Regency Masquerade (17 page)

“Perhaps we can strike a bargain,” he said. Hartly expected to see gratitude and wondered at her angry frown.

“I will not give information against Lord Marchbank!” she declared angrily.

“I have no need of further evidence against him. He has become so complacent, the evidence is there, for anyone to see.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“You may stay on here at the inn until you have made other arrangements. You may even continue your masquerade as Lady Crieff, but you must tell Stanby you have decided against selling the collection. Use that fertile imagination of yours. Say you have arranged to sell the collection elsewhere; say you have found a patron whose company does not give you the megrims, or say you have decided to keep the jewels. Such an accomplished liar as yourself will think of something.”

Moira felt a sting at that charge of being an accomplished liar, but her mind was too busy to harp on it. She saw no point in remaining at the inn if she could not execute her scheme of getting her money back. She was about to say so when an idea occurred to her. She might yet arrange some deal with Stanby behind Hartly’s back. Hartly would be busy chasing after the brandy and the Gentlemen. She had nothing to lose by remaining.

“Very well,” she said. “I agree. Thank you, Mr. Hartly”

“I expect you to keep your word, madam. Things will not go well for you if you do not.”

Moira saw his scowling face through a mist of unshed tears. It seemed unfair that he could come storming down from London, carrying the full authority of the law with him, to destroy her life and Jonathon’s, and she could not do a single thing about it but tug her forelock and say, “Yes, sir.”

Lionel March was a lying, cheating, womanizing villain, but the law would defend him. The law sent a special envoy to try to stop Lord Marchbank. What real harm was he doing? He was an unsung hero to the starving poor of the countryside, but the law cared nothing for that. He had to be stopped. The law had to be maintained, for the good of villains like March.

“I understand,” she said.

Hartly knew he ought to be feeling triumphant. He had stopped this impostor dead in her tracks. Stanby’s money would go back to its rightful owner. But what would become of the soi-distant Lady Crieff?

“What will you do after you leave here?” he asked.

“Perhaps I shall buy a pair of breeches and join the army. It seems a military background puts one above the law.”

“And David? What of him?”

“You have got what you want, Mr. Hartly. Pray spare me the hypocrisy of pretending a concern you do not feel.”

He bit back a sharp retort. “I can give you some money, if that is a problem.”

“I am not sunk to charity. Good night.”

She walked to the door and held it wide. Mr. Hartly strode out, wearing a face like a bear. He had only been trying to help her. Why did she look at him like that, as if he were vermin? Damn her eyes! Why did he feel guilty? It was her youth, and of course her beauty. She looked so terribly vulnerable, standing alone, with her shoulders sagging, as if she had lost her last friend. So different from the laughing, teasing girl who had come to the inn two days ago.

He was wasting his sympathy. Women like that could take care of themselves. She would rush her case of paste jewels and her stormy gray eyes off to some other corner of the country and start over again.

Chapter Sixteen

It was much later when Jonathon went abovestairs. Knowing Moira was not feeling well, he did not disturb her but went to his own room. Before lighting his lamp, he noticed a ribbon of light beneath the sitting-room door. He went in and saw her sitting with her chin in her hands, the very picture of despair.

Moira had had two hours to think over their situation and had concluded that they were defeated.

“It is all over, Jonathon,” she announced in a voice of doom. “Hartly knows we are not the Crieffs, he knows the collection is paste. He knows everything, except our real names. I would not tell him that. He has demanded that I tell Stanby the jewels are not for sale. If I do not, he will tell him everything and have us arrested into the bargain. I had no option but to agree. I wonder if he would be less concerned for Stanby’s welfare if he knew the whole. Do you think I should tell him, and throw us on his mercy?”

Her news knocked Jonathon’s own discovery out of his head. “The devil, you say. How did he find out?”

“He had someone checking up on us. It seems Lady Crieff is a redhead. She is still in Scotland.”

“I wonder what put into his head to check up? No one else suspected anything.”

“The man is a ferret. He weasels about with his sharp nose until he discovers everything. He knows all about Marchbank’s operation. He will put him out of business as well.”

