"It is best not to interfere with the Gentlemen,” Ponsonby said firmly. “My friend, the Duke of Mersey, tried to run them off his beach. His dower house burned down the next night. He took the hint. The Gentlemen do not fool around. And that was only a small smuggling gang. Here at Blaxstead it stands to reason they would be vicious.” He shivered and took another sip.

"I wonder if he would be interested in taking on a partner, though,” Stanby said. “Add another ship or two to his fleet. I happen to have a good bit of cash standing idle at the moment from my operations in Canada."

Hartly came to rigid attention; so did Ponsonby, though no one noticed it.

Stanby continued, “I was there during the war of ‘12. Before leaving the country, I bought up certain tracts of lumber and some fur-trading routes. They have proved profitable. What I miss is the excitement of soldiering. I should not mind taking a small active part in the Black Ghost's operation."

"Ah, my good sir, you are an ossifer and a gen'leman,” Ponsonby said, becoming noticeably bosky. “Is that where you got your finger chopped off-in Canada?” He stared at the finger, his blue eyes glazed with drink. “No harm to ask, eh? Odd-looking thing, like a little bald head. Heh heh."

"I wish I could say an Indian took it off with an arrow,” the major replied, “but it was nothing so heroic. It got frostbitten and became infected. The sawbones felt there was some danger of gangrene, with a possibility of losing the whole hand. In the wilds of Canada, as we were, there were no proper hospital facilities, so the doctor did not want to operate. ‘Chop it off!’ I told him. ‘It will not stop me from using my Brown Bess.’ Nor did it."

Ponsonby listened as one entranced. “You are a hero, Major. ‘Chop it off!’ By God, that could not have been pleasant."

"I was one of the fortunate ones,” the major said modestly. “Others lost a whole limb."

Moira listened, her lips curled cynically. He had told Mama he got his finger caught in a mantrap, while releasing a young boy who had straggled into it. It had probably been shot off by someone who had caught him dealing shaved cards. His vanity invented these heroic feats to impress his listeners.

"You have led a life of action,” Ponsonby said wistfully, “while I have lingered in the fleshpots of Babylon. I say, lads, this smuggling-there would be the life, eh? On the open seas."

Hartly listened closely, without commenting. The item of major interest to him was that Stanby's pockets were full-that was good news. If it proved impossible to relieve Stanby of fifteen thousand at cards, he might put this smuggling business to some use. It would not be hard to pose as the Black Ghost, a gentleman no one had ever seen. Or Gibbs, his batman, could do it. Stanby was no flat, however. He would want proof that he was getting his money's worth before turning over fifteen thousand pounds to anyone, even the Black Ghost.

During a lull in the conversation, Hartly rose and announced his intention of retiring.

Ponsonby staggered to his feet to bid him farewell. “Run along, then,” he said, his loose smile stretching wide. “Major Shtanby and I have business to discush. Damn, stand still. Why are you weaving-” He happened to glance to the grate and espied Moira sitting quietly there, reading. He froze to the spot, like a pointer on the scent of game. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Now there is what I call a comely wench!"

Chapter Five

Ponsonby began to stagger in her direction. “A wench! By God, I shall have a warm bed tonight."

Moira looked up, her eyes wide with interest. “Go away!” she said firmly, as he fell onto the sofa beside her. “David!"

Jonathon gamely put his hand on Ponsonby's shoulder. “I say, old man. You had best move on. This is Lady Crieff."

"And I, sir, am an oss-no, that is the major. I am someone important. I remember that much.” His bleary gaze turned to devour Moira. “By God, you are a beauty, madam. Will you marry me?” He reached out and grasped her shoulders, while Jonathon struggled to pull him away.

Hartly and Stanby moved in and took hold of him.

"It might be best if you leave, Lady Crieff,” Stanby said. “Ponsonby is a trifle disguised.” He turned to Hartly. “You accompany Lady Crieff to her room, Hartly. Bullion and I will see that Ponsonby gets to bed."

It occurred to Hartly that Sir David could accompany Lady Crieff safely upstairs. The lady did not suggest it, however. She turned her sparkling eyes on Hartly and said, “What riffraff one meets in a place like this. Thank heaven there is one gentleman present."

"Lady Crieff?” he said, offering her his arm.

"My hero!” She laughed and placed her dainty fingers on his arm.

"I am the one who held Ponsonby off!” Jonathon exclaimed indignantly.

