Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"It lends an air of authenticity to the thing, though."

"I am so nervous. Do you think we can trust Mr. Hartly?"

"He is a right one,” Jonathon said warmly. “With him and Mott at the helm, nothing will go wrong. They have seen stronger action than this in the Peninsula."

"What do you mean? You said nothing of the Peninsula. Was Mr. Hartly in the army?"

"Of course he was. He was a major. Did he not tell you?"

"No!” A major! “The major considers you his own.” “I did not mean that major!” Was it possible… Her cheeks felt warm.

"And Mott an officer as well. A crack shot. Whoever would have thought that man milliner would know how to use a gun? Well, I am off. Where is the letter?"

Moira handed him the letter. She considered going with Jonathon but felt someone ought to remain at the inn with the money and the jewelry, in case Stanby had some sly plan to return before the others and run off with the lot.

Jonathon rode to Cove House. It was a nice, scary ride, with the dark water shimmering on one side of the road and black trees whispering their menace on the other. Cove House was in total darkness, but he knew the back door was always left on the latch in case of an emergency with the Gentlemen. He entered and crept up to Lady Marchbank's chamber. She was a light sleeper. Her husband's career involved so many strange doings that she was not at all surprised to see Jonathon appear at her bedside at close to midnight. With a blink of her eyes she was wide-awake. She snatched her spectacles from the bedside table, read the note through, and said, “Marchbank ought to know about this."

"Yes, I want to speak to him."

They went together, Lady Marchbank wrapped in a faded woolen housecoat, with a cap tied under her chin.

Marchbank listened to what Jonathon had to say and read Moira's letter. “So that is what is afoot,” he said, nodding. “Moira ought to have told me."

"She did not want to lead Hartly to you. He could still report you, even if he ain't a Revenue inspector. Not that he would, but we did not know the whole until tonight."

"I have lost two nights’ work for no reason,” Marchbank said. “Speak to Jack Larkin, in the stable, Jonathon. He will see young Hartly is not disturbed. If any of the Gentlemen come at night, Jack deals with them. But they have been told to lie low until Hartly leaves. Not a Revenueman, eh? That is good news. I dislike to think London is taking an interest in me."

Jonathon went down to the stable, where he found Jack Larkin napping, fully dressed, mounted on a bay mare. Jonathon jostled him awake and gave him Marchbank's message. Larkin nodded and was soon asleep again. It was said of Larkin that he could sleep standing up and ride sound asleep.

By the time Jonathon reached the cove, the Black Ghost had already arrived. Jon was sorry he had missed the arrival. The cluster of men-Stanby, Ponsonby, Hartly, and his batman, posing as the Black Ghost in a black hat, mask, and domino, stood in a circle with their heads bent. They were limned in charcoal against the silver sky, with a dog-starred moon high above and the rippling ocean below. The sight gave the strange illusion of some medieval ritual. Jonathon could not hear their words, but he could hear the light clink of gold as the bags were handed to the Black Ghost, who shook hands with them all in turn before leaping astride a huge black stallion. The horse reared on its hind legs, whinnying. The Black Ghost emitted one eerie laugh, raised his arm in farewell, and disappeared into the black shadows of night, leaving only the ghostly echo of horse beats behind.

The remaining gentlemen began to climb up the embankment to recover their mounts. Jonathon turned back to the inn, to avoid being seen on the road in front of them. He was soon rushing into Moira's room.

"He did it! Hartly pulled it off. I wish you could have seen it, Moira. It was better than a stage play. They are on their way back here now. It won't be long. Are you all set to leave?"

"We cannot leave yet. Hartly has got his own money, and Ponsonby's. He has not got mine. Stanby was putting up only twenty-five thousand. My money is still in Bullion's vault."

Jonathon, caught up in the thrill of the moonlight escapade, had not thought of this.

"I begin to think it was all a ruse to keep us from disturbing his plan, Jon,” Moira said grimly. “All Mr. Hartly cared about was his own money. He will leave the inn as soon as Stanby retires, collect his ill-got gains from the man acting the Black Ghost, and never be seen again. We have been outwitted."

"You have had too much time to sit, fretting,” Jon said. “You mistrust every man because Stanby is such a rotter. I shall run downstairs and see what is afoot. I can hide behind the sideboard in the passage outside the Great Room."

Jonathon could hear the merry laughter coming from the Great Room even before he reached the bottom of the stairs. Bullion was pouring brandy; the gentlemen were making toasts to their success and their new venture. He listened but could hear no clue to Hartly's plan to help Moira. Jonathon did not believe for a moment that Hartly meant to leave him and Moira out in the cold. He did not have to warn them he meant to move tonight. They would never have guessed it. Since he had told them, and warned them to have their trunks packed, then obviously he meant to look after them.

The sound of merriment rose higher. Ponsonby was singing now, a ribald song. His voice began to peter out. Jonathon peered into the room and saw that Ponsonby had passed out. Bullion was still filling the other gentlemen's glasses. They were all putting it away at a great rate. Major Stanby began to weave to and fro, then sat on a chair with a jerky motion that suggested he had fallen rather than sat voluntarily.

Within a minute, his head fell forward onto the table. Ponsonby rose from the floor like Lazarus rising from the dead.

"Is he out?” he asked Hartly.

Hartly put his finger to his lips to hush Ponsonby. He shook Stanby's shoulder and said in a heavy voice, “Come now, Major, a toast to His Majesty.” The head on the table did not stir. The doctored brandy had done the job.

Ponsonby took hold of Stanby's hair and lifted his head, looked at his closed eyes, and let the head bounce unceremoniously onto the table. “Right, he's out. Let's go,” he said.

Hartly grinned. He handed Bullion a jingling leather bag. “Bullion, you did well. If you would care to get the money out of the safe, I shall alert Lady Crieff we are ready to depart."

"I have something I want to put in the safe for Stanby,” Ponsonby said, and darted from the room.

Jonathon ran quickly upstairs before he was seen. He did not tap on Moira's door but just stuck his head in and said, “You was dead wrong, Moira. Hartly is getting your blunt now. He will be here in a minute. Now, ain't you ashamed of yourself, not trusting him? I told you he was a right one.” Then he ran to his own room to call a servant to take down the trunks.

Moira just stood, frozen to the spot. He was coming? He had told her the truth! Her ordeal was over. The two or three minutes until he came seemed an eternity. When the tap sounded at her door, she walked as one in a trance and opened it. Mr. Hartly came in and handed her a leather valise.

"The money is there. Twenty-five thousand,” he said, opening the case to show her.

She just looked at it. “Oh,” she said. After a moment she added, “Thank you, Mr. Hartly,” in a very small voice.

"My pleasure, Miss Trevithick.” They stood, gazing at each other in the silent room.

"It was very good of you,” she said stiffly. Her silvery eyes continued gazing uncertainly into his.

A slow smile began at his lips and spread over his face. “Do you know, I have a feeling Lady Crieff would have been more forthcoming in her thanks,” he said, setting aside the valise and seizing her hand.