by Joan Smith
A small, wistful sigh escaped her lips. Looking at her, Hartly was struck with her youth and unhappiness. He felt convinced that this innocent young girl had nothing to do with Stanby. She had been inveigled into marrying Sir Aubrey by an avaricious father, and now that her husband was dead, she was running off to London. There was nothing wrong in that. It was what any venturesome lady would do, if she had the pluck.
“I hope you will write to me at Hanover Square, Lady Crieff,” he said earnestly. “I should like to see you again.”
Upon hearing that note of earnestness, she peered shyly at him. Their eyes held for a long moment, then the movements of the dance drew them apart. Moira felt she was really talking to Mr. Hartly for the first time. He seemed different tonight, more approachable. If he was here only because of smugglers, then she could tell him her true plight, and perhaps get him to help her.
What would he think of her, trying to steal twenty-five thousand pounds? Legally, that was what she was doing. The money was hers and Jonathon’s by rights, but not by law. No, it was too risky to tell him, but perhaps, after she had regained her fortune, she might write to him at Hanover Square and see him again, away from Owl House. To confess a fait accompli was easier than to involve him in it.
“Yes, I shall write, Mr. Hartly,” she said.
A look of gentle satisfaction settled on his face. “I consider that a promise. And by the by, my friends call me Daniel. It is a family name I share with Lord Daniel Parrish.”
The old Lady Crieff would have smiled boldly and made some pert remark. This Lady Crieff blushed and said, “We have not been acquainted very long to be using first names, Mr. Hartly.”
“That will teach me to try to force a friendship on an unwilling lady. My lesson last night was not enough for me.”
“Oh, I am not unwilling! And last night was not entirely your fault. I ... I should not have invited you in for wine. I have never been alone at an inn before—without a proper chaperon, I mean. One forgets there are not butlers or footmen about. I have been thinking about last night, and realize I should have been more careful. Using first names seems a little fast.”
Her explanation satisfied Hartly’s lingering doubts. A greenhead of a girl might very well be unaware of the danger in inviting a man into her room. Lady Crieff had not the advantage of a proper upbringing, but he felt her instincts were genteel.
“I look forward to calling you Bonnie, and hearing you call me Daniel, but we shall withhold first names until we meet again in London.”
It was not until that moment that Moira realized she was, in fact, not going to London. She and Jonathon would return to the Elms, and she would never see Mr. Hartly again. It lent a bittersweet quality to the dance.
“When, exactly, are you leaving?” she asked, rather sadly.
He studied her for a moment, then said, “Do you know, I begin to think I shall prolong my stay a little.”
“Oh, no! Please, you must not do so on my account.” What had she done? He had been on the point of leaving, and she had induced him to remain, where he would create endless mischief for the Marchbanks, discovering even more details of the smuggling.
His eyebrows rose. “Well, now I am the one who feels you are trying to be rid of me.”
“You must not change your plans on my account. I will not hear of it. Lord Daniel is expecting you.”
“No, he is not. I shall call on him when I arrive, but he is not waiting on tenterhooks for me. I shall stay.”
He wondered at her reaction—more resigned than happy.
Lady Crieff played the flirt with Stanby when she stood up with him. It was Stanby who had brought her to Blaxstead, and she was not about to lose sight of the fact, even though her mind kept harking back to Hartly.
Stanby said, “I have been thinking over what you told me, about selling your jewelry, Lady Crieff. Of course, it belongs to you by rights, but the law takes little account of rights.”
“I know it well,” she said grimly.
“If the pieces show up in London, they will be traced back to the jeweler, and eventually to you. Selling what does not legally belong to you is a hanging crime.”
“But they are mine! I must sell them! I have not a sou to my name.”
“My idea is that you place them with someone who could peddle them abroad for you.”
“I need the money now. And how could I trust this ‘someone’? I know no one who travels abroad.”
