"No, madam. You are out of your depth. I have it on the best authority that Lady Crieff-a redhead, by the by-is still in Scotland. The Crieff case has been settled amicably out of court. Such stunts as you are endeavoring to execute ought to be done hastily, before some suspicious soul begins to ask questions. You would have done better to try your game with me the evening you arrived, as you intended. What stopped you? Did you fear my pockets were not deep enough?"
He saw her blank stare of incomprehension. “You?"
"Do you deny you lured me to your chamber?"
"An unfortunate error. I mistook you for a gentleman."
"I was not so blind. I knew at a glance that you were no lady. Now, who the devil are you, and what is your game?"
"I am Lady Crieff,” she said.
"And I am King Louis of France. Your name is of no consequence in any case. You have two options. Either you give an account of yourself, or I tell Stanby the Crieff jewels are paste. You will find his affections are not so marble constant as you think. Charming as you are, Stanby will demand more than a pretty face in his mistress."
Color flooded her pale cheeks as that insult hit home. “For your information, he wants to marry me. At least I think-What has it to do with you, in any case? You do not fool me, Mr. Hartly. You are a Revenueman. It is Lord Marchbank you are investigating, not Lady Crieff."
"So you did plunder my dustbin. You really ought to have crumpled the letter up again. I am disappointed in you."
"What do you want?” she demanded, in a failing voice.
"I want-I demand-that you cease this charade. I am an officer of the law. It is true my job here has to do with smuggling, but I cannot in good conscience allow an upright citizen to be fleeced."
"Upright! The man is an outright scoundrel! You may feel differently after he has taken whatever money you have from you with shaved cards this evening."
"I thank you for the warning, but two wrongs do not make a right. You will cease this charade. It will be best if you leave the inn, quietly, without leaving a message for Stanby."
"No! I have waited too long. This is my only chance. You must understand, Mr. Hartly.” She looked at his implacable face and gave a resigned sigh. Hartly was an officer of the law, that same law that upheld Lionel March's right to steal Jonathon's estate and her dowry with impunity.
"I am not unaware that Major Stanby's character is flawed,” he said vaguely. “There have been minor incidents at the card table. One must take into account that he has spent his life defending the interests of his country. I do not wish to embarrass you, but the law is the law, and it is clearly your intention to break it. Do you have anywhere to go?"
With the possibility of being charged with a criminal offense hanging over her head, she was loath to reveal her identity. “No, and very little money."
"What of the Marchbanks?"
"They did not invite us to stay with them when we wrote, hinting,” she said, hoping to incite pity.
Hartly began pacing to and fro in the small room. He saw the headache powders on the bedside table. He saw her pale, troubled face and felt a troubling spasm of pity. Whoever she was, she could not possibly be as bad as Stanby. Let her stay, and have a go at him, after he and Rudolph had left. When he spoke again, his tone had softened to conciliation.
"Perhaps we can strike a bargain,” he said. Hartly expected to see gratitude and wondered at her angry frown.
"I will not give information against Lord Marchbank!” she declared angrily.
"I have no need of further evidence against him. He has become so complacent, the evidence is there, for anyone to see."
"What did you mean, then?"
"You may stay on here at the inn until you have made other arrangements. You may even continue your masquerade as Lady Crieff, but you must tell Stanby you have decided against selling the collection. Use that fertile imagination of yours. Say you have arranged to sell the collection elsewhere; say you have found a patron whose company does not give you the megrims, or say you have decided to keep the jewels. Such an accomplished liar as yourself will think of something."
Moira felt a sting at that charge of being an accomplished liar, but her mind was too busy to harp on it. She saw no point in remaining at the inn if she could not execute her scheme of getting her money back. She was about to say so when an idea occurred to her. She might yet arrange some deal with Stanby behind Hartly's back. Hartly would be busy chasing after the brandy and the Gentlemen. She had nothing to lose by remaining.
"Very well,” she said. “I agree. Thank you, Mr. Hartly"
"I expect you to keep your word, madam. Things will not go well for you if you do not."
Moira saw his scowling face through a mist of unshed tears. It seemed unfair that he could come storming down from London, carrying the full authority of the law with him, to destroy her life and Jonathon's, and she could not do a single thing about it but tug her forelock and say, “Yes, sir."
Lionel March was a lying, cheating, womanizing villain, but the law would defend him. The law sent a special envoy to try to stop Lord Marchbank. What real harm was he doing? He was an unsung hero to the starving poor of the countryside, but the law cared nothing for that. He had to be stopped. The law had to be maintained, for the good of villains like March.
"I understand,” she said.
Hartly knew he ought to be feeling triumphant. He had stopped this impostor dead in her tracks. Stanby's money would go back to its rightful owner. But what would become of the soi-distant Lady Crieff?
"What will you do after you leave here?” he asked.
"Perhaps I shall buy a pair of breeches and join the army. It seems a military background puts one above the law."
"And David? What of him?"
"You have got what you want, Mr. Hartly. Pray spare me the hypocrisy of pretending a concern you do not feel."
He bit back a sharp retort. “I can give you some money, if that is a problem."
"I am not sunk to charity. Good night."
She walked to the door and held it wide. Mr. Hartly strode out, wearing a face like a bear. He had only been trying to help her. Why did she look at him like that, as if he were vermin? Damn her eyes! Why did he feel guilty? It was her youth, and of course her beauty. She looked so terribly vulnerable, standing alone, with her shoulders sagging, as if she had lost her last friend. So different from the laughing, teasing girl who had come to the inn two days ago.
He was wasting his sympathy. Women like that could take care of themselves. She would rush her case of paste jewels and her stormy gray eyes off to some other corner of the country and start over again.
Chapter Sixteen
It was much later when Jonathon went abovestairs. Knowing Moira was not feeling well, he did not disturb her but went to his own room. Before lighting his lamp, he noticed a ribbon of light beneath the sitting-room door. He went in and saw her sitting with her chin in her hands, the very picture of despair.
Moira had had two hours to think over their situation and had concluded that they were defeated.
"It is all over, Jonathon,” she announced in a voice of doom. “Hartly knows we are not the Crieffs, he knows the collection is paste. He knows everything, except our real names. I would not tell him that. He has demanded that I tell Stanby the jewels are not for sale. If I do not, he will tell him everything and have us arrested into the bargain. I had no option but to agree. I wonder if he would be less concerned for Stanby's welfare if he knew the whole. Do you think I should tell him, and throw us on his mercy?"
Her news knocked Jonathon's own discovery out of his head. “The devil, you say. How did he find out?"
"He had someone checking up on us. It seems Lady Crieff is a redhead. She is still in Scotland."
"I wonder what put into his head to check up? No one else suspected anything."
"The man is a ferret. He weasels about with his sharp nose until he discovers everything. He knows all about Marchbank's operation. He will put him out of business as well."