Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"He let me win a few pounds tonight,” he replied. “We have a private game fixed for tomorrow night. That is when we'll make our move. A fellow called Ponsonby arrived. He was completely foxed.” He told Mott about the man, adding his concern that Stanby might fleece him.

"I shall take a nip down and see he is all right,” Mott said. “This troublesome master of mine wants a posset at half past midnight. A valet's work is never done."

He was just about to open the door when he heard someone walking briskly down the hall. He let the man pass, then opened the door a crack. Hartly went to take a peek as well. It was Ponsonby. He was not drunk at all but walking in a straight, purposeful way. Hartly was seized with the notion that he was heading for Lady Crieff's room. He watched, but Ponsonby continued past her door to his own room. Another mysterious guest at the Owl House Inn.

By morning, word of Lady Crieff's interesting history had begun to seep out. Moira did not see how it was possible, for the maids had not been in to read the clippings, but she knew it as soon as they entered the Great Room for breakfast. All eyes turned to her; after the first telltale hush, a low murmur broke out.

Major Stanby, who was just leaving the room, bowed and said, “Good morning, Lady Crieff, Sir David,” with a new warmth. “A lovely day. I hear Bullion is having a small rout party this evening here in the Great Room. Not what you are accustomed to at Penworth, but perhaps you will honor us with your presence?"

"A party! I should love it, of all things!” she replied.

"You will save a dance for me?"

"But of course, Major. I look forward to it."

"Can I go?” Jonathon asked eagerly. “You know Papa said I could when I turned sixteen, Lady Crieff."

"Lawks, you are much too young. But then there will be no one here to see. Oh, Major! How shocking of me. You will be here,” she said, simpering. “But you will forgive me if I am a trifle lenient with the lad. We have both had such a dull scald of it since Sir Aubrey died that we are eager for a little fling."

"No harm in it.” The major smiled leniently. “With such rakes as Ponsonby present, you will require Sir David as a chaperon."

"I ain't a chaperon!” Jonathon exclaimed. “That is ladies’ work. I am Lady Crieff's escort.” On that bold speech he took Moira's arm and led her to the table.

Mr. Ponsonby was not slow to approach them. “I come hanging my head in shame, Lady Crieff,” he said. His head was indeed lowered humbly, but his bold lips were grinning. “I have it from all quarters that I behaved abominably last evening."

"So you did, sir,” she replied, with a pert glance. “You called me a wench!"

"It was the brandy speaking. I place half the blame in your own dish. No lady has the right to be so deuced pretty."

"Take care, sir,” she replied, peering at him from the corners of her eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I do not wish to be anywhere-except at your feet."

She gave a careless laugh. “Run along, Mr. Ponsonby. Every dog has his bite. You are forgiven this time, but I shall expect you to behave yourself in future."

He lifted her hand and placed an ardent kiss on her fingers. “An angel-merciful as well as beautiful. Dare I push my luck further and ask if you will give me a dance this evening? You will come. Say you will."

"I shall be here. If you are sober, then you may have a dance."

"Not a drop of wine will pass these lips until we meet again. Your obedient servant, milady."

He performed a sweeping bow and headed straight to the small room, where he ordered a glass of ale, assuring himself that ale was not wine, and a man had to have a drink from time to time if he was not to die of thirst.

When Moira and Jonathon were alone, she said, “Word of Lady Crieff's fortune has got about somehow. I wonder if the whole is known. Hang about belowstairs after breakfast and see what you can discover."

As Jonathon would not be available to escort her for a walk that morning, Moira was in no hurry to leave the Great Room. After breakfast, she went to the settee to have a glance at some magazines placed on the table for the guests’ convenience. She noticed that although Mr. Hartly was in the room, he had not come rushing forward like the others. Perhaps he had not learned how rich Lady Crieff was.

As he had not so much as bowed in her direction, she assumed their drive was off. Her first sense of shame soon turned to anger. He was the one who had behaved so wretchedly! Why should she feel embarrassed? No matter-she had her own carriage if she wished to go out.

She began reading an article about the repressive measures Parliament was instituting since the attempt on the Prince Regent's life in January. Caught up in it, she did not notice when Mr. Hartly finished his breakfast and walked toward her.

"Lady Crieff,” he said, with a civil bow. “As you see, my prayers were answered. The Lord is merciful, even to a sinner. The sun is shining."

"Is it?” she asked, peering to the yew-shrouded windows. “It is difficult to tell from inside. Oh! You mean you wish to go driving after all. I was not sure after last night…"

Her cheeks felt warm at the memory of that catastrophic encounter. Her only consolation was that Mr. Hartly was also ill at ease. He was not quite blushing, but his manner revealed constraint.

"The less said about last night, the better, except to proffer my apologies. Unlike Mr. Ponsonby, I do not have the excuse of drunkenness. If you wish to cry off, I understand. If, on the other hand, you can find it in your kindness to forgive me, I promise there will be no repetition of my behavior on that other occasion."

Moira had now established a good contact with Lionel March and had no real need of Hartly. Even if those two were involved in some business, Stanby was still interested in her. She could afford to be stiff with Hartly. Yet she did not wish to alienate him either. Of the three gentlemen at the inn, he was the only one in whom she felt any personal interest.

He tilted his head to one side and ventured a small smile. “Every dog has his bite,” he reminded her. “You forgave Ponsonby. We have all been eavesdropping shamelessly. Come now, you must not reward drunkenness and be severe on sobriety. The days are long and tedious here. Why enliven them with a grudge, when they can be more pleasantly passed with an outing-suitably accompanied by Sir David."

She smiled reluctantly. “You are right. And to set the seal on my propriety, I shall ask you to come with me this afternoon to pay a call on my cousin, Lady Marchbank.” If he balked at that, then he was up to no good.

"I should enjoy meeting her. One hears Cove House is a remarkable piece of architecture."

"An old Gothic heap, my cousin calls it."

"Just so.” He sat down beside her. “Gothic heaps are all the fashion again, since Walpole built his little place on Strawberry Hill."

"I have not heard about this place,” she said. “It sounds an unlikely spot for a Gothic house. Strawberries have no menace."

"The worst they portend is a duke.” She frowned at this seeming irrelevancy. “They are used on the door of a ducal carriage,” he added. Odd a lady did not know it. “Perhaps the custom is not followed in Scotland.” Lady Crieff had nothing to say to this.

He spoke on enthusiastically about Walpole's mansion. This led easily to a discussion of Gothic novels, since Walpole's Castle of Otranto had been written at Strawberry Hill, using his own house as a background. He soon learned Lady Crieff was knowledgeable about Gothic novels. Her girlish enthusiasm for black veils and secret doors suggested an immaturity he had not felt last night, nor did she fall into any outrageous vulgarity.