It was discovered he had used various aliases and disguises in his career. He had been a black-haired sea captain with whiskers, a blond, cleanshaven gentleman farmer from America, an Irish horse breeder, and, on one occasion, a bishop. But the villain in each case had one physical characteristic he could not change: He was missing the tip of the small finger on his left hand.
It had taken four years of inquiry, letter writing, and scanning the journals for reports of his victims, and at last it had paid off. The determination to catch him had been all that had kept her going through the lean years of scrimping and trying to keep the Elms afloat. Lady Marchbank of Blaxstead, a second cousin of Mr. Trevithick, had seen a stranger missing the appropriate bit of finger in a shop in her village. She had followed him and learned he was staying at Owl House Inn, using the name Major Stanby.
As this was such an out-of-the-way spot, she assumed he was in hiding from his latest victim. She had kindly invited the Trevithicks to put up with her at Cove House, but Moira, who was in charge of the expedition, had elected to stay at the inn, as that would give her greater access to March.
Over the past four years, the strategy for recovering their money had changed with the times. It was only last year that Moira had read the story of Lady Crieff, from Scotland. It seemed an aging baronet had married his shepherd's daughter, a female decades younger than himself. Upon his demise, the female had inherited an awesome collection of jewelry valued at one hundred thousand pounds. The reason the story had received such widespread attention had to do with the son, David, now Sir David Crieff. His lawyers had undertaken litigation to recover the jewels. As they were of more value than the family estate, the lawyers were claiming Sir Aubrey had been deranged when he had made the will. Naturally he would wish his son to be his major heir.
After scouring the journals for a month, Moira had discovered a short piece stating that the lawyers were endeavoring to settle the case of Crieff vs. Crieff out of court. The article did not say who would likely end up with the jewels; thus it was eligible to pretend that Lady Crieff had them and was on her way to London to sell them. Sir David, a mere stripling, would be under her sway. Of course, the sale would be illegal at this time, but Moira doubted Mr. March would be much concerned as to the rightful owner.
A few details had been given about the collection. There was a fabulous set of emerald necklace and ear pendants, a sapphire necklace, various diamonds, and a ruby ring. With this scanty description to guide her, Moira had purchased paste pieces similar to the Crieff jewels. Her own diamond necklace was to be the bait in the trap set for Stanby. In some manner, she meant to inveigle him into buying the collection of ersatz jewels with real money. Her diamond necklace was genuine, an heirloom left to her by her paternal aunt. Fortunately it had not been with her mama's jewels, and thus it had escaped Mr. March's grasping fingers.
Moira knew the scheme was fraught with peril, but what worried her most was Jonathon's ability to carry off the charade. He was clever enough and certainly eager, but so young. She was careful not to allow her doubts to show, but when she was alone in bed at night, she admitted reluctantly that perhaps she, at nineteen years, was no match for that hardened criminal, Lionel March. She might inadvertently make a slip. Of greater concern, March might abduct her to gain his ends. She would have to be constantly on her guard.
When she began gathering up her reticule and padlocked jewelry case, Jonathon said, “Are you ready, Lady Crieff?"
"Yes, let us go, Sir David. There, you see, we have both remembered our new names. Come along, David. I think I should call you David, without using your title. What do you think?"
"It sounds more natural, though I should like to be a sir. Should I call you Mama?"
Moira considered it a moment. “Would a young man call such a youthful stepmother Mama? I rather think Sir Aubrey would have encouraged it. But no, Lady Crieff would rule the roost, and she, I think, would prefer her title."
"As she was only a shepherd's daughter, you ought not to act too much like a lady, eh?"
"A young woman who would marry a much older man for his money would put on great airs once she had achieved her aim of becoming a lady. Mind you, Lady Crieff may slip into vulgarity from time to time, and drop a few aitches.” She tapped the window to summon the groom to let down the stairs.
"Do I look all right, David?” she asked.
His blue eyes traveled from her feathered bonnet to her dark green sarcenet mantle and gloved hands. He was happy to see Moira dressed up as she ought to be.
"Like a duchess, madam,” he replied.
The groom, a faithful family retainer who was aware of the charade, opened the door and let down the steps for the Crieffs to alight. Moira handed him a padlocked jewelry case. The passengers looked all around, hoping for a sight of Mr. March. He was not to be seen, but a new object of interest arrived at that instant.
A dashing yellow curricle drawn by a pair of matched grays drove up smartly beside them. A groom from the inn came running forth. The man tossed him the reins and descended from his perch. He looked at the Trevithicks’ carriage with considerable interest. That interest, of course, was centered on the incomparable Moira. When he stopped in his tracks and stared at her in admiration, Jonathon felt a twinge of apprehension.
Moira noticed the gentleman, too, and thought he was something out of the ordinary. She allowed herself a swift examination. His face had the weathered complexion of the sportsman, and his eyes were the flashing eyes of mischief. He was outfitted in the highest kick of fashion, from the curled beaver tilted rakishly over one eye to the toe of his shining Hessians. A jacket of blue Bath cloth clung to his broad shoulders, displaying an intricate cravat and a waistcoat striped in yellow and mulberry. A malacca cane and York tan gloves completed his ensemble. She had not expected to encounter so much elegance at a small village inn.
He lifted his hat as Moira passed. A cap of black hair was briefly visible before the curled beaver resumed its place. Moira's instinct was to snub this fast behavior. She caught herself just in time. She was no longer Moira Trevithick; she was that dashing creature, Lady Crieff. She cast a flirtatious smile over her shoulder as David held the inn door for her to enter.
The gentleman honored her with an answering smile and a bow. It was no ordinary smile. Moira read its message as clearly as if he had spoken it. He admired her; he was eager for her acquaintance-and he seemed the sort of gentleman who would go after what he wanted buckle and thong.
"Watch your step,” Jonathon said.
Moira stole another peek at the gentleman. He was still staring at her. The predatory gleam in his eye sent shivers up her spine.
When they were inside, Jonathon said, “By the living jingo, did you see that team of grays? Blood prads! I wager they were doing sixteen miles an hour. Wouldn't I love to get my hands on the ribbons."
Before Moira could reply, the inn door opened and the same gentleman entered. He followed them to the desk. While Moira entered their names in the registry, the man spoke to the clerk. “Do you have a Major Stanby staying with you?” he asked, in a deep, masculine voice.
"Why, yes, sir,” the innkeeper replied. “He has taken the northeast suite at the back of the inn. He has stepped out, however. We are expecting him back for dinner."
The name Major Standby caused Moira and Jonathon to exchange a meaningful glance. She shook her head slightly to let Jonathon know he was not to speak. Her fingers trembled, but in the twinkling of a bedpost she had recovered and continued registering while the man talked to the clerk. David took the jewelry case from the groom and led Moira upstairs.