“You know me,” he said simply. “As to your needing money now, I could let you have—say, five thousand, in advance.”
So that was his game, the sly rogue! “You are very kind, Major, and naturally I am not calling your character into question, but the fact is, I do not know you all that well.”
He smiled benignly. “Time will remedy that, Lady Crieff. There is no immediate rush.”
The major’s arms felt like a serpent winding around her. Her flesh crawled, to see his gooseberry eyes alight with greed. She was vastly relieved when the dance was over.
Mr. Ponsonby claimed the next dance. He was a dead bore, but at least he was not Lionel March. Although Ponsonby had made a game of drinking water since yesterday, it was soon apparent that he had been consuming a deal of brandy or wine as well. Both his speech and his dancing were erratic.
The blazing grate and the heated bodies raised the temperature of the Great Room to an uncomfortable degree. The caterwauling of the fiddles and cello pounded in her ears.
It seemed an age before the dancing was over, and the party sat down to a late-night dinner at tables hastily assembled by the servants. Lady Marchbank had gathered her own chums at her table, thus making it impossible for Hartly to join them.
It was while they were eating that Lady Marchbank leaned aside and said to Jonathon, “I see Hartly has skipped out. Now where the deuce could he be? Would you mind taking a scout about to see what he is up to?”
Jonathon excused himself and left at once. Lady Marchbank leaned aside and said to Moira, “Hartly is not among us. Jon has gone to have a look for him.”
Moira felt a chill seize her. If worst came to worst and Hartly discovered the smuggling game, she would have to beg him not to report it. If she had any influence with him, she must use it to save the Marchbanks.
Chapter Ten
No one paid much attention to a youngster like Jonathon. He slipped away from the table and upstairs to tap on Hartly’s door. When there was no answer, he darted down to the taproom. Seeing no sign of Hartly, he headed for the front door with a wave to Bullion.
“Just going to see if Firefly is bedded down right and tight,” he said.
“That’s a fine bit o’ blood.” Bullion grinned. He believed in keeping his smart clients in curl.
Jonathon did go to the stable. He saw that Hartly’s curricle and carriage were both in place. The old jade Bullion had hired as a mount stood in her stall, so wherever Hartly was, he must be close by, for he was on foot.
His next destination was the estuary. The weather conspired to lend his search the whiff of danger. A pale sliver of moon shone in a charcoal sky. Ragged clouds hid the glory of the stars. Mist lay low on the ground and over the dark water, which lapped menacingly against the shore. Three fishing smacks were at anchor, but no ships moved through the mist.
The moisture-laden air felt soft as a woman’s fingers against his skin. Jonathon peered along the shoreline but could see no sign of his quarry. Remembering that a ship had docked behind the inn the night before, he worked his way around to the back. His black slippers moved noiselessly over the soft ground.
The rear of the inn was a jumble of crates and boxes, of dustbins and cast-off lumber. Hartly, or worse—a Gentleman—could be concealed behind any one of them. Jonathon had heard tales of the vicious stunts employed by the Gentlemen in the last century. Stuffed anyone who interfered with them down a rabbit hole headfirst and locked him in with a forked branch between his legs. Even a slit throat was not beyond them. His heart ham
mered with excitement as he peered around the various mounds of refuse.
He was about to advance when he thought of a better idea. It would be possible to see the rear of the inn from the inside, through the kitchen window. He would go and compliment the foul-tempered Cook, tell her how much he had enjoyed her lobster patties. With this plan to save face, he darted around to the front again.
As he hastened along, he noticed a ladder leaning against the wall. Surely that had not been there when he passed the first time, or he would have noticed it. He glanced up and saw it went to one of the windows. He had caught a thief red-handed! Before he went hollering for help, he stopped a moment to consider which room the ladder was at. It was not his or Moira’s, at least.
Theirs were on the other side. This would be either Hartly’s, Stanby’s, or Ponsonby’s. It was the window closest to the rear. Jonathon felt a certain sympathy for anyone preying on Stanby. He would not like to land a poor farmer in jail for lifting that bleater’s tiepin.
