Regency Masquerade Read Free Page A

doubt.”
    Bullion accepted this fatigued compliment with a smile. “Aye, sir. I may be lump gold, but I am twenty-four karat. If ye’d care for a sandwich in your room, or a bottle of wine, ye’ve only to give the bell chord a yank. As to your duds, the wife’s as good as a seamstress for mending up a tear or pressing a jacket.”
    “How very kind, but my valet will be joining me soon. Did Stanby give any idea how long he plans to stay?”
    “He’s hired his suite by the week, hasn’t he?”
    Mr. Hartly’s face eased into a smile. “That will be all for now, Bullion. Ah, one other thing. I shall require a private dining parlor for this evening.”
    Bullion’s craggy face wrinkled into a very mask of sorrow. “Now, there I must disoblige you, sir. We’re but a small establishment. I’ve one public room for commoners—farmers and such—and a Great Room for the Quality, like yourself. I could have dinner took up to your bedchamber—no trouble at all. Or I could put you in the corner of the Great Room, with a folding screen around the table. You’d never know you wasn’t alone in the world.”
    With a memory of the delightful young lady he had seen descending from her carriage, Hartly said, “No need to hide me in a corner, Bullion. I shall keep my face to the wall to prevent turning anyone’s stomach.” This was greeted with a bark of laughter from Bullion. “If you’d care to seat me next to Lady Crieff’s party, I should be obliged. The lady is not from these parts, I daresay?”
    “Scotland,” Bullion replied, pointing to the register. He looked about to see that no spies were listening, lifted his fingers to hide his lips, and said in a confidential manner, “But she’s connected to these parts. Lady Marchbank arranged her rooms. Old Lord Marchbank’s lady. He owns half the county. Sends his man up to Parliament and all. A powerful gent, the old gaffer.”
    “I wonder why Lady Crieff is not putting up with the Marchbanks.”
    “That wouldn’t be for me to say, but I fancy there’s a reason.” He gave a wise nod, which conveyed nothing to Hartly.
    A red-faced woman in a large white apron appeared around the corner. “The fire’s going out, Bullion, and Wilf is busy in the stable.”
    Bullion gave a sheepish smile to his guest. “The good wife,” he said, and darted off.
    Mr. Hartly went abovestairs, pondering why Lady Crieff was not welcome at the home of her noble friends, the Marchbanks.
    It was soon clear to Jeremy Bullion that he had not one swell but two under his roof. Not long after Mr. Hartly went abovestairs, his traveling carriage and team of four arrived. A slender, know-it-all young dandy with a womanly face came prancing in demanding a suite of rooms for his master, Mr. Hartly. He went into a fit of hysterics upon learning that his master had reached the inn before him.
    “And I not here to air the chambers and arrange his bath! Damme, I ought to be horsewhipped. What will he do without me?”
    “Ye’d be his valet, I’m thinking,” Bullion said, unmoved by the fellow’s ranting.
    Mott bowed. “I have the honor, sir, to be Mr. Hartly’s valet and traveling factotum, Mott.”
    “Bullion,” Bullion said, offering his hand.
    Mott reluctantly touched the tip of his fingers, then quickly withdrew his hand. “Has my master been here long?”
    “Not above ten minutes.”
    Mott breathed a sigh of relief. “Then he has not endeavored a fresh toilette without me. We shall require a tub of hot water. No need for towels. We travel with our own linens. Have your servants bring up the case of claret in the carriage. It must be carried gently so as not to disturb the dregs. We dine at seven. I shall be in the kitchen to oversee the preparations of my master’s dinner.”
    Bullion found himself on the horns of a nasty dilemma. It went against the pluck to disoblige a wealthy guest; on the other hand, Maggie would brook no interference in her kitchen.
    “You can speak to Cook