Regency Masquerade

by Joan Smith

  Jonathon sat, staring into the cold grate. “You ain’t using your noggin, Moira. We ain’t home free yet by a long chalk. Hartly still knows we ain’t the Crieffs. He knows the jewels are fakes. If he tells March . ..”

  “If he tells March about us, then we return the favor. Point non plus. He will have to come to some agreement with us. He does not hold all the tricks in his hand, as I thought. I shall enjoy meeting him again.”

  “It is a dangerous game you are playing, Moira,” Jonathon said uncertainly. “I mean to say, there is so much money at stake that Hartly may just decide to—to do away with you. Be sure you have your interview in a safe place.”

  Moira felt no fear for her life. She did not think Hartly was a murderer, but she would heed Jonathon’s advice and speak to him in a public place, just a little apart from other people. The settee in the Great Room would be perfect.

  Sleep was impossible for Moira, with so many exciting matters on her mind. It was on the coming interview that she dwelt as she lay in bed, listening to the silence of the inn. Mr. Hartly would not be holding all the cards this time. He would not call her a lightskirt or threaten to have the law down on her head. It would almost be worth not recovering her money, to see him knocked off his high horse.

  She figured out that the only reason he did not want her to sell March the paste jewels was that he wanted to steal the man’s money himself. He was afraid March did not have enough for them both to rob him. But he could not force her to reveal that she was not Lady Crieff. That was the main thing. The choice of whether March would use his blunt to buy her fake stones or buy into Hartly’s fake business was up to March. She would have to be very charming to the old lecher tomorrow.

  It was an unhappy thought to fall asleep on. It would be much more interesting to be charming to Mr. Hartly. She regretted that he had such a low opinion of her, then berated herself as a ninnyhammer. What did she care for his opinion? He was a common swindler.

  She finally slept, then awoke in the morning to see jagged streaks of light dancing on the ceiling, where the ill-fitting curtains let the sun’s rays in. She rose with a churning excitement in her breast, anticipating the interview with Hartly. He was usually at the table when she went down to breakfast. It was just a quarter to eight. If she hurried, she might see him alone, before March came down.

  She rose and made a hasty toilette. The sun promised a warm day. She chose a blue mulled muslin gown and hastily ran a brush through her tousled curls. Examining herself in the mirror, she realized she did not look nearly as stylish as Lady Crieff. In fact, she looked much the way she looked at home—like any other provincial lady. No matter. She would spruce herself up before meeting the major. She could not take time to arrange a proper coiffure now.

  She closed her door quietly when she left the room, to avoid disturbing other sleeping guests. The fewer people in the Great Room, the better. It was still a safe place. With the servants about, Hartly would not attempt any physical attack there, much as he would like to.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From the doorway of the Great Room, Moira saw Mr. Hartly sitting alone. He was just about to begin his breakfast. The room was deserted except for him and one elderly gentleman in the corner, reading a journal. Despite the strength of her position, she felt a sudden sense of trepidation as she approached Hartly’s table. He looked so unassailable, so strong. If only he were not a scoundrel, he might have helped her. Two spots of red flared high on her cheeks, her eyes glowed with excitement, and her heart pounded mercilessly. Hartly looked up as she entered.

  She walked straight to his table, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Hartly. It seems you and I are early birds. May I join you?”

  He did not even bother to rise or say, “Good morning” but just nodded his grudging consent, with a contemptuous look that firmed her resolve. It stung like a nettle that he treated her as if she were of no account.

  Hartly felt sure he understood her stunt at a glance. She had decked herself out as an innocent young provincial to work on his pity. And done her job well, too. She looked enchanting with her raven curls tumbling wantonly about her cheeks. That simple muslin gown was more fetching than all her silks and satins. She even wore an expression to suit her costume: a wide-eyed look of fear, tinged with determination. He prepared his ears for a tale of woe. What would it be? Two helpless orphans escaping a cruel stepmama? A wicked guardian who was forcing a match on her?

