by Joan Smith
When they left, Major Stanby was still at the table.
“It is only eight o’clock,” Jonathon said, as they left the room. “Let us go out for a stroll before it comes on dark, Lady Crieff. It will be a long evening, locked up in our rooms.”
“You have not forgotten that Lady Marchbank is sending her footman over to see that we arrived safe and sound, and arrange a time for us to call?” Moira replied.
“We shall see her carriage when it arrives. Do let us go out,” Jonathon urged.
“Very well, but we cannot stray far from the inn.”
When they stepped outside, the air held the clammy moisture and scent of the sea. The setting sun cast a crimson net over the dark water. A few fishing boats bobbed at anchor. A grass bank ran down to the estuary, ending in a bed of rushes. The estuary curved in an arc around Owl Point. At the end of the point sat Owl House Inn, backing on the water. Moira thought it a most desolate scene, after the lush richness of Surrey. At the rear of the inn, where a wharf protruded into the water, a fishing smack was unloading its catch.
A few of the locals and inn patrons were strolling along the bank. It was not long before Moira spotted Mr. Hartly. He was at the rear of the inn, talking to a man David identified as his valet. David had made a few trips belowstairs during the afternoon and castigated Mott as a man milliner.
Hartly saw the Crieffs but did not rush forward to greet them. He had espied a more interesting person: Major Stanby had just come out of the inn and was gazing at the water. When he spotted Hartly, he began sauntering toward the rear of the inn.
“Here he comes now,” Hartly said to Mott. “I hoped that mention of a card game would draw him out.”
Moira noticed where Stanby was going. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “They are acquainted. Run along and pretend you are looking at the fish, David, and tell me what is said.”
Jonathon was always happy to perform any chore that had an air of wickedness about it. He darted off, ostensibly to watch the unloading of the boat. Mott had left. Neither Hartly nor Stanby paid him any heed.
E’er long, Jonathon was back. “A card game,” he said. “Tonight, in the Great Room. They pretended they did not know each other to fool me.”
“I do not think they even saw you,” Moira replied, frowning. “What can Hartly be up to? I shall go to the Great Room to read and see what happens.”
Even while she spoke, the gentlemen turned and began to walk toward the front of the inn. Hartly smiled when he saw her. If the lady was innocent, he had no wish to bring Stanby down on her head, yet he was eager to see how they behaved together.
“That is Lady Crieff,” he mentioned as they walked along. “Do you know her?”
“Lady Crieff? The name sounds familiar.” Something in Stanby’s tone caught Hartly’s attention. The man was staring at her with a deep frown between his eyebrows, as if trying to remember. Then he shook his head in frustration. “No, that is not a face a gentleman would forget in a hurry. Beautiful! Is she a friend of yours?”
“A new acquaintance.”
When Moira saw that the gentlemen were coming toward her, she felt a nearly overwhelming urge to flee. She could never carry her scheme off. She had held her grudge against Lionel March too long to smile and greet him with politeness. Yet it was crucial to her plan that she not only meet him but become close enough that she confide in him her need to sell her jewelry. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for her first exchange of words with Lionel March in four years.
Before she had time for more misgivings, Hartly came forward and introduced Major Stanby to her and David. To avoid having to take his hand, Moira made a stiff curtsy. Sir David played his part with credit. It helped that Stanby was wearing gloves. She knew her brother could not prevent himself from staring at that finger if his hands had been bare.
The ensuing conversation was trite to the point of banality. Hartly noticed that Lady Crieff’s demeaner had changed dramatically from their dinner meeting. She did not flirt or act the hoyden. In fact, she was nearly inarticulate—and again that fear and loathing were in her eyes, though she tried to conceal it.
She mentioned the beauty of the evening, and each discovered of the other where they were from. Major Stanby claimed to hail from the Lake District in the north of England, a good, safe distance from their present location.
“Perhaps you are familiar with it, Lady Crieff, as you are from neighboring Scotland?” he asked in an avuncular way.
