Regency Masquerade

by Joan Smith

  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.

 
“Perhaps. Time will tell.”

  Chapter Seven

  The corkscrew curls had softened to gentle waves by afternoon. Moira arranged them en corbeil and wore the same elaborately feathered bonnet and green sarcenet mantle in which she had arrived at Owl House Inn the day before.

  She regretted the overly ornate plumage of the bonnet. She had a keen fashion sense and had enjoyed accumulating her wardrobe. Schooled to practicality, she meant to wear the garments after her role of Lady Crieff was terminated, so the clothing was to her own taste, embellished to vulgarity by gewgaws that could be removed later. The sarcenet mantle was trimmed in gold satin and brass buttons. Excitement lent a sparkle to her eyes and a spring to her step.

  Jonathon carried a large wicker basket, bearing an embroidered tablecloth worked by Moira’s own hands for Lady Marchbank. She had been kind to the Trevithicks during their difficult period. Small presents of cash were only a part of it; she had provided moral support, and an offer that both Moira and Jonathon were welcome to make their home at Cove House if worst came to worst and they lost the Elms.

  Mr. Hartly met them in the lobby. He was no expert on ladies’ toilettes and felt he was out-of-date besides after his stint in Spain, but he knew instinctively that Moira would look prettier without that tower of feathers atop her head. He came forward to greet the youngsters.

  “You will have to give me directions to Cove House,” he said, after greeting them.

  “Cousin Vera sent us a map. Here it is,” Jonathon said, handing him a hand-drawn map. “P’raps you ought to give it to your groom.”

  They went outside, where a shining black carriage and bang-up team of bays awaited them.

  “I say! That’s something like!” Jonathon exclaimed. “Can I sit on the box with John Groom, Mr. Hartly?”

  “You will get covered in dust, David,” his sister cautioned.

  Hartly smiled at the lad’s enthusiasm. “I keep my traveling coat in the carriage. I like to take the reins myself from time to time. You are welcome to wear it, Sir David, if Lady Crieff—”

  “Oh, very well,” Moira agreed, although she would have preferred that Jonathon accompany her inside the carriage, to ease what might be a trying trip.

  The coat fit as to length. Jonathon placed the basket on the floor of the carriage and leapt up on the perch with John Groom. Hartly was curious about that basket. Did it, by any chance, contain the Crieff jewelry collection? If so, it was an excellent idea to leave it with the Marchbanks, now that word of its existence had got about the inn.

  As they drove along, Moira noticed that Hartly’s eyes strayed to the basket from time to time.

  “A little gift for my cousin Vera,” she mentioned. “I made it myself. You will see it when we arrive—if you are interested in embroidery. I daresay you are not. It took me months to make it.”

  “Is that how you passed your time in Scotland, Lady Crieff, with needlework?”

  “Needlework and Gothic novels. I am a sad, shatter-brained creature,” she replied.

  Yet he remembered very well she had been reading a complex article on politics when he interrupted her that morning, and reading it with considerable interest. Her healthy face and lithe body told him she did not spend her entire day warming a sofa. Other than the clothes, she seemed like a genteel provincial, excited by even a simple call on a relative. At times, he felt there were two Lady Crieffs—one a wanton, the other a lady he could easily grow fond of.

  She looked out at the passing scenery. “This is horrid countryside, is it not?” she asked. “All those flat marshes, so unlike the lush and rolling hills of—of Scotland,” she said, pulling herself up short.

  He noticed her hesitation and wondered at it. No doubt Scotland had lush and rolling hills, but it was more famous for its rocky Highlands. Surely sheep were raised on those rocky bluffs. Lush and rolling hills were more suitable to cattle.

  “Take away the water and we could be in parts of Devon,” he replied blandly. “The moors, you know.”

  “I hear they are desolate and dangerous,” she replied, making conversation.

  “It is easy to lose your way, but they are not all desolation. There are villages tucked in along the road. My own estate is not on the moors. Parts of Devon are well cultivated and civilized.”

  Moira gazed dreamily out the window. “It is strange that a tiny island like Britain has such varied landscapes, is it not? Everything from this”— she gestured to the view beyond the window—”to the Highlands, to the chalk downs, to the beautiful Lake District and London. All we lack is a desert, and we would be a world unto ourselves.”

  This seemed a rather serious thought for the hoyden Lady Crieff had acted last night. It confirmed his view that the girl was an anomaly. The face of a provincial miss, wearing a lightskirt’s bonnet. He made a noncommittal reply.

  Moira found the conversational going extremely rough. Not only was she worried that Hartly would make physical advances, she also had to remember to be vulgar, yet not so vulgar as to disgust him, if it turned out he was not a friend of Stanby’s.

