Regency Masquerade (11 page)

Hartly paid a trite compliment to Moira on her appearance. Soon he moved on to more interesting matters. “It is a pity Lord Marchbank did not come to the assembly,” he said. “He seemed well enough this afternoon.”

“The gout comes and goes. He must have had an attack,” she replied. She wondered if Marchbank was even then engaged in his illicit business, and if Hartly was prying to discover it.

She noticed that Hartly was examining her sapphires. “I daresay I should not wear my jewels at a public place like this, but if one does not wear them to parties, what good are they? Of course, I would not wear the Crieff emeralds to a place like this. They are much too valuable.”

“It might be wise to leave them with the Marchbanks while you are at the inn,” he suggested.

“That is odd! Major Stanby gave me exactly the same advice.”

“Did he indeed!” Hartly was surprised to hear it. If Stanby meant to steal them, it would be more easily done from the inn. Was it possible the old goat had something different in mind . . . like offering for Lady Crieff?

“You and the major are becoming fast friends, I see.”

“He is quite a father to me.”

“I doubt if that is the relationship he has in mind. But of course Lady Crieff needs no advice on how to handle amorous gentlemen,” he said, with a deprecating smile.

“Amorous! It is not that sort of friendship, I assure you. He is old as the hills,” she said lightly, without a thought to her alleged old husband, Sir Aubrey.

Hartly smiled blandly. “Then may I consider Stanby is not among the competition?” he asked boldly. “That leaves only Ponsonby and myself.”

“Stiff competition for you indeed!” she replied, with a laughing sideways glance from her silver eyes.

“I enjoy a fair competition, but I trust you will not put me on a water diet, as you have Ponsonby.”

“There is no need. You handle your wine like a proper gentleman. Then, too, if I forbid you to have wine at your table, you could not share it with me. I should be forced to drink Bullion’s vinegar. Why does he serve such awful stuff, I wonder?”

“Because he is not accustomed to serving such out-and-outers as you and me, Lady Crieff, who can discern the difference.”

“I am no connoisseur of wine, but I agree the clientele leaves something to be desired. Present company excepted—when he behaves himself.”

“If that is a compliment, I thank you. You said the length of your stay was undecided, Lady Crieff. Have you come to any conclusion yet?”

“Why, Mr. Hartly, you sound as if you are trying to get rid of me.”

“You would have to be shatter-brained to come to that conclusion—and you are not shatter-brained. My concern is that I must be off to London soon, and I wondered when I might expect to see you there. I should like to call on you, if you permit.”

Moira’s happiness at hearing he wished to continue the acquaintance was diluted with fear. Was he darting off to London to report to his superiors? “I have not decided when I shall go, nor where I shall stay. If you would give me your direction, I could let you know when I arrive.”

“Alas, like yourself, I shall be putting up at whatever hotel has a room vacant. Is there no friend or relative I might apply to, to discover your address?”

“I have not decided whether I shall be in touch with Sir Aubrey’s relatives or not. I have never met them. They might be horrid. It would be best if you gave me the name of someone I could notify when I arrive.”

After a brief pause, Hartly said, “I shall be calling on my cousin, Lord Daniel Parrish, at Hanover Square. You could write to me there.”

She blinked to hear him calmly drop a title into the conversation. Hartly must indeed be related to the gentleman, or he could not use his address. Lord Daniel might very well have got his cousin appointed to the plum position of Revenue inspector. It was beginning to seem that Cousin Vera was right, and Mr. Hartly was here at the behest of the government to snoop into smuggling. While this was vexing, it was better than having him allied with Stanby. She concluded that Hartly was a decent, respectable, handsome young gentleman—and he was receiving a wretched opinion of her.

A small, wistful sigh escaped her lips. Looking at her, Hartly was struck with her youth and unhappiness. He felt convinced that this innocent young girl had nothing to do with Stanby. She had been inveigled into marrying Sir Aubrey by an avaricious father, and now that her husband was dead, she was running off to London. There was nothing wrong in that. It was what any venturesome lady would do, if she had the pluck.

“I hope you will write to me at Hanover Square, Lady Crieff,” he said earnestly. “I should like to see you again.”

