Regency Masquerade Page 3

  “What wine shall we have, David?” she asked, in the voice of a young girl trying to sound experienced.

  “I should like champagne,” the young fellow announced.

  “We shall have claret,” Lady Crieff said. “And you are not to guzzle it. You know your papa would dislike to see you fuddled.”

  Hartly could not hear Sir David’s reply. Jonathon said in a low voice, “I do not think Stanby is here, but Hartly has noticed us. P’raps you should ogle him a little.”

  Hartly finished his roast beef and had another sip of wine. It was not until Lady Crieffs party had ordered their dinner that he glanced that way again. Lady Crieff was studying him with sharp interest. She allowed her eyes to play with his a moment across the room before turning away. She whispered something to the lad. There was a flurry of low talk, after which Lady Crieff paid attention to her dinner for a few moments.

  E’er long, her wicked eyes slid to Hartly again. She was definitely flirting now, using her handsome eyes in a very practiced way. She did not stare but glanced shyly, looked away, then glanced again, with a fleeting, tantalizing smile that displayed a delightful set of dimples.

  When another guest arrived, Moira abandoned Hartly to examine the newcomer. She saw a gentleman of military cut, who strode in as if he owned the place. He was of middle years, about fifty, but with a still youthful air about him. He had a good complexion, most of his own brown hair, and wore a well-cut black evening jacket. Her whole body stiffened. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and her fork fell to her plate with a gentle clatter.

  “It is Lionel March,” she said in a low voice to Jonathon.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Positive.”

  “Your usual table, Major Stanby,” Bullion said, ushering the newcomer to a table across the room. Bullion nodded at Hartly behind Stanby’s back to alert him to Stanby’s arrival.

  Moira tried not to stare, but as if her eyes had a will of their own, they kept turning to March. Here was the infamous scoundrel who had bilked her and Jonathon of their fortune, and a dozen other innocent people as well, if half the rumors one heard were true. She looked with interest to his hands and saw that the left hand holding the menu kept the smallest finger bent, no doubt to conceal that the tip was missing. She meant to verify the fact before he left the room.

  Hartly ordered apple tart, cheddar cheese, and coffee and settled down for some discreet observing of his own. Having ascertained Stanby’s identity, he let his gaze wander again to Lady Crieff’s table, where the mood had turned noticeably tense. She had given a start of alarm when Major Stanby entered. Now she looked as if she were dancing on coals. Her face was pale as paper. Did Stanby have some hold over her? The glazed look in her eyes was fear. Daniel had seen enough of it in his young soldiers in the Peninsula to recognize it. Fear and loathing. If she was indeed working with Stanby, she was not doing it willingly. His interest quickened.

  He noticed that young Sir David displayed a monstrous interest in Stanby. What was he staring at? Hartly followed the line of his gaze and saw that Stanby had at last revealed the interesting digit. He was just taking up his fork, and for a brief instant, the small finger showed its mutilation.

  It hardly accounted for the young lad’s triumphant smile, or the way he poked his stepmama. His words were not audible, but as Lady Crieff’s eyes immediately flew to Stanby’s left hand, it was obvious what had been said. Was it merely childish curiosity at this irregularity that had caught Sir David’s interest? If they were cohorts of Stanby, they would have been aware of it sooner.

  “It is him!” Jonathon whispered. “I saw the finger.”

  “I told you it was. I have not a single doubt of it. His hair is lighter, and he has added a few pounds, but it is certainly March. I could never be mistaken about those eyes.”

  They were a dull cabbage green, with a sly look in them. If he had any lashes, they were colorless. Moira was unprepared for the storm of emotions that washed over her upon seeing her enemy again. It brought back the awful desolation following her mother’s death, and the final injury of learning he had run off with the family fortune. She wanted to jump up and attack him physically as he sat calmly sipping his wine. It would take every ounce of her self-control to smile at this demon and pretend she did not hate him. But whatever it took, she would do it.

