by Joan Smith
“We shall get hold of Stanby and see if he is ready for that game,” Ponsonby said.
“You go ahead and get things ready,” Hartly replied. “I must have a word with Mott. Tell Bullion it will be just the three of us for cards this evening. The locals only play for chicken stakes. Perhaps he has a small room he might let us use, somewhere we can play without being disturbed.”
When they entered the inn, Hartly cast one long, dark look at the couple by the grate before going abovestairs. Jonathon did likewise. He felt a pang to see Moira still sitting with March. Jon, who knew her so well, could see her nerves were stretched to nearly the breaking point. She looked vastly relieved when Ponsonby called March away for the game, and Jon took his place on the settee.
“You look as if you had been gnawed by rats, Lady Crieff,” he said ruefully. “Have you had a wretched time of it?”
“Unspeakably vile. He kept touching me,” she said, with a shiver of revulsion. “But it was worth it. I must go to my room to recuperate. A whole box of headache powders could not ease my migraine. You have Bullion put my emeralds in the safe, Jonathon.” She removed the necklace and ear pendants and handed them to him. “He is in his office now, I believe.”
“I shall remain behind and keep watch, though it will not be easy if they use a private room, as Hartly suggested.”
“What did Hartly do when he left the dining room?”
“He stood looking at the lake as if he wanted to jump in and drown himself; then Ponsonby joined him and they walked back and forth for a long time. I could not overhear them, but they seemed mighty interested in whatever they were saying. I believe Ponsonby is in it with him.”
“Very likely. No one could be as foolish as Ponsonby pretends he is. Thank God Hartly is a gambler. He will be out of mischief for a couple of hours.”
Moira left and Jonathon took the jewels to Bullion’s office. Ponsonby was just leaving.
“Very kind of you to let us use your personal parlor, Bullion. I shall tell the others. Oh, and you will bring us a bottle of your excellent brandy.”
He left, and Bullion took the emeralds.
“The gentlemen must be playing for high stakes tonight,” Jonathon said in a casual way.
“Someone will lose a monkey and someone will make a tidy sum,” Bullion replied. “I do not understand what makes them do it, but they will gamble, so I try to make them comfortable. It is a vice you would be wise to avoid, Sir David.”
“It is a shocking waste of time and money. I shall waste my evening studying Latin instead. Will you send one of the girls up with a pot of tea? It helps to keep me awake.”
“Happy to oblige. Will her ladyship like a cup as well?”
“A good idea. Do not trouble yourself, Bullion. I shall speak to Sally on my way up.”
By the time he had finished his talk with Sally, Jonathon had learned the location of the family parlor where the card game would take place. The window looked out on the backyard and estuary, and he could overhear what was said within if the window was open.
“You ought to open the window a crack, Sally,” he said, looking around at the modest room. “The gentlemen will be smoking cigars. They will suffocate if they have no air.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, and went to lift the window an inch. “I’ll get some saucers as well, to hold their cigars. Nasty, smelly things. The room will reek of them for a week. Your tea should be ready by now. I’ll take it up.”
“I shall take it myself and save you the trip.” He tipped her a tupenny, and she was well pleased with his generosity.
Moira’s head was throbbing from her prolonged session with Stanby. His manner was becoming hatefully romantic. He had held her hand and told her she was “a charmer, by gad.” Had he said the same words to her mama? How could Mama have tolerated the weasel?
Of course, it was partly his age that disgusted Moira, and he had not been that much older than Mama. Mama had no notion of his character. When one saw Stanby for the first time as a stranger, he would not strike one as ugly. Mama must have been dreadfully lonesome, missing Papa. She had been born and bred in the country, and had little experience of the world. Stanby would have had a cosmopolitan allure for her. But still, those gooseberry eyes! She shivered and pulled her wrap more closely around her shoulders.