  “You have an excellent team” was her next effort. “David will be enjoying himself immensely.”

  “He seems a nice lad. Does he give you much trouble?”

  “David, trouble? Good Lord, no. I don’t know what I should do without him.” Now, why was he frowning like that?

  “You will soon find out,” he said. “He is returning to Penworth when you remove to London, is he not?”

  “Indeed he is, but I shall have other company once I reach London. I know people there. He has provided good company on a long evening,” she added.

  It was a relief when the spires of Cove House appeared before them, soaring into the misty sky. The house was indeed a Gothic heap, complete with moldy stone, pointed windows, and even a pair of flying buttresses. The land around it was so damp and low-lying that it created a sort of moat, unfortunately without a drawbridge. The road had been raised to allow carriages to enter. Hartly thought it a derelict old place, but when he glanced at Lady Crieff, he saw her face was dazed with ecstasy.

  “Oh, if I had known it was this lovely, I would have come when Cousin Vera invited us to live here!” she exclaimed.

  A quick frown creased Hartly’s brow. He had assumed Lady Marchbank was some kin to the Crieffs. Why would she invite Lady Crieff and David to live with her when David had Penworth Hall?

  “After your husband’s death, do you mean?” he asked.

  For a fleeting moment, she stared at him, startled. “Yes, that was my meaning.”

  “She wanted you and David to live with her?”

  “Yes. David was younger then, of course, as I was myself. David has an uncle who is his legal guardian. He would have managed Penworth. Cousin Vera thought we might like a holiday away from home. I did not mean ‘live’ in the sense of move here permanently.”

  “I see.” Yet she had said “live here,” in no uncertain terms.

  Moira was glad when the carriage rattled to a stop and the groom hopped down to open the door. Jonathon was right behind him.

  “By Jove, that was something like! Cooper let me take the reins—he held on, too, but I was driving.”

  “Best take off Mr. Hartly’s coat before we go in,” Moira said.

  Jonathon did so and picked up the basket. It was clear Lady Marchbank had been awaiting their arrival, for she was at the door herself to greet them. Moira searched her mind in vain for a memory of this relative. She knew Lady Marchbank had visited her parents fifteen years earlier, but there had been many relatives visiting in those days. She was looking at a stranger: a tall, raw-boned elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned lace cap with lappets hanging over her ears. She had a large nose, not unlike Jonathon’s, but it seemed more prominent on a lady. Her gray eyes were moist with tears.

  She threw her arms around Moira and kissed her on both cheeks. “A beauty! You have grown into a beauty! I knew it would be so when I first laid eyes on you a decade and a
half ago.” She turned to Jonathon. “And this is little David,” she said, with a sly eye at Moira, as if to say, “See, I remembered not to call him Jon.” Then she turned to Hartly. “Now this lad I do not remember. Is he your cousin Jeremy, Bonnie?” The journals had not given Lady Crieff’s first name. They had selected Bonnie as appropriately Scottish.

  “This is Mr. Hartly, a gentleman who is staying at the inn and has given us a drive here,” Moira explained hastily. She should have sent Cousin Vera a note to alert her to this change of plans.

  Hartly bowed.

  “So kind of you,” Lady Marchbank said to him. “But why are we standing on the doorstep? Come in, come in. I have had Crook prepare us a dandy tea. How is that for a name, eh? My cook is called Crook. I always call her Crook. She hates it.” On this ill-natured speech she emitted a tinny laugh.

  They were led into a dim hallway that belonged in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic novels. A dark stairway curved sinuously at one end, to disappear in shadows. Antique portraits in aged frames glowered at them from the walls. A stuffed eagle was perched on a pedestal, wings spread, as if he were about to attack. His glass eyes glittered menacingly

  “I say! Look at that, Lady Crieff!” Jonathon exclaimed. “Do you have a dungeon with chains and bones, Cousin Vera?”

  “No, but we have a secret passage to the caves below. My husband’s ancestors made their fortune smuggling wool in the old days. Oh, we are a wicked crew here, wicked!” She cackled like a witch.

  Lady Marchbank led them into the main saloon, another tenebrous chamber with creaking Jacobean paneling and faded window hangings.

  “There is no point trying to be stylish here,” she told them. “Between the damp sea air and the smoke from the grate, everything is destroyed. I had those window hangings put up only three years ago. Or was it five? No matter, they cost me a small fortune and looked like rags within a twelvemonth.”

  She bundled them onto a pair of sofas before the grate, where a few logs burned desultorily. “Danby! Danby, I say. I want my tea!” she hollered into the depths of the hallway beyond.

  An aged butler appeared at the doorway. “Just coming, your ladyship,” he said, and vanished into the gloom.