He crouched behind a thorn bush and watched. E’er long, a smallish pair of legs came out the window, seeking the ladder. The feet were encased in a gentleman’s evening slippers. The legs were followed by a body and head that Jonathon soon recognized as Ponsonby’s. No one could possibly be afraid of Ponsonby. Jonathon came forth from the bush and said firmly, “Caught you dead to rights, Ponsonby. Hand over whatever you have stolen and I shan’t call the constable.”
Surprised by the voice, Ponsonby lost his grip and fell the last four feet to the ground. He looked up with a bleary smile.
“Sir David. Good evening to you, sir. Forgot my key on my toilet table when I left my room. Just recovering it. Here we are.”
He rose on unsteady legs, dipped into his pocket, and pulled out the key. “Right where I left it. I wonder, now, would you assist me to my room?”
“Disguised, as usual,” Jonathon said, shaking his head.
Jonathon assisted him into the inn but let him stagger upstairs by himself. He had more important things to do. He went directly to the kitchen, where a frazzled Maggie was up to her elbows in work.
“I just wanted to compliment you on that excellent dinner,” he said, with a winning smile.
Personal thanks from a guest was a new thing for Maggie Bullion. She had an occasional visit from dissatisfied customers complaining of tough roast beef or sour milk, but never a compliment. After she recovered from her shock, she said, “Why, thankee, sir. That is mighty civil of ye.”
He looked around at the loads of dishes piled by the sink. “What a lot of work this is for you, Mrs. Bullion. Just look at those stacks of dishes.”
“Aye, and every one of them will be clean before this body hits the tick. Sal, get filling that washbasin.”
Wilf came darting in to request a refill of the sweets platter. Jonathon strolled nonchalantly to the tin trays piled with macaroons, tarts, and chantillies to help himself to a macaroon. While the servants worked, he peered out the window into the yard. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he discerned a man moving about, looking into crates and boxes. The man leaned over and lifted up what looked like a large, flat piece of wood roughly three feet square. When the man—it was Hartly—disappeared before his very eyes, Jonathon deduced that the piece of wood was a trapdoor, leading to a storage place for brandy.
He had seen enough. He grabbed up two more macaroons and returned to the Great Hall.
“Hartly is exploring out back,” he told Lady Marchbank. “He has found the trapdoor.”
Lady Marchbank turned pale. “Pest of a man! It will cost a pretty penny to buy his silence.”
She developed a migraine and left very soon after, to report to her husband. “Best give me the sapphires, Moira,” she said, before leaving. Moira handed them over.
After seeing Lady Marchbank off, the Trevithicks remained behind, discussing the matter in low tones.
“There is no doubt in my mind that Hartly is a special agent sent down from London,” Jonathon said. “He will have Cousin Vera and Marchbank carried off in chains if we do not stop him.”
“He cannot know at this juncture that Marchbank is involved. He will do more spying before he returns to London.” And here he let on he was staying only to be with her!
“We must follow him and see what he is up to,” Jonathon declared, not without pleasure.
While they were speaking, Hartly came into the room, looking as innocent as a babe. Seeing the empty seat where Lady Marchbank had been sitting, he joined the Trevithicks at the table.
“I just stepped out to blow a cloud,” he said. “A lovely evening.”
“Yes, I went out for a breath of air myself,” Jonathon said. “I was just telling Lady Crieff that I bumped into Ponsonby, drunk as a Dane. He fell off a ladder.”
Hartly lifted a satirical eyebrow at Lady Crieff. “I blame it on your giving him that glass of champagne at dinner. I notice you did not offer me one.”
“What was he doing on a ladder?” Moira asked, as this was the first she had heard of it.
Jonathon said, “He locked his key in his room. Bullion must have a spare, but he was too disguised to ask for it.”
