Regency Masquerade (7 page)

Hartly just stood, staring in confusion. It seemed impossible that a widow had so little notion how lovemaking proceeded on its inevitable course. Just how old had her husband been?

“I am not likely to boast of my failure,” he said grimly.

“Failure? But . . . but it was rather enjoyable, was it not?” she asked uncertainly.

A rueful smile seized his lips. “So it was, madam. But when a man is shown an appetizing dish, he usually expects to do more than look at it. I suggest you bear it in mind in future. Good night.”

He strode to the door and opened it.

“I am sorry, Mr. Hartly,” she said in a small voice.

He stopped and looked back at her. Her fingers were raised to her lips. Her angry determination had changed to an appealing air of uncertainty. She looked about fifteen years old and as innocent as a maiden.

“So am I, Lady Crieff,” he said with great feeling.

“Do you still want to take me and David for that drive tomorrow?”

He just looked at her, shaking his head in wonder. “Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch,” he said, and left.

He went straight to his room to ponder the strange interlude. A wanton widow had invited him to her chamber. She had welcomed his embraces, had shown every eagerness for his advances. Then suddenly she turned into an outraged female. And if that were not enough to confuse Solomon, she had apologized after and asked if he still wanted to see her tomorrow. He decided he must be as mad as Lady Crieff—because he was eager for their date.

After Hartly had thought about that odd episode, he began to feel some concern for Ponsonby, who had been bragging about his full pockets. Stanby might relieve him of that thousand pounds.

Mott came to the door of the adjoining room. “Well, what happened?” he asked.

Hartly had to think a moment before he realized Mott was inquiring about Stanby.

“He let me win a few pounds tonight,” he replied. “We have a private game fixed for tomorrow night. That is when we’ll make our move. A fellow called Ponsonby arrived. He was completely foxed.” He told Mott about the man, adding his concern that Stanby might fleece him.

“I shall take a nip down and see he is all right,” Mott said. “This troublesome master of mine wants a posset at half past midnight. A valet’s work is never done.”

He was just about to open the door when he heard someone walking briskly down the hall. He let the man pass, then opened the door a crack. Hartly went to take a peek as well. It was Ponsonby. He was not drunk at all but walking in a straight, purposeful way. Hartly was seized with the notion that he was heading for Lady Crieff’s room. He watched, but Ponsonby continued past her door to his own room. Another mysterious guest at the Owl House Inn.

Chapter Six

By morning, word of Lady Crieff’s interesting history had begun to seep out. Moira did not see how it was possible, for the maids had not been in to read the clippings, but she knew it as soon as they entered the Great Room for breakfast. All eyes turned to her; after the first telltale hush, a low murmur broke out.

Major Stanby, who was just leaving the room, bowed and said, “Good morning, Lady Crieff, Sir David,” with a new warmth. “A lovely day. I hear Bullion is having a small rout party this evening here in the Great Room. Not what you are accustomed to at Penworth, but perhaps you will honor us with your presence?”

“A party! I should love it, of all things!” she replied.

“You will save a dance for me?”

“But of course, Major. I look forward to it.”

“Can I go?” Jonathon asked eagerly. “You know Papa said I could when I turned sixteen, Lady Crieff.”

“Lawks, you are much too young. But then there will be no one here to see. Oh, Major! How shocking of me.
You
will be here,” she said, simpering. “But you will forgive me if I am a trifle lenient with the lad. We have both had such a dull scald of it since Sir Aubrey died that we are eager for a little fling.”

“No harm in it.” The major smiled leniently. “With such rakes as Ponsonby present, you will require Sir David as a chaperon.”

“I ain’t a chaperon!” Jonathon exclaimed. “That is ladies’ work. I am Lady Crieff’s escort.” On that bold speech he took Moira’s arm and led her to the table.

Mr. Ponsonby was not slow to approach them. “I come hanging my head in shame, Lady Crieff,” he said. His head was indeed lowered humbly, but his bold lips were grinning. “I have it from all quarters that I behaved abominably last evening.”

“So you did, sir,” she replied, with a pert glance. “You called me a wench!”

“It was the brandy speaking. I place half the blame in your own dish. No lady has the right to be so deuced pretty.”

