Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"It is a dangerous game you are playing, Moira,” Jonathon said uncertainly. “I mean to say, there is so much money at stake that Hartly may just decide to-to do away with you. Be sure you have your interview in a safe place."

Moira felt no fear for her life. She did not think Hartly was a murderer, but she would heed Jonathon's advice and speak to him in a public place, just a little apart from other people. The settee in the Great Room would be perfect.

Sleep was impossible for Moira, with so many exciting matters on her mind. It was on the coming interview that she dwelt as she lay in bed, listening to the silence of the inn. Mr. Hartly would not be holding all the cards this time. He would not call her a lightskirt or threaten to have the law down on her head. It would almost be worth not recovering her money, to see him knocked off his high horse.

She figured out that the only reason he did not want her to sell March the paste jewels was that he wanted to steal the man's money himself. He was afraid March did not have enough for them both to rob him. But he could not force her to reveal that she was not Lady Crieff. That was the main thing. The choice of whether March would use his blunt to buy her fake stones or buy into Hartly's fake business was up to March. She would have to be very charming to the old lecher tomorrow.

It was an unhappy thought to fall asleep on. It would be much more interesting to be charming to Mr. Hartly. She regretted that he had such a low opinion of her, then berated herself as a ninnyhammer. What did she care for his opinion? He was a common swindler.

She finally slept, then awoke in the morning to see jagged streaks of light dancing on the ceiling, where the ill-fitting curtains let the sun's rays in. She rose with a churning excitement in her breast, anticipating the interview with Hartly. He was usually at the table when she went down to breakfast. It was just a quarter to eight. If she hurried, she might see him alone, before March came down.

She rose and made a hasty toilette. The sun promised a warm day. She chose a blue mulled muslin gown and hastily ran a brush through her tousled curls. Examining herself in the mirror, she realized she did not look nearly as stylish as Lady Crieff. In fact, she looked much the way she looked at home-like any other provincial lady. No matter. She would spruce herself up before meeting the major. She could not take time to arrange a proper coiffure now.

She closed her door quietly when she left the room, to avoid disturbing other sleeping guests. The fewer people in the Great Room, the better. It was still a safe place. With the servants about, Hartly would not attempt any physical attack there, much as he would like to.

From the doorway of the Great Room, Moira saw Mr. Hartly sitting alone. He was just about to begin his breakfast. The room was deserted except for him and one elderly gentleman in the corner, reading a journal. Despite the strength of her position, she felt a sudden sense of trepidation as she approached Hartly's table. He looked so unassailable, so strong. If only he were not a scoundrel, he might have helped her. Two spots of red flared high on her cheeks, her eyes glowed with excitement, and her heart pounded mercilessly. Hartly looked up as she entered.

She walked straight to his table, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Hartly. It seems you and I are early birds. May I join you?"

He did not even bother to rise or say, “Good morning” but just nodded his grudging consent, with a contemptuous look that firmed her resolve. It stung like a nettle that he treated her as if she were of no account.

Hartly felt sure he understood her stunt at a glance. She had decked herself out as an innocent young provincial to work on his pity. And done her job well, too. She looked enchanting with her raven curls tumbling wantonly about her cheeks. That simple muslin gown was more fetching than all her silks and satins. She even wore an expression to suit her costume: a wide-eyed look of fear, tinged with determination. He prepared his ears for a tale of woe. What would it be? Two helpless orphans escaping a cruel stepmama? A wicked guardian who was forcing a match on her?

"I trust you have come to your senses, miss,” he said in a hard voice. He would not offer her breakfast or even coffee. That would lend a friendly air to the proceedings. It was safer to stick to business with this engaging trollop.

"I have considered the matter,” she replied.

"And?"

She gave him a bold look, all innocence vanished. “And decided you do not have a leg to stand on, Mr. Hartly."

His head jerked up. He directed a cool stare on her. “Indeed. I knew you were not wise, but until now I did not take you for a fool."

"Perhaps not, but you obviously mistook me for a greenhead. You, too, have been too slow about completing your business, Mr. Hartly. My investigations have disclosed that you are not who you say but a scoundrel trying to sell what does not belong to you."

He cocked a bold smile at her. “A case of the pot calling the kettle black, surely."

"If you wish. There all similarity ends, however. Your stunt is considerably more dangerous, sir. The Black Ghost would have you drawn and quartered if I told him what you are about."

"He would not be such a fool as to harm a Revenueman."

"True, if you were a Revenueman, you would have some assurance of living beyond this day. A man who impersonates an officer of the law in order to execute a crime, however, is quite a different matter. He is in danger from not only the law, but also from the Gentlemen. I know what you are doing here, sir. You are trying to gull Stanby and Ponsonby into buying a share in the smuggling operation. I have not informed the Black Ghost of it-yet."

"You are mad as a hatter."

"I think not. Fifty thousand pounds is the price, of which you hope to get half from Stanby. That is why you do not want him to buy my jewels."

"Your collection of paste stones,” he corrected.

Hartly swiftly conned his options. As she could quote the actual sum asked, he knew she was not bluffing. How could she possibly have found out? E'er long, he had his answer. Marchbank was certainly involved in the smuggling. He would have told her the operation was not for sale, but how did she know he was trying to sell shares in it? Stanby, of course! She had weaseled it out of him with smiles and kisses and God only knew what else. And now she sat before him, the picture of innocent virtue, in her girlish muslin gown. The knowledge of how she had got the information inflamed him to fury. When he spoke, he spoke in a voice so calm, it actually sounded bored.

"Stanby told you. I did not realize you were sharing his bed. It would have been wiser to wait until he had anted up the blunt. Gentlemen do not value what is given too freely-but that is your affair."

Moira bit down a howl of protest. How dare he? He had really gone too far this time. She took a deep breath to steady her voice before responding. “So it is. Let us get down to business, then. I know who you are, and you know who I am."

"You are not quite accurate, miss. I have no idea who you are, but I know who you are not-namely, Lady Crieff."

"And I know who you are not-namely, a Revenueman. If you breathe one word to Stanby, I shall inform not only him and Ponsonby, but also the Black Ghost, what you are up to. You will not make a penny. In fact, you would be extremely lucky to get out of Blaxstead alive."

Hartly was accustomed to danger from the Peninsula. He hastily considered his rather limited options with a cool head. Then he smiled and said, “May I pour you a cup of coffee, Lady Crieff? Remiss of me not to have done so sooner."

"Yes, you may; and yes, it was remiss of you.” He poured the coffee. She took a sip and said, “Well, Mr. Hartly, what have you to say?"