Regency Masquerade (19 page)

“I told you Stanby was a scoundrel! I could hardly say more to a man who was posing as an officer of the law. You threatened to have me put in prison.”

“You have known since last night that I am not a Revenueman.”

“I have known from the moment I laid eyes on you that you are a bounder. You are the last person in whom I would confide anything. I would not trust you with my hound, let alone my own welfare.”

Hartly took these insults without a blink. “We were both quick to leap to wrong conclusions. It happens I am not Mr. Hartly, and I am not a swindler either. Like you, I am here to try to regain a stolen fortune from Stanby.”

“I do not believe a word of it.”

“It is true, nevertheless. We ought to have made our positions clear from the beginning. We could have reached some arrangement.”

“We have already reached an arrangement. You promised you would not tell him I am not Lady Crieff; therefore, you can hardly tell him I am Moira Trevithick.”

“I had no intention of telling him! Dammit, I came here to suggest a truce. We might be of some help to each other. I am only thinking of your interest. If Stanby opts for buying into the smuggling ring, you may end up with nothing. We—Ponsonby and I—want to suggest a compromise. Whichever of us succeeds, we share even-Steven with the other. That way, no one goes home empty-handed.”

She sniffed. “In other words, you know perfectly well I have the greater chance of success with Stanby, and you wish to cut yourself in. How very obliging of you, Mr. Hartly.”

His temper broke at her continued intransigence when he was trying to help her. “You place a high value on your charms, madam. A man like Stanby will always put money before anything else, and the smuggling would make as much in a year as the Crieff jewels would make in a lifetime. It is your decision, however. I have done what I felt common decency required in making the offer.”

Moira felt a twinge of doubt. What if Stanby opted for the smuggling investment? She and Jonathon would be left high and dry. Half a fortune was better than none. Oh, but there was no trusting Hartly. He had some vile new scheme up his sleeve. Besides, his hateful arrogance made backtracking impossible.

She tossed her head imperiously. “Common decency demands that you leave off harassing me. We have our agreement.”

Then she brushed past him and went to her room, where she reviewed their meeting, worrying whether she had made the wrong decision. She wondered, too, who he was if he was not Mr. Hartly. He had implied he was one of Stanby’s victims. Could he be the man to whom Stanby had sold shares in that nonexistent gold mine in Canada? Hartly did not look like a man to be cheated at the card table. He was too wily for that. Who could he be?

Hartly continued on to the meeting with Stanby. It, at least, went well. Stanby had definitely decided to go snacks in the smuggling operation and was eager to get on with it.

“I have been thinking it is time I settle down,” he said. “Lady Crieff has family in this area. She will like to live here. I shall build a mansion on the coast, where I can keep an eye on operations. As the major shareholder, the handling of the funds will be my responsibility. You and Ponsonby know what sums to expect. I am a gentleman. I shall not diddle you.”

“No one is questioning your integrity, Major. If we cannot trust an officer, whom can we trust? Of course we shall drop in from time to time to visit. Er . . . you mentioned Lady Crieff. Am I to understand she has accepted an offer of marriage?”

The major gave a dismissing smile. “The ladies like to give a little show of reluctance. They think it indelicate to leap at the altar, but
entre nous,
I think she will have me.”

This casual talk of building a mansion indicated that raising the wind would be no problem for Stanby. Hartly moved along at once to settle the finances.

“Ponsonby and I are arranging our funds this morning. The Black Ghost demands cash. He has another offer—from old Lord Marchbank, I believe. We must move quickly if we wish to secure this lucrative investment. Can you do it?”

“It happens I am meeting with my man of business this morning regarding another financial transaction I am involved in.” Hartly mentally translated this to mean he was indeed buying the collection for cash. “I shall ask him to bring along the extra twenty-five thousand. I insist on being present when the cash is given to this fellow they call the Black Ghost. I mean no slur on your integrity, Hartly, but common sense dictates that in an investment of this sort, for cash, you know, with nothing in writing, every precaution must be taken.”

“Why, truth to tell, Major, I welcome your company, and Ponsonby’s as well. I would not care to meet the Black Ghost alone on some desolate beach at midnight. I plan to bring along a pistol. I suggest you do likewise, if possible.”