“There you are wrong,” Jonathon said, dropping onto the sofa and smiling. “Hartly ain’t a Revenueman at all.”

“Of course he is. What else could he be?”

“As big a rogue as Lionel March,” Jonathon said, with a triumphant grin.

Moira’s sagging shoulders straightened. A gleam of joy entered her eyes. “What have you learned? Tell me everything.”

“I got Sal to open the window in the room belowstairs where they were to play cards, but they did not play. They were just talking. I hunkered down below the window and listened. I could not make out every word, but I heard enough. It made no sense for the longest time. They were talking about gross annual revenue and shares of the operation and such things, like a bunch of businessmen. But the business they were discussing was Cousin John’s smuggling operation. You would not believe the fortune he is making!”

“A Revenueman would be interested in how the operation is run. He hopes to round up the whole gang.”

“But why would he be discussing it with Stanby? No, wait. There is more. The upshot of it is that Hartly said he had spoken to the Black Ghost, and the Black Ghost had agreed to sell the whole smuggling operation because his pockets were already full to overflowing, and he wanted to go off to London and spend his blunt. Now, you know that is a bag of moonshine. Peter don’t actually run the ring at all. It is Cousin John who is in charge, and he has no notion of selling. He said Peter would take over when he is ready to hang up his hat.

“The story Hartly told is that he learned when he visited Cove House with us that the venture is for sale for fifty thousand pounds. Hartly is putting up fifteen, Ponsonby is putting up ten, and they are trying to talk Stanby into putting up twenty-five. It is nothing else but a swindle. Hartly will take their money and run. He is the one promoting it.”

Moira sat stunned, unable to believe it. “It is some trick to catch Lord Marchbank,” she said.

“Devil a bit of it. I tell you Hartly says the operation is for sale. He even showed Ponsonby and March some sheets of figures that he must have made up out of whole cloth, for the Marchbanks don’t keep books. He told me this afternoon he never puts anything in writing. Bullion is in on it as well. He backed up Hartly’s story. Hartly has some fellow claiming to be the Black Ghost who is going to take them on a tour of the whole operation tonight. That will be his groom, concealed under a black mask, I daresay. They are going to examine the ships, to see how the brandy is hidden below a false floor. Hartly is going to show them where the brandy is hidden when it is brought ashore. He says five thousand of the blunt will go as a bribe to Marchbank for his continuing cooperation, as he is the magistrate. And a couple of hundred for the Potter brothers, the simpletons who are the local Preventive men. He made it sound entirely plausible, I must say, and safe as money in Consols, only more profitable. I believe Stanby will go along with it. He says he has to check with his man of business to see if he has that much capital available, but his lips were watering at the prospect of an easy fortune.”

“I don’t doubt it. But do you mean to say Hartly is not with the Revenue Department at all? He is just a common thief?”

“I would take an affey-davey on it.”

A tide of emotions surged over Moira as Jonathon convinced her this incredible story was true. Anger, a lust for revenge, and even a reluctant admiration were soon eclipsed by indignation. “And he had the audacity to call me a lightskirt!”

“Did he, by Jove?” Jonathon exclaimed, in high dudgeon. “I shall call him out.”

“You will do nothing of the sort.” A wicked smile gleamed in her eyes. “You must let me have the pleasure of dealing with Mr. Hartly. How I shall enjoy it!”

Jonathon sat, staring into the cold grate. “You ain’t using your noggin, Moira. We ain’t home free yet by a long chalk. Hartly still knows we ain’t the Crieffs. He knows the jewels are fakes. If he tells March . ..”

“If he tells March about us, then we return the favor.
Point non plus.
He will have to come to some agreement with us. He does not hold all the tricks in his hand, as I thought. I shall enjoy meeting him again.”

“It is a dangerous game you are playing, Moira,” Jonathon said uncertainly. “I mean to say, there is so much money at stake that Hartly may just decide to—to do away with you. Be sure you have your interview in a safe place.”

Moira felt no fear for her life. She did not think Hartly was a murderer, but she would heed Jonathon’s advice and speak to him in a public place, just a little apart from other people. The settee in the Great Room would be perfect.