Hartly felt a quiver of interest. Ponsonby had been playing the drunken fool the evening he arrived but had sobered up in the space of a quarter of an hour.
“Which window was he at?” he asked.
“His own, the end one.”
“But that is not his room!” Moira exclaimed. “He is across the hall from us. Major Stanby has the end suite.”
“By Jove, you are right!” Jonathon said. “But Ponsonby had the key in his pocket. He must have taken Major Stanby’s key. I wonder if he was really foxed or only shamming it.”
“I shall have a word with him,” Hartly said.
“I expect he is in his own room by now,” Jonathon said. “P’raps we should remove that ladder from Stanby’s window first. It is an invitation to thieves.”
“An excellent idea,” Hartly agreed.
Moira remained behind while the gentlemen went out, around to the side of the inn. The ladder was gone. “It was there not five minutes ago!” Jonathon declared.
“I believe you, Sir David.”
“I daresay Bullion had it moved.”
“Very likely.”
Jonathon studied Hartly for a moment, then said, “You don’t really think so, do you, Mr. Hartly?”
“No, I do not, Sir David. I suspect Mr. Ponsonby moved it himself. He was trying to steal your stepmama’s jewelry and got the wrong room.”
“Really!”
“I should warn Lady Crieff that Ponsonby is not always as inebriated as he would have us believe.”
“You mean he is a common thief? But he is the tip of the ton. He knows all the fine lords and ladies.”
“So he says. It is easy to drop famous names when your audience is in no position to challenge you.”
“That is true,” Jonathon said, chewing back a secret smile. “Why, any of us might not be who we say we are. Even you and I.” Jonathon smiled guilelessly, imagining he was being crafty.
Hartly mistrusted that smile. “I?” he asked. “If I were to impersonate someone, it would not be a plain Mr. Hartly. I would make myself a duke.”
“I did not mean you were not Mr. Hartly,” Jonathon said. “I only meant you might be doing something other than what you say you are doing here.”
“Such as?”
Jonathon began to fear he should not have begun this conversation. He shrugged. “How the deuce should I know?”
As there seemed nothing to be gained from this conversation, Hartly said he would go to check up on Ponsonby.
“I shall go with you,” Jonathon said at once.
“I would prefer that you deliver my warning to Lady Crienff, Sir David.”
They went inside, Jonathon sulking and Hartly in an unsettled mood. What was Ponsonby up to?
Jonathon gave Moira the warning, and also an account of the missing ladder.
He darted off and had a word with Bullion. When he returned, his eyes were shining with excitement. “Bullion did not move it! Either Hartly moved it himself before he came in, or Ponsonby did it, which means he was not foxed at all.”
“It was Hartly, I warrant,” Moira said in a hard voice.
She was beginning to see that Hartly cared nothing for her. He was using her relationship with the Marchbanks as an excuse to ferret out information. His insistence that she leave her jewels with them would provide another excuse to visit Cove House. He would offer to accompany her for safety’s sake and try to get into the caves while he was there. He already knew of their existence.
She was just discussing her fears with Jonathon when Hartly returned.
“I could get nothing out of Ponsonby,” he said. “He was either asleep or doing a good job of shamming it. Perhaps he was foxed, as he was entering the wrong room. Yet it is odd the key he got from Stanby’s toilet table fit his own door.” He already knew each key was different. He had tried to get into Stanby’s room with his own key earlier.
“The key he said he got from Stanby’s room,” Jonathon said, with a knowing look. “He had his own key all the while. He was after something else in Stanby’s room.”
“It is no secret Stanby is well-to-grass,” Hartly said. “I shall warn Bullion that he may possibly be harboring a thief under his roof.”
The local guests had left the party. The servants were creating a great ruckus in the clearing of the tables.
“We are in the way here. It is time to retire,” Moira said.
Hartly accompanied them abovestairs, urging Moira to take her jewels to her cousin’s house for safekeeping.
