Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

Hartly had seen enough. He began walking along to the west, as Lady Marchbank had suggested. The donkeys were heading east, toward the stable. After half an hour, David had not joined him, so he returned to the saloon.

"Where is David?” Moira asked at once.

Hartly had forgotten all about him. “Did he not return here? He said he wished to tell Lady Marchbank something."

Moira felt cold fingers tapping at her spine. Hartly had kidnapped Jonathon! Right under their noses, he had spirited him away.

She leapt to her feet. “What have you done with him?” she gasped.

Hartly's stunned face told her she had guessed wrong. Before he could reply, Jonathon came prancing in, covered with dust and cobwebs.

"I say, Cousin Vera! That secret passage is something like!"

Moira collapsed in relief onto the sofa. It was Lady Marchbank who had turned a ghastly shade of gray.

"How did you find it?” she demanded. Her eyes slewed accusingly to Mr. Hartly, who was gazing unconcernedly out the window.

Jonathon said, “Why, I just opened that little blue door at the side of the house, and there it was. Why do you keep so many bar-"

"You should not have been snooping without permission, David,” she scolded. “There are rats down there. You might have been bitten and caught the plague. It is a nasty, dirty place. Now come and apologize. There's a good lad."

The little incident was smoothed over, but after such displays of temper, the mood was uncertain. They all heard the heavy footsteps sounding in the hallway. Lady Marchbank announced, “Ah, here is John, at last,” with a great air of relief, as if he were Christopher Columbus, safely returned from his journey to the New World.

Hartly knew at a glance that the obese, gouty old gentleman hobbling into the room was not the Black Ghost, but he was the same gentleman who had overseen the unloading of the brandy at the cove earlier. Lord Marchbank had imbibed too much of the cargo that landed at his doorstep to take such an active part in the smuggling. His bulbous, veined nose and bloodshot eyes spoke of a long career of drinking. Brandy had not destroyed the man's mind, however. He gave Hartly one short, sharp look, then turned to welcome his cousins.

He did not remain in the saloon long, but his welcome was warm. He assured Sir David and Lady Crieff that they had only to send a note to Cove House if they required anything.

Lady Marchbank showed him the tablecloth, which he praised in the vague, hearty manner of one who did not appreciate what he saw but wished to compliment the giver.

"David mentioned he misses his rides, dear,” Lady Marchbank said. “I have told Bonnie she may ride my mount while she is here. Have you anything in the stable that would do for David?"

"Come along and take your pick, lad,” Marchbank offered at once. Almost immediately, he changed the offer. “On t'other hand, I shall have my groom send a mount around with the carriage when you leave. The nags are restless this afternoon. Gray Lady is foaling. It always upsets the animals."

"And as I mentioned to the children earlier,” his wife added, “that bay colt has been gelded, and he is upset, too."

"Aye, the stables are a regular hospital,” Marchbank said. His plummy cheeks had turned a shade deeper, confirming Hartly's suspicion that the stables were no horse hospital but a holding den for that cargo brought in that afternoon in broad daylight. When Marchbank reached for the brandy bottle on a side table, his wife caught his eye and shook her head in warning. Marchbank poured himself a glass of wine instead.

After a little discussion of a mount for David, the guests rose to leave.

"I shall arrive at the inn at eight, to chaperon you for the assembly,” Lady Marchbank told Moira.

"Will you also come, sir?” Moira asked Marchbank.

"John will not come,” Lady Marchbank answered for him. “He detests parties of all things. If I waited for him to take me out, I should never see the light of day."

The guests were accompanied to the door. Marchbank went out to the carriage with them. While Jonathon and Moira examined their mounts, Marchbank had a private word with Hartly.

"Finding Blaxstead a trifle dull, I daresay?” he mentioned.

"On the contrary, sir, I find it full of interesting activity. Mind you, I am thinking of changing inns. I had a small sum stolen from my room last night. I have made no formal complaint, but I have reason to believe it was one of the young fellows who work for Bullion. Who is the magistrate hereabouts?"

"You are looking at him. Gather up your evidence and we'll toss him into jail. That sort of petty pilfering gives the village a bad name."

"It was a small sum. As I am remaining only a few days, perhaps it is not worth my while. I shan't leave money in my room another time."

"That might be best. Tip Bullion the clue as well. He will not want a thief working for him."

Jonathon called Hartly to go and see his mount, and that terminated the short conversation. Soon the guests took their departure.

Moira was quiet on the way home. She had a good deal to think about. If Hartly was here to spy on the smugglers, then he was not working with Stanby. There had been a card game last night, which tended to confirm Jonathon's notion that it was only the hope of such a game that had made Hartly ask for Stanby. Hartly still posed a threat, but a threat of a different sort. He was out to put a stop to Marchbank's smuggling. She would keep an eye on him, as Cousin Vera had asked.

She came to rigid attention when he said to Jonathon, “How were the caves? Were they interesting?"

"They were dark and wet and full of barrels,” Jonathon replied.

Moira gave an involuntary jerk. This was as good as telling Hartly that Marchbank was a smuggler. “Cousin Vera told me she keeps her pickle barrels down there,” she said.

"She must make an awful lot of pickles,” Jonathon said. He received such a gimlet stare from his sister that he realized he was being indiscreet. “Now that you mention it, there was a smell of vinegar in the cave. There were not that many barrels, actually."

"You know how Lord Marchbank loves his pickles,” she said.

Hartly's laughing eye told her she had not fooled him for a minute. He knew she had not seen her cousins since she was a child. How should she know he loved pickles? There had been no pickles served at tea.

"Are you sure it was not brandied fruit that was kept there? Or just brandy, without the fruit,” he said playfully.

"My cousin would never tolerate such a thing!” she said.

"Perhaps the smugglers are using his caves-without his knowledge, of course,” Hartly suggested.

She leapt on it like a cat on catnip. “Very likely that is it. I shall warn Lord Marchbank. He will want to put a guard in the caves to catch the Gentlemen."

"The locals will not thank him for it,” Hartly said. “I should think half the population make their living from smuggling."

She was not conned by this pretended approval, designed to lure her into revealing family secrets. “Surely not. My cousin would never countenance such a thing."

"He countenances a bottle of brandy in his saloon. I was hoping he would offer me a tipple."

"Very likely it is kept for medicinal purposes. Marchbank suffers from gout."

"I rather think what he is using for a cure is the cause of his affliction."

Jonathon came to the rescue by changing the subject. “I think we ought to change mounts, Lady Crieff,” he said. “The mare Cousin Vera lent you is bigger than my gelding."

"Marchbank said Firefly was a lively goer. I am using Cousin Vera's mare. The saddle is a lady's saddle."

"I daresay we could change saddles."