Regency Masquerade Page 11

  He finished his wine and went to bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  The small plaster over Lady Crieff’s left eye was not disfiguring, but it was noticeable enough to cause talk when she appeared in the Great Room the next morning. Mr. Hartly, in particular, stared at it in alarm. It couldn’t be! Lady Crieff had no reason to be in the tunnel last night. It could only be a coincidence. Yet one of the men had been noticeably small, the other tall, like David. Good lord, had he inadvertently beaten a lady?

  Major Stanby was the first to offer his sympathy. He had come down to breakfast early and was leaving the room as Lady Crieff and Sir David entered.

  “My dear Lady Crieff! What happened? I trust you were not seriously hurt!”

  “A mere bump, Major. I left the door of my clothespress ajar and walked into it last night. One is not accustomed to such cubbyholes of rooms.”

  “I hope you called in a doctor. A bump on the head can be serious,” he said, all concern.

  “I would not let a country sawbones near me,” she said scornfully. “I patched myself up, with David’s help.”

  “I am happy to hear it is not serious. Still, it is a shame to have even a millimeter of that exquisite face covered,” he said, gazing at her with his gooseberry eyes until she wanted to scream.

  She simpered. “Too kind.”

  “You must take it easy today. A quiet read by the grate. I shall be happy to bear you company this afternoon. I shall dart out this moment and see what magazines are available in the shops to amuse you.”

  She thanked him and continued toward her table. Ponsonby was the next one to offer sympathy.

  “Milady! What ill has befallen you? I tremble at the sight of that plaster—and on your face, too. Why could you not have bumped your elbow? A bruise there could easily be hidden by a judicious arrangement of the shawl.”

  “Why, Mr. Ponsonby, you give me the idea you are interested only in a lady’s appearance,” she said coolly.

  “Until I have had the pleasure of plumbing your soul, madam, I can take my pleasure only in admiring your exquisite beauty.”

  “Even for looking it is always preferable to be sober, is it not?” she said, shaking an admonitory finger. “I am very angry with you, sir.”

  He scowled at Jonathon. “You told her!” Then he turned back to Moira. “It is true I was bottle-bitten last night, but I place the blame in your dish, madam. The pain of seeing you dancing with other gentlemen ...”

  “Strange it should lead you to go climbing ladders.”

  “No, no, it led me straight to the bottle, to drown my woes.”

  “You are easily led astray,” she said, and brushed past him to take her seat at the table.

  Ponsonby just smiled and went tailing off after Stanby

  Hartly sat on alone, brooding over his coffee. Was it Lady Crieff he had assaulted last night in the tunnel? Of equal importance, had she recognized him? It had been extremely dark. He had not recognized her, so it was not likely she had recognized him. To ignore her plaster when the others were making such a fuss over it would appear odd, yet the hypocrisy of lamenting his own ill deed left a bad taste in his mouth.

  After she had been seated, he rose and went to her table.

  “Lady Crieff, David,” he said with a bow. “I am sorry to see you have injured yourself, milady. I hope it is not serious?”

  “A mere scratch,” she replied, then added, “but it is very painful,” for she wanted him to know he had hurt her. “Won’t you join us, Mr. Hartly? I see you are finished breakfast, but you can take your coffee with us.”

  “Are you well enough to go for a drive?” he asked, sitting down, but not bothering to bring his cup.

  “The major suggests I take it easy today, and I feel he is right, for my head does ache dreadfully. He has offered to keep me company by the grate.”

  Hartly disliked that mention of Stanby, but he was more worried to hear she was still suffering from her blow. “Perhaps you ought to call in a doctor.”

  “If it persists, I shall. Meanwhile I have taken a headache powder and shall just stick about the inn.”

  “Then I shall know where to find you when I have finished my correspondence. I have a few letters to write home regarding my estate.”

  “You are staying in this morning, then?” Jonathon asked.

