Escaping Notice
Authors: Amy Corwin
Tags: #regency, #regency england, #regency historical, #regency love story ton england regency romance sweet historical, #regency england regency romance mf sweet love story, #regency christmas romance
The Archer Family Regency Romance Series
(Previously published as:
Escaping
Notice
)
By
Amy Corwin
Amy Corwin
Copyright 2012 by Amy Corwin
Smashwords Edition
License Notes
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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.
The Second
Sons Inquiry Agency Series
“ …
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.
“
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 whatever 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.”