  Her eyes moved to Hartly. He had just finished his apple tart and sat back, sipping his coffee, quite ignoring Stanby. Hartly looked well satisfied with his dinner. Moira could not even remember what she had eaten. Glancing at her plate, she saw that the tender, pink roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and peas had hardly been tasted. What a waste—and she had paid a pretty penny for that dinner. Her whole enterprise was being run on a shoestring; she had no pennies to spare.

  Her mind soon turned to more interesting things. At last she had run Lionel March to ground, and her next step was to make contact with him. She had to draw his attention in some manner. It was time for Lady Crieff to begin cutting up.

  “This wine is quite horrid,” she announced in a clear, carrying voice, pushing her glass away.

  “Let us have champagne,” Sir David suggested once more.

  “Certainly not. It is much too—you are much too young,” she replied.

  Hartly, listening, wondered about that speech. It is much too—what? Champagne was not stronger than claret. But it was a deal more expensive. Were the Crieffs not so wealthy as the title suggested? The carriage they arrived in had been old but of good quality. The team of four was stout and well matched. The youngsters were rigged out in the highest kick of fashion, yet they traveled without servants. That was deuced odd. The girl at least ought to have a woman.

  The young servant called Wilf, a slender boy with red hair, appeared at Hartly’s elbow. “Could I bring you another bottle, sir?” he asked.

  “No, I am finished. But perhaps the lady would like a bottle of my private stock,” he said, indicating Moira. “I fear she is not happy with your wine. My man has had a dozen bottles placed with you. Pray give one to the lady, with my compliments.”

  The wine was duly delivered to the table. Moira’s instinct was to reject it. She had to make her decision quickly. She could either accept, and further the acquaintance with Hartly, or she could refuse it, and make an enemy of him. Worse, she would give March the notion she was not approachable. She felt Lady Crieff would accept and cause a fuss by bringing Hartly to her table. That would get March’s attention. She looked at the wine, then at Hartly. She nodded and smiled her acceptance with great condescension.

  “Pray ask the gentleman if he would care to join us for a glass of his wine,” she said to Wilf.

  Hartly did not bother with the charade of pretending he had not heard her, thus requiring Wilf to repeat the message. He rose and went to the table, bowed, and said, “How very kind of you, ma’am, but I have already finished dinner and am having coffee. I overheard your complaint of Bullion’s wine. I take the precaution of traveling with my own. I am Daniel Hartly, by the by.”

  “What a clever idea, Mr. Hartly! Why did we not bring our own from Penworth Hall, David? I am sure Sir Aubrey’s cellar was always well stocked. Oh, you have not met my stepson, Mr. Hartly. Sir David Crieff.” Jonathon bowed. “And I am Lady Crieff,” she added, with a little laugh. “David’s stepmama! Is it not ridiculous? Of course, Sir Aubrey was decades older than I. Which is not to say I married him for his blunt,” she added firmly.

  “There is no need to inquire why the late Sir Aubrey married you, Lady Crieff,” Hartly replied, as his eyes wandered over her face, and lower to enjoy a quick appreciation of her bosoms. He saw there was no need for subtlety. The lovely lady, alas, was as common as dirt.

  “Oh, fie!” She smiled, flapping her fingers at him. “I wager you say that to all the ladies, Mr. Hartly.”

  “No indeed! Only to the married ones whose beauty merits it.”

  “Now there is a handsome compliment indeed. I see you will want watchin
g, sir.”

  While she chattered, a part of her mind was running in a different direction. Hartly had wasted no time rushing to meet her. He seemed intent on emptying the butter boat on her. Was his aim merely to seduce a young widow, or was he playing a deeper game, one that involved Lionel March?

  Hartly bowed. “I shall try to behave. I am charmed to make your acquaintance—at last.”

  “At last?” she asked, frowning. “Why, you sound as if—”

  “Every minute seems an hour when one awaits a treat,” he said, coming to her rescue. Hartly expected a simpering smile at this trite compliment and was surprised to see a flash of amusement instead. Amusement and intelligence. By God, the hoyden was laughing at him. “Are you staying long at Owl House Inn?” he asked.

  “A few days. It depends. And you, Mr. Hartly?”

  “That also depends, madam.”

