Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"Damned fine coffee. Would you care for some gammon and eggs? Some toast, perhaps."

"No, I am rather particular as to whom I share food with."

"Unlike your bed!” The cynical words were out before he could stop them. He should be conciliating the chit, sweet-talking her into some sort of compromise, but all he could think of was her in Stanby's arms, that old man's hands caressing her, and he could not control his wrath.

Her eyes sparked dangerously. “Let us speak of what concerns us, not irrelevancies. The major's pockets are not bottomless. I want his money; you want it."

"And may the better man win. I am speaking generically, including the female of the species."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"I mean I will not interfere with your plans if you do not interfere with mine. What do you gain by handing me over to the Black Ghost, other than revenge? I, likewise, have nothing to gain by informing Stanby you are not Lady Crieff and your jewels are not worth a Birmingham farthing. We both proceed as if the other did not exist, and may the better man win. Come now, madam. You have the distinct advantage of me. If a pretty lady cannot use her charms to sway an aging bachelor…” He studied her a moment, chewing back a smile to see he had roused her ire. Her eyes were shooting daggers.

"Mind you,” he said, allowing a disparaging smile to curve his lips, “I think you have gone a tad overboard on the dairymaid look this morning. Personally I find that touch of disarray charming, but I feel the major favors more sophistication in his ladies. On the other hand, you are on more intimate terms with him than I, so perhaps-"

"If you say one more time that I shared his bed, Mr. Hartly, I shall walk out that door and call the constable this instant!"

"You are being rash, my pet. Impersonating an heiress for the purpose of conning an innocent gentleman into buying glass beads is a hanging matter. There is hard evidence close at hand. I, on the other hand, have dealt only in words. Words are more difficult to haul into a court of law."

"You are a weasel! I knew the first time I saw you, asking Bullion for Major Stanby, that you were up to no good. I wondered what you had to do with Stanby. I thought you were his cohort. Now I see you had just chosen him for your victim."

"We have that in common, n'est-ce pas?"

"We have absolutely nothing in common, sir. And if you breathe one word to Stanby, you will have the Black Ghost to deal with. Good day."

She rose in a huff. Hartly rose and put his hand on her arm to stop her. “Do we have a bargain, Lady Crieff?"

Her nostrils flared in frustration. “Yes, we have a bargain. I would bargain with the devil himself if I had to. But I tell you in advance, you will not win. I plan to get my money, if I have to-to marry the scoundrel."

Hartly allowed his eyebrows to lift slightly. “I assumed that had already been settled between you and your lover. A lady who has compromised herself so grossly ought to have had a promise of marriage at least. It would be redundant of me to remind you of the evanescence of verbal bargains. We have already discussed that. Your best bet would be to scramble off to a bishop for a special license and haul Stanby in front of a vicar posthaste. I should be happy to stand as best man."

"I am sure we could find a better man than you, should the need arise. It would not be difficult. We would have only to look under the closest rock. Good day, Mr. Hartly"

She flounced out of the room, with his insults whirling in her brain: calling that old scarecrow, Stanby, her lover, saying she had compromised herself grossly, that she had spent the night with him. She thought of a dozen cutting things she should have said. But she had achieved her aim. She had struck a bargain that neither would tattle on the other. Now it was up to her to see that Stanby chose her investment over Hartly's.

Hartly sat on alone, his gammon and eggs cooling on his plate as he reviewed his situation. The lady-woman-held a stronger hand than she knew. If she reported him to Marchbank, he would be whisked out of the inn and into irons before he had time to warn Stanby what she was about. She did not realize it, but Marchbank certainly would. He would have to move quickly. Settle the purchase of the smuggling operation before nightfall and hope she did not run to Marchbank in the meanwhile.

Within ten minutes, Ponsonby strolled into the room, fanning himself with a letter. He joined Hartly

"Good day, Hartly. The major not up yet?” he asked.

"No, but Lady Crieff has paid me a visit. A new problem has arisen. Stanby has told her the whole story. She knows, from Marchbank, I daresay, that the smuggling operation is not for sale."

Ponsonby considered this a moment, then said, “She will cooperate. Stands to reason."

"What the devil are you talking about? She wants his money herself. And stands a better chance than we of getting it. She will resort to marriage if necessary."

Ponsonby frowned. “That would not be legal, would it? Marrying your steppapa.” Hartly looked at him, bewildered.

"Ah, I have not told you the news,” Ponsonby said, holding up his letter. “I dashed off a line to Aunt Hermione the day after I arrived and had my man ride it off to London. Hermione knows everyone. I was curious about Lady Crieff's connection to the Marchbanks. I have the answer here. Moira and Jonathon Trevithick. That is who the Crieffs are."

"Who the devil are the Trevithicks?"

"A genteel family from Surrey. Old Stanby married their mama four years ago, when the youngsters were-well, younger youngsters. The mama died within a couple of months. Stanby took off with Moira's dot. Ten thousand, plus fifteen thousand he had wangled out of the estate by a mortgage. Took ‘em for twenty-five thousand all told. The youngsters have had a rough go of it since then. Lady Marchbank is their cousin. She must be giving them a hand to diddle Stanby. That explains it all, eh? They are here to try their hand at getting their blunt back, same as us."

"Good Lord! What have I done?” Hartly whispered.

"You haven't told Stanby?"

"No, but I… spoke rather harshly to Miss Trevithick."

"Ah, well, she'll understand. She is in the same boat with the rest of us. Dashed fine gel. Not a Bath miss. A regular man-er, woman, of bottom. Fooled me, with her coquettish ways. I always liked a dasher. Might offer for her when this is all over. She would not have me in the normal way, but if she don't get her blunt back, she might welcome a decent offer."

"I must speak to her, apologize.” Hartly was just about to rise when Moira appeared at the doorway.

She had changed into a more stylish gown and coiffure that did not become her nearly so well. Unfortunately, she was accompanied by the major. The major joined her and Jonathon at their table. She nodded at Hartly and said, “Good morning,” as if this were the first time she had seen him that day. Her greeting to Mr. Ponsonby was noticeably warmer.

"Think she rather likes me,” Ponsonby said aside to Hartly. “Mind you, she's a tartar about my drinking. She would cure me of my favorite vice. Well, perhaps my second favorite."

Hartly was not listening. He sat like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake as Moira flirted her head off with the major. Every smile and glance was a blow to his heart. Not because he was jealous, but because he knew how painful this charade must be for her. And he had added to her difficulties. He should have known she was an innocent. The first evening he had insulted her, he had sensed her maidenly innocence. Since then, he had heaped insult on injury, accusing her of all manner of indecency. She would never forgive him, and who should blame her? He would never forgive himself.

He rose and approached their table.