  Hartly noticed the quick look the pair exchanged, and he wondered at it. He soon deduced that David was hinting for a ride in his curricle. He decided to oblige him, to atone for last night.

  “My letter writing will not take long. Would you like to have a spin in my curricle later, around eleven?”

  “I cannot leave Lady Crieff alone,” he said, with the utmost reluctance, “but I should love to do it another time.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  Hartly took his leave and went abovestairs. His main concern was that he was the cause of Lady Crieff’s headache. It was not until he was at his desk that he began wondering why Sir David had refused the ride when it was plain as a pikestaff that he wanted to go. The major had offered to accompany Lady Crieff on the settee in front of the grate. There would be servants and the Bullions about. Surely she did not require young David to dance attendance all day.

  “You are staying in this morning, then?” David had asked, with a sharp look about him. It almost suggested they wanted him out of his room. They would know that Mott always took a morning constitutional. Did they plan to sneak into his room? Was that it? What did they hope to find? He had brought nothing incriminating with him, but it soon occurred to him that this was an excellent way to make Marchbank think he was a special Revenue agent from London. He would already suspect it if the Crieffs reported his visit to the cave.

  He scribbled off a note to an imaginary Mr. Giles of the Revenue and Customs Department, crossed half of it out, squeezed it into a ball, and tossed it in the dustbin. Then he did his real correspondence and took his letters belowstairs.

  Lady Crieff and Sir David had removed to the settee, where they sat with their heads together, talking in a low, confidential manner. When David spotted him, he said something to his stepmama, and they both stopped talking.

  Hartly made a detour to the settee before leaving.

  “I am just stepping out to post these letters, while I have my walk,” he said. “Can I do anything for you while I am out, Lady Crieff? More headache powders?”

  “I am well supplied, thank you. I hope you enjoy your walk.”

  “I plan to stroll eastward. Mott was going to walk to Cove House today. He is interested in Gothic architecture. I shall meet him on his way back.”

  “He must have left early,” Moira said.

  “Yes, as soon as he had shaved me. I was up early today, to look over my dairy accounts before breakfast. Well, I am off.”

  “Enjoy your walk,” Lady Crieff said.

  As soon as he was out of the inn, Moira said, “This is our chance, Jonathon. He will be gone an hour at least. Cove House is over five miles away. Let us go upstairs at once.”

  She leaned on Jonathon’s arm, to lend credibility to her headache, Bullion was all solicitude and apologized for hia clothespress door.

  “It is my own fault. I was careless,” Moira said.

  The girls were making up the beds when they went abovestairs. Sally was just coming out of Hartly’s room. Before she locked the door, Jonathon called to her and she came to him.

  “Lady Crieff is going to have a lie-down,” he said.

  Sally curtsied. “Yes, sir. Her room is all made up. I shan’t disturb her.”

  “Good lass. And would you mind trotting downstairs and getting a posset for her? She could not eat a bite of breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir, right away, sir.” She curtsied again and darted down the back staircase.

  Jonathon gave a cagey grin. “She forgot to lock Hartly’s door. Excellent. I shall just wait about to make sure she don’t lock it when she brings the posset. There is no need for you to look out for
Hartly. He will be gone an hour at least. There is no sign of rain to send him running back for cover.”

  “I shall go to his room with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  Jonathon did as he had said. When Sally returned with the posset, he went to the top of the stairs to meet her and chatted in a friendly way to keep her mind off Hartly’s door.

  “Are you from this neighborhood?” he asked.

  “Born and bred right here in Blaxstead. My da runs the cobbler’s shop. You might have seen it on the high street.”

  “No, but, by Jove, I shall stop in and have him hammer down this nail that has come up through my boot. It is digging into my heel.”

  “Tell him I sent you and he’ll do it for free.” She smiled.

  “I shall do that. Well, I must not keep you from your work.” He handed her a small coin.