  “I trust you have come to your senses, miss,” he said in a hard voice. He would not offer her breakfast or even coffee. That would lend a friendly air to the proceedings. It was safer to stick to business with this engaging trollop.

  “I have considered the matter,” she replied.

  “And?”

  She gave him a bold look, all innocence vanished. “And decided you do not have a leg to stand on, Mr. Hartly.”

  His head jerked up. He directed a cool stare on her. “Indeed. I knew you were not wise, but until now I did not take you for a fool.”

  “Perhaps not, but you obviously mistook me for a greenhead. You, too, have been too slow about completing your business, Mr. Hartly. My investigations have disclosed that you are not who you say but a scoundrel trying to sell what does not belong to you.”

  He cocked a bold smile at her. “A case of the pot calling the kettle black, surely.”

  “If you wish. There all similarity ends, however. Your stunt is considerably more dangerous, sir. The Black Ghost would have you drawn and quartered if I told him what you are about.”

  “He would not be such a fool as to harm a Revenueman.”

  “True, if you were a Revenueman, you would have some assurance of living beyond this day. A man who impersonates an officer of the law in order to execute a crime, however, is quite a different matter. He is in danger from not only the law, but also from the Gentlemen. I know what you are doing here, sir. You are trying to gull Stanby and Ponsonby into buying a share in the smuggling operation. I have not informed the Black Ghost of it— yet.”

  “You are mad as a hatter.”

  “I think not. Fifty thousand pounds is the price, of which you hope to get half from Stanby. That is why you do not want him to buy my jewels.”

  “Your collection of paste stones,” he corrected.

  Hartly swiftly conned his options. As she could quote the actual sum asked, he knew she was not bluffing. How could she possibly have found out? E’er long, he had his answer. Marchbank was certainly involved in the smuggling. He would have told her the operation was not for sale, but how did she know he was trying to sell shares in it? Stanby, of course! She had weaseled it out of him with smiles and kisses and God only knew what else. And now she sat before him, the picture of innocent virtue, in her girlish muslin gown. The knowledge of how she had got the information inflamed him to fury. When he spoke, he spoke in a voice so calm, it actually sounded bored.

  “Stanby told you. I did not realize you were sharing his bed. It would have been wiser to wait until he had anted up the blunt. Gentlemen do not value what is given too freely—but that is your affair.”

  Moira bit down a howl of protest. How dare he? He had really gone too far this time. She took a deep breath to steady her voice before responding. “So it is. Let us get down to business, then. I know who you are, and you know who I am.”

  “You are not quite accurate, miss. I have no idea who you are, but I know who you are not—namely, Lady Crieff.”

  “And I know who you are not—namely, a Revenueman. If you breathe one word to Stanby, I shall inform not only him and Ponsonby, but also the Black Ghost, what you are up to. You will not make a penny. In fact, you would be extremely lucky to get out of Blaxstead alive.”

  Hartly was accustomed to danger from the Peninsula. He hastily considered his rather limited options with a cool head. Then he smiled and said, “May I pour you a cup of coffee, Lady Crieff? Remiss of me not to have done so sooner.”

  “Yes, you may; and yes, it was rem
iss of you.” He poured the coffee. She took a sip and said, “Well, Mr. Hartly, what have you to say?”

  “Damned fine coffee. Would you care for some gammon and eggs? Some toast, perhaps.”

  “No, I am rather particular as to whom I share food with.”

  “Unlike your bed!” The cynical words were out before he could stop them. He should be conciliating the chit, sweet-talking her into some sort of compromise, but all he could think of was her in Stanby’s arms, that old man’s hands caressing her, and he could not control his wrath.

  Her eyes sparked dangerously. “Let us speak of what concerns us, not irrelevancies. The major’s pockets are not bottomless. I want his money; you want it.”