“Alas, only a glimpse on our way south. We never strayed far from the Great North Road. One hears it is lovely. I should like to pay a proper visit sometime and see the lake made famous by the poets.”
“Ah, yes, Lake Windermere. You really should—on your way home, perhaps?” His voice made it a question.
Windermere? But it was Grasmere where Wordsworth and Coleridge lived. “I am not returning to Scotland,” Lady Crieff said. “I plan to live in London.”
“Indeed!” His exclamation was a virtual request for more information. Moira noticed that Mr. Hartly also looked curious to hear more.
“Sir David will return to Penworth Hall, of course. The estate was entailed on him when my husband died last year. We decided to give him a little holiday in London first.”
“You have friends—relatives—in London, of course,” Stanby said.
“Yes,” she replied, without expanding. “And some business to transact there as well, to settle the estate.”
“Will you remain long here at the inn?” Stanby asked, with the keenest interest.
“Actually, I am to meet someone here. A friend.” She had made the initial contact with March, and her nerves were so shattered that she wanted only to run upstairs and recuperate. She would do better another time, after she had got over the first shock. It was his gooseberry eyes, especially, that caused that deep sense of revulsion. “We really ought to be going in now, David,” she said. “It is coming on dark.”
Mr. Hartly was curious at her changed manner. Where were the coy glances, the come-hither smiles, the common streak that had been so pronounced earlier? It seemed the lady was putting on a show of gentility for Stanby.
“A wise precaution,” Stanby agreed.
A frozen smile moved her lips. “There is no saying who might be putting up at a place like this. I had planned to stay with my cousin, Lady Marchbank. She lives nearby at Cove House. She wanted us to put up with her, but as her husband is ailing, I did not think it was the proper time to intrude.”
She and Jonathon took their leave and went into the inn.
“We could have stayed a little longer,” Jonathon chided. “Why did you not say something about the jewelry?”
“Let him find out things by degrees. It would look odd to be telling too much to strangers.”
Stanby watched them as they returned to the inn. When they entered, he lifted an eyebrow at Hartly. “Lady Crieff is a little young to be jaunting about the countryside without a proper chaperon. Not quite comme il faut, do you not think?”
“It is difficult to say, on such short acquaintance.”
“I could not help overhearing some of her conversation with you at dinner, Hartly. A bit of a dasher, I thought.” His green eyes were bright with curiosity.
“That was my impression. Yet if she is related to the Marchbanks, one must assume she is respectable.”
“Yes, if,” Stanby said, with a disparaging sniff.
They were still talking by the estuary when a black carriage with the nobleman’s crest on the door arrived at the inn.
“That would be Lady Marchbank’s rig,” Stanby said, examining it closely. “It seems there is some connection between the ladies after all. But then, you know, some of the county nobility is no better than it should be. Shall we go in and begin that game of cards?”
Hartly was surprised to see Lady Crieff and Sir David occupying the settee in front of the grate. They paid no attention to the card players, however. The inn was so informal that a few ot
her ladies were also making use of the Great Room, as an alternative to retiring to their small chambers so early. Lady Crieff was thumbing idly through the journals. After ten minutes, Sir David rose and sauntered closer to the card table to listen to the conversation.
The card game with the locals was for small stakes, and friendly in nature. Over the space of two hours, Hartly won a few guineas. When Stanby suggested they get together for a “more interesting game” another time, he agreed. It was an old trick: to allow a victim to win a small sum to put him at his ease and feel safe playing for higher stakes another time. Stanby had done a little discreet questioning to discover how deep his partner’s pockets were, and Hartly had painted himself as a young provincial with more money than brains.
They were just about to leave the table when a new guest entered. Moira glanced up to see who was arriving so late at night. The man wore a drab driving coat with not less than a dozen collars. Once the coat was removed, he stood revealed as a slender fellow. He had not changed into evening clothes, but his well-cut jacket, his intricate cravat, and his blond hair, brushed forward in the Brutus do, proclaimed him a very tulip of fashion.
