Regency Masquerade

Chapter Eleven

"You are right, Jonathon. We must follow Hartly,” Moira said, tossing her shawl, evening reticule, and fan onto the bed. “I shall change into my riding habit and meet you in ten minutes. Do not wear your good evening clothes. We cannot afford a rent in them."

"We will be seen leaving the inn,” Jonathon pointed out. “It is well enough for me, but for a lady…"

"If I had remembered ladies were so restricted in their movements, I would have posed as a young man. Could you bring that ladder around to the window for me?"

"If I can find it. It cannot be far away."

"Best bring the dark lantern from the carriage as well."

They both scrambled out of their good evening clothes and into rougher wear. E'er long, Moira heard a scraping at her window, and after her first leap of fear, she realized it was Jonathon. She opened the window and followed him down the ladder.

"Luckily, the groom was sound asleep. He did not hear me lead Firefly and Gray Lady out."

They mounted and rode out of the inn yard, along the dark highway in pursuit of Mr. Hartly. There was no one on the road at this hour of the night. The nags were good ones, and they urged them on to a gallop as they sped through the night, with the cool breeze fanning their cheeks and the ghostly shadows of trees and bushes menacing them from the encroaching fields. On their other side, the water gleamed darkly.

As they approached Cove House, they slowed to a walk to lessen the sound of the horses’ hooves. They tethered their mounts in the shadow of a spreading elm outside the gate leading to the house proper. The Gothic spires and finials loomed into the sky. Every pointed window spoke of danger, of ghosts and monsters.

"Let us check out the sea first,” Moira whispered. “Cousin John may be landing a load tonight. We must warn him."

They darted toward the shore and peered below. The cove was quiet, the silver water undisturbed by so much as a ripple.

"He brought in a load this afternoon. It seems tonight is safe,” Moira said. “Hartly will see nothing, if he is lurking nearby."

They peered all about but could see no sign of him.

Sticking to the shadows, they carefully picked their way back toward the house. “The blue door is on the other side of the house,” Jonathon whispered. “I warrant that is where he is."

He led her to the door, which was set on a slant into the wall, just where a flying buttress protruded. Jonathon reached for the door handle.

"Wait!” Moira whispered. “Listen before you go in. Do you have the lantern?” Jonathon held it aloft. “Very likely Cousin John removed the barrels. I told Cousin Vera that Hartly knew of this cave."

When they heard no sound from the cave, Jonathon opened the door, lifted the shutter of the dark lantern, and held it aloft to look into the cavern. A low tunnel, black as pitch, led underground to the caves. The tunnel and caves were above water level, but they were permanently damp.

"This way,” Jonathon said, and stepped in.

Moira took one last look about, then lifted her skirt and stepped reluctantly into the gloomy passage.

In the tunnel, Hartly had heard the door opening. The acoustics in the cave magnified sound yet distorted it in some manner that made its source uncertain. He could discern whispers but could not distinguish either the speakers or the direction of the voices. Echoes bounced off walls and ceilings, until he felt it was the cave itself that was whispering to him.

Like everyone else, he had heard rumors of the cutthroat ways of the Gentlemen, when one was foolish enough to interfere with their work. Bullion had assured him the Blaxstead gang was not as vicious as they led folks to believe. He did not fear for his life, but he knew he was in for a thrashing if they caught him.

He looked all about for a hiding place, but the tunnel offered no concealment. It was just a passage hewn out of the rock. His best bet was to remain perfectly still and hope they did not see him. As the cave held no barrels, he assumed the Gentlemen were bringing cargo in. The voices would be coming from the blue door, then, not the caves. He would stay well back from the opening until they left, then leave himself.

Soon another fear assailed him. They might lock the door in some manner when there was brandy in the cave. It had been unlocked when he arrived, but it was also empty. If they barred the door behind them, he would have to find an exit by the caves, which would involve swimming.

He stood perfectly still, flat against the wall, with his ears cocked. As the intruders drew closer, he could distinguish that they were coming from the direction of the door. It sounded like only two men approaching. Perhaps he could handle two. He was a fair bruiser. If they had guns, however, a fight might surprise them into shooting. Better to let them pass. If they discovered him, he would just have to do his best. He needed a weapon. He knelt down and felt around the ground for a loose piece of stone or anything he might use. His fingers felt a smooth piece of wood. He picked it up and ran his hands along it to judge its size and strength. It was a sort of rough club, probably used by the Gentlemen and left behind sometime.

He picked it up and curled his fingers around it, ready to strike. As the light of the lantern appeared around the corner, he stared, trying to gauge the strength of his opponents. The first man was as tall as himself. He had to bend over to prevent scraping the ceiling of the cave with his head. His hunched posture concealed his build. The one behind seemed to be shorter.

The lantern cast only a dim light. The man did not move it about to examine the walls as he passed. Hartly let the first man go by. Just as the man passed, he turned his head and looked back at Hartly. He must have seen a shadow, or possibly even have heard a breath. Long experience in Spain told Hartly his best bet was to attack the nearer man first. He lifted his club and landed the second fellow a sharp blow on the side of the head. The fellow gave one groan and toppled over. The man who had already passed ran to help his comrade. Hartly took advantage of his brief reprieve to flee the cave.

Once he had gained the safety of the outdoors, he did not waste a moment. He ran toward the park, hopped onto his waiting jade, and disappeared into the shadows of the night. He would hasten to check out the barn before the men in the cave had time to warn the others.