Upon hearing that note of earnestness, she peered shyly at him. Their eyes held for a long moment, then the movements of the dance drew them apart. Moira felt she was really talking to Mr. Hartly for the first time. He seemed different tonight, more approachable. If he was here only because of smugglers, then she could tell him her true plight, and perhaps get him to help her.

What would he think of her, trying to steal twenty-five thousand pounds? Legally, that was what she was doing. The money was hers and Jonathon’s by rights, but not by law. No, it was too risky to tell him, but perhaps, after she had regained her fortune, she might write to him at Hanover Square and see him again, away from Owl House. To confess a fait accompli was easier than to involve him in it.

“Yes, I shall write, Mr. Hartly,” she said.

A look of gentle satisfaction settled on his face. “I consider that a promise. And by the by, my friends call me Daniel. It is a family name I share with Lord Daniel Parrish.”

The old Lady Crieff would have smiled boldly and made some pert remark. This Lady Crieff blushed and said, “We have not been acquainted very long to be using first names, Mr. Hartly.”

“That will teach me to try to force a friendship on an unwilling lady. My lesson last night was not enough for me.”

“Oh, I am not unwilling! And last night was not entirely your fault. I ... I should not have invited you in for wine. I have never been alone at an inn before—without a proper chaperon, I mean. One forgets there are not butlers or footmen about. I have been thinking about last night, and realize I should have been more careful. Using first names seems a little fast.”

Her explanation satisfied Hartly’s lingering doubts. A greenhead of a girl might very well be unaware of the danger in inviting a man into her room. Lady Crieff had not the advantage of a proper upbringing, but he felt her instincts were genteel.

“I look forward to calling you Bonnie, and hearing you call me Daniel, but we shall withhold first names until we meet again in London.”

It was not until that moment that Moira realized she was, in fact, not going to London. She and Jonathon would return to the Elms, and she would never see Mr. Hartly again. It lent a bittersweet quality to the dance.

“When, exactly, are you leaving?” she asked, rather sadly.

He studied her for a moment, then said, “Do you know, I begin to think I shall prolong my stay a little.”

“Oh, no! Please, you must not do so on my account.” What had she done? He had been on the point of leaving, and she had induced him to remain, where he would create endless mischief for the Marchbanks, discovering even more details of the smuggling.

His eyebrows rose. “Well, now I am the one who feels you are trying to be rid of me.”

“You must not change your plans on my account. I will not hear of it. Lord Daniel is expecting you.”

“No, he is not. I shall call on him when I arrive, but he is not waiting on tenterhooks for me. I shall stay.”

He wondered at her reaction—more resigned than happy.

Lady Crieff played the flirt with Stanby when she stood up with him. It was Stanby who had brought her to Blaxstead, and she was not about to lose sight of the fact, even though her mind kept harking back to Hartly.

Stanby said, “I have been thinking over what you told me, about selling your jewelry, Lady Crieff. Of course, it belongs to you by rights, but the law takes little account of rights.”

“I know it well,” she said grimly.

“If the pieces show up in London, they will be traced back to the jeweler, and eventually to you. Selling what does not legally belong to you is a hanging crime.”

“But they are mine! I
must
sell them! I have not a sou to my name.”

“My idea is that you place them with someone who could peddle them abroad for you.”

“I need the money now. And how could I trust this ‘someone’? I know no one who travels abroad.”

“You know me,” he said simply. “As to your needing money now, I could let you have—say, five thousand, in advance.”

So that was his game, the sly rogue! “You are very kind, Major, and naturally I am not calling your character into question, but the fact is, I do not know you all that well.”

He smiled benignly. “Time will remedy that, Lady Crieff. There is no immediate rush.”

The major’s arms felt like a serpent winding around her. Her flesh crawled, to see his gooseberry eyes alight with greed. She was vastly relieved when the dance was over.

Mr. Ponsonby claimed the next dance. He was a dead bore, but at least he was not Lionel March. Although Ponsonby had made a game of drinking water since yesterday, it was soon apparent that he had been consuming a deal of brandy or wine as well. Both his speech and his dancing were erratic.

