Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"You have not forgotten that Lady Marchbank is sending her footman over to see that we arrived safe and sound, and arrange a time for us to call?” Moira replied.

"We shall see her carriage when it arrives. Do let us go out,” Jonathon urged.

"Very well, but we cannot stray far from the inn."

When they stepped outside, the air held the clammy moisture and scent of the sea. The setting sun cast a crimson net over the dark water. A few fishing boats bobbed at anchor. A grass bank ran down to the estuary, ending in a bed of rushes. The estuary curved in an arc around Owl Point. At the end of the point sat Owl House Inn, backing on the water. Moira thought it a most desolate scene, after the lush richness of Surrey. At the rear of the inn, where a wharf protruded into the water, a fishing smack was unloading its catch.

A few of the locals and inn patrons were strolling along the bank. It was not long before Moira spotted Mr. Hartly. He was at the rear of the inn, talking to a man David identified as his valet. David had made a few trips belowstairs during the afternoon and castigated Mott as a man milliner.

Hartly saw the Crieffs but did not rush forward to greet them. He had espied a more interesting person: Major Stanby had just come out of the inn and was gazing at the water. When he spotted Hartly, he began sauntering toward the rear of the inn.

"Here he comes now,” Hartly said to Mott. “I hoped that mention of a card game would draw him out."

Moira noticed where Stanby was going. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “They are acquainted. Run along and pretend you are looking at the fish, David, and tell me what is said."

Jonathon was always happy to perform any chore that had an air of wickedness about it. He darted off, ostensibly to watch the unloading of the boat. Mott had left. Neither Hartly nor Stanby paid him any heed.

E'er long, Jonathon was back. “A card game,” he said. “Tonight, in the Great Room. They pretended they did not know each other to fool me."

"I do not think they even saw you,” Moira replied, frowning. “What can Hartly be up to? I shall go to the Great Room to read and see what happens."

Even while she spoke, the gentlemen turned and began to walk toward the front of the inn. Hartly smiled when he saw her. If the lady was innocent, he had no wish to bring Stanby down on her head, yet he was eager to see how they behaved together.

"That is Lady Crieff,” he mentioned as they walked along. “Do you know her?"

"Lady Crieff? The name sounds familiar.” Something in Stanby's tone caught Hartly's attention. The man was staring at her with a deep frown between his eyebrows, as if trying to remember. Then he shook his head in frustration. “No, that is not a face a gentleman would forget in a hurry. Beautiful! Is she a friend of yours?"

"A new acquaintance."

When Moira saw that the gentlemen were coming toward her, she felt a nearly overwhelming urge to flee. She could never carry her scheme off. She had held her grudge against Lionel March too long to smile and greet him with politeness. Yet it was crucial to her plan that she not only meet him but become close enough that she confide in him her need to sell her jewelry. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for her first exchange of words with Lionel March in four years.

Before she had time for more misgivings, Hartly came forward and introduced Major Stanby to her and David. To avoid having to take his hand, Moira made a stiff curtsy. Sir David played his part with credit. It helped that Stanby was wearing gloves. She knew her brother could not prevent himself from staring at that finger if his hands had been bare.

The ensuing conversation was trite to the point of banality. Hartly noticed that Lady Crieff's demeaner had changed dramatically from their dinner meeting. She did not flirt or act the hoyden. In fact, she was nearly inarticulate-and again that fear and loathing were in her eyes, though she tried to conceal it.

She mentioned the beauty of the evening, and each discovered of the other where they were from. Major Stanby claimed to hail from the Lake District in the north of England, a good, safe distance from their present location.

"Perhaps you are familiar with it, Lady Crieff, as you are from neighboring Scotland?” he asked in an avuncular way.

"Alas, only a glimpse on our way south. We never strayed far from the Great North Road. One hears it is lovely. I should like to pay a proper visit sometime and see the lake made famous by the poets."

"Ah, yes, Lake Windermere. You really should-on your way home, perhaps?” His voice made it a question.

Windermere? But it was Grasmere where Wordsworth and Coleridge lived. “I am not returning to Scotland,” Lady Crieff said. “I plan to live in London."

"Indeed!” His exclamation was a virtual request for more information. Moira noticed that Mr. Hartly also looked curious to hear more.

"Sir David will return to Penworth Hall, of course. The estate was entailed on him when my husband died last year. We decided to give him a little holiday in London first."

"You have friends-relatives-in London, of course,” Stanby said.

"Yes,” she replied, without expanding. “And some business to transact there as well, to settle the estate."

"Will you remain long here at the inn?” Stanby asked, with the keenest interest.

"Actually, I am to meet someone here. A friend.” She had made the initial contact with March, and her nerves were so shattered that she wanted only to run upstairs and recuperate. She would do better another time, after she had got over the first shock. It was his gooseberry eyes, especially, that caused that deep sense of revulsion. “We really ought to be going in now, David,” she said. “It is coming on dark."

Mr. Hartly was curious at her changed manner. Where were the coy glances, the come-hither smiles, the common streak that had been so pronounced earlier? It seemed the lady was putting on a show of gentility for Stanby.

"A wise precaution,” Stanby agreed.

A frozen smile moved her lips. “There is no saying who might be putting up at a place like this. I had planned to stay with my cousin, Lady Marchbank. She lives nearby at Cove House. She wanted us to put up with her, but as her husband is ailing, I did not think it was the proper time to intrude."

She and Jonathon took their leave and went into the inn.

"We could have stayed a little longer,” Jonathon chided. “Why did you not say something about the jewelry?"

"Let him find out things by degrees. It would look odd to be telling too much to strangers."

Stanby watched them as they returned to the inn. When they entered, he lifted an eyebrow at Hartly. “Lady Crieff is a little young to be jaunting about the countryside without a proper chaperon. Not quite comme il faut, do you not think?"

"It is difficult to say, on such short acquaintance."

"I could not help overhearing some of her conversation with you at dinner, Hartly. A bit of a dasher, I thought.” His green eyes were bright with curiosity.

"That was my impression. Yet if she is related to the Marchbanks, one must assume she is respectable."

"Yes, if," Stanby said, with a disparaging sniff.

They were still talking by the estuary when a black carriage with the nobleman's crest on the door arrived at the inn.

"That would be Lady Marchbank's rig,” Stanby said, examining it closely. “It seems there is some connection between the ladies after all. But then, you know, some of the county nobility is no better than it should be. Shall we go in and begin that game of cards?"

Hartly was surprised to see Lady Crieff and Sir David occupying the settee in front of the grate. They paid no attention to the card players, however. The inn was so informal that a few other ladies were also making use of the Great Room, as an alternative to retiring to their small chambers so early. Lady Crieff was thumbing idly through the journals. After ten minutes, Sir David rose and sauntered closer to the card table to listen to the conversation.