Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"I congratulate myself,” Mott said. “I did a fine job of dressing you, Daniel. Lady Crieff will be impressed."

"Did you find out anything about her? Or Stanby?"

"Sally and Sukey-the servant girls-they are Bullion's daughters, by the by. They say Lady Crieff has never visited the Marchbanks. She is completely unknown hereabouts. As she just arrived, they have no way of knowing whether she is a friend of Stanby's. I did learn something about Sir David. He is her stepson."

"Stepson,” Hartley said, frowning. “Yes, that is possible. One assumes, then, that she married a gentleman considerably older than herself."

"And since the stepson is now Sir David, then obviously the husband is dead. Lady Crieff is a widow."

"Not for long, I warrant,” Hartly said, with a pensive smile that set his cousin frowning in concern.

Hartly always had an eye for those raven-haired girls.

Hartly was not so foolish as to imagine Bullion's Great Room would be as large as the average ballroom; the inn's size made it impossible. He did, however, anticipate something larger and grander than the dining room to which he was led when he went belowstairs to dinner.

It was a low room approximately thirty feet square, which seemed considerably smaller, burdened as it was with scurrying servants, not less than six tables for four (each with accompanying chairs), two sideboards, and a fireplace with a settee fronting it. The walls were of rough, smoke-dimmed plaster and beams. Some strange, dark objects resembling giant bats suspended from the ceiling beams at irregular intervals. When he passed warily beneath one of those objects, he discovered it to be flowers hung to dry some decades previously, to judge by their brittleness.

Despite the room's crowded condition, it was pleasant enough. The blazing fire in the hearth cast a flickering light and warmth on the chamber. Voices rose in laughter and conversation from the occupied tables. The tantalizing smell of good roast beef fought with the gentler aroma of baking apples and cinnamon. A quick survey of the tables told Hartly that Lady Crieff's party had not yet arrived.

Bullion greeted his guests at the door. For the occasion of dinner in the Great Room, he had plastered his unruly hair down with grease and donned a jacket of brilliant blue, sporting yellow mohair buttons as big as saucers. With a wink and a nod, he led Hartly to a table and took his order. Hartly entertained himself with a surreptitious survey of the other guests until his dinner arrived. He had not spotted a likely candidate for Stanby, but two tables were empty. The other tables held family parties.

Abovestairs, Moira was preparing herself for her formal debut as Lady Crieff. She felt naked in the low-cut gown that displayed the upper portion of her bosoms in a wanton manner. Yet this was the pattern shown in La Belle Assemblée as being the latest mode in London, and Lady Crieff would surely be au courant in matters of toilette. Her silky hair did not take kindly to the intricate arrangement suggested in La Belle Assemblée. By dint of wetting it and curling it in papers, it had assumed an unfamiliar set of corkscrew curls that was so unattractive, Moira had pulled it all back from her face and held it with a ribbon.

"What do you think?” she asked Jonathon, when he came to accompany her down to dinner.

"You look like a lightskirt,” he said bluntly. “But a very pretty one. Stanby will certainly try to scrape an acquaintance."

"I shall flirt and giggle and act the vulgar fool. You must try not to laugh, Jonathon. This is extremely serious business."

Excitement lent a flush to her ivory skin and a glitter to her silvery eyes. Her heart pounded tumultuously as she took Jonathon's arm for the descent to the Great Room.

A hush fell over the dining room when she entered. Glancing to the doorway, Hartly observed it was the arrival of Lady Crieff's party that caused it. He displayed neither pleasure nor curiosity when they were shown to the table next to his own. His eyes did not rest transfixed on the young lady's ivory face, nor did they wander in a leisurely manner from her raven curls over her lithe waist to her dainty kid slippers.

Yet without ogling in any obvious way, he had taken a close inventory of her charms. He decided that her mulberry velvet gown had been chosen to add to her years and make it appear less ludicrous that she had a stepson nearly as old as herself. The richly colored gown set off her pale satin skin to great advantage. He caught a tantalizing peep of the incipient swell of bosoms as she was seated. A modest set of diamonds sparkled at her throat. They were the only modest thing about her toilette, for the gown had a vulgar quantity of ribbons and lace. The lady's face was a visual delight, though. He cocked an ear to overhear what the party had to say.

"What wine shall we have, David?” she asked, in the voice of a young girl trying to sound experienced.

"I should like champagne,” the young fellow announced.

"We shall have claret,” Lady Crieff said. “And you are not to guzzle it. You know your papa would dislike to see you fuddled."

Hartly could not hear Sir David's reply. Jonathon said in a low voice, “I do not think Stanby is here, but Hartly has noticed us. P'raps you should ogle him a little."

Hartly finished his roast beef and had another sip of wine. It was not until Lady Crieffs party had ordered their dinner that he glanced that way again. Lady Crieff was studying him with sharp interest. She allowed her eyes to play with his a moment across the room before turning away. She whispered something to the lad. There was a flurry of low talk, after which Lady Crieff paid attention to her dinner for a few moments.

E'er long, her wicked eyes slid to Hartly again. She was definitely flirting now, using her handsome eyes in a very practiced way. She did not stare but glanced shyly, looked away, then glanced again, with a fleeting, tantalizing smile that displayed a delightful set of dimples.

When another guest arrived, Moira abandoned Hartly to examine the newcomer. She saw a gentleman of military cut, who strode in as if he owned the place. He was of middle years, about fifty, but with a still youthful air about him. He had a good complexion, most of his own brown hair, and wore a well-cut black evening jacket. Her whole body stiffened. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and her fork fell to her plate with a gentle clatter.

"It is Lionel March,” she said in a low voice to Jonathon.

"Are you certain?"

"Positive."

"Your usual table, Major Stanby,” Bullion said, ushering the newcomer to a table across the room. Bullion nodded at Hartly behind Stanby's back to alert him to Stanby's arrival.

Moira tried not to stare, but as if her eyes had a will of their own, they kept turning to March. Here was the infamous scoundrel who had bilked her and Jonathon of their fortune, and a dozen other innocent people as well, if half the rumors one heard were true. She looked with interest to his hands and saw that the left hand holding the menu kept the smallest finger bent, no doubt to conceal that the tip was missing. She meant to verify the fact before he left the room.

Hartly ordered apple tart, cheddar cheese, and coffee and settled down for some discreet observing of his own. Having ascertained Stanby's identity, he let his gaze wander again to Lady Crieff's table, where the mood had turned noticeably tense. She had given a start of alarm when Major Stanby entered. Now she looked as if she were dancing on coals. Her face was pale as paper. Did Stanby have some hold over her? The glazed look in her eyes was fear. Daniel had seen enough of it in his young soldiers in the Peninsula to recognize it. Fear and loathing. If she was indeed working with Stanby, she was not doing it willingly. His interest quickened.