"Yes, I shall write, Mr. Hartly,” she said.

A look of gentle satisfaction settled on his face. “I consider that a promise. And by the by, my friends call me Daniel. It is a family name I share with Lord Daniel Parrish."

The old Lady Crieff would have smiled boldly and made some pert remark. This Lady Crieff blushed and said, “We have not been acquainted very long to be using first names, Mr. Hartly."

"That will teach me to try to force a friendship on an unwilling lady. My lesson last night was not enough for me."

"Oh, I am not unwilling! And last night was not entirely your fault. I… I should not have invited you in for wine. I have never been alone at an inn before-without a proper chaperon, I mean. One forgets there are not butlers or footmen about. I have been thinking about last night, and realize I should have been more careful. Using first names seems a little fast."

Her explanation satisfied Hartly's lingering doubts. A greenhead of a girl might very well be unaware of the danger in inviting a man into her room. Lady Crieff had not the advantage of a proper upbringing, but he felt her instincts were genteel.

"I look forward to calling you Bonnie, and hearing you call me Daniel, but we shall withhold first names until we meet again in London."

It was not until that moment that Moira realized she was, in fact, not going to London. She and Jonathon would return to the Elms, and she would never see Mr. Hartly again. It lent a bittersweet quality to the dance.

"When, exactly, are you leaving?” she asked, rather sadly.

He studied her for a moment, then said, “Do you know, I begin to think I shall prolong my stay a little."

"Oh, no! Please, you must not do so on my account.” What had she done? He had been on the point of leaving, and she had induced him to remain, where he would create endless mischief for the Marchbanks, discovering even more details of the smuggling.

His eyebrows rose. “Well, now I am the one who feels you are trying to be rid of me."

"You must not change your plans on my account. I will not hear of it. Lord Daniel is expecting you."

"No, he is not. I shall call on him when I arrive, but he is not waiting on tenterhooks for me. I shall stay."

He wondered at her reaction-more resigned than happy.

Lady Crieff played the flirt with Stanby when she stood up with him. It was Stanby who had brought her to Blaxstead, and she was not about to lose sight of the fact, even though her mind kept harking back to Hartly.

Stanby said, “I have been thinking over what you told me, about selling your jewelry, Lady Crieff. Of course, it belongs to you by rights, but the law takes little account of rights."

"I know it well,” she said grimly.

"If the pieces show up in London, they will be traced back to the jeweler, and eventually to you. Selling what does not legally belong to you is a hanging crime."

"But they are mine! I must sell them! I have not a sou to my name."

"My idea is that you place them with someone who could peddle them abroad for you."

"I need the money now. And how could I trust this ‘someone'? I know no one who travels abroad."

"You know me,” he said simply. “As to your needing money now, I could let you have-say, five thousand, in advance."

So that was his game, the sly rogue! “You are very kind, Major, and naturally I am not calling your character into question, but the fact is, I do not know you all that well."

He smiled benignly. “Time will remedy that, Lady Crieff. There is no immediate rush."

The major's arms felt like a serpent winding around her. Her flesh crawled, to see his gooseberry eyes alight with greed. She was vastly relieved when the dance was over.

Mr. Ponsonby claimed the next dance. He was a dead bore, but at least he was not Lionel March. Although Ponsonby had made a game of drinking water since yesterday, it was soon apparent that he had been consuming a deal of brandy or wine as well. Both his speech and his dancing were erratic.

The blazing grate and the heated bodies raised the temperature of the Great Room to an uncomfortable degree. The caterwauling of the fiddles and cello pounded in her ears.

It seemed an age before the dancing was over, and the party sat down to a late-night dinner at tables hastily assembled by the servants. Lady Marchbank had gathered her own chums at her table, thus making it impossible for Hartly to join them.

It was while they were eating that Lady Marchbank leaned aside and said to Jonathon, “I see Hartly has skipped out. Now where the deuce could he be? Would you mind taking a scout about to see what he is up to?"

Jonathon excused himself and left at once. Lady Marchbank leaned aside and said to Moira, “Hartly is not among us. Jon has gone to have a look for him."

Moira felt a chill seize her. If worst came to worst and Hartly discovered the smuggling game, she would have to beg him not to report it. If she had any influence with him, she must use it to save the Marchbanks.

Chapter Ten

No one paid much attention to a youngster like Jonathon. He slipped away from the table and upstairs to tap on Hartly's door. When there was no answer, he darted down to the taproom. Seeing no sign of Hartly, he headed for the front door with a wave to Bullion.