“I say, not breaking up the game so early?” he exclaimed. “It is only eleven bells. Damn, split open another bottle and let us have a few hands. I have just arrived from London with my pockets bulging. Won a thousand off Lord Felsham last night. Forced to rusticate a while. Did I introduce myself? I am Ponsonby. Killed my man this morning at dawn,” he boasted. “That will teach him to impugn the name of Ponsonby. Bow Street is after me. If they send one of their runners creeping about, you have not seen me. There’s a good fellow.” He reached out and patted Stanby on the shoulder. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Major Stanby, and this is Hartly. I have had enough cards for one evening,” Stanby said, “but if you would care to join Hartly and myself, we will be playing tomorrow evening.”
“That’s a dashed long time to wait. Still, there are other amusements, eh? How are the serving wenches here? Are they pretty?”
“They are the innkeeper’s daughters,” Stanby replied. “I would not meddle with them if I were you.”
“Damn, what sort of Methodist inn have I wandered into? I shall drive on tomorrow.”
“What a good idea,” Hartly murmured. Ponsonby had not observed Lady Crieff, but Hartly feared that once he did, he would become obstreperous.
“Dashed odd thing, by God,” Ponsonby continued. “I heard the Owl served the best brandy in England, and here I find you drinking this catlap.” He wrinkled his nose at the glasses of ale on the table. “Thought I might take a keg or two back with me, what? Treat the lads. Where is mein host? Bullion! Bullion, I say. Brandy for me and my friends. We shall drink a bumper to Noddy. Did I tell you I killed him? Well, nicked him, at least. Daresay he will stick his fork in the wall. Just like the gudgeon.”
Bullion came scurrying forward. “Hush now, sir,” he said to Ponsonby. “I can let you have a drop, but you must not be so clamorous about it. It’s agin the law, you see.”
“Fie on the law! Bring on the brandy.”
Bullion disappeared and soon returned to place a bottle on the table. Ponsonby poured for them all and proposed a toast to Noddy.
“This is excellent stuff!” Stanby exclaimed, after tasting it. “By God, I have not had such fine brandy in a twelvemonth. I shall take a keg of this away with me when I leave.”
Bullion stood, smiling at his guests. “We get the real thing here, gentlemen. That fishing boat you saw unloading at twilight—this batch was buried under the mackerel. We get her fresh from France, before the adulterers get at it with their caramel and water.”
“Ho ho! Adulterers, eh?” Ponsonby said, with a loose-lipped smile. “Where are the wenches? Bring on the wenches.”
“It is not that sort of adulterer Bullion speaks of,” Stanby explained. “It refers to diluting the brandy.” He turned to Bullion. “I should like a hogshead of this myself. Could you put me in touch with the leader, Bullion?”
Bullion stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. “That is more than my life would be worth, sir. No one knows the ringleader. Hereabouts he is called the Black Ghost. A gentleman, all dressed in black, even including a mask over his face, has been spotted flying through the night from time to time, but no one is foolish enough to accost him. He would slit the throat of anyone who saw his face. Smuggling is a capital crime, so he takes no chances. Mind you, it pays well.”
Ponsonby poured the innkeeper a glass of brandy, and after a sip, the innkeeper continued his discourse.
“They do say the Blaxstead run is the most profitable one in the kingdom, bar none. There’s highly placed folks in on it,” Bullion told them, with a wise nod of his head. “Stands to reason, don’t it? I mean to say, never an arrest in ten years. The Potter lads, Joe and Jim, hired as Revenuemen. The whole Potter family is simple. Looks as though someone high up don’t want the Gentlemen caught. But that is not for me to say. Oh, no, I could not put you in touch with the leader, but I am on terms with the Gentlemen. That is what we call the smugglers hereabouts. They supply my needs, for a certain consideration. How many barrels will you be wanting then, sir?”
Stanby and Ponsonby both gave an order for two each. Hartly said, “As I am on holiday, I do not fancy carrying contraband to London, then all the way back to Devon. I shall pass, reluctantly. It is excellent stuff.”
Bullion left, and the three gentlemen sat on at the table, enjoying their brandy.
