Regency Masquerade (8 page)

“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 He was no expert on ladies’ toilettes and felt he was out-of-date besides after his stint in Spain, but he knew instinctively that Moira would look prettier without that tower of feathers atop her head.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.

“I have brought you the tablecloth I wrote about, cousin,” Moira said, handing Lady Marchbank the basket.

Lady Marchbank opened it with age-speckled hands. The knuckles were swollen, but she could move her fingers quite well. She drew out a large linen tablecloth, worked around the edges and down the center with intertwining vines and flowers in pale shades of green and gold.

“Oh, Bonnie! You shouldn’t have! This is gorgeous. Much too fine for an old lady like me. We never entertain anyone who deserves this. I shall put it on my bed for a coverlet. That is what I shall do. If I put it on the table, John would only spill his brandy on it.”

“I am glad you like it. Where is Cousin John?” Moira asked.

“Out and about somewhere. He will be back in time to meet you.”

Hartly remembered that the excuse for not putting up with the Marchbanks was Lord Marchbank’s ailing health, yet he was well enough to be up and about. Another small mystery. He was surprised to see that the wicker basket did not hold a padlocked case. He took a surreptitious peek into it while the ladies examined the tablecloth. The cloth had not filled the basket. There were newspapers folded up below it, obviously with something else beneath.

“We brought some preserves as well,” Moira mentioned. “The marmalade you like so much.”

Lady Marchbank continued examining the cloth. “Such a lot of work. I don’t know how you found time to do it, so busy as you must have been.”

Moira knew the old lady was thinking of her real life—trying to make ends meet on the estate—and spoke up quickly to remind her of her role.

“I had a deal of help running Penworth Hall,” she said.

“Of course you did, but a young gel likes to ride and entertain and that sort of thing.”

The tea tray arrived, a veritable feast, with a pigeon pie, cold cuts, bread and three kinds of cheese, a plum cake, and various sweets. It was impossible to do justice to it so soon after lunch.

After they had eaten, Hartly said, “I shall go out and have a walk along the beach while you cousins catch up on all the family gossip.”

“I shall go with you,” Jonathon added. “I saw a nifty ship through the window. It looked as if it was coming into your dock, Cousin Vera.”

The lady gave him a sharp look. “That would be Homer Guthrie’s fishing smack. He stops here to let us choose what we want from his catch. I would not bother him if I were you, David. He is a testy old fellow. Why do you not take Mr. Hartly to see the stables? No, on second thought, that is not a good idea. One of the colts has been gelded and is in a bad mood. ... I have it! Take Mr. Hartly along the west cliff. You will get a pretty view of the cove there. Turn left when you go out the front door.”

After they left, Lady Marchbank turned a laughing face to her remaining guest. “Gracious! I almost wish they were not going out, but then we could not talk in front of Hartly. John runs the smuggling hereabouts, you must know. Guthrie is bringing in a load now.”

“Really! You mean Cousin John is the Black Ghost?”

“Good gracious, no. He is well past that sort of flying about at night. The Black Ghost is merely a goblin to frighten the simple village folks. It is John’s nephew, Peter Masters, from Romney. He runs the operation there. He will take over the Blaxstead run as well when John retires. John has a cozy setup here, as he is the magistrate. No harm in it, eh?”

“It seems to be accepted by everyone except the government,” Moira conceded.

“It is all that keeps body and soul together for the local families. Of course, I would not like you to tell Hartly any of this. He might very well be a Revenueman sent down from London. They pull off those sly tricks from time to time.”

“Oh, dear! Do you think that possible?” Moira exclaimed.

“There is no saying. Did you plan to make him your beau? I take it he does not know who you really are.”

“He has no idea. He is just a man staying at the inn. He was asking for Major Stanby, which is why I am a little interested in him.”