"As she was only a shepherd's daughter, you ought not to act too much like a lady, eh?"

"A young woman who would marry a much older man for his money would put on great airs once she had achieved her aim of becoming a lady. Mind you, Lady Crieff may slip into vulgarity from time to time, and drop a few aitches.” She tapped the window to summon the groom to let down the stairs.

"Do I look all right, David?” she asked.

His blue eyes traveled from her feathered bonnet to her dark green sarcenet mantle and gloved hands. He was happy to see Moira dressed up as she ought to be.

"Like a duchess, madam,” he replied.

The groom, a faithful family retainer who was aware of the charade, opened the door and let down the steps for the Crieffs to alight. Moira handed him a padlocked jewelry case. The passengers looked all around, hoping for a sight of Mr. March. He was not to be seen, but a new object of interest arrived at that instant.

A dashing yellow curricle drawn by a pair of matched grays drove up smartly beside them. A groom from the inn came running forth. The man tossed him the reins and descended from his perch. He looked at the Trevithicks’ carriage with considerable interest. That interest, of course, was centered on the incomparable Moira. When he stopped in his tracks and stared at her in admiration, Jonathon felt a twinge of apprehension.

Moira noticed the gentleman, too, and thought he was something out of the ordinary. She allowed herself a swift examination. His face had the weathered complexion of the sportsman, and his eyes were the flashing eyes of mischief. He was outfitted in the highest kick of fashion, from the curled beaver tilted rakishly over one eye to the toe of his shining Hessians. A jacket of blue Bath cloth clung to his broad shoulders, displaying an intricate cravat and a waistcoat striped in yellow and mulberry. A malacca cane and York tan gloves completed his ensemble. She had not expected to encounter so much elegance at a small village inn.

He lifted his hat as Moira passed. A cap of black hair was briefly visible before the curled beaver resumed its place. Moira's instinct was to snub this fast behavior. She caught herself just in time. She was no longer Moira Trevithick; she was that dashing creature, Lady Crieff. She cast a flirtatious smile over her shoulder as David held the inn door for her to enter.

The gentleman honored her with an answering smile and a bow. It was no ordinary smile. Moira read its message as clearly as if he had spoken it. He admired her; he was eager for her acquaintance-and he seemed the sort of gentleman who would go after what he wanted buckle and thong.

"Watch your step,” Jonathon said.

Moira stole another peek at the gentleman. He was still staring at her. The predatory gleam in his eye sent shivers up her spine.

When they were inside, Jonathon said, “By the living jingo, did you see that team of grays? Blood prads! I wager they were doing sixteen miles an hour. Wouldn't I love to get my hands on the ribbons."

Before Moira could reply, the inn door opened and the same gentleman entered. He followed them to the desk. While Moira entered their names in the registry, the man spoke to the clerk. “Do you have a Major Stanby staying with you?” he asked, in a deep, masculine voice.

"Why, yes, sir,” the innkeeper replied. “He has taken the northeast suite at the back of the inn. He has stepped out, however. We are expecting him back for dinner."

The name Major Standby caused Moira and Jonathon to exchange a meaningful glance. She shook her head slightly to let Jonathon know he was not to speak. Her fingers trembled, but in the twinkling of a bedpost she had recovered and continued registering while the man talked to the clerk. David took the jewelry case from the groom and led Moira upstairs.

They had hired two bedrooms, with a sitting room between for their mutual use. It was the best suite the inn had to offer, but it was by no means elegant. The ceiling slanted sharply at the edges of the rooms. The chambers were clean and bright, however, with a view of the estuary from the windows. The uneven plank floors were partly covered with a braided rug. Moira's bed had a simple cambric canopy and an oval mirror above the toilet table.

"It ain't exactly like home,” Jonathon said doubtfully

"It looks comfortable enough, though I daresay Lady Crieff will find a few items to complain about.” This settled, she discussed more interesting matters. “It seems Major Stanby has picked up an accomplice since he bilked us out of our fortune. I knew from the way that fellow was grinning at me that he was up to no good."

"Very likely you are right,” Jonathon agreed, “although to be fair, you grinned at him first. We do not know he is working with Mr. March, just because he was inquiring for him."

"That is true. March has always worked alone in the past."

"P'raps the word is out that March is setting up a game of cards. You know cheating at cards is another of his tricks. We ought to warn Mr. Hartly."

"Is that his name?” Moira asked. “Sharp of you to have noticed, Jon-David."

"That is the name he gave the innkeeper. I should love to have a ride in that curricle."

"No need to rush things. We shall keep an eye on Hartly. He might prove useful. One never knows how things will turn out."

"I hope they turn out so that I get behind that team."

"I wonder if they have assemblies at this inn,” Moira said, with a pensive look. “Don't look at me like that, David. I have no intention of throwing my bonnet at Mr. Hartly, but it would be an unexceptionable way to meet March and also become a little acquainted with Mr. Hartly, to discover what he is doing here, asking for Stanby."

She said no more, but it occurred to her that if he was not Stanby's colleague, he might be willing to become hers. She would feel a deal safer with a strong, older masculine ally.

"Do you mean to set up a flirtation with Hartly?"

"No, that would be too obvious.” Then she added with a sly smile, “But I might let him set up one with me, if he has a mind to."

"That sounds vulgar enough for Lady Crieff, taking up with a stranger. Pity I am not the one who must be vulgar. I could do it better than you."

"We shall see about that! I can tie my garter in public as well as the next hussy. Now, where should we hide the jewels?"

"You could ask the innkeeper to put them in his safe. Or shall I do it?"

"You do it, and make a show of concern for their safety. Wait until he is alone, and tell him the case is very valuable."

"So it is-to us. We hope to exchange this collection of glass for our fortune."

He picked up the padlocked case and went whistling downstairs.

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?"