  “And may the better man win. I am speaking generically, including the female of the species.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “I mean I will not interfere with your plans if you do not interfere with mine. What do you gain by handing me over to the Black Ghost, other than revenge? I, likewise, have nothing to gain by informing Stanby you are not Lady Crieff and your jewels are not worth a Birmingham farthing. We both proceed as if the other did not exist, and may the better man win. Come now, madam. You have the distinct advantage of me. If a pretty lady cannot use her charms to sway an aging bachelor . . .” He studied her a moment, chewing back a smile to see he had roused her ire. Her eyes were shooting daggers.

  “Mind you,” he said, allowing a disparaging smile to curve his lips, “I think you have gone a tad overboard on the dairymaid look this morning. Personally I find that touch of disarray charming, but I feel the major favors more sophistication in his ladies. On the other hand, you are on more intimate terms with him than I, so perhaps—”

  “If you say one more time that I shared his bed, Mr. Hartly, I shall walk out that door and call the constable this instant!”

  “You are being rash, my pet. Impersonating an heiress for the purpose of conning an innocent gentleman into buying glass beads is a hanging matter. There is hard evidence close at hand. I, on the other hand, have dealt only in words. Words are more difficult to haul into a court of law.”

  “You are a weasel! I knew the first time I saw you, asking Bullion for Major Stanby, that you were up to no good. I wondered what you had to do with Stanby. I thought you were his cohort. Now I see you had just chosen him for your victim.”

  “We have that in common, n’est-ce pas?”

  “We have absolutely nothing in common, sir. And if you breathe one word to Stanby, you will have the Black Ghost to deal with. Good day.”

  She rose in a huff. Hartly rose and put his hand on her arm to stop her. “Do we have a bargain, Lady Crieff?”

  Her nostrils flared in frustration. “Yes, we have a bargain. I would bargain with the devil himself if I had to. But I tell you in advance, you will not win. I plan to get my money, if I have to—to marry the scoundrel.”

  Hartly allowed his eyebrows to lift slightly. “I assumed that had already been settled between you and your lover. A lady who has compromised herself so grossly ought to have had a promise of marriage at least. It would be redundant of me to remind you of the evanescence of verbal bargains. We have already discussed that. Your best bet would be to scramble off to a bishop for a special license and haul Stanby in front of a vicar posthaste. I should be happy to stand as best man.”

  “I am sure we could find a better man than you, should the need arise. It would not be difficult. We would have only to look under the closest rock. Good day, Mr. Hartly”

  She flounced out of the room, with his insults whirling in her brain: calling that old scarecrow, Stanby, her lover, saying she had compromised herself grossly, that she had spent the night with him. She thought of a dozen cutting things she should have said. But she had achieved her aim. She had struck a bargain that neither would tattle on the other. Now it was up to her to see that Stanby chose her investment over Hartly’s.

  Hartly sat on alone, his gammon and eggs cooling on his plate as he reviewed his situation. The lady—woman—held a stronger hand than she knew. If she reported him to Marchbank, he would be whisked out of the inn and into irons before he had time to warn Stanby what she was about. She did not realize it, but Marchbank certainly would. He would have to move quickly. Settle the purchase of the smuggling operation before nightfall and hope she did not run to Marchbank in the meanwhile.

  Within ten minutes, Ponsonby strolled into the room, fanning himself with a letter. He joined Hartly

  “Good day, Hartly. The major not up yet?” he asked.

  “No, but Lady Crieff has paid me a visit. A new problem has arisen. Stanby has told her the whole story. She knows, from Marchbank, I daresay, that the smuggling operation is not for sale.”

  Ponsonby considered this a moment, then said, “She will cooperate. Stands to reason.”

  “What the devil are you talking about? She wants his money herself. And stands a better chance than we of getting it. She will resort to marriage if necessary.”

  Ponsonby frowned. “That would not be legal, would it? Marrying your steppapa.” Hartly looked at him, bewildered.

  “Ah, I have not told you the news,” Ponsonby said, holding up his letter. “I dashed off a line to Aunt Hermione the day after I arrived and had my man ride it off to London. Hermione knows everyone. I was curious about Lady Crieff’s connection to the Marchbanks. I have the answer here. Moira and Jonathon Trevithick. That is who the Crieffs are.”