When she heard a tap at the door, she thought it must be Jonathon and answered with no premonition of disaster. Mr. Hartly stepped in uninvited and closed the door. There was some severity in his expression that frightened her.
“You cannot come in, Mr. Hartly. I am alone,” she said, and reached to open the door.
He blocked it with his body. A civil sneer descended on his handsome face as he said, “You were more obliging the first evening we met, madam.”
“Sir David was next door on that occasion. I must ask you to leave, sir.”
“And I, regretfully, must decline,” he replied, and strolled into the bedroom.
Anger at his high-handed tactics warred with fear in her breast. “If you have come to harass me about being in your room this morning, I explained—”
“Your explanation was as false as that green glass necklace you wore at dinner.”
A gasp escaped her. “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “Everyone knows the Crieff emeralds are genuine.”
“I have no reason to doubt it, but we are discussing your necklace, miss.”
“How dare you speak to me in this manner! Leave. Go away at once, or I shall call for help.”
“Your lover won’t hear you. He is belowstairs. Do you really want him to hear what I have to say?”
“Say what you have to say and leave, Mr. Hartly. I am in no mood for this. I have had an extremely trying evening.”
“Have you indeed? I had not thought a tête-à-tête with a suitor would prove so demanding. What was it that upset you? Fear that the major would discover you are not Lady Crieff?”
Her face, already pale, blanched to white. Her gray eyes darkened in fear. “You are being ridiculous,” she said, but she said it in a breathless, frightened whisper.
“No, madam. You are out of your depth. I have it on the best authority that Lady Crieff—a redhead, by the by—is still in Scotland. The Crieff case has been settled amicably out of court. Such stunts as you are endeavoring to execute ought to be done hastily, before some suspicious soul begins to ask questions. You would have done better to try your game with me the evening you arrived, as you intended. What stopped you? Did you fear my pockets were not deep enough?”
He saw her blank stare of incomprehension. “You?”
“Do you deny you lured me to your chamber?”
“An unfortunate error. I mistook you for a gentleman.”
“I was not so blind. I knew at a glance that you were no lady. Now, who the devil are you, and what is your game?”
“I am Lady Crieff,” she said.
“And I am King Louis of France. Your name is of no consequence in any case. You have two options. Either you give an account of yourself, or I tell Stanby the Crieff jewels are paste. You will find his affections are not so marble constant as you think. Charming as you are, Stanby will demand more than a pretty face in his mistress.”
Color flooded her pale cheeks as that insult hit home. “For your information, he wants to marry me. At least I think—What has it to do with you, in any case? You do not fool me, Mr. Hartly. You are a Revenueman. It is Lord Marchbank you are investigating, not Lady Crieff.”
“So you did plunder my dustbin. You really ought to have crumpled the letter up again. I am disappointed in you.”
“What do you want?” she demanded, in a failing voice.
“I want—I demand—that you cease this charade. I am an officer of the law. It is true my job here has to do with smuggling, but I cannot in good conscience allow an upright citizen to be fleeced.”
“Upright! The man is an outright scoundrel! You may feel differently after he has taken whatever money you have from you w
ith shaved cards this evening.”
“I thank you for the warning, but two wrongs do not make a right. You will cease this charade. It will be best if you leave the inn, quietly, without leaving a message for Stanby.”
“No! I have waited too long. This is my only chance. You must understand, Mr. Hartly.” She looked at his implacable face and gave a resigned sigh. Hartly was an officer of the law, that same law that upheld Lionel March’s right to steal Jonathon’s estate and her dowry with impunity.
“I am not unaware that Major Stanby’s character is flawed,” he said vaguely. “There have been minor incidents at the card table. One must take into account that he has spent his life defending the interests of his country. I do not wish to embarrass you, but the law is the law, and it is clearly your intention to break it. Do you have anywhere to go?”
With the possibility of being charged with a criminal offense hanging over her head, she was loath to reveal her identity. “No, and very little money.”
“What of the Marchbanks?”
