Regency Masquerade Read Free Page B

about that,” he said, washing his hands of the matter.
    “Just so. Now let me see your private dining parlors, my good Bullion.”
    “Mr. Hartly’s already arranged that.”
    Mott adopted a pout. “I trust it does not have a western exposure. My master likes the drapes open. I would not want the setting sun in his eyes.”
    “That’ll be no problem at all,” Bullion said, with a thought to the dim cavern where his worthy customers dined. No ray of sun had penetrated those panes for a century. The yew hedge growing outside them was better than a curtain.
    “Good. Now I must go to my master, if you will direct me thither.”
    “The yellow suite, left at the top o’ the stairs.”
    “You won’t forget the hot water,” Mott said, and went off, staggering under the weight of a large wicker basket, presumably holding his master’s towels and bed linen.
    Bullion shook his head at the freakish ways of the ton. Hartly would call the shots, however, and he seemed a deal easier to please than the mincing valet.
    As soon as Mott left Bullion, his prissy expression faded. When he tapped at the door of the yellow suite and went in, there was no mincing gait or fluting voice.
    He plopped the wicker basket on the floor, grinned, and said, “Well, here we are. Have you seen Stanby yet?”
    “No, but he’s putting up here for a week,” Hartly replied. “What kept you, Rudolph?”
    “Lost a wheel just outside of London.”
    “Playing hunt the squirrel, I warrant.”
    “Willoughby put me to the dare. I ran him clean off the road. I put on a good act for old Bullion. He’s sending up bathwater.”
    “Damn the bathwater. Where is the wine?”
    “It’s coming—ah, here it is.”
    When he opened the door, he was wearing his inane smile and gave a good imitation of a fool. “Mind you don’t jiggle it, lads. That is rare good stuff you’re handling. Shall I draw a cork, master?” he asked, turning to Hartly.
    “If you would be so kind, Mott. Give the lads a pourboire, there’s a good fellow.”
    Mott reached into his pocket and handed the two servants a generous pourboire. Then he turned to the dresser and scowled at the wineglasses on a tray
    “They call these tumblers wineglasses!” he exclaimed, with a shake of his head. “We would not use them in our kitchen.”
    As soon as the servants left, he drew a cork and filled the glasses. Handing one to Hartly, he lifted his glass and said, “To success. I shall follow your orders in peace as I did in war, Major. Dashed kind of you to help me.”
    “I am happy for the chance. I find England just a tad dull after the recent excitements of the Peninsula. And by the by, cuz, I am Mr. Hartly here. Let us not confuse our personas.”
    “Damn, I don’t have to act the foolish valet when we are alone, I hope?”
    “You do not have to act quite so convincingly even when we are not alone. I suspect you harbor a love of the stage and are enjoying the role.”
    “I enjoy the prospect of meeting Major Stanby, the bounder. I would give a monkey to know where he is and what he is doing.”
    “I hope to meet him this evening. It seems we members of the ton will be dining en masse. Bullion has no private dining parlors.”
    “He did not say so when I asked. Said you’d already arranged that.”
    “So I have. He suggested hiding me in a corner behind a screen. I opted for a table next to Lady Crieff, a pretty lady putting up here. The name sounds familiar.” He looked a question at Mott.
    “So it does,” Mott replied, refilling his glass, “though I cannot say I have met her. What does she look like?”
    “Like a black-haired angel, with a devilish eye in her head. Young. The fellow traveling with her is called Sir David Crieff. I noticed a ‘Bart.’ after his name in the registry. A baronet. He is not old enough to be her husband, yet he is too old to be a son. He cannot be her brother, or she would not be Lady Crieff. That title is reserved for his wife. An odd