Sleep was impossible for Moira, with so many exciting matters on her mind. It was on the coming interview that she dwelt as she lay in bed, listening to the silence of the inn. Mr. Hartly would not be holding all the cards this time. He would not call her a lightskirt or threaten to have the law down on her head. It would almost be worth not recovering her money, to see him knocked off his high horse.

She figured out that the only reason he did not want her to sell March the paste jewels was that he wanted to steal the man’s money himself. He was afraid March did not have enough for them both to rob him. But he could not force her to reveal that she was not Lady Crieff. That was the main thing. The choice of whether March would use his blunt to buy her fake stones or buy into Hartly’s fake business was up to March. She would have to be very charming to the old lecher tomorrow.

It was an unhappy thought to fall asleep on. It would be much more interesting to be charming to Mr. Hartly. She regretted that he had such a low opinion of her, then berated herself as a ninnyhammer. What did she care for his opinion? He was a common swindler.

She finally slept, then awoke in the morning to see jagged streaks of light dancing on the ceiling, where the ill-fitting curtains let the sun’s rays in. She rose with a churning excitement in her breast, anticipating the interview with Hartly. He was usually at the table when she went down to breakfast. It was just a quarter to eight. If she hurried, she might see him alone, before March came down.

She rose and made a hasty toilette. The sun promised a warm day. She chose a blue mulled muslin gown and hastily ran a brush through her tousled curls. Examining herself in the mirror, she realized she did not look nearly as stylish as Lady Crieff. In fact, she looked much the way she looked at home—like any other provincial lady. No matter. She would spruce herself up before meeting the major. She could not take time to arrange a proper coiffure now.

She closed her door quietly when she left the room, to avoid disturbing other sleeping guests. The fewer people in the Great Room, the better. It was still a safe place. With the servants about, Hartly would not attempt any physical attack there, much as he would like to.

Chapter Seventeen

From the doorway of the Great Room, Moira saw Mr. Hartly sitting alone. He was just about to begin his breakfast. The room was deserted except for him and one elderly gentleman in the corner, reading a journal. Despite the strength of her position, she felt a sudden sense of trepidation as she approached Hartly’s table. He looked so unassailable, so strong. If only he were not a scoundrel, he might have helped her. Two spots of red flared high on her cheeks, her eyes glowed with excitement, and her heart pounded mercilessly. Hartly looked up as she entered.

She walked straight to his table, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Hartly. It seems you and I are early birds. May I join you?”

He did not even bother to rise or say, “Good morning” but just nodded his grudging consent, with a contemptuous look that firmed her resolve. It stung like a nettle that he treated her as if she were of no account.

Hartly felt sure he understood her stunt at a glance. She had decked herself out as an innocent young provincial to work on his pity. And done her job well, too. She looked enchanting with her raven curls tumbling wantonly about her cheeks. That simple muslin gown was more fetching than all her silks and satins. She even wore an expression to suit her costume: a wide-eyed look of fear, tinged with determination. He prepared his ears for a tale of woe. What would it be? Two helpless orphans escaping a cruel stepmama? A wicked guardian who was forcing a match on her?

“I trust you have come to your senses, miss,” he said in a hard voice. He would not offer her breakfast or even coffee. That would lend a friendly air to the proceedings. It was safer to stick to business with this engaging trollop.

“I have considered the matter,” she replied.

“And?”

She gave him a bold look, all innocence vanished. “And decided you do not have a leg to stand on, Mr. Hartly.”

His head jerked up. He directed a cool stare on her. “Indeed. I knew you were not wise, but until now I did not take you for a fool.”

“Perhaps not, but you obviously mistook me for a greenhead. You, too, have been too slow about completing your business, Mr. Hartly. My investigations have disclosed that you are not who you say but a scoundrel trying to sell what does not belong to you.”

He cocked a bold smile at her. “A case of the pot calling the kettle black, surely.”

“If you wish. There all similarity ends, however. Your stunt is considerably more dangerous, sir. The Black Ghost would have you drawn and quartered if I told him what you are about.”