"So you did. Run along, David,” she said, dismissing him without a word of thanks. “It is past your bedtime."

Jonathon appeared accustomed to doing as he was told. He ran upstairs without arguing.

Lady Crieff turned a flirtatious smile on her hero. “I should not have stayed in the Great Room,” she said, “but it was so lonely and boring in my room, with nothing to do. And it is not as though I were a young deb. I was a married lady for three years. As a widow, I am allowed some leeway, do you not think, Mr. Hartly?"

"Certainly, madam, but perhaps a little discretion is advised in future. The other ladies left the room an hour ago."

She made a moue, while gazing invitingly into his eyes. “You think I am horrid. It is very lonesome being a widow, Mr. Hartly,” she said. “I had to watch my p's and q's at Penworth Hall. You have no idea how the old cats squeal if you look sideways at a gentleman. But I had thought that here I might be a little freer."

They reached her door. Moira was eager to escape, but she doubted that Lady Crieff would dismiss a handsome young gentleman so swiftly. Besides, this was a perfect opportunity to quiz him a little, to discover what he was up to.

"Would you think I was very fast if I invited you into my sitting room for a glass of wine, Mr. Hartly? David will be in the next room. We could leave the door open."

Hartly assumed the lady was open for dalliance. A widow, after all, and not a very cautious one, to judge by her behavior. “If you promise you won't seduce me, Lady Crieff,” he replied, with a rakish smile that made a mockery of the words.

She said archly, “Why, Mr. Hartly! I would not have the least notion how to set about it, I promise you."

"Pity,” he murmured.

Moira gave a nervous gurgle of laughter and unlocked the door. The lamps were burning in the sitting room. A bottle of wine and glasses sat on the sofa table beside the grate. She made a commotion about unlocking David's door, but Hartly noticed she did not actually leave it open.

"I shall be right in here with Mr. Hartly, David,” she said. “We shan't disturb you. Do not forget to brush your teeth. Sleep tight, dear."

Then she went to the sofa. Hartly had already poured the wine. He lifted his glass in a toast. “That is that!” she said, and sat down beside him. “I try to be a mother to the boy, since he has lost his papa. He is a good lad. Not terribly bright, you know, but good-hearted."

"And discreet, I trust?” he asked, glancing to the closed door.

She gave a coy glance. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Hartly? I am sure I would never do anything that would ruin my reputation."

"When you are in Scotland, you mean?"

She sniffed. Mr. Hartly was beginning to examine her in a predatory way. She decided it was time to begin her quizzing.

"What do you think of Major Stanby?” she asked in a casual manner.

"I know virtually nothing of the man. I met him only today. I do not think you need worry about him, but I should avoid having much to do with young Ponsonby if I were you."

Ponsonby was of no interest to her. “He has come far from home-the Lake District. Major Stanby, I mean."

"But not so far as yourself."

She bit her lip in uncertainty. She had no wish to show she doubted Stanby's account of himself, yet it would be interesting to hear what Hartly had to say about his blunder.

"It is odd that he does not know the lake made famous by the poets. It is Grasmere, not Windermere.” She looked at Hartly. He just shrugged. “But then a major would not be much interested in poetry."

"And he has been out of the country besides,” Hartly mentioned. Of more interest to him was that Lady Crieff had ever heard of the Lake poets. “Are you interested in poetry, Lady Crieff?"

She swiftly raked her mind to consider what Lady Crieff's views on poetry might be. “Sir Aubrey had no interest in poetry. Except for Robbie Burns,” she added, naming the one Scottish poet that came to mind.

"But I was not speaking of your late husband; I was speaking of you,” he said.

"Why, you must know it is a wife's duty to like what her husband likes, Mr. Hartly."

"Perhaps-while her husband is alive,” he said, gazing into her silver eyes.

An air of tension began to build as the silence stretched between them. A dozen vague thoughts whirled through Hartly's mind. It was Stanby who had suggested he accompany Lady Crieff abovestairs. Was that a clumsy attempt to throw them together? Was the lady about to initiate some scheme to empty his pockets? It was odd she had mentioned Stanby's blunder if she was his accomplice. And Stanby had openly questioned her respectability as well.

"But Sir Aubrey, alas, is gone now,” he said, reading her face for signs of her intentions. “And we are here."

"It is odd, our meeting here. And Standby putting up at a little out-of-the-way place like this as well,” she added casually.