“Take care, sir,” she replied, peering at him from the corners of her eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I do not wish to be anywhere—except at your feet.”

She gave a careless laugh. “Run along, Mr. Ponsonby. Every dog has his bite. You are forgiven this time, but I shall expect you to behave yourself in future.”

He lifted her hand and placed an ardent kiss on her fingers. “An angel—merciful as well as beautiful. Dare I push my luck further and ask if you will give me a dance this evening? You will come. Say you will.”

“I shall be here. If you are sober, then you may have a dance.”

“Not a drop of wine will pass these lips until we meet again. Your obedient servant, milady.”

He performed a sweeping bow and headed straight to the small room, where he ordered a glass of ale, assuring himself that ale was not wine, and a man had to have a drink from time to time if he was not to die of thirst.

When Moira and Jonathon were alone, she said, “Word of Lady Crieff’s fortune has got about somehow. I wonder if the whole is known. Hang about belowstairs after breakfast and see what you can discover.”

As Jonathon would not be available to escort her for a walk that morning, Moira was in no hurry to leave the Great Room. After breakfast, she went to the settee to have a glance at some magazines placed on the table for the guests’ convenience. She noticed that although Mr. Hartly was in the room, he had not come rushing forward like the others. Perhaps he had not learned how rich Lady Crieff was.

As he had not so much as bowed in her direction, she assumed their drive was off. Her first sense of shame soon turned to anger.
He
was the one who had behaved so wretchedly! Why should she feel embarrassed? No matter—she had her own carriage if she wished to go out.

She began reading an article about the repressive measures Parliament was instituting since the attempt on the Prince Regent’s life in January. Caught up in it, she did not notice when Mr. Hartly finished his breakfast and walked toward her.

“Lady Crieff,” he said, with a civil bow. “As you see, my prayers were answered. The Lord is merciful, even to a sinner. The sun is shining.”

“Is it?” she asked, peering to the yew-shrouded windows. “It is difficult to tell from inside. Oh! You mean you wish to go driving after all. I was not sure after last night....”

Her cheeks felt warm at the memory of that catastrophic encounter. Her only consolation was that Mr. Hartly was also ill at ease. He was not quite blushing, but his manner revealed constraint.

“The less said about last night, the better, except to proffer my apologies. Unlike Mr. Ponsonby, I do not have the excuse of drunkenness. If you wish to cry off, I understand. If, on the other hand, you can find it in your kindness to forgive me, I promise there will be no repetition of my behavior on that other occasion.”

Moira had now established a good contact with Lionel March and had no real need of Hartly. Even if those two were involved in some business, Stanby was still interested in her. She could afford to be stiff with Hartly. Yet she did not wish to alienate him either. Of the three gentlemen at the inn, he was the only one in whom she felt any personal interest.

He tilted his head to one side and ventured a small smile. “Every dog has his bite,” he reminded her. “You forgave Ponsonby. We have all been eavesdropping shamelessly. Come now, you must not reward drunkenness and be severe on sobriety. The days are long and tedious here. Why enliven them with a grudge, when they can be more pleasantly passed with an outing—suitably accompanied by Sir David.”

She smiled reluctantly. “You are right. And to set the seal on my propriety, I shall ask you to come with me this afternoon to pay a call on my cousin, Lady Marchbank.” If he balked at that, then he was up to no good.

“I should enjoy meeting her. One hears Cove House is a remarkable piece of architecture.”

“An old Gothic heap, my cousin calls it.”

“Just so.” He sat down beside her. “Gothic heaps are all the fashion again, since Walpole built his little place on Strawberry Hill.”

“I have not heard about this place,” she said. “It sounds an unlikely spot for a Gothic house. Strawberries have no menace.”

“The worst they portend is a duke.” She frowned at this seeming irrelevancy. “They are used on the door of a ducal carriage,” he added. Odd a lady did not know it. “Perhaps the custom is not followed in Scotland.” Lady Crieff had nothing to say to this.

