Regency Masquerade Read Online Free PDF Page A

as if she were dancing on coals. Her face was pale as paper. Did Stanby have some hold over her? The glazed look in her eyes was fear. Daniel had seen enough of it in his young soldiers in the Peninsula to recognize it. Fear and loathing. If she was indeed working with Stanby, she was not doing it willingly. His interest quickened.
    He noticed that young Sir David displayed a monstrous interest in Stanby. What was he staring at? Hartly followed the line of his gaze and saw that Stanby had at last revealed the interesting digit. He was just taking up his fork, and for a brief instant, the small finger showed its mutilation.
    It hardly accounted for the young lad’s triumphant smile, or the way he poked his stepmama. His words were not audible, but as Lady Crieff’s eyes immediately flew to Stanby’s left hand, it was obvious what had been said. Was it merely childish curiosity at this irregularity that had caught Sir David’s interest? If they were cohorts of Stanby, they would have been aware of it sooner.
    “It is him!” Jonathon whispered. “I saw the finger.”
    “I told you it was. I have not a single doubt of it. His hair is lighter, and he has added a few pounds, but it is certainly March. I could never be mistaken about those eyes.”
    They were a dull cabbage green, with a sly look in them. If he had any lashes, they were colorless. Moira was unprepared for the storm of emotions that washed over her upon seeing her enemy again. It brought back the awful desolation following her mother’s death, and the final injury of learning he had run off with the family fortune. She wanted to jump up and attack him physically as he sat calmly sipping his wine. It would take every ounce of her self-control to smile at this demon and pretend she did not hate him. But whatever it took, she would do it.
    Her eyes moved to Hartly. He had just finished his apple tart and sat back, sipping his coffee, quite ignoring Stanby. Hartly looked well satisfied with his dinner. Moira could not even remember what she had eaten. Glancing at her plate, she saw that the tender, pink roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and peas had hardly been tasted. What a waste—and she had paid a pretty penny for that dinner. Her whole enterprise was being run on a shoestring; she had no pennies to spare.
    Her mind soon turned to more interesting things. At last she had run Lionel March to ground, and her next step was to make contact with him. She had to draw his attention in some manner. It was time for Lady Crieff to begin cutting up.
    “This wine is quite horrid,” she announced in a clear, carrying voice, pushing her glass away.
    “Let us have champagne,” Sir David suggested once more.
    “Certainly not. It is much too—you are much too young,” she replied.
    Hartly, listening, wondered about that speech. It is much too—what? Champagne was not stronger than claret. But it was a deal more expensive. Were the Crieffs not so wealthy as the title suggested? The carriage they arrived in had been old but of good quality. The team of four was stout and well matched. The youngsters were rigged out in the highest kick of fashion, yet they traveled without servants. That was deuced odd. The girl at least ought to have a woman.
    The young servant called Wilf, a slender boy with red hair, appeared at Hartly’s elbow. “Could I bring you another bottle, sir?” he asked.
    “No, I am finished. But perhaps the lady would like a bottle of my private stock,” he said, indicating Moira. “I fear she is not happy with your wine. My man has had a dozen bottles placed with you. Pray give one to the lady, with my compliments.”
    The wine was duly delivered to the table. Moira’s instinct was to reject it. She had to make her decision quickly. She could either accept, and further the acquaintance with Hartly, or she could refuse it, and make an enemy of him. Worse, she would give March the notion she was not approachable. She felt Lady Crieff would accept and