Free Regency Masquerade by Joan Smith Page B

David has an uncle who is his legal guardian. He would have managed Penworth. Cousin Vera thought we might like a holiday away from home. I did not mean ‘live’ in the sense of move here permanently.”
    “I see.” Yet she had said “live here,” in no uncertain terms.
    Moira was glad when the carriage rattled to a stop and the groom hopped down to open the door. Jonathon was right behind him.
    “By Jove, that was something like! Cooper let me take the reins—he held on, too, but I was driving.”
    “Best take off Mr. Hartly’s coat before we go in,” Moira said.
    Jonathon did so and picked up the basket. It was clear Lady Marchbank had been awaiting their arrival, for she was at the door herself to greet them. Moira searched her mind in vain for a memory of this relative. She knew Lady Marchbank had visited her parents fifteen years earlier, but there had been many relatives visiting in those days. She was looking at a stranger: a tall, raw-boned elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned lace cap with lappets hanging over her ears. She had a large nose, not unlike Jonathon’s, but it seemed more prominent on a lady. Her gray eyes were moist with tears.
    She threw her arms around Moira and kissed her on both cheeks. “A beauty! You have grown into a beauty! I knew it would be so when I first laid eyes on you a decade and a half ago.” She turned to Jonathon. “And this is little David,” she said, with a sly eye at Moira, as if to say, “See, I remembered not to call him Jon.” Then she turned to Hartly. “Now this lad I do not remember. Is he your cousin Jeremy, Bonnie?” The journals had not given Lady Crieff’s first name. They had selected Bonnie as appropriately Scottish.
    “This is Mr. Hartly, a gentleman who is staying at the inn and has given us a drive here,” Moira explained hastily. She should have sent Cousin Vera a note to alert her to this change of plans.
    Hartly bowed.
    “So kind of you,” Lady Marchbank said to him. “But why are we standing on the doorstep? Come in, come in. I have had Crook prepare us a dandy tea. How is that for a name, eh? My cook is called Crook. I always call her Crook. She hates it.” On this ill-natured speech she emitted a tinny laugh.
    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