  Moira was disconcerted by his manner. His mischievous eyes suggested that his stay depended on how long she remained. She forced herself to play the flirt. Lady Crieff had not won a gouty squire twice her age by being backward, and she had to play her role to the hilt.

  She allowed her long eyelashes to flutter coquettishly. “On what does it depend, Mr. Hartly, if I am not being too indiscreet to inquire?”

  “On whether I find the company hereabouts congenial, ma’am,” he responded, gazing boldly into her eyes, until her cheeks felt warm. “I hope I have found one friend, at least,” he added.

  “I hope so indeed. We shall see whether flattery is the quickest path to friendship.”

  Hartly said what was expected of him: “Flattery?” He went on to assure her in a voice of silken insincerity that it had been no such thing.

  “Will you not bring your coffee to our table, sir?” she said. “I swear my neck is developing a crick, having to look up at you. It seems so uncivil, does it not, eating in a room with all these tables, and no one speaking to anyone else? What is the good of putting up at an inn if one is not to meet new gentle—new people?” She allowed her lashes to flutter enticingly.

  “The perils of travel.” He nodded. “One dislikes to be standoffish, yet to force an acquaintance seems just a touch vulgar. I opted for vulgarity. I should be honored to join you.”

  Wilf, who had been listening shamelessly to this exchange, darted off for the coffee. Hartly sat in the vacant chair between Sir David and Lady Crieff.

  Lady Crieff tried the wine and said, “I congratulate you on your taste. This is quite as good as what comes out of Sir Aubrey’s cellar. Are you from these parts, Mr. Hartly?”

  “No, from Devon. I am on holiday. I shall be going on to London to visit relatives when the spirit moves me.”

  She sighed. “How nice to be a footloose bachelor.” She let her voice rise a notch to indicate interest. “Or perhaps I am taking too much for granted to assume you are not married?” she asked.

  “I am a bachelor. And where are you folks from?”

  “Scotland.”

  “I own a great big sheep farm in the Moorfoot Hills,” Sir David boasted. “P’raps you have heard of it—Penworth Hall?”

  “No, I have never been to Scotland. I hear it is beautiful. How large a flock do you have, Sir David?”

  “Hundreds,” he said, looking helplessly to Lady Crieff.

  “Ninnyhammer,” she scolded. “Sir David has over a thousand sheep, Mr. Hartly. And two thousand acres,” she added, choosing numbers that sounded impressive without stretching the bounds of credibility. The journals had stated only that Penworth Hall was a large, prosperous estate.

  She turned to Sir David. “And it is high time you informed yourself of your estate, David. It is all yours, now that your papa has stuck his fork in the wall. I, alas, got only—but Mr. Hartly is not interested in me,” she said, with a coquettish glance.

  The incident raised a doubt in Hartly’s mind. Odd that a lad of sixteen or so years was unaware of the extent of his holdings. He would get him alone soon and give him a more thorough quizzing. It also raised the question—what had Lady Crieff got? She had been carrying a padlocked case, presumably of jewels. He looked at the diamond necklace at her throat. It was modest but genuine. Iridescent prisms glowed in its depths when she moved. They danced over the satin mounds of her breasts, which just peeped over the top of her gown. When she noticed where he was looking, she gave him a knowing smile, then pulled her shawl over her bosom.

  “My own estate specializes in cattle,” he said. “Have you seen anything of the neighborhood yet?”

  He pitched his question between the two, for he wanted to include the young lad in any outing.

  “We just arrived this afternoon,” Lady Crieff replied. “It seems a desolate enough place. Not a decent shop to be seen. I daresay there are no assemblies at Blaxstead?”

  “Like you, I have just arrived. We arrived at the same time, I believe,” he mentioned. “I plan to drive about the neighborhood tomorrow to see what entertainments offer. Might I induce you to join me?”

  “Now, that is what I call neighborly, Mr. Hartly. I should like it, of all things!” Lady Crieff replied, but she accepted with an air of conferring a favor and went on to add that David must accompany them. “Not that I mean to say I mistrust you, but for the looks of it, you know. I shall be happy to go. I am not one to look down on a fellow just because he does not have a handle to his name. I invited every gentleman who owned a decent jacket to my routs at Penworth. I have had over a hundred in the ballroom at one time, have I not, David? I try to round up a few spare gents, you must know, so the plainer girls do not have to sit on their haunches all evening.”

