"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 cause a fuss by bringing Hartly to her table. That would get March's attention. She looked at the wine, then at Hartly. She nodded and smiled her acceptance with great condescension.
"Pray ask the gentleman if he would care to join us for a glass of his wine,” she said to Wilf.
Hartly did not bother with the charade of pretending he had not heard her, thus requiring Wilf to repeat the message. He rose and went to the table, bowed, and said, “How very kind of you, ma'am, but I have already finished dinner and am having coffee. I overheard your complaint of Bullion's wine. I take the precaution of traveling with my own. I am Daniel Hartly, by the by."
"What a clever idea, Mr. Hartly! Why did we not bring our own from Penworth Hall, David? I am sure Sir Aubrey's cellar was always well stocked. Oh, you have not met my stepson, Mr. Hartly. Sir David Crieff.” Jonathon bowed. “And I am Lady Crieff,” she added, with a little laugh. “David's stepmama! Is it not ridiculous? Of course, Sir Aubrey was decades older than I. Which is not to say I married him for his blunt,” she added firmly.
"There is no need to inquire why the late Sir Aubrey married you, Lady Crieff,” Hartly replied, as his eyes wandered over her face, and lower to enjoy a quick appreciation of her bosoms. He saw there was no need for subtlety. The lovely lady, alas, was as common as dirt.
"Oh, fie!” She smiled, flapping her fingers at him. “I wager you say that to all the ladies, Mr. Hartly."
"No indeed! Only to the married ones whose beauty merits it."
"Now there is a handsome compliment indeed. I see you will want watching, sir."
While she chattered, a part of her mind was running in a different direction. Hartly had wasted no time rushing to meet her. He seemed intent on emptying the butter boat on her. Was his aim merely to seduce a young widow, or was he playing a deeper game, one that involved Lionel March?
Hartly bowed. “I shall try to behave. I am charmed to make your acquaintance-at last."
"At last?” she asked, frowning. “Why, you sound as if-"
"Every minute seems an hour when one awaits a treat,” he said, coming to her rescue. Hartly expected a simpering smile at this trite compliment and was surprised to see a flash of amusement instead. Amusement and intelligence. By God, the hoyden was laughing at him. “Are you staying long at Owl House Inn?” he asked.
"A few days. It depends. And you, Mr. Hartly?"
"That also depends, madam."
Moira was disconcerted by his manner. His mischievous eyes suggested that his stay depended on how long she remained. She forced herself to play the flirt. Lady Crieff had not won a gouty squire twice her age by being backward, and she had to play her role to the hilt.
She allowed her long eyelashes to flutter coquettishly. “On what does it depend, Mr. Hartly, if I am not being too indiscreet to inquire?"
"On whether I find the company hereabouts congenial, ma'am,” he responded, gazing boldly into her eyes, until her cheeks felt warm. “I hope I have found one friend, at least,” he added.
"I hope so indeed. We shall see whether flattery is the quickest path to friendship."
Hartly said what was expected of him: “Flattery?” He went on to assure her in a voice of silken insincerity that it had been no such thing.
"Will you not bring your coffee to our table, sir?” she said. “I swear my neck is developing a crick, having to look up at you. It seems so uncivil, does it not, eating in a room with all these tables, and no one speaking to anyone else? What is the good of putting up at an inn if one is not to meet new gentle-new people?” She allowed her lashes to flutter enticingly.
"The perils of travel.” He nodded. “One dislikes to be standoffish, yet to force an acquaintance seems just a touch vulgar. I opted for vulgarity. I should be honored to join you."
Wilf, who had been listening shamelessly to this exchange, darted off for the coffee. Hartly sat in the vacant chair between Sir David and Lady Crieff.
Lady Crieff tried the wine and said, “I congratulate you on your taste. This is quite as good as what comes out of Sir Aubrey's cellar. Are you from these parts, Mr. Hartly?"
"No, from Devon. I am on holiday. I shall be going on to London to visit relatives when the spirit moves me."
She sighed. “How nice to be a footloose bachelor.” She let her voice rise a notch to indicate interest. “Or perhaps I am taking too much for granted to assume you are not married?” she asked.
"I am a bachelor. And where are you folks from?"
"Scotland."
"I own a great big sheep farm in the Moorfoot Hills,” Sir David boasted. “P'raps you have heard of it-Penworth Hall?"
"No, I have never been to Scotland. I hear it is beautiful. How large a flock do you have, Sir David?"
"Hundreds,” he said, looking helplessly to Lady Crieff.