“I never travel unarmed. There are too many rogues willing to rob a fellow’s pocket. I don’t know what England is coming to. We shall return to the inn when the deal is consummated and drink a toast to our success, eh, Hartly?”

“In our own unadulterated brandy,” Hartly agreed.

“One ‘gentleman’ to another. Heh heh. There is more than one sort of gentleman nowadays, eh?”

“There certainly is,” Hartly agreed with a bland smile that hid his rancor.

“I shall just get out my account books now and do my bookkeeping. I may want to transfer some investments as a result of this new venture. I like to keep a goodly sum in Consols, as they are not only safe as the Bank of England but liquid. I am withdrawing them for this current business. I shall sell my stocks in a certain shipbuilding company that is not performing so well since the war is over and put that into Consols. Being custodian of a large fortune is not all a bed of roses. It entails obligations.”

“But a very pleasant obligation, is it not?” Hartly said, peering at the account book. The sums before him were dizzying.

“True.” Stanby smiled. “Wealth is not a heavy burden to carry.”

Hartly took his leave. The chore of acting left his temper frayed, but overall his mood was triumphant. It seemed Stanby did indeed mean to buy Lady Crieff’s jewels. No doubt he had some scheme hatching to recover the money very soon after the wedding, but as Miss Trevithick had no intention of marrying him, that did not matter. She would just take the money and run. And he would never see her again. . .

This was intolerable. He must see her, talk to her. Perhaps the lad could be of some help in a rapprochement. Bullion told him Jonathon had gone out for a ride. Hartly did not see Moira again until lunchtime, when she sat at Major Stanby’s table, smiling and simpering and casting sheep’s eyes at the old goat. Immediately after luncheon, she called her carriage and drove off to Cove House, where she remained until dinner.

The inn was busy that afternoon with callers from London, arriving with cases full of cash, arranging private meetings with Stanby, Ponsonby, and Hartly. Each gentleman was assembling his investment money.

During a quiet interval, Hartly had a word with Bullion. “Has the major asked to see the Crieff collection?” he said.

“That he did. I told him he would have to have Lady Crieff’s permission. That shut him up. He does not want her to know he is so suspicious.”

“Stave him off. Even if he comes with a letter from her, find some excuse.”

Hartly did not tell Bullion the jewels were fakes, but he knew Stanby would realize it if he examined them by daylight.

“That I will, sir. Is your man all set for the meeting at midnight?”

“Gibbs is ready and waiting. You have the special brandy prepared for the celebration?”

“That I have.” He touched his nose and nodded sagely. “It will be a dandy party.”

“Until tonight, then.”

Chapter Nineteen

Hartly wished to warn Moira that his plan was fast reaching its climax and she must move swiftly if she hoped to recoup her losses. She seemed determined not to allow him a moment alone with her. She stuck like glue to Stanby during dinner and afterward removed to the settee, still with Stanby. In desperation, Hartly followed Jonathon out to the estuary and had a word with him.

“Your sister told you what I am doing here?” he asked.

“No, I am the one who told her,” Jonathon replied boldly. “I listened last night outside the window.”

“You are a sharp lad. She is fortunate to have you to look after her.”

Jonathon’s chest swelled. “I just wish I could help share the burden of Stanby’s company, but I am no good to her there.”

“It is important that I speak to your sister. Do you think you could lure her upstairs to her room for a few moments?”

Jonathon frowned. “Why do you want to see her?”

“Something has come up. It is urgent. You may hold the reins of my curricle if you help me. I promise you I mean her no harm. Quite the contrary.”

“I could be sick,” Jonathon suggested, “but then I would have to stay abovestairs all evening.”

“How about a cut finger? It would require a plaster, but not a whole evening in your room.”

“I say, that is a jolly good idea.” He drew out a clasp knife and pulled open the blade.

Hartly took it and replaced the blade before handing it back. “That will not be necessary, Jonathon.”

Jonathon looked all around. “You had best call me Sir David here.”

“Just so. I suggest you tie a handkerchief around your hand and tell your sister you cut yourself while picking up a piece of glass.”

