Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

The card game with the locals was for small stakes, and friendly in nature. Over the space of two hours, Hartly won a few guineas. When Stanby suggested they get together for a “more interesting game” another time, he agreed. It was an old trick: to allow a victim to win a small sum to put him at his ease and feel safe playing for higher stakes another time. Stanby had done a little discreet questioning to discover how deep his partner's pockets were, and Hartly had painted himself as a young provincial with more money than brains.

They were just about to leave the table when a new guest entered. Moira glanced up to see who was arriving so late at night. The man wore a drab driving coat with not less than a dozen collars. Once the coat was removed, he stood revealed as a slender fellow. He had not changed into evening clothes, but his well-cut jacket, his intricate cravat, and his blond hair, brushed forward in the Brutus do, proclaimed him a very tulip of fashion.

"I say, not breaking up the game so early?” he exclaimed. “It is only eleven bells. Damn, split open another bottle and let us have a few hands. I have just arrived from London with my pockets bulging. Won a thousand off Lord Felsham last night. Forced to rusticate a while. Did I introduce myself? I am Ponsonby. Killed my man this morning at dawn,” he boasted. “That will teach him to impugn the name of Ponsonby. Bow Street is after me. If they send one of their runners creeping about, you have not seen me. There's a good fellow.” He reached out and patted Stanby on the shoulder. “I don't believe I caught your name."

"Major Stanby, and this is Hartly. I have had enough cards for one evening,” Stanby said, “but if you would care to join Hartly and myself, we will be playing tomorrow evening."

"That's a dashed long time to wait. Still, there are other amusements, eh? How are the serving wenches here? Are they pretty?"

"They are the innkeeper's daughters,” Stanby replied. “I would not meddle with them if I were you."

"Damn, what sort of Methodist inn have I wandered into? I shall drive on tomorrow."

"What a good idea,” Hartly murmured. Ponsonby had not observed Lady Crieff, but Hartly feared that once he did, he would become obstreperous.

"Dashed odd thing, by God,” Ponsonby continued. “I heard the Owl served the best brandy in England, and here I find you drinking this catlap.” He wrinkled his nose at the glasses of ale on the table. “Thought I might take a keg or two back with me, what? Treat the lads. Where is mein host? Bullion! Bullion, I say. Brandy for me and my friends. We shall drink a bumper to Noddy. Did I tell you I killed him? Well, nicked him, at least. Daresay he will stick his fork in the wall. Just like the gudgeon."

Bullion came scurrying forward. “Hush now, sir,” he said to Ponsonby. “I can let you have a drop, but you must not be so clamorous about it. It's agin the law, you see."

"Fie on the law! Bring on the brandy."

Bullion disappeared and soon returned to place a bottle on the table. Ponsonby poured for them all and proposed a toast to Noddy.

"This is excellent stuff!” Stanby exclaimed, after tasting it. “By God, I have not had such fine brandy in a twelvemonth. I shall take a keg of this away with me when I leave."

Bullion stood, smiling at his guests. “We get the real thing here, gentlemen. That fishing boat you saw unloading at twilight-this batch was buried under the mackerel. We get her fresh from France, before the adulterers get at it with their caramel and water."

"Ho ho! Adulterers, eh?” Ponsonby said, with a loose-lipped smile. “Where are the wenches? Bring on the wenches."

"It is not that sort of adulterer Bullion speaks of,” Stanby explained. “It refers to diluting the brandy.” He turned to Bullion. “I should like a hogshead of this myself. Could you put me in touch with the leader, Bullion?"

Bullion stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. “That is more than my life would be worth, sir. No one knows the ringleader. Hereabouts he is called the Black Ghost. A gentleman, all dressed in black, even including a mask over his face, has been spotted flying through the night from time to time, but no one is foolish enough to accost him. He would slit the throat of anyone who saw his face. Smuggling is a capital crime, so he takes no chances. Mind you, it pays well."

Ponsonby poured the innkeeper a glass of brandy, and after a sip, the innkeeper continued his discourse.

"They do say the Blaxstead run is the most profitable one in the kingdom, bar none. There's highly placed folks in on it,” Bullion told them, with a wise nod of his head. “Stands to reason, don't it? I mean to say, never an arrest in ten years. The Potter lads, Joe and Jim, hired as Revenuemen. The whole Potter family is simple. Looks as though someone high up don't want the Gentlemen caught. But that is not for me to say. Oh, no, I could not put you in touch with the leader, but I am on terms with the Gentlemen. That is what we call the smugglers hereabouts. They supply my needs, for a certain consideration. How many barrels will you be wanting then, sir?"

Stanby and Ponsonby both gave an order for two each. Hartly said, “As I am on holiday, I do not fancy carrying contraband to London, then all the way back to Devon. I shall pass, reluctantly. It is excellent stuff."

Bullion left, and the three gentlemen sat on at the table, enjoying their brandy.

"That must be a profitable concession, the brandy running here in Blaxstead,” the major said. “I should not mind investing in it. Safe as churches, if the local authorities are being paid to cooperate. I wonder who this mysterious Black Ghost is. The local lord, perhaps?"

"It is best not to interfere with the Gentlemen,” Ponsonby said firmly. “My friend, the Duke of Mersey, tried to run them off his beach. His dower house burned down the next night. He took the hint. The Gentlemen do not fool around. And that was only a small smuggling gang. Here at Blaxstead it stands to reason they would be vicious.” He shivered and took another sip.

"I wonder if he would be interested in taking on a partner, though,” Stanby said. “Add another ship or two to his fleet. I happen to have a good bit of cash standing idle at the moment from my operations in Canada."

Hartly came to rigid attention; so did Ponsonby, though no one noticed it.

Stanby continued, “I was there during the war of ‘12. Before leaving the country, I bought up certain tracts of lumber and some fur-trading routes. They have proved profitable. What I miss is the excitement of soldiering. I should not mind taking a small active part in the Black Ghost's operation."

"Ah, my good sir, you are an ossifer and a gen'leman,” Ponsonby said, becoming noticeably bosky. “Is that where you got your finger chopped off-in Canada?” He stared at the finger, his blue eyes glazed with drink. “No harm to ask, eh? Odd-looking thing, like a little bald head. Heh heh."

"I wish I could say an Indian took it off with an arrow,” the major replied, “but it was nothing so heroic. It got frostbitten and became infected. The sawbones felt there was some danger of gangrene, with a possibility of losing the whole hand. In the wilds of Canada, as we were, there were no proper hospital facilities, so the doctor did not want to operate. ‘Chop it off!’ I told him. ‘It will not stop me from using my Brown Bess.’ Nor did it."

Ponsonby listened as one entranced. “You are a hero, Major. ‘Chop it off!’ By God, that could not have been pleasant."

"I was one of the fortunate ones,” the major said modestly. “Others lost a whole limb."

Moira listened, her lips curled cynically. He had told Mama he got his finger caught in a mantrap, while releasing a young boy who had straggled into it. It had probably been shot off by someone who had caught him dealing shaved cards. His vanity invented these heroic feats to impress his listeners.