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.
Chapter Twelve
The small plaster over Lady Crieff's left eye was not disfiguring, but it was noticeable enough to cause talk when she appeared in the Great Room the next morning. Mr. Hartly, in particular, stared at it in alarm. It couldn't be! Lady Crieff had no reason to be in the tunnel last night. It could only be a coincidence. Yet one of the men had been noticeably small, the other tall, like David. Good lord, had he inadvertently beaten a lady?
Major Stanby was the first to offer his sympathy. He had come down to breakfast early and was leaving the room as Lady Crieff and Sir David entered.
"My dear Lady Crieff! What happened? I trust you were not seriously hurt!"
"A mere bump, Major. I left the door of my clothespress ajar and walked into it last night. One is not accustomed to such cubbyholes of rooms."
"I hope you called in a doctor. A bump on the head can be serious,” he said, all concern.
"I would not let a country sawbones near me,” she said scornfully. “I patched myself up, with David's help."
"I am happy to hear it is not serious. Still, it is a shame to have even a millimeter of that exquisite face covered,” he said, gazing at her with his gooseberry eyes until she wanted to scream.
She simpered. “Too kind."
"You must take it easy today. A quiet read by the grate. I shall be happy to bear you company this afternoon. I shall dart out this moment and see what magazines are available in the shops to amuse you."
She thanked him and continued toward her table. Ponsonby was the next one to offer sympathy.
"Milady! What ill has befallen you? I tremble at the sight of that plaster-and on your face, too. Why could you not have bumped your elbow? A bruise there could easily be hidden by a judicious arrangement of the shawl."
"Why, Mr. Ponsonby, you give me the idea you are interested only in a lady's appearance,” she said coolly.
"Until I have had the pleasure of plumbing your soul, madam, I can take my pleasure only in admiring your exquisite beauty."