They were led into a dim hallway that belonged in one of Mrs. Radcliffe's Gothic novels. A dark stairway curved sinuously at one end, to disappear in shadows. Antique portraits in aged frames glowered at them from the walls. A stuffed eagle was perched on a pedestal, wings spread, as if he were about to attack. His glass eyes glittered menacingly

"I say! Look at that, Lady Crieff!” Jonathon exclaimed. “Do you have a dungeon with chains and bones, Cousin Vera?"

"No, but we have a secret passage to the caves below. My husband's ancestors made their fortune smuggling wool in the old days. Oh, we are a wicked crew here, wicked!” She cackled like a witch.

Lady Marchbank led them into the main saloon, another tenebrous chamber with creaking Jacobean paneling and faded window hangings.

"There is no point trying to be stylish here,” she told them. “Between the damp sea air and the smoke from the grate, everything is destroyed. I had those window hangings put up only three years ago. Or was it five? No matter, they cost me a small fortune and looked like rags within a twelvemonth."

She bundled them onto a pair of sofas before the grate, where a few logs burned desultorily. “Danby! Danby, I say. I want my tea!” she hollered into the depths of the hallway beyond.

An aged butler appeared at the doorway. “Just coming, your ladyship,” he said, and vanished into the gloom.

"I have brought you the tablecloth I wrote about, cousin,” Moira said, handing Lady Marchbank the basket.

Lady Marchbank opened it with age-speckled hands. The knuckles were swollen, but she could move her fingers quite well. She drew out a large linen tablecloth, worked around the edges and down the center with intertwining vines and flowers in pale shades of green and gold.

"Oh, Bonnie! You shouldn't have! This is gorgeous. Much too fine for an old lady like me. We never entertain anyone who deserves this. I shall put it on my bed for a coverlet. That is what I shall do. If I put it on the table, John would only spill his brandy on it."

"I am glad you like it. Where is Cousin John?” Moira asked.

"Out and about somewhere. He will be back in time to meet you."

Hartly remembered that the excuse for not putting up with the Marchbanks was Lord Marchbank's ailing health, yet he was well enough to be up and about. Another small mystery. He was surprised to see that the wicker basket did not hold a padlocked case. He took a surreptitious peek into it while the ladies examined the tablecloth. The cloth had not filled the basket. There were newspapers folded up below it, obviously with something else beneath.

"We brought some preserves as well,” Moira mentioned. “The marmalade you like so much."

Lady Marchbank continued examining the cloth. “Such a lot of work. I don't know how you found time to do it, so busy as you must have been."

Moira knew the old lady was thinking of her real life-trying to make ends meet on the estate-and spoke up quickly to remind her of her role.

"I had a deal of help running Penworth Hall,” she said.

"Of course you did, but a young gel likes to ride and entertain and that sort of thing."

The tea tray arrived, a veritable feast, with a pigeon pie, cold cuts, bread and three kinds of cheese, a plum cake, and various sweets. It was impossible to do justice to it so soon after lunch.

After they had eaten, Hartly said, “I shall go out and have a walk along the beach while you cousins catch up on all the family gossip."

"I shall go with you,” Jonathon added. “I saw a nifty ship through the window. It looked as if it was coming into your dock, Cousin Vera."

The lady gave him a sharp look. “That would be Homer Guthrie's fishing smack. He stops here to let us choose what we want from his catch. I would not bother him if I were you, David. He is a testy old fellow. Why do you not take Mr. Hartly to see the stables? No, on second thought, that is not a good idea. One of the colts has been gelded and is in a bad mood… I have it! Take Mr. Hartly along the west cliff. You will get a pretty view of the cove there. Turn left when you go out the front door."

After they left, Lady Marchbank turned a laughing face to her remaining guest. “Gracious! I almost wish they were not going out, but then we could not talk in front of Hartly. John runs the smuggling hereabouts, you must know. Guthrie is bringing in a load now."

"Really! You mean Cousin John is the Black Ghost?"

"Good gracious, no. He is well past that sort of flying about at night. The Black Ghost is merely a goblin to frighten the simple village folks. It is John's nephew, Peter Masters, from Romney. He runs the operation there. He will take over the Blaxstead run as well when John retires. John has a cozy setup here, as he is the magistrate. No harm in it, eh?"