“They did not invite us to stay with them when we wrote, hinting,” she said, hoping to incite pity.
Hartly began pacing to and fro in the small room. He saw the headache powders on the bedside table. He saw her pale, troubled face and felt a troubling spasm of pity. Whoever she was, she could not possibly be as bad as Stanby. Let her stay, and have a go at him, after he and Rudolph had left. When he spoke again, his tone had softened to conciliation.
“Perhaps we can strike a bargain,” he said. Hartly expected to see gratitude and wondered at her angry frown.
“I will not give information against Lord Marchbank!” she declared angrily.
“I have no need of further evidence against him. He has become so complacent, the evidence is there, for anyone to see.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“You may stay on here at the inn until you have made other arrangements. You may even continue your masquerade as Lady Crieff, but you must tell Stanby you have decided against selling the collection. Use that fertile imagination of yours. Say you have arranged to sell the collection elsewhere; say you have found a patron whose company does not give you the megrims, or say you have decided to keep the jewels. Such an accomplished liar as yourself will think of something.”
Moira felt a sting at that charge of being an accomplished liar, but her mind was too busy to harp on it. She saw no point in remaining at the inn if she could not execute her scheme of getting her money back. She was about to say so when an idea occurred to her. She might yet arrange some deal with Stanby behind Hartly’s back. Hartly would be busy chasing after the brandy and the Gentlemen. She had nothing to lose by remaining.
“Very well,” she said. “I agree. Thank you, Mr. Hartly”
“I expect you to keep your word, madam. Things will not go well for you if you do not.”
Moira saw his scowling face through a mist of unshed tears. It seemed unfair that he could come storming down from London, carrying the full authority of the law with him, to destroy her life and Jonathon’s, and she could not do a single thing about it but tug her forelock and say, “Yes, sir.”
Lionel March was a lying, cheating, womanizing villain, but the law would defend him. The law sent a special envoy to try to stop Lord Marchbank. What real harm was he doing? He was an unsung hero to the starving poor of the countryside, but the law cared nothing for that. He had to be stopped. The law had to be maintained, for the good of villains like March.
“I understand,” she said.
Hartly knew he ought to be feeling triumphant. He had stopped this impostor dead in her tracks. Stanby’s money would go back to its rightful owner. But what would become of the soi-distant Lady Crieff?
“What will you do after you leave here?” he asked.
“Perhaps I shall buy a pair of breeches and join the army. It seems a military background puts one above the law.”
“And David? What of him?”
“You have got what you want, Mr. Hartly. Pray spare me the hypocrisy of pretending a concern you do not feel.”
He bit back a sharp retort. “I can give you some money, if that is a problem.”
“I am not sunk to charity. Good night.”
She walked to the door and held it wide. Mr. Hartly strode out, wearing a face like a bear. He had only been trying to help her. Why did she look at him like that, as if he were vermin? Damn her eyes! Why did he feel guilty? It was her youth, and of course her beauty. She looked so terribly vulnerable, standing alone, with her shoulders sagging, as if she had lost her last friend. So different from the laughing, teasing girl who had come to the inn two days ago.
He was wasting his sympathy. Women like that could take care of themselves. She would rush her case of paste jewels and her stormy gray eyes off to some other corner of the country and start over again.
Chapter Sixteen
It was much later when Jonathon went abovestairs. Knowing Moira was not feeling well, he did not disturb her but went to his own room. Before lighting his lamp, he noticed a ribbon of light beneath the sitting-room door. He went in and saw her sitting with her chin in her hands, the very picture of despair.
Moira had had two hours to think over their situation and had concluded that they were defeated.
“It is all over, Jonathon,” she announced in a voice of doom. “Hartly knows we are not the Crieffs, he knows the collection is paste. He knows everything, except our real names. I would not tell him that. He has demanded that I tell Stanby the jewels are not for sale. If I do not, he will tell him everything and have us arrested into the bargain. I had no option but to agree. I wonder if he would be less concerned for Stanby’s welfare if he knew the whole. Do you think I should tell him, and throw us on his mercy?”
