The Man in the Mask (M is for Murder #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Placing an ad for a husband was a delicate task to be certain…

A blank sheet of parchment stared up at Lady Priscilla Applegate as she sat at her writing desk. Choosing her words perfectly was of the utmost importance for the task at hand. She brushed the feather top of her quill across her cheek as she considered the precise phrasing she might use.

“Large dowry…” she whispered, so as not to be overheard by her mother or her cousin.

Not that they were likely to hear her over the volume of their own voices.

The two of them were incapable of speaking to one another without the conversation turning into an argument.

Not that she blamed her mother a bit. “Clean. Reasonably attractive…”

She nibbled at her bottom lip as she continued to consider her list of possible attributes. “Crochets admirably?”

Her mouth turned down as she mentally crossed that last item off her list. Did men care about such things? Three of her friends had recently wed and none of their husbands had considered their prospective brides crocheting ability, of that Priscilla was certain.

She dipped her pen into the inkwell and then lightly tapped the tip on the rim to remove excess ink. Blotches might mar her meaning, and this task was too important to risk any misrepresentation.

“Priscilla,” her cousin called, sharp and hard, making her jump.

A bit of ink splashed onto her fresh page, ruining her first attempt before she’d hardly begun.

His voice always surprised her. To look at him, one would think he’d sound as soft as his frame implied.

With overly high collars on his shirts, his cheeks and jowls appeared to droop down over them.

“Yes?” Priscilla calmly set down the quill, then turned to look at him, arranging her skirts so they didn’t twist or bunch. Maintaining a facade of propriety seemed the best method for keeping Eugene Fitzsimmons at a distance.

A distance he very much wished to close.

She’d attempted to argue with him as her mother did now, but that method had proven not only ineffective, but dangerous. His temper flared over the smallest disagreements.

“Tell your mother that I am not ridiculous in the least for pursuing your hand in marriage. In fact, it’s the natural order, as I see it.”

“You wish for me to tell my mother how you see it?” she asked, knowing full well she’d been intentionally obtuse. Tiny barbs were her only weapon these days.

Eugene, the new Earl of Purlington, her fourth or fifth cousin on her father’s side, had inherited her father’s earldom.

A fact he took great delight in lording over her.

He huffed now, his large cheeks puffing out even further.

“I hold the title. I ought to have the finances with which to run the earldom.”

Priscilla pressed her lips together, not bothering to reply.

She’d said it all before. Her father had passed eighteen months prior.

It had taken the solicitors over a year to find Eugene, a month for him to make his way to London and two more for him to realize that while he held the title, and the entailed property, most of the loose assets had been carefully placed within her dowry.

Priscilla had been through all the paperwork herself, not that she’d ever inform Eugene of this fact. He’d only berate her for not knowing her place.

To be fair to Eugene, her father had taught her a great deal about finance and the earldom, more so than most girls would ever know, but he hadn’t an heir of his own so he’d imparted the knowledge on her.

He enjoyed teaching and she’d been an apt student.

For that reason, she knew for certain that Eugene had the money required to maintain the earldom. There just wasn’t much extra.

An industrious man would know how to take the farms and land he’d inherited and make his own fortune, but Eugene was not that man.

He wanted all the spoils, and he wanted them now.

Which is why he’d decided that he and Priscilla ought to wed.

She’d sooner toss herself from the London Bridge. She’d not let her father down by allowing all those funds to land into the hands of a greedy dandy.

Not that she ever said that out loud, either.

“You have the finances you need.” Her mother bit back, sparing Priscilla from answering. She gave her mother a silent “thank you” as Eugene pivoted back toward the other woman, his face turning a distressing shade of purple. Which left Priscilla to resume her work.

Priscilla was not considered a great beauty.

Nor was she a successful debutante. She’d not had many suitors, not that she’d cared until her father’s passing.

But she was the daughter of an earl with a large dowry and passing accomplishments.

And her looks, while they erred on the side of sweet, were nice enough.

Surely, she could do better than Eugene. Couldn’t she?

The few suitors she’d had when her mourning period had ended had been frightened off by Eugene, and he’d restricted her social schedule to a bare minimum of events.