"It seems to be accepted by everyone except the government,” Moira conceded.

"It is all that keeps body and soul together for the local families. Of course, I would not like you to tell Hartly any of this. He might very well be a Revenueman sent down from London. They pull off those sly tricks from time to time."

"Oh, dear! Do you think that possible?” Moira exclaimed.

"There is no saying. Did you plan to make him your beau? I take it he does not know who you really are."

"He has no idea. He is just a man staying at the inn. He was asking for Major Stanby, which is why I am a little interested in him."

She gave a cagey smile. “He is monstrously handsome. An ex-officer, I take it?"

"Why, no, he said he has an estate in Devon."

"He walks like a soldier, and he has the swarthy complexion of the fellows returned from Spain. Returned officers have been given these plum jobs with the Revenue Service before. Keep an eye on him for us. John will want to know what he is up to. But if he was asking for Stanby, perhaps he is with Bow Street. The police must be onto the bounder by now."

"I had not thought of that!"

"Do not trust him until you learn for certain. Perhaps he is what they call a Corinthian, a sportsman, just having a holiday by the sea. Some of them turn a wretched tan color from being outdoors. Now, tell me all about your adventure. Have you hooked old Lionel March, the bounder?"

"I have scraped an acquaintance. In fact, I shall be standing up with him at an assembly at the inn this evening."

"Excellent! I shall be there. My presence will confirm that you are indeed Lady Crieff. Between us, we'll reel him in and gaff him. I think, Moira, that you ought to wear some real jewelry this evening."

"I have been wearing my diamond necklace."

"That is good, but to keep wearing one piece when you have a whole collection-it does not seem natural. I slipped the word to our junior footman that Lady Crieff is rich as a nabob and has a fabulous collection of jewelry. His sister works for Mrs. Abercrombie in Blaxstead, so the word will be out by now. I shall show you my jewelry, and you shall tell me if any of it matches items in the Crieff collection."

She led Moira to her bedroom, another large, ugly room, and took out a wooden box that she kept hidden in a hatbox. Her jewels were antiquated and were not a good match for the Crieff collection. There was one set of sapphires that might pass inspection.

"My ball gown is green,” Moira said. “I could not wear sapphires with it."

"But they are not so valuable as emeralds or diamonds. That might provide an excuse for wearing them at a public inn."

"I would be nervous having them at the inn, cousin."

"I shall take them home with me after the rout. How is that?"

"That should be safe enough,” Moira said.

She put the sapphires in her handkerchief in the bottom of her reticule and they returned belowstairs.

They refilled their teacups and settled in for a good cose.

Outside, Hartly did not turn left. He headed straight for the beach and the fishing smack. He had already observed that Cove House was ideally situated for smuggling. The ship at the dock was similar to the one that had stopped at Owl House to unload brandy, concealed beneath its cargo of mackerel. Lady Marchbank's feeble excuse for keeping them away from the stable suggested that the cargo was being transferred there. The only impediment to confirming this was David. He had to get rid of the lad, preferably in a manner that would not raise his suspicions.

"You did not think to ask your cousin about that cave,” he said. “That would be something to see. I daresay it would not be the thing to interrupt the ladies’ cose. Pity."

Jonathon stopped in his tracks. “You go on ahead, Mr. Hartly. I shall meet up with you later. I just remembered something I have to tell Cousin Vera. She wanted to know about… about what school I shall be going to next autumn."

He scooted off, leaving Hartly with another question. He had assumed Sir David was being educated at home with a tutor. But if so, why change the routine at this time, when his presence at Penworth would be useful? He was reaching the age when he should be learning about the management of his estate, especially with his papa dead.

A few other items bothered him as well. Lady Marchbank's reference to seeing Lady Crieff when she was a child suggested the relationship was with the girl's family, not Sir Aubrey's. It seemed unlikely that a simple shepherd from Scotland was related to Lady Marchbank. He wondered, too, what else the wicker basket contained besides the tablecloth.

These were matters he might best discover by watching and listening later. For the present, he wished to confirm that Cove House was being used for smuggling. Some highly placed people were involved, Bullion had said. Who, in the area, was more highly placed than Lord Marchbank? Was it possible old Marchbank was the infamous Black Ghost? Hartly meant to be back at Cove House in time to meet him.