightly husky. Her breath tickled his cheek.
Nick cleared his throat. “My name’s John.”
She smiled again, that knowing smile. “What are you doing here, John?”
“Looking for company.” Nick took a mouthful of the watery beer and appraised her over the rim of his tankard. “What about you?”
She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. The candlelight gilded the pallor of her bare skin, made it look smooth and tempting. There was a scattering of freckles over her shoulders and a tiny, heart-shaped mole above her collarbone that was already driving Nick almost mad with frustration. He found that he wanted to press his lips to it, to taste her skin. He shifted on the bench.
“I’m looking for someone, too,” she said.
“Someone in particular, or anyone?”
For a second Nick thought he saw some expression flicker in her eyes, too quick to read. Then she smiled. “Someone special, darling. Someone like you.”
Nick leaned toward her. One kiss would do no harm and he wanted it, wanted her, with a hunger that was already hard to control.
She leaned away. “Not so fast,” she said. “There’s a price.”
There always was, with a whore.
Nick raised his brows. “You charge for your kisses?”
“I charge for everything, darling.”
The curve of those red lips was very seductive. Nick ran one finger down the bare skin of her inner arm, tracing the curve. He thought that he felt her tremble just a little and admired her skill. The cleverest whores were the ones who seemed innocent.
“And if I want to take something on account?” he murmured.
Her eyes were veiled behind the mask. “It’s against the rules.” She put her hand on his thigh. “Let me persuade you to open your purse.”
Nick caught her chin in his hand, turning her face up to his. “Let me persuade you to break the rules,” he murmured.
He felt her go very still beneath his touch, like a wild animal freezing in the face of danger. For a moment Nick thought that he could read abject terror in the depths of those dark eyes and he started to draw back. He wanted no part in coercing an unwilling woman and he understood all too well how some of these girls were obliged to play a role that they hated just to earn enough money to survive.
But then Molly put a hand on his nape and pulled his head down so that his lips touched hers. The surprise held Nick still for a moment as he absorbed the sensation, the touch and the feel of her. Again he sensed a hesitation in her before her lips parted a little and softened beneath his. Her tongue tentatively touched the corner of his mouth, then slid across his lower lip in sweet invitation, and he felt a sudden helpless rush of desire, like the first blindingly hot passion of his youth, so strong it made him ache, so unexpected it shocked him. He had never felt anything so raw for any woman, and certainly not for Anna. Fierce need smashed though him and in that instant he forgot his scruples, forgot his memories, forgot even why he was there, and pulled her to him and kissed her deeply until he was panting and she was, too.
When she tore herself from his grip he was so wrapped up in the taste and feel of her that for a moment he was completely disorientated. Then he saw that she had moved a little way away from him along the bench. Her face was averted and she had a hand pressed to her lips. Nick could see she was shaking slightly. The downward curve of her neck looked so vulnerable that he felt a powerful surge of anger and protectiveness and lust inextricably jumbled into one. Her closeness and her apparent defenselessness unleashed a sudden wave of memories of Anna, terrible, tormenting memories so sharp that they cut him to the core. He had not been there to protect his wife when she needed him. He had failed her in so many ways.
He put his head in his hands for a moment to try to clear his mind. He could not think about this now. He should never have touched the girl and sparked the tangle of memory and desire that had captured him.
With deliberate intent he wiped out the memories and, when he straightened up, he saw that Molly’s attention had drifted and she was staring across the room. He followed her gaze toward the door and saw that his cousin, Robert Rashleigh, had come in and was standing preening himself like a displaying peacock. In a white wig, silver cloak, gold breeches and scarlet shoes, he drew all eyes.
The conversation in the tavern fell to a murmur then rose again as men resumed their drink and sport. Nick suddenly became aware that beside him the girl was rigid, upright, vibrating with a strange kind of tension he could not understand. Her attention was riveted on the flaunting figure of the Earl.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, and slipped from the seat beside him. She walked straight across to Rashleigh, put a hand on his arm and indicated to the tavern servant to bring him a drink.
Nick’s eyes narrowed as he watched the interchange between his cousin and the whore. He felt a fool now for his unrestrained response to her. Evidently he had been without a woman for too long to fall into lust so hard and so fast. Molly, in contrast, had forgotten him already for she was at the door, gesturing to Rashleigh to follow her out into the night, no doubt to a set of rooms nearby. There was no sign of reluctance in her now. The appearance of hesitation earlier must have been only for show—or because she had not really thought Nick worth her time. Her apparent vulnerability and defenselessness had been no more than figments of his imagination. Nick’s jaw tightened as he saw her give Rashleigh the same tempting, secretive smile in parting that she had given to him.
He watched as Rashleigh drained his glass of wine in one gulp and ordered a second, which he dispatched the same way, his eyes on the door the whole time. Nick guessed that the girl had asked Rashleigh to give her a few minutes in which to prepare herself before he joined her in her bed. He got to his feet. It was time to spoil his cousin’s party. He started to move toward Rashleigh with deliberate intent.