In the cave, Jonathon looked at the fleeing form, uncertain whether to give chase or tend to Moira, who was moaning at his feet. His imagination preferred the heroic role of giving chase, but reality was less frightening-and besides, Moira might be hurt badly.

"Are you all right?” he asked, leaning over and holding up the lantern to examine her.

A trickle of what looked like molasses, but was of course blood, oozed slowly down the side of her temple.

"Was it him? Was it Hartly?” she asked.

"I did not get much of a look at him, but it could have been."

"It must have been,” she said, struggling to her feet.

Jonathon assisted her. “I shall take you to Cousin Vera. P'raps you ought to let a sawbones take a look at your head."

"No, we do not want to bother her at this hour of the night. Lend me your handkerchief, Jonathon."

She took it and dabbed at her wound. It hurt, but it was by no means serious enough to require a doctor.

When Jonathon was sure she was not dying, he said, “I have just thought of something else. If Hartly returns directly to the inn, he will see our mounts are gone."

"I doubt he will return at once. He is out scouting for evidence. He will examine the stables and ditches and haystacks while he is here. If we hurry, we might beat him back."

They left the tunnel and hastened back to their mounts. Moira half expected that Hartly would have stolen them, but they were quietly champing the grass under the elm tree. They rode back to Blaxstead. Jonathon put up the ladder, and Moira ascended to her room. When she was safely in, Jonathon took the mounts to the stable. He returned the ladder to the back of the house where he had found it and went into the inn by the front door, which was, fortunately, on the latch. He scampered quickly upstairs and went to Moira's room.

He found his sister at the dim mirror, washing the blood from her head.

"Look at me!” she exclaimed in chagrin. “How am I to explain this bruise tomorrow?"

"Say you bumped into a door,” Jonathon replied, going to take a closer peek at it. “Does it hurt much?"

"It is tender,” she said. “But I do not mind that. Of more importance, we must get word to Cousin John at once that Hartly is investigating him."

"You mean tonight?"

"No, first thing in the morning. You must be up at first light and ride to Cove House. Tell Cousin John what happened in the tunnel. He will know what to do. I daresay it will amount to no more than discontinuing his operations until Hartly has left."

This was a task much to Jonathon's liking. It had the desired air of intrigue without the actual danger of being shot or beaten up.

"I'll do it. And I shall keep an eye to the keyhole tonight to see when Hartly returns as well. I should not be surprised if he stops off for a word with Ponsonby. I doubt that an inspector would be sent down without a few helpers. Mott is likely another of them. He acts pretty havey-cavey for a valet. I have seen him poking about hayricks and ditches, looking for brandy. Hartly has Ponsonby posing as a drunkard and Mott as a fool to give them a harmless air."

"You could be right. But then that leaves us with another question. What was Ponsonby doing in Stanby's room? Is it possible they are all working together?"

"Stanby working on the side of the law?” Jonathon scoffed. “Not likely. We have no notion what is going on, Moira. We have got to find out, for Cousin John's sake. I believe I shall get out the ladder again and have a go at Hartly's room while he is out."

"Oh, no, Jon. You are forgetting his valet. Mott will not retire until his master returns. He will be in the next room."

"So he will. I quite forgot."

Moira liked the idea of spying on Hartly and was loath to give it up. “But we might do it tomorrow, when they are both out,” she said. “Mott does not spend his entire day in his room. We shall stick close to the inn. My wound will provide a good excuse. When they are both out, we shall figure out a way to get into Hartly's room."

This plan pleased Jonathon. He went off to bed, mentally figuring out means of access to a locked room, for of course he could not use the ladder in broad daylight. He knew the female servants. Sally and Sukey carried the keys when they were making up the guests’ rooms. Sally was a friendly sort of chit. He might con her into lending him her keys.

Jonathon and Moira were both sound asleep at three o'clock when Hartly returned to his room. His “valet” was by no means so conscientious as he led folks to believe. He, too, was sawing logs. Hartly could discuss his doings only silently with himself.

He poured a glass of claret and proceeded to do this. It would be impossible to give Stanby a tour of the tunnel and caves if there were Gentlemen about. He had to find some way of bringing the smuggling operations to a temporary halt. Bullion might be useful there. A hint that there was a senior Revenue officer down from London looking into the lack of arrests at Blaxstead might work. He counted on Stanby's greed to do the rest. Lady Crieff might be troublesome there. Hartly was quite sure she had fingered Stanby as her victim, and there was no saying his pockets were deep enough to be fleeced by them both.

A soft smile lifted his lips. He was not overly concerned about Lady Crieff now that he knew her “jewels” were composed of paste. He had only to drop a hint, and the hoyden would no doubt take her collection to some other out-of-the-way spot and start over again.

His smile dwindled to a frown as he considered her connection to the Marchbanks. They could not know what the hussy was up to. They seemed to have a genuine fondness for the chit. As a last resort, her attempted fraud might be used to keep Marchbank in line, if he proved troublesome.

But still his frown remained, growing deeper as other thoughts slipped from his mind and the image of Lady Crieff took hold. She was so young to be headed down the road to ruin. Even without a dowry, she might make a good match. A lady's face had proved an effectual fortune before now. With the Marchbanks to lend her countenance, there was no reason she could not marry respectably. It would be a kindness to hint her in that direction. Yet the notion of that enchanting creature shackled to some country squire did not entirely please him either.

He finished his wine and went to bed.