All facets of her day-to-day life that were within his control, he restricted to his utmost ability. Fortunately for her, her mother, and thanks to her late father, who she married, however, was not up to Eugene. A fact she thanked the heavens above for every day.

But how to meet that man with Eugene’s eye upon her was the current question.

Her friends could help. Charlotte was uncommonly clever, Mona a duchess, and Alexi the kindest person Priscilla had the pleasure of knowing.

But they were all newly wed and very busy, and she’d not bother them unless the situation became dire.

Clara, her final and best friend, had been helping, and together they’d devised this plan.

They’d put an ad in the paper for a husband.

As far as plans went, it was a poor one. Both in that it was gauche at best and scandalous at its worst. But a better option had not presented itself, and so Priscilla forged ahead.

She took out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped her pen into the inkwell once again and began to write.

Vacancy: One titled and funded lady looking for an eligible lord in need of a wife. Meet in Hyde Park by the entrance to the rose gardens at noon on Tuesday, the 11th of April, 1837.

She stared down at the sheet, reading her words several times. Succinct and to the point. She dusted the letter and carefully folded the parchment, addressing it to The Times. Including one quid, she sealed the letter and rose to ring the bell.

The argument behind her continued, but she largely ignored the raucous noise. Her mother was more than capable of outwitting Eugene.

As she handed the letter to the butler, Priscilla added a silent prayer that a suitable gentleman answered her call.

* * *

Wyatt Highland, ninth Viscount Ware, rose from bed just as the clock in the hall struck noon.

While most lords slept late, his reasons for still being abed were far more…interesting…than spending his evenings drinking or gaming or both.

He stretched aching muscles, moving gingerly to test each. When he was certain they’d all support his weight, he rubbed a hand through his dark hair before he grazed his middle finger along the tender skin that split his cheek in two, the flesh still itchy even after two years of healing.

Not that it bothered him that much. Rubbing the skin had become a reflex, a habit that reminded of him why he did the things he did.

Moving to the bell cord, he stepped over his pile of black breeches and a black linen shirt that he’d stripped off before collapsing in bed the night before.

He stretched again, working out a knot in his back before he rang the bell and started for the bath of water already waiting for him. A gift from Ralph, who brought the bath in every day just before noon.

The hot water had become his morning savior, helping him recover from his activities the night before. He sank into the water with a groan of satisfaction, noting several new bruises along his midsection.

Ralph would have something to say on the topic of his bodily damage for certain. He didn’t find Wyatt’s nightly wanderings fitting for a man of Wyatt’s station or something along those lines. Ralph was likely right.

He was also a nosy overprotective biddy.

Ralph maintained that a man with a viscountcy and no heir, not even a wife to provide one, and turning thirty in a matter of weeks, ought to be out in the evening wife-hunting rather than fighting petty criminals.

But Wyatt had little appetite for the marriage mart and a great deal of vitriol where thieves were concerned, so he continued to ignore his valet.

A former boxer, he’d been Wyatt’s trainer, friend, and lifelong companion. And his only confidante when it came to his nightly activities. Nearly everyone else on his staff assumed he went out every evening for far more gentlemanly pursuits.

Which is why, although Ralph was a wretched valet, his position was beyond secure, and the man harangued him at every opportunity.

The door opened just as Wyatt began to soap himself, scrubbing off the dirt and dinge from the night before.

“I see you made it home another night.” Ralph stopped at the edge of the tub. “Though you look worse than ever.”

Wyatt glanced up at him with a frown. Tall and thickly muscled, Ralph’s dark hair often stood out at odd angles as it did this morning. His entire appearance completely at odds with his position in Wyatt’s house. “Your charm is immeasurable.”

“So is your carelessness.” Ralph stretched out in the chair next to the fire, reaching for Wyatt’s morning paper.

Wyatt snorted. “You’re helping me dress.”

“Too sore to do it yourself?”

He glared, but his words held no actual irritation. “No. It’s what I pay you to do.” He and Ralph bickered. It’s what they did. He didn’t actually care if Ralph tied a decent cravat though he likely could use some help pulling on his jacket.

In answer, Ralph lifted the paper back over his face, ignoring Wyatt entirely.