Regency Masquerade

Chapter Two

Before Mr. Hartly left the desk, he said to the innkeeper, “About Major Stanby… I do not actually have his acquaintance. I pray you do not tell him I was inquiring for him. It is to be a surprise.” As he spoke, he slid a gold coin onto the counter, from whence it found its way into the innkeeper's pocket with the swiftness of a frog snapping up a fly.

Jeremy Bullion tapped his finger to his nose, nodded his head, and gave a wink of his sharp, snuff-colored eye. “Any little thing I can do for you, sir, ye have only to ask and Jeremy Bullion will be happy to oblige. Folks call me Bullion."

"Very good. You are raw metal, but pure gold, I have no doubt."

Bullion accepted this fatigued compliment with a smile. “Aye, sir. I may be lump gold, but I am twenty-four karat. If ye'd care for a sandwich in your room, or a bottle of wine, ye've only to give the bell chord a yank. As to your duds, the wife's as good as a seamstress for mending up a tear or pressing a jacket."

"How very kind, but my valet will be joining me soon. Did Stanby give any idea how long he plans to stay?"

"He's hired his suite by the week, hasn't he?"

Mr. Hartly's face eased into a smile. “That will be all for now, Bullion. Ah, one other thing. I shall require a private dining parlor for this evening."

Bullion's craggy face wrinkled into a very mask of sorrow. “Now, there I must disoblige you, sir. We're but a small establishment. I've one public room for commoners-farmers and such-and a Great Room for the Quality, like yourself. I could have dinner took up to your bedchamber-no trouble at all. Or I could put you in the corner of the Great Room, with a folding screen around the table. You'd never know you wasn't alone in the world."

With a memory of the delightful young lady he had seen descending from her carriage, Hartly said, “No need to hide me in a corner, Bullion. I shall keep my face to the wall to prevent turning anyone's stomach.” This was greeted with a bark of laughter from Bullion. “If you'd care to seat me next to Lady Crieff's party, I should be obliged. The lady is not from these parts, I daresay?"

"Scotland,” Bullion replied, pointing to the register. He looked about to see that no spies were listening, lifted his fingers to hide his lips, and said in a confidential manner, “But she's connected to these parts. Lady Marchbank arranged her rooms. Old Lord Marchbank's lady. He owns half the county. Sends his man up to Parliament and all. A powerful gent, the old gaffer."

"I wonder why Lady Crieff is not putting up with the Marchbanks."

"That wouldn't be for me to say, but I fancy there's a reason.” He gave a wise nod, which conveyed nothing to Hartly.

A red-faced woman in a large white apron appeared around the corner. “The fire's going out, Bullion, and Wilf is busy in the stable."

Bullion gave a sheepish smile to his guest. “The good wife,” he said, and darted off.

Mr. Hartly went abovestairs, pondering why Lady Crieff was not welcome at the home of her noble friends, the Marchbanks.

It was soon clear to Jeremy Bullion that he had not one swell but two under his roof. Not long after Mr. Hartly went abovestairs, his traveling carriage and team of four arrived. A slender, know-it-all young dandy with a womanly face came prancing in demanding a suite of rooms for his master, Mr. Hartly. He went into a fit of hysterics upon learning that his master had reached the inn before him.

"And I not here to air the chambers and arrange his bath! Damme, I ought to be horsewhipped. What will he do without me?"

"Ye'd be his valet, I'm thinking,” Bullion said, unmoved by the fellow's ranting.

Mott bowed. “I have the honor, sir, to be Mr. Hartly's valet and traveling factotum, Mott."

"Bullion,” Bullion said, offering his hand.

Mott reluctantly touched the tip of his fingers, then quickly withdrew his hand. “Has my master been here long?"

"Not above ten minutes."

Mott breathed a sigh of relief. “Then he has not endeavored a fresh toilette without me. We shall require a tub of hot water. No need for towels. We travel with our own linens. Have your servants bring up the case of claret in the carriage. It must be carried gently so as not to disturb the dregs. We dine at seven. I shall be in the kitchen to oversee the preparations of my master's dinner."

Bullion found himself on the horns of a nasty dilemma. It went against the pluck to disoblige a wealthy guest; on the other hand, Maggie would brook no interference in her kitchen.

"You can speak to Cook about that,” he said, washing his hands of the matter.

"Just so. Now let me see your private dining parlors, my good Bullion."

"Mr. Hartly's already arranged that."

Mott adopted a pout. “I trust it does not have a western exposure. My master likes the drapes open. I would not want the setting sun in his eyes."

"That'll be no problem at all,” Bullion said, with a thought to the dim cavern where his worthy customers dined. No ray of sun had penetrated those panes for a century. The yew hedge growing outside them was better than a curtain.

"Good. Now I must go to my master, if you will direct me thither."

"The yellow suite, left at the top o’ the stairs."

"You won't forget the hot water,” Mott said, and went off, staggering under the weight of a large wicker basket, presumably holding his master's towels and bed linen.

Bullion shook his head at the freakish ways of the ton. Hartly would call the shots, however, and he seemed a deal easier to please than the mincing valet.

As soon as Mott left Bullion, his prissy expression faded. When he tapped at the door of the yellow suite and went in, there was no mincing gait or fluting voice.

He plopped the wicker basket on the floor, grinned, and said, “Well, here we are. Have you seen Stanby yet?"

"No, but he's putting up here for a week,” Hartly replied. “What kept you, Rudolph?"

"Lost a wheel just outside of London."

"Playing hunt the squirrel, I warrant."

"Willoughby put me to the dare. I ran him clean off the road. I put on a good act for old Bullion. He's sending up bathwater."

"Damn the bathwater. Where is the wine?"