  Even as they spoke, Maggie’s voice came traveling up the backstairs, hollering for Sally. Sally gave a bold smile and trotted off. Jonathon rushed the posset along to Moira, who set it on the table. They opened the door, peered out to check that the hall was empty, then went along to Hartly’s room.

  It was clear at a glance that Mott was an excellent valet. There was not so much as a soiled cravat or handkerchief to mar the tidiness of the chamber.

  “You check the clothespress. I shall look in the desk,” Moira said.

  Jonathon went to the clothespress and began looking through pockets. They were empty; not so much as a comb or a stray penny had been left behind. There was not even any lint. All he learned was that the clothing was nearly new and of an enviable quality. A set of silver brushes sat on the toilet table, along with shaving equipment and a jewelry box holding a small diamond cravat pin, the one Hartly had worn the night before. The drawers of the dresser held clean linen and socks.

  Moira fared no better. The desk held a few recent journals, but no significant articles were circled to give her a clue what he had been reading. If Hartly had brought an address book, he had not left it here. The blotting pad had not been changed for months. Remnants of blotted words ran higgledy-piggledy into each other, completely illegible.

  “You would hardly think anyone had been living in this room at all,” Moira said in disgust when they compared notes. “There is not a single personal item to give us a clue. Such care in covering his tracks seems highly suspicious. Take a quick peek in Mott’s room, Jon. I shall search under the mattress and pillow. People often hide things there.”

  Jonathon went to Mott’s room, which was in a state similar to Hartly’s. It held nothing of interest. When he returned, Moira was just poking into the dustbin.

  “Here is something!” she exclaimed, pulling out a piece of crumpled paper.

  She straightened it out and read what had been written. “It is true!” she gasped. “He is a spy for Revenue and Customs! Listen to this, Jon. ‘I wish to report that I have been executing my orders and have some small success to report. I believe a Lord Marchbank, of Cove House, is responsible for the large quantity of brandy that is entering England illegally at Blaxstead. He is also the local magistrate. No smugglers have been convicted here for a decade. I shall continue surveillance to discover the entire operation, and keep in touch.’ He has crossed out the next bit. It is difficult to read—something about sending more men down.”

  Jonathon dashed to read this startling news for himself. “We must warn Cousin John!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, certainly. And it was Hartly who hit me last night. I knew it was him.”

  “Let us go,” he said. “Take the letter to show Marchbank.”

  Moira looked at it doubtfully. “He might notice it is gone.”

  “Sally has done the room. He will think she emptied the basket.”

  Moira stood, undecided. It might be a trap. Hartly was so devious, she could hardly believe he had left this incriminating piece of evidence behind by accident.

  “We can tell Cousin John what it says. I shall leave it here.”

  “What a good idea,” Mr. Hartly said, in a voice of quiet menace.

  She turned at the sound of his voice. He had entered by Mott’s room and stood in the doorway, staring at her with a smile that was more deadly than a charged pistol.

  “Mr. Hartly!” she gasped. Her blood turned to ice water, chilling her to the core. She felt frozen to the spot, unable to move. “What are you doing here?”

  He advanced slowly, with measured strides. “I live here, for the time being. More to the point, what are you and Sir David doing here, Lady Crieff?” he asked, studying her with a fixed stare. “I believe you have some explaining to do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hartly had seen that dumb, animal response to danger in Spain. The frozen faces of the enemy at bay still haunted his dreams. That was Lady Crieff’s reaction when he caught her in his room. But it was the look in her eyes that bothered him more. It was the same fear and loathing he had seen when she looked at Stanby. He felt like a murderer.

  “Well?” he said gruffly. “Nothing to say, madam? You mistook my room for yours, perhaps? You were passing and heard a noise? Fearing a robber, you came to investigate. Come now, use that vivid imagination.”

  She swallowed; her tongue flicked out and touched her dry lips. “It was the door—it was open,” she said. She still held the note in her fingers, hidden behind her back. She wanted to position herself over the dustbin and drop it in.