He spoke on enthusiastically about Walpole’s mansion. This led easily to a discussion of Gothic novels, since Walpole’s
Castle of Otranto
had been written at Strawberry Hill, using his own house as a background. He soon learned Lady Crieff was knowledgeable about Gothic novels. Her girlish enthusiasm for black veils and secret doors suggested an immaturity he had not felt last night, nor did she fall into any outrageous vulgarity.

After half an hour, Hartly called for fresh coffee, and they settled in like friends.

“I see you have overcome your aversion to Major Stanby. I was eavesdropping when he accosted you at breakfast, too,” he said shamelessly.

“He did seem very friendly.”

“No sly looks from the green eyes?” he asked playfully.

“No, I believe he must have heard something about my history, for he was noticeably approving. He even asked me for a dance.”

“It is remarkable how a fortune improves a lady’s character,” he said, and laughed.

“Oh!” She gave a
tsk
of annoyance. “I cannot imagine how anyone in this out-of-the-way place learned about me. You—you have heard, too, then?”

“It is as well known as an old ballad by now that you are the wealthy young widow of an elderly Scottish squire. I do not know how word got about. Perhaps the locals had it of Lady Marchbank.”

“Very likely that is it.” How clever of Cousin Marchbank!

“I still say old Stanby wants watching,” he said, making a joke of it now. “He is not too old to stand up and jig it, as he told you himself.”

“You do have big ears, Mr. Hartly!”

“I can hear a church bell ringing—and a warning bell. Take care or you will find yourself saddled with another older husband.”

“One was enough!” she said with feeling. At Mr. Hartly’s shocked expression, she feared she was overdoing the vulgarity. “Not that I mean Sir Aubrey was a bad husband. He was the soul of generosity. It is just that—” She stopped, searching her mind for some excuse for having disparaged him. “We were not well-off, you see. Papa was so pleased when he offered. And really, Aubrey was very kind. He was always good to me.”

“A lady has no need to apologize for marrying well, Lady Crieff. It is no new thing under the sun. May and December do not jog along together. That, too, is old history. December should realize it if May does not.”

Yet he was annoyed that Lady Crieff had married an old man for money. She was young, with a young woman’s passion. With her beauty, she could have married a young and wealthy gentleman. It seemed obscene to think of her in the arms of a gouty old laird. But of course she had assumed this veneer of gentility, which still slipped upon occasion, when she married her husband. As it was none of his concern, he soon spoke of other things.

When David returned, she rose. “Will two o’clock be convenient for our drive, Mr. Hartly?” she asked.

“Fine. I look forward to it.”

Moira and Jonathon went upstairs. As soon as they were beyond hearing, she said, “What are they saying about us in the taproom?”

“Ponsonby used the term cream-pot love. They think you married Crieff for his blunt.”

“But do they know about the jewelry?” she asked.

“I believe so. They lowered their voices when I was nearby, but I heard Ponsonby say to Stanby, ‘Where do you think she has them?’ I am sure they were talking about the jewelry.”

“Good! And it all happened without our saying a word. That is the best way.”

Jonathon sat looking out the window, the picture of youthful restlessness. “I wish we had brought our mounts. P’raps Cousin Vera can lend us a pair of prads. It is damned tedious sitting about all day.”

“You brought your Latin reader,” she reminded him.

He groaned when she put the book in his hands and took up her embroidery to sit with him and make sure he worked. The morning passed in this quiet fashion.

At luncheon, Ponsonby flirted with Moira across the room, ostentatiously holding up his glass of water to toast her each time he caught her eye. The major stopped and gave her a box of sugarplums.

“A poor gift for a lady, but in this little village, they have not heard of such a thing as marchpane, or sugared cherries.”

“You are too kind, Major,” she said, accepting the token. Jonathon loved sugarplums.

Mr. Hartly had another bottle of wine sent to their table.

“We should have used this stunt before,” Jonathon said. “I had no idea ladies and sirs got so many gifts.”

“They are not gifts, David; they are bait.”

“I thought you and the jewels were the bait.”

“That is for our trap. March believes he is setting a trap of his own.”

“And Hartly as well?” he asked, looking at the wine.

That brought a frown to her face. Mr. Hartly was an agreeable young gentleman. She was beginning to hope his interest was personal—though there was no getting around the fact that he had been inquiring for Major Stanby when he arrived at the inn.