"It's coming-ah, here it is."

When he opened the door, he was wearing his inane smile and gave a good imitation of a fool. “Mind you don't jiggle it, lads. That is rare good stuff you're handling. Shall I draw a cork, master?” he asked, turning to Hartly.

"If you would be so kind, Mott. Give the lads a pourboire, there's a good fellow."

Mott reached into his pocket and handed the two servants a generous pourboire. Then he turned to the dresser and scowled at the wineglasses on a tray

"They call these tumblers wineglasses!” he exclaimed, with a shake of his head. “We would not use them in our kitchen."

As soon as the servants left, he drew a cork and filled the glasses. Handing one to Hartly, he lifted his glass and said, “To success. I shall follow your orders in peace as I did in war, Major. Dashed kind of you to help me."

"I am happy for the chance. I find England just a tad dull after the recent excitements of the Peninsula. And by the by, cuz, I am Mr. Hartly here. Let us not confuse our personas."

"Damn, I don't have to act the foolish valet when we are alone, I hope?"

"You do not have to act quite so convincingly even when we are not alone. I suspect you harbor a love of the stage and are enjoying the role."

"I enjoy the prospect of meeting Major Stanby, the bounder. I would give a monkey to know where he is and what he is doing."

"I hope to meet him this evening. It seems we members of the ton will be dining en masse. Bullion has no private dining parlors."

"He did not say so when I asked. Said you'd already arranged that."

"So I have. He suggested hiding me in a corner behind a screen. I opted for a table next to Lady Crieff, a pretty lady putting up here. The name sounds familiar.” He looked a question at Mott.

"So it does,” Mott replied, refilling his glass, “though I cannot say I have met her. What does she look like?"

"Like a black-haired angel, with a devilish eye in her head. Young. The fellow traveling with her is called Sir David Crieff. I noticed a ‘Bart.’ after his name in the registry. A baronet. He is not old enough to be her husband, yet he is too old to be a son. He cannot be her brother, or she would not be Lady Crieff. That title is reserved for his wife. An odd business, is it not?"

"Demmed odd. You don't figure she could be a lightskirt who ain't quite clear how titles work? I mean to say, just calling herself Lady Crieff?"

"That leaps to mind, of course. The lady has a roguish smile. On the other hand, Bullion tells me she is a friend of Lady Marchbank, a local worthy. I doubt she has anything to do with Stanby, in any case."

"Unless he has taken up with a bit o’ muslin,” Mott added. “If she is as pretty as you say, she would attract victims for him."

"She'll want watching. I noticed her servant was carrying a padlocked case-jewelry, presumably. Selling paste for diamonds might be a new rig Stanby is running."

"Have you any notion how to approach Stanby?"

"When he sees my curricle and traveling carriage, and my excellent valet, I venture to say he will accost me."

"Yes, and then what?"

"I shall let him make the first move. A game of cards is one possibility."

"Mind you don't drink from his bottle, or let him use his own deck."

"I shall drink only tap ale-or my own excellent claret,” Hartly replied, lifting his glass in a toast.

"Will he have as much as fifteen thousand with him, I wonder? That is the sum we are going for."

"If he does not have it with him, he can get it. He is high in the stirrups. It stands to reason."

"I despise the fellow. Hanging is too good for him."

"I trust it will not come to murder,” Hartly said blandly. “We have shed enough blood. After all, Rudolph, we are officers and gentlemen."

"And that is another thing,” Mott said, beginning to rant now. “Posing as an officer. He gives the military a bad name. I doubt he ever wore a uniform. Ask him where he served, when you meet him."

"No, no. We do not want him to suspect we harbor such a pernicious thing as a brain in our heads. We shall rob him most politely, like the gentlemen we are, cousin."

They were interrupted by a tap at the door. Mott admitted two serving girls carrying in a tub of hot water.

Mott fussed about, dipping in his finger and scolding that the water was too hot. “Fetch up a pitcher of cold water. No, never mind. We shall let the water cool and my master will have his bath later. You may tell Cook I shall be down shortly to discuss my master's dinner with her."

The girls exchanged a wide-eyed grin and bounced out.

"I shall dart down to the kitchen now and begin making up to those chits while you have your bath,” Mott said. “Servants always know what is going on at an inn. We might want to get into Stanby's room later. If they do not have a key, they could get one."

"You might make a discreet inquiry about Lady Crieff while you are there,” Hartley said.

Mott scowled. “Seems to me you are mighty interested in Lady Crieff. We ain't here to enjoy ourselves, Daniel."

"Any man with an eye in his head would be interested in her. ‘Carpe diem’ is my motto. Seize the day. You should always milk any situation for any enjoyment there is in it, Rudolph. If she is working with Stanby, she might prove useful-as well as amusing,” he said, with a saturnine smile.

"Aye, and she might get her fingers into your wallet, too. What do you want for dinner?"

"Meat and potatoes."

"Damme, I have to know more than that. What shall I complain of? I want to sound as if I know what I am talking about."

"If it is beef, it is overdone. If it is fowl, it is tough as white leather. Improvise, Mott. You know what a fussy gourmet I am. The bully beef in Spain refines the palate to such an extent that even ambrosia does not entirely please me."

Mott left, and Hartly eventually undressed and took his bath. After several years fighting the French in Spain, he needed no assistance with his toilette. He had gone as a lieutenant and had been raised first to captain, then major, during the course of hard-fought battles. A man learned to do for himself in such rough circumstances as he had endured. His batman had been in the boughs at being left behind, but Hartly had felt it desirable to keep him on standby in case a new face was required later in the game. When Mott returned, he cast an approving eye over his cousin's black evening jacket and immaculate linens.

"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.