“That must be a profitable concession, the brandy running here in Blaxstead,” the major said. “I should not mind investing in it. Safe as churches, if the local authorities are being paid to cooperate. I wonder who this mysterious Black Ghost is. The local lord, perhaps?”
“It is best not to interfere with the Gentlemen,” Ponsonby said firmly. “My friend, the Duke of Mersey, tried to run them off his beach. His dower house burned down the next night. He took the hint. The Gentlemen do not fool around. And that was only a small smuggling gang. Here at Blaxstead it stands to reason they would be vicious.” He shivered and took another sip.
“I wonder if he would be interested in taking on a partner, though,” Stanby said. “Add another ship or two to his fleet. I happen to have a good bit of cash standing idle at the moment from my operations in Canada.”
Hartly came to rigid attention; so did Ponsonby, though no one noticed it.
Stanby continued, “I was there during the war of ‘12. Before leaving the country, I bought up certain tracts of lumber and some fur-trading routes. They have proved profitable. What I miss is the excitement of soldiering. I should not mind taking a small active part in the Black Ghost’s operation.”
“Ah, my good sir, you are an ossifer and a gen’leman,” Ponsonby said, becoming noticeably bosky. “Is that where you got your finger chopped off—in Canada?” He stared at the finger, his blue eyes glazed with drink. “No harm to ask, eh? Odd-looking thing, like a little bald head. Heh heh.”
“I wish I could say an Indian took it off with an arrow,” the major replied, “but it was nothing so heroic. It got frostbitten and became infected. The sawbones felt there was some danger of gangrene, with a possibility of losing the whole hand. In the wilds of Canada, as we were, there were no proper hospital facilities, so the doctor did not want to operate. ‘Chop it off!’ I told him. ‘It will not stop me from using my Brown Bess.’ Nor did it.”
Ponsonby listened as one entranced. “You are a hero, Major. ‘Chop it off!’ By God, that could not have been pleasant.”
“I was one of the fortunate ones,” the major said modestly. “Others lost a whole limb.”
Moira listened, her lips curled cynically. He had told Mama he got his finger caught in a mantrap, while releasing a young boy who had straggled into it. It had probably been shot off by someone who had caught him dealing shaved cards. His vanity invented these heroic feats to impress his listeners.
“You have led a li
fe of action,” Ponsonby said wistfully, “while I have lingered in the fleshpots of Babylon. I say, lads, this smuggling—there would be the life, eh? On the open seas.”
Hartly listened closely, without commenting. The item of major interest to him was that Stanby’s pockets were full—that was good news. If it proved impossible to relieve Stanby of fifteen thousand at cards, he might put this smuggling business to some use. It would not be hard to pose as the Black Ghost, a gentleman no one had ever seen. Or Gibbs, his batman, could do it. Stanby was no flat, however. He would want proof that he was getting his money’s worth before turning over fifteen thousand pounds to anyone, even the Black Ghost.
During a lull in the conversation, Hartly rose and announced his intention of retiring.
Ponsonby staggered to his feet to bid him farewell. “Run along, then,” he said, his loose smile stretching wide. “Major Shtanby and I have business to discush. Damn, stand still. Why are you weaving—” He happened to glance to the grate and espied Moira sitting quietly there, reading. He froze to the spot, like a pointer on the scent of game. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Now there is what I call a comely wench!”
Chapter Five
Ponsonby began to stagger in her direction. “A wench! By God, I shall have a warm bed tonight.”
Moira looked up, her eyes wide with interest. “Go away!” she said firmly, as he fell onto the sofa beside her. “David!”
Jonathon gamely put his hand on Ponsonby’s shoulder. “I say, old man. You had best move on. This is Lady Crieff.”
“And I, sir, am an oss—no, that is the major. I am someone important. I remember that much.” His bleary gaze turned to devour Moira. “By God, you are a beauty, madam. Will you marry me?” He reached out and grasped her shoulders, while Jonathon struggled to pull him away.
Hartly and Stanby moved in and took hold of him.