  “How exceedingly considerate of you,” Hartly replied, chewing back a grin.

  She smiled her pleasure. “Everyone said I had the best parties in the neighborhood. Mind you, Sir Aubrey was not too fond of them, but I could always get around him.”

  “I wager you could.”

  Hartly was happy that David interrupted the conversation, for he hardly knew how to converse with such a vulgar piece of merchandise. Were it not for the suspicion that she had something to do with Stanby, he would have left long ago. He felt a rankling annoyance that her beauty was spoiled by her common manners and self-seeking ways.

  “Can I drive your curricle?” Sir David asked.

  “I am afraid my team would be a bit much for you to handle. Well, folks, it is settled then that you will join me tomorrow, if the weather is fine?”

  Moira began wondering why Mr. Hartly was so insistent on furthering the acquaintance. She was sharp enough to see he had no good opinion of her as a person. His original admiration had turned to disparagement once she went into her act. Laughing up his sleeve, if the truth were known. He had been examining her diamonds in a troublesome way, and he had been asking for Major Stanby earlier.

  “Let us wait and see if the weather is good,” she said.

  “There speaks the voice of caution,” Hartly replied, concealing his annoyance behind a smile. “I shall pray for sunshine.”

  He was too wise to rush his fences, nor was it necessary. The pretty vixen was interested in him. He finished his coffee and took his leave, after expressing his pleasure in making their acquaintance. He had a fair idea where they would go after dinner. The evening light lingered long in May. The inn offered no entertainment, and with boredom and water to lure them outside, he figured he would meet up with the pair again on the banks of the estuary. His real interest was in scraping an acquaintance with Stanby. With this end in view, he spoke to Bullion in a raised voice on his way out. “Any chance of a game of cards later this evening, Bullion?” he asked.

  “We usually have a friendly game in a corner of the room. A bunch of the local lads drop in about nine.” He nodded knowingly to Stanby. “A few of my guests sit down as well.”

  “Excellent. I shall do likewise. A fine dinner. I particularly enjoyed your Cook’s apple tart.”

  “Sorry about the bread sauce. Your man was asking for it, but my Maggie don
’t care for outsiders in her kitchen. She’ll make it for you herself tomorrow in place of the Yorkshire. How is that, then?”

  “Mott has a strange idea of what I like! I despise bread sauce. Pay him no heed.”

  Bullion smiled in satisfaction. Why was it the servants of the mighty were so much more demanding than their masters?

  “My Maggie’ll be happy to hear it.”

  Hartly went out into the cool evening, surprised that it was still twilight. It had seemed like the middle of the night in the Great Room.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Hartly left the room, Moira said to her brother, “He wasted no time in putting himself forward.”

  “He was ogling the diamonds,” Jonathon said. “I should sleep with them under my pillow if I were you.”

  Moira’s eyes kept darting to Major Stanby as she ate her apple tart. “He shows no interest. He cannot know who Lady Crieff is. We must leak the details of her history to him somehow. Hartly had no notion of it either. I had thought she was infamous enough to be known by name. I shall leave the clippings from the journals on my bedside table. No doubt the servants will read them and spread the word. Or you could let it slip tomorrow,” she suggested. “It is the sort of thing a youngster might be foolish enough to boast of.”

  “I ain’t exactly a youngster,” he exclaimed, taking instant objection to the charge.

  “Only in years,” she said sadly. “You have had to grow up fast, and without the sort of education you deserve, though the vicar did a fine job of tutoring you. You will finish your education at Eton or Harrow when we get our money back, then go on to university, as Papa wanted.”

  “I do not care a brass farthing for that. It is you who deserves a treat after this is over—if we can get our money back, I mean.”

  “We’ll do it, David,” she said firmly. “Never allow yourself to doubt. It would be the beginning of the end. If we failed, we would have to go on living as we have been—perhaps even lose the Elms. We have found him.” Her eyes slid to Lionel March. “The job is half-done, and we will finish it.”