"Just going to see if Firefly is bedded down right and tight,” he said.

"That's a fine bit o’ blood.” Bullion grinned. He believed in keeping his smart clients in curl.

Jonathon did go to the stable. He saw that Hartly's curricle and carriage were both in place. The old jade Bullion had hired as a mount stood in her stall, so wherever Hartly was, he must be close by, for he was on foot.

His next destination was the estuary. The weather conspired to lend his search the whiff of danger. A pale sliver of moon shone in a charcoal sky. Ragged clouds hid the glory of the stars. Mist lay low on the ground and over the dark water, which lapped menacingly against the shore. Three fishing smacks were at anchor, but no ships moved through the mist.

The moisture-laden air felt soft as a woman's fingers against his skin. Jonathon peered along the shoreline but could see no sign of his quarry. Remembering that a ship had docked behind the inn the night before, he worked his way around to the back. His black slippers moved noiselessly over the soft ground.

The rear of the inn was a jumble of crates and boxes, of dustbins and cast-off lumber. Hartly, or worse-a Gentleman-could be concealed behind any one of them. Jonathon had heard tales of the vicious stunts employed by the Gentlemen in the last century. Stuffed anyone who interfered with them down a rabbit hole headfirst and locked him in with a forked branch between his legs. Even a slit throat was not beyond them. His heart hammered with excitement as he peered around the various mounds of refuse.

He was about to advance when he thought of a better idea. It would be possible to see the rear of the inn from the inside, through the kitchen window. He would go and compliment the foul-tempered Cook, tell her how much he had enjoyed her lobster patties. With this plan to save face, he darted around to the front again.

As he hastened along, he noticed a ladder leaning against the wall. Surely that had not been there when he passed the first time, or he would have noticed it. He glanced up and saw it went to one of the windows. He had caught a thief red-handed! Before he went hollering for help, he stopped a moment to consider which room the ladder was at. It was not his or Moira's, at least.

Theirs were on the other side. This would be either Hartly's, Stanby's, or Ponsonby's. It was the window closest to the rear. Jonathon felt a certain sympathy for anyone preying on Stanby. He would not like to land a poor farmer in jail for lifting that bleater's tiepin.

He crouched behind a thorn bush and watched. E'er long, a smallish pair of legs came out the window, seeking the ladder. The feet were encased in a gentleman's evening slippers. The legs were followed by a body and head that Jonathon soon recognized as Ponsonby's. No one could possibly be afraid of Ponsonby. Jonathon came forth from the bush and said firmly, “Caught you dead to rights, Ponsonby. Hand over whatever you have stolen and I shan't call the constable."

Surprised by the voice, Ponsonby lost his grip and fell the last four feet to the ground. He looked up with a bleary smile.

"Sir David. Good evening to you, sir. Forgot my key on my toilet table when I left my room. Just recovering it. Here we are."

He rose on unsteady legs, dipped into his pocket, and pulled out the key. “Right where I left it. I wonder, now, would you assist me to my room?"

"Disguised, as usual,” Jonathon said, shaking his head.

Jonathon assisted him into the inn but let him stagger upstairs by himself. He had more important things to do. He went directly to the kitchen, where a frazzled Maggie was up to her elbows in work.

"I just wanted to compliment you on that excellent dinner,” he said, with a winning smile.

Personal thanks from a guest was a new thing for Maggie Bullion. She had an occasional visit from dissatisfied customers complaining of tough roast beef or sour milk, but never a compliment. After she recovered from her shock, she said, “Why, thankee, sir. That is mighty civil of ye."

He looked around at the loads of dishes piled by the sink. “What a lot of work this is for you, Mrs. Bullion. Just look at those stacks of dishes."

"Aye, and every one of them will be clean before this body hits the tick. Sal, get filling that washbasin."

Wilf came darting in to request a refill of the sweets platter. Jonathon strolled nonchalantly to the tin trays piled with macaroons, tarts, and chantillies to help himself to a macaroon. While the servants worked, he peered out the window into the yard. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he discerned a man moving about, looking into crates and boxes. The man leaned over and lifted up what looked like a large, flat piece of wood roughly three feet square. When the man-it was Hartly-disappeared before his very eyes, Jonathon deduced that the piece of wood was a trapdoor, leading to a storage place for brandy.