“I ought to smear something red on it, don’t you think? I have it! I keep red ink in my room, for underlining my Latin book. I shall say I cut my finger while sharpening my quill. I shan’t be a jiffy.”

“I shall wait here a moment. We do not want to be seen entering together. Stanby might be suspicious.”

“But why do you want to talk to Moira?”

“It is strictly business, Sir David.”

“Oh, I was hoping p’raps you liked her,” Jonathon said with the awful candor of youth. “She is really a very nice girl, you know. Not at all like Lady Crieff. She is afraid you have entirely the wrong opinion of her, from seeing her here, with her nice hair all twisted up in corkscrews, and wearing those trollopish gowns. Moira says that, other than having to make up to old Stanby, of course, having to look such a quiz in front of everyone is the worst part of this charade.”

Hartly was interested to hear Moira had spoken of him. “You may assure your sister I have the highest regard for her, despite the corkscrew curls and décolleté gowns.”

“She is very pretty, don’t you think? All the fellows at home are running mad for her.”

“Is there any special one . . . ?”

Jonathon shook his head. “No, she pays them no heed. Ever since Lionel March—that is what Stanby was calling himself when he married Mama—ever since he rifled our money, she has been obsessed with bringing him to justice. It is not just the money, though we are pretty hard-up without it. It is the principle of the thing, you see. She feels she owes it to Papa, and to Mama. Moira is strong on principles. She tells me March diddled you as well, Mr. Hartly. How did he cheat you?”

“He did not. It was my cousin, Robbie Sinclair, that he cheated at a rigged card game. Robbie was only eighteen. Robbie is Mott’s younger brother.”

“You mean Mott is not your valet?”

“He is my cousin, Lord Rudolph Sinclair. We were in the Peninsula together.”

“By Jove!” Jonathon exclaimed, eyes open wide as a barn door. “Did you kill anyone?”

“More men than I like to remember, and Mott the same. He is a crack shot.”

“Who would have thought it! About Mott, I mean. How, exactly, does your swindle work, Mr. Hartly?”

Hartly briefly outlined his scheme.

Jonathon said, “So that is why you were in the tunnel the night you struck Moira with that club.”

“Just doing a reconnaissance mission. I had no idea it was you and your sister, or I would not have struck out. I had to know something about your cousin’s operation to convince Stanby the deal was legitimate. I have regretted it, that it was your sister I struck.”

“How did you know Marchbank is the chief?”

Hartly had not known Marchbank was actually the chief until that moment. “I realized he must be high up in the organization, as none of the Gentlemen are ever convicted. Surely he is not the Black Ghost?”

“No, that is Cousin Peter, from Romney. He is just used to frighten the Potters. You ought to have spoken to Cousin Marchbank. He would have been happy to help diddle Stanby, for what the bounder did to me and Moira.”

“Yes, I regret not knowing from the beginning how matters really stood, but it is too late now. You go on in. I shall wait for five minutes, then go to your room to meet your sister.”

Jonathon was enjoying himself so much, he was not eager to leave. “It is something like being at war, ain’t it, Mr. Hartly? What was your rank? Were you a colonel?”

“Only a major, I am afraid. The title has acquired unhappy connotations since I met Stanby.”

“What is your real name? Moira said you told her you ain’t really Mr. Hartly.”

“My name is Daniel. You had best run along now and ‘cut’ your finger.”

“I shall make it my right hand. In that way, I shan’t be able to write out my Latin verbs.”

He bounced happily into the inn. Hartly stood, looking after him. He seemed a nice lad. He was happy Moira had had someone to bear her company during her hard years.

After five minutes, he went into the inn. Jonathon was just running downstairs, wearing a handkerchief soaked in red ink around his hand. It looked so horrible that Hartly was afraid Moira might faint. He followed Jonathon into the Great Room. Moira turned pale when she saw the ink-soaked cloth.

“Jonathon!” she gasped, jumping up from the settee.

Hearing her use her brother’s real name, Hartly spoke up loudly to cover it. “Good Lord, what has happened?” he asked, rushing forward. A quick glance to Stanby told him he had not noticed Moira’s slip.

“I was sharpening my quill when my knife slipped,” Jonathon said. He wore an agonizing frown. “Could you come up and help me put a plaster on it, Lady Crieff?”