  “Ah, you have elected for excuse number two.”

  Jonathon came to her defense. “The door was open!” he said angrily. “We knew you were out walking and feared someone might steal your—your diamond tiepin.”

  “And did someone?” he asked.

  “No! You can look for yourself. It is still on your dresser.”

  Hartly’s eyes flickered to the dresser, where his diamond cravat pin twinkled in the sunlight. Well, at least they had not robbed him. Lady Crieff’s position at the desk told him what they had been looking for. So they had read the note he left for them. Excellent! Success mellowed his mood. He would let them off lightly, but not too lightly, or they would suspect his motives.

  Jonathon’s spunky behavior gave Moira courage. She shifted position and dropped the note into the dustbin. Once free of the incriminating evidence, she lifted her head high and said haughtily, “I hope you are not accusing us of trying to rob you, Mr. Hartly, when we were only being neighborly. The door was open, I assure you. Anyone might have come in. You can ask Sally.”

  “You must forgive me,” he said, in a more civil tone. “I was surprised when I returned and heard voices in my room, especially after Ponsonby’s questionable behavior last night. I decided to enter via Mott’s room to catch the intruder. It was careless of Sally to leave the door open. I shall speak to her.”

  “I wish you will be easy with her,” Jonathon said. “It was my fault in a way. I asked her for a posset for Lady Crieff just as she was coming out of your room. I daresay that was what made her forget.”

  “No harm done.”

  “We thought you were going for a long walk, you see,” Jonathon mentioned.

  “So I was, but I remembered I had accepted an invitation to dinner in London on the weekend, and returned to write my apologies to the hostess.”

  “We shall let you get on with it,” Moira said, for she was eager to escape. “I am sorry if we startled you.”

  “Please do not apologize. I ought to thank you for looking out for my welfare.”

  He accompanied them to the door and watched as they scuttled off to their rooms as if the hounds of hell were after them. As soon as they disappeared, he went to his dustbin and glanced down at the note. It had been opened and obviously read. He strolled to the window and waited to see which of them darted the note’s contents off to Marchbank. Within two minutes David ran to the stable and came out, leading Firefly. His simple plan had succeeded. Marchbank would believe his men were being watched and would desist operations for a few nights.

 
In her room, Moira was trembling from the aftermath of her ordeal. She saw that future relations with Mr. Hartly would be strained and unpleasant, which was a great pity, because in the worst case, she had thought she could apply to him for leniency on Cousin John’s behalf. Quite apart from that, she did care for his good opinion. What must he think of her?

  She was so upset that she remained in her room the rest of the morning. Jonathon was soon back from Cove House.

  “I gave Cousin Vera the message. Marchbank was out on business, but she will tell him. She says he can divert any incoming cargo to Cousin Peter’s men at Romney. They have a system of warning lights flashed from shore to the approaching ships. I am to keep watch on Hartly,” he said, his chest swelling at such an important duty.

  “You did well, Jon. Do you think Hartly believed us?”

  “No, he thinks we are common thieves. You could see it in his eyes, but as his precious diamond pin was still there, he could not say much. I doubt he will offer me a ride in his curricle again,” he added disconsolately.

  “Never mind, you can set up your own curricle when we recover our money. That is the main thing. We must not lose track of that with Cousin John’s problem.”

  “Can I really? With a pair of matched grays like Hartly’s? And a yellow rig with silver appointments?”

  “Why not? You have earned it.”

  Moira found her own good advice hard to take. It was difficult to concentrate on Lionel March. She kept remembering the cold way Mr. Hartly had looked at her. She could not face the Great Room for lunch. She kept brooding over Mr. Hartly. She had a cold collation brought to the sitting room, where she and Jonathon shared a quiet luncheon. After lunch, Jonathon planned to watch Hartly and follow him at a discreet distance if he left the inn. He also spoke of taking another run down to Cove House, to see if he could be of any help to Cousin John.