Rashleigh looked up and their eyes met. For a long moment they looked at one another and then Rashleigh turned away abruptly and hurried out without a word. The tavern door crashed on its hinges as it closed behind him. The candles fluttered in the wind and half of them went out. Men cursed as they knocked their drinks over in the dark. Nick blundered across the room and found his way to the door. He was not going to let Rashleigh get away from him now.
The alleyway outside was pitch-black. The tavern sign was swinging in the rising breeze and creaked overhead. Nick stopped, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He listened intently but could hear no sound of movement. He could not tell which way Rashleigh had gone but he was determined to find him and confront him with Hawkesbury’s accusations before Rashleigh gave him the slip and tumbled into bed with that willing little harlot.
Then he saw the glimmer of something in the gutter at the end of the lane, where the narrow passageway joined the high road. His breath caught. Turning, he shoved open the door of the tavern and shouted inside, “Bring a light!”
The landlord hurried to do his bidding, a flaring torch in his hand. Nick could see a fold of the silver cloak, all muddied now from the dirt of the gutter, gleaming bright in the torchlight.
The customers were piling out of the alehouse, scenting trouble. Another lantern flared, showing Rashleigh lying on the ground, his face paint smeared, his wig askew. One of his hands lay outstretched as though clutching after something that had eluded him. Nick could see a knife protruding between his ribs. It was buried to the hilt. Beside him lay a blond wig and a black velvet mask.
Images filled Nick’s mind of Anna, lying there in the gutter in his cousin’s place, limp, broken, her life drained away. He saw her blue eyes clouding over in death and felt the familiar tide of sickness and guilt wash through him. With an immense effort of will he forced the images from his mind and looked dispassionately down at his cousin’s tumbled body. Rashleigh looked undignified in death. His face had fallen and crumpled in on itself. He looked weak and dissolute and pitiful. Nick searched his heart and did not feel a scrap of sorrow. The world was a better place without the Earl of Rashleigh.
The breeze stirred the edge of Rashleigh’s silver cloak and stirred, too, the scrap of paper that had been clasped between his fingers. It fluttered free and Nick bent to pick it up. It was a visiting card and on it was printed the flaunting symbol of a peacock in gold. Nick frowned. He had seen that device before. It was similar to the coat of arms of his old school friend Charles, Duke of Cole. He turned it over. On the back was written the words Peacock Oak, the estate in Yorkshire where Charles had his country seat.
Nick saw the inn servant at the front of the crowd, his face thin and terrified in the flickering light. He walked over to him.
“You were standing near to Lord Rashleigh when he was talking to the girl,” he said. “Did you hear anything they said?”
“Are you the law?” the servant demanded.
Nick thought of Lord Hawkesbury and wondered what he would make of this mess. “Near enough,” he said.
The servant shook his head. There was the sweat of fear on his upper lip and he wiped it away with his sleeve. “He asked if there was a place where they could talk and she said to wait a few minutes and then to follow her across the street. That was all.”
Nick held out the card with the golden peacock on it. “Have you ever seen that before?” he demanded.
The inn servant held the card up to the light, peering at it. Then he recoiled, and pushed it back into Nick’s hands. He cast one, fearful glance over his shoulder.
“That’s Glory’s calling card!” He turned an incredulous look on Nick. “Have you not seen it, sir? It’s been in all the presses. Glory leaves her card when she robs her victims!”
A hiss went through the crowd, a strange indrawn breath of fear and excitement, for there was only one Glory and she was the most infamous highwaywoman in the country. Everyone knew her name. No one needed an explanation.
Nick straightened up. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
He remembered the touch of the girl’s lips on his. She had kissed like an angel. He felt part shocked, part incredulous, to think her a criminal and a murderer. It seemed impossible. He had thought her honest and even now some instinct, deep and stubborn, told him she could not have killed Rashleigh, though the evidence was right in front of him. The wig, the mask, the knife…And his cousin’s fallen body that reminded him so sharply, so heartbreakingly, of Anna….
He thought about the strange tension he had sensed in the girl when Rashleigh had entered the room. She had recognized the Earl. Perhaps she had even known him. She had told Nick that she was waiting for someone and that someone must have been Rashleigh himself. All her actions that evening must have been calculated. She had lured Rashleigh outside to kill him in cold blood.
“Shall I call the watch, sir?” The landlord was at his shoulder, his face strained and sweating in the half-light. “Powerful bad for business, this sort of thing.” He saw Nick’s face and added hastily, “Terrible tragedy, sir. Friend of yours, was he?”
“No,” Nick said. “Not my friend. But he was my cousin.”
The landlord gave him a curious glance before beckoning the bar servant over with a message for the watch. Nick knew he should go directly to tell Lord Hawkesbury what had happened but he lingered a moment longer, his eyes scanning the dark warren of streets that wound away into the dark. He thought fancifully that the faint, incongruous scent of flowers still seemed to hang in the air. For a second, above the creaking of the inn sign, he thought that he could hear the tap of her heels, see a flying shadow melt into the darkness of the night. He knew he would never find the girl again now.