The blazing grate and the heated bodies raised the temperature of the Great Room to an uncomfortable degree. The caterwauling of the fiddles and cello pounded in her ears.

It seemed an age before the dancing was over, and the party sat down to a late-night dinner at tables hastily assembled by the servants. Lady Marchbank had gathered her own chums at her table, thus making it impossible for Hartly to join them.

It was while they were eating that Lady Marchbank leaned aside and said to Jonathon, “I see Hartly has skipped out. Now where the deuce could he be? Would you mind taking a scout about to see what he is up to?”

Jonathon excused himself and left at once. Lady Marchbank leaned aside and said to Moira, “Hartly is not among us. Jon has gone to have a look for him.”

Moira felt a chill seize her. If worst came to worst and Hartly discovered the smuggling game, she would have to beg him not to report it. If she had any influence with him, she must use it to save the Marchbanks.

Chapter Ten

No one paid much attention to a youngster like Jonathon. He slipped away from the table and upstairs to tap on Hartly’s door. When there was no answer, he darted down to the taproom. Seeing no sign of Hartly, he headed for the front door with a wave to Bullion.

“Just going to see if Firefly is bedded down right and tight,” he said.

“That’s a fine bit o’ blood.” Bullion grinned. He believed in keeping his smart clients in curl.

Jonathon did go to the stable. He saw that Hartly’s curricle and carriage were both in place. The old jade Bullion had hired as a mount stood in her stall, so wherever Hartly was, he must be close by, for he was on foot.

His next destination was the estuary. The weather conspired to lend his search the whiff of danger. A pale sliver of moon shone in a charcoal sky. Ragged clouds hid the glory of the stars. Mist lay low on the ground and over the dark water, which lapped menacingly against the shore. Three fishing smacks were at anchor, but no ships moved through the mist.

The moisture-laden air felt soft as a woman’s fingers against his skin. Jonathon peered along the shoreline but could see no sign of his quarry. Remembering that a ship had docked behind the inn the night before, he worked his way around to the back. His black slippers moved noiselessly over the soft ground.

The rear of the inn was a jumble of crates and boxes, of dustbins and cast-off lumber. Hartly, or worse—a Gentleman—could be concealed behind any one of them. Jonathon had heard tales of the vicious stunts employed by the Gentlemen in the last century. Stuffed anyone who interfered with them down a rabbit hole headfirst and locked him in with a forked branch between his legs. Even a slit throat was not beyond them. His heart hammered with excitement as he peered around the various mounds of refuse.

He was about to advance when he thought of a better idea. It would be possible to see the rear of the inn from the inside, through the kitchen window. He would go and compliment the foul-tempered Cook, tell her how much he had enjoyed her lobster patties. With this plan to save face, he darted around to the front again.

As he hastened along, he noticed a ladder leaning against the wall. Surely that had not been there when he passed the first time, or he would have noticed it. He glanced up and saw it went to one of the windows. He had caught a thief red-handed! Before he went hollering for help, he stopped a moment to consider which room the ladder was at. It was not his or Moira’s, at least.

Theirs were on the other side. This would be either Hartly’s, Stanby’s, or Ponsonby’s. It was the window closest to the rear. Jonathon felt a certain sympathy for anyone preying on Stanby. He would not like to land a poor farmer in jail for lifting that bleater’s tiepin.

He crouched behind a thorn bush and watched. E’er long, a smallish pair of legs came out the window, seeking the ladder. The feet were encased in a gentleman’s evening slippers. The legs were followed by a body and head that Jonathon soon recognized as Ponsonby’s. No one could possibly be afraid of Ponsonby. Jonathon came forth from the bush and said firmly, “Caught you dead to rights, Ponsonby. Hand over whatever you have stolen and I shan’t call the constable.”

Surprised by the voice, Ponsonby lost his grip and fell the last four feet to the ground. He looked up with a bleary smile.

“Sir David. Good evening to you, sir. Forgot my key on my toilet table when I left my room. Just recovering it. Here we are.”

He rose on unsteady legs, dipped into his pocket, and pulled out the key. “Right where I left it. I wonder, now, would you assist me to my room?”

“Disguised, as usual,” Jonathon said, shaking his head.