"Yes, sir, right away, sir.” She curtsied again and darted down the back staircase.

Jonathon gave a cagey grin. “She forgot to lock Hartly's door. Excellent. I shall just wait about to make sure she don't lock it when she brings the posset. There is no need for you to look out for Hartly. He will be gone an hour at least. There is no sign of rain to send him running back for cover."

"I shall go to his room with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one."

Jonathon did as he had said. When Sally returned with the posset, he went to the top of the stairs to meet her and chatted in a friendly way to keep her mind off Hartly's door.

"Are you from this neighborhood?” he asked.

"Born and bred right here in Blaxstead. My da runs the cobbler's shop. You might have seen it on the high street."

"No, but, by Jove, I shall stop in and have him hammer down this nail that has come up through my boot. It is digging into my heel."

"Tell him I sent you and he'll do it for free.” She smiled.

"I shall do that. Well, I must not keep you from your work.” He handed her a small coin.

Even as they spoke, Maggie's voice came traveling up the backstairs, hollering for Sally. Sally gave a bold smile and trotted off. Jonathon rushed the posset along to Moira, who set it on the table. They opened the door, peered out to check that the hall was empty, then went along to Hartly's room.

It was clear at a glance that Mott was an excellent valet. There was not so much as a soiled cravat or handkerchief to mar the tidiness of the chamber.

"You check the clothespress. I shall look in the desk,” Moira said.

Jonathon went to the clothespress and began looking through pockets. They were empty; not so much as a comb or a stray penny had been left behind. There was not even any lint. All he learned was that the clothing was nearly new and of an enviable quality. A set of silver brushes sat on the toilet table, along with shaving equipment and a jewelry box holding a small diamond cravat pin, the one Hartly had worn the night before. The drawers of the dresser held clean linen and socks.

Moira fared no better. The desk held a few recent journals, but no significant articles were circled to give her a clue what he had been reading. If Hartly had brought an address book, he had not left it here. The blotting pad had not been changed for months. Remnants of blotted words ran higgledy-piggledy into each other, completely illegible.

"You would hardly think anyone had been living in this room at all,” Moira said in disgust when they compared notes. “There is not a single personal item to give us a clue. Such care in covering his tracks seems highly suspicious. Take a quick peek in Mott's room, Jon. I shall search under the mattress and pillow. People often hide things there."

Jonathon went to Mott's room, which was in a state similar to Hartly's. It held nothing of interest. When he returned, Moira was just poking into the dustbin.

"Here is something!” she exclaimed, pulling out a piece of crumpled paper.

She straightened it out and read what had been written. “It is true!” she gasped. “He is a spy for Revenue and Customs! Listen to this, Jon. ‘I wish to report that I have been executing my orders and have some small success to report. I believe a Lord Marchbank, of Cove House, is responsible for the large quantity of brandy that is entering England illegally at Blaxstead. He is also the local magistrate. No smugglers have been convicted here for a decade. I shall continue surveillance to discover the entire operation, and keep in touch.’ He has crossed out the next bit. It is difficult to read-something about sending more men down."

Jonathon dashed to read this startling news for himself. “We must warn Cousin John!” he exclaimed.

"Yes, certainly. And it was Hartly who hit me last night. I knew it was him."

"Let us go,” he said. “Take the letter to show Marchbank."

Moira looked at it doubtfully. “He might notice it is gone."

"Sally has done the room. He will think she emptied the basket."

Moira stood, undecided. It might be a trap. Hartly was so devious, she could hardly believe he had left this incriminating piece of evidence behind by accident.

"We can tell Cousin John what it says. I shall leave it here."

"What a good idea,” Mr. Hartly said, in a voice of quiet menace.

She turned at the sound of his voice. He had entered by Mott's room and stood in the doorway, staring at her with a smile that was more deadly than a charged pistol.

"Mr. Hartly!” she gasped. Her blood turned to ice water, chilling her to the core. She felt frozen to the spot, unable to move. “What are you doing here?"

He advanced slowly, with measured strides. “I live here, for the time being. More to the point, what are you and Sir David doing here, Lady Crieff?” he asked, studying her with a fixed stare. “I believe you have some explaining to do."

Chapter Thirteen

Hartly had seen that dumb, animal response to danger in Spain. The frozen faces of the enemy at bay still haunted his dreams. That was Lady Crieff's reaction when he caught her in his room. But it was the look in her eyes that bothered him more. It was the same fear and loathing he had seen when she looked at Stanby. He felt like a murderer.

"Well?” he said gruffly. “Nothing to say, madam? You mistook my room for yours, perhaps? You were passing and heard a noise? Fearing a robber, you came to investigate. Come now, use that vivid imagination."

She swallowed; her tongue flicked out and touched her dry lips. “It was the door-it was open,” she said. She still held the note in her fingers, hidden behind her back. She wanted to position herself over the dustbin and drop it in.

"Ah, you have elected for excuse number two."

Jonathon came to her defense. “The door was open!” he said angrily. “We knew you were out walking and feared someone might steal your-your diamond tiepin."

"And did someone?” he asked.

"No! You can look for yourself. It is still on your dresser."

Hartly's eyes flickered to the dresser, where his diamond cravat pin twinkled in the sunlight. Well, at least they had not robbed him. Lady Crieff's position at the desk told him what they had been looking for. So they had read the note he left for them. Excellent! Success mellowed his mood. He would let them off lightly, but not too lightly, or they would suspect his motives.