  “Who the devil are the Trevithicks?”

  “A genteel family from Surrey. Old Stanby married their mama four years ago, when the youngsters were—well, younger youngsters. The mama died within a couple of months. Stanby took off with Moira’s dot. Ten thousand, plus fifteen thousand he had wangled out of the estate by a mortgage. Took ‘em for twenty-five thousand all told. The youngsters have had a rough go of it since then. Lady Marchbank is their cousin. She must be giving them a hand to diddle Stanby. That explains it all, eh? They are here to try their hand at getting their blunt back, same as us.”

  “Good Lord! What have I done?” Hartly whispered.

  “You haven’t told Stanby?”

  “No, but I ... spoke rather harshly to Miss Trevithick.”

  “Ah, well, she’ll understand. She is in the same boat with the rest of us. Dashed fine gel. Not a Bath miss. A regular man—er, woman, of bottom. Fooled me, with her coquettish ways. I always liked a dasher. Might offer for her when this is all over. She would not have me in the normal way, but if she don’t get her blunt back, she might welcome a decent offer.”

  “I must speak to her, apologize.” Hartly was just about to rise when Moira appeared at the doorway.

  She had changed into a more stylish gown and coiffure that did not become her nearly so well. Unfortunately, she was accompanied by the major. The major joined her and Jonathon at their table. She nodded at Hartly and said, “Good morning,” as if this were the first time she had seen him that day. Her greeting to Mr. Ponsonby was noticeably warmer.

  “Think she rather likes me,” Ponsonby said aside to Hartly. “Mind you, she’s a tartar about my drinking. She would cure me of my favorite vice. Well, perhaps my second favorite.”

  Hartly was not listening. He sat like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake as Moira flirted her head off with the major. Every smile and glance was a blow to his heart. Not because he was jealous, but because he knew how painful this charade must be for her. And he had added to her difficulties. He should have known she was an innocent. The first evening he had insulted her, he had sensed her maidenly innocence. Since then, he had heaped insult on injury, accusing her of all manner of indecency. She would never forgive him, and who should blame her? He would never forgive himself.

  He rose and approached their table.

  “I should like a word with you when you are finished with your breakfast, Major. Something has come up.”

  “I shan’t be long,” the major replied. “Let us meet in my room in half an hour.”
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  “Very well.”

  Hartly tried to convey to Moira some of his chagrin, but as he was unable to use words, she misinterpreted his speaking glances as a challenge. She just lifted her pretty little nose and looked away. Hartly bowed and left.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I say, you ain’t having second thoughts about helping us?” Mott asked Hartly.

  The three gentlemen met in Hartly’s room after breakfast to discuss the latest development.

  “We have no right to diddle Miss Trevithick out of her chance to recoup her losses,” Hartly pointed out.

  “Robbie’s losses are as great,” Mott objected. “Stanby took him for fifteen thousand—and my brother a mere schoolboy at the time.”

  “Dash it, Stanby took my papa for ten thousand,” Ponsonby added, in an injured tone. “It was pure blind luck that he never saw me, for he ran tame at Papa’s house for three months.”

  “But she is a lady!” was Hartly’s only defense. He could not like to state baldly that he loved Moira Trevithick. “And Jonathon is only a lad.”

  “The pair of ‘em are as good as an army. They are up to anything,” Mott said.

  Hartly replied, “You are forgetting she can squelch our whole deal by telling what she knows.”

  “And we can squelch hers,” Ponsonby declared. “Dash it, Hartly, you said you have struck a bargain with her. Let it rest at that. We all have an even chance. Daresay Stanby will opt for her in the end. I mean to say—dashed pretty gel. She has the advantage when all is said and done.”

  “Who is to say Stanby is not deep enough in the pockets to snap up both bargains?” Mott suggested. “He has robbed dozens of people.”

  “He took in half a dozen others along with Papa with his shares in that gold mine,” Ponsonby said supportively. “He must have hundreds of thousands on deposit. We ought to all get together—us and Miss Trevithick, I mean.”