Her news knocked Jonathon’s own discovery out of his head. “The devil, you say. How did he find out?”
“He had someone checking up on us. It seems Lady Crieff is a redhead. She is still in Scotland.”
“I wonder what put into his head to check up? No one else suspected anything.”
“The man is a ferret. He weasels about with his sharp nose until he discovers everything. He knows all about Marchbank’s operation. He will put him out of business as well.”
“There you are wrong,” Jonathon said, dropping onto the sofa and smiling. “Hartly ain’t a Revenueman at all.”
“Of course he is. What else could he be?”
“As big a rogue as Lionel March,” Jonathon said, with a triumphant grin.
Moira’s sagging shoulders straightened. A gleam of joy entered her eyes. “What have you learned? Tell me everything.”
“I got Sal to open the window in the room belowstairs where they were to play cards, but they did not play. They were just talking. I hunkered down below the window and listened. I could not make out every word, but I heard enough. It made no sense for the longest time. They were talking about gross annual revenue and shares of the operation and such things, like a bunch of businessmen. But the business they were discussing was Cousin John’s smuggling operation. You would not believe the fortune he is making!”
“A Revenueman would be interested in how the operation is run. He hopes to round up the whole gang.”
“But why would he be discussing it with Stanby? No, wait. There is more. The upshot of it is that Hartly said he had spoken to the Black Ghost, and the Black Ghost had agreed to sell the whole smuggling operation because his pockets were already full to overflowing, and he wanted to go off to London and spend his blunt. Now, you know that is a bag of moonshine. Peter don’t actually run the ring at all. It is Cousin John who is in charge, and he has no notion of selling. He said Peter would take over when he is ready to hang up his hat.
“The story Hartly told is that he learned when he visited Cove House with us that the venture is for sale for fifty thousand pounds. Hartly is putting up fifteen, Ponsonby is putting up ten, and they are trying to talk Stanby into putting up twenty-five. It is
nothing else but a swindle. Hartly will take their money and run. He is the one promoting it.”
Moira sat stunned, unable to believe it. “It is some trick to catch Lord Marchbank,” she said.
“Devil a bit of it. I tell you Hartly says the operation is for sale. He even showed Ponsonby and March some sheets of figures that he must have made up out of whole cloth, for the Marchbanks don’t keep books. He told me this afternoon he never puts anything in writing. Bullion is in on it as well. He backed up Hartly’s story. Hartly has some fellow claiming to be the Black Ghost who is going to take them on a tour of the whole operation tonight. That will be his groom, concealed under a black mask, I daresay. They are going to examine the ships, to see how the brandy is hidden below a false floor. Hartly is going to show them where the brandy is hidden when it is brought ashore. He says five thousand of the blunt will go as a bribe to Marchbank for his continuing cooperation, as he is the magistrate. And a couple of hundred for the Potter brothers, the simpletons who are the local Preventive men. He made it sound entirely plausible, I must say, and safe as money in Consols, only more profitable. I believe Stanby will go along with it. He says he has to check with his man of business to see if he has that much capital available, but his lips were watering at the prospect of an easy fortune.”
“I don’t doubt it. But do you mean to say Hartly is not with the Revenue Department at all? He is just a common thief?”
“I would take an affey-davey on it.”
A tide of emotions surged over Moira as Jonathon convinced her this incredible story was true. Anger, a lust for revenge, and even a reluctant admiration were soon eclipsed by indignation. “And he had the audacity to call me a lightskirt!”
“Did he, by Jove?” Jonathon exclaimed, in high dudgeon. “I shall call him out.”
“You will do nothing of the sort.” A wicked smile gleamed in her eyes. “You must let me have the pleasure of dealing with Mr. Hartly. How I shall enjoy it!”