Jonathon's spunky behavior gave Moira courage. She shifted position and dropped the note into the dustbin. Once free of the incriminating evidence, she lifted her head high and said haughtily, “I hope you are not accusing us of trying to rob you, Mr. Hartly, when we were only being neighborly. The door was open, I assure you. Anyone might have come in. You can ask Sally."

"You must forgive me,” he said, in a more civil tone. “I was surprised when I returned and heard voices in my room, especially after Ponsonby's questionable behavior last night. I decided to enter via Mott's room to catch the intruder. It was careless of Sally to leave the door open. I shall speak to her."

"I wish you will be easy with her,” Jonathon said. “It was my fault in a way. I asked her for a posset for Lady Crieff just as she was coming out of your room. I daresay that was what made her forget."

"No harm done."

"We thought you were going for a long walk, you see,” Jonathon mentioned.

"So I was, but I remembered I had accepted an invitation to dinner in London on the weekend, and returned to write my apologies to the hostess."

"We shall let you get on with it,” Moira said, for she was eager to escape. “I am sorry if we startled you."

"Please do not apologize. I ought to thank you for looking out for my welfare."

He accompanied them to the door and watched as they scuttled off to their rooms as if the hounds of hell were after them. As soon as they disappeared, he went to his dustbin and glanced down at the note. It had been opened and obviously read. He strolled to the window and waited to see which of them darted the note's contents off to Marchbank. Within two minutes David ran to the stable and came out, leading Firefly. His simple plan had succeeded. Marchbank would believe his men were being watched and would desist operations for a few nights.

In her room, Moira was trembling from the aftermath of her ordeal. She saw that future relations with Mr. Hartly would be strained and unpleasant, which was a great pity, because in the worst case, she had thought she could apply to him for leniency on Cousin John's behalf. Quite apart from that, she did care for his good opinion. What must he think of her?

She was so upset that she remained in her room the rest of the morning. Jonathon was soon back from Cove House.

"I gave Cousin Vera the message. Marchbank was out on business, but she will tell him. She says he can divert any incoming cargo to Cousin Peter's men at Romney. They have a system of warning lights flashed from shore to the approaching ships. I am to keep watch on Hartly,” he said, his chest swelling at such an important duty.

"You did well, Jon. Do you think Hartly believed us?"

"No, he thinks we are common thieves. You could see it in his eyes, but as his precious diamond pin was still there, he could not say much. I doubt he will offer me a ride in his curricle again,” he added disconsolately.

"Never mind, you can set up your own curricle when we recover our money. That is the main thing. We must not lose track of that with Cousin John's problem."

"Can I really? With a pair of matched grays like Hartly's? And a yellow rig with silver appointments?"

"Why not? You have earned it."

Moira found her own good advice hard to take. It was difficult to concentrate on Lionel March. She kept remembering the cold way Mr. Hartly had looked at her. She could not face the Great Room for lunch. She kept brooding over Mr. Hartly. She had a cold collation brought to the sitting room, where she and Jonathon shared a quiet luncheon. After lunch, Jonathon planned to watch Hartly and follow him at a discreet distance if he left the inn. He also spoke of taking another run down to Cove House, to see if he could be of any help to Cousin John.

Moira had to take herself by the scruff of the neck and force herself to go belowstairs, where she knew Major Stanby would look for her. She felt the time was ripe to try to sell him the jewels. The settee was empty when she entered the Great Room. The servants had cleared away the traces of lunch. The only person in the room was an elderly gentleman, a traveler, reading a magazine at one of the tables while he sipped coffee.

Moira picked up a journal and sat staring at it with unseeing eyes. Within a quarter of an hour, she heard the firm tread of Lionel March, and her spine stiffened. She forced a smile of welcome when he came bowing and scraping forward.

"I was concerned when you did not come down for luncheon, Lady Crieff,” he said, lifting his coattails and sitting closer to her than she liked. “I hope the headache is not worse?"

The major had made a dashing run to Dover, where he had spent an hour at the newspaper office, looking into the history of Lady Crieff. He was now in full possession of all the details, including the value of the Crieff collection.

"Truth to tell, Major, it was something else that was bothering me. The jeweler from London should be here by now. I begin to wonder if he has changed his mind, after having me come all this way to meet him. I don't know what I shall do if he does not come."

"Have you thought over my offer?"

She gave a small, trusting smile. “You are so kind, but truly I could not let the jewels out of my possession for only five thousand pounds. They are worth twenty times that. Who is to say you would not be robbed on your way to Paris? I shall just take them to London and try my luck there."

"If you mistrust me-and you are quite right to mistrust a stranger's ingenuity, if not his honesty-you could come to France with me,” he said.

She gave a gasp of alarm. “Major Stanby! I could not travel about with a gentleman! What would people think?"

"You misunderstand me, my dear. I meant you could hire a chaperon and accompany me. In that manner, you would see I do not plan to run off with your fortune.” He gave a disparaging laugh at such an idea. “Have you ever been to Paris?"

"No, I have never even been to London."

"You were made for Paris, and Paris for you. It is delightful."

She had to talk this idea away and said, “I do not speak French. I would not be comfortable there. I would prefer to deal with an honest Englishman."