Regency Masquerade

Начало книги

"I must say, it don't look the sort of place a well-greased villain like Lionel March would run to ground,” Jonathon Trevithick said doubtfully. “With all the blunt he stole from us, you would think he could afford to put up at the Pulteney, in London."

The two occupants of the carriage peered out the window at a quaint inn, whose bottom story was composed of flint and stone, its upper story of brick and timber, topped with a thatched roof. There were many such old buildings in this chalky corner of Kent, where native building materials were scarce and the builders had to improvise.

Despite its mongrel facade, the inn had the charm of antiquity. Red roses clambered up either side of the doorway. The windows were entirely concealed by a growth of yews. The sign suspended over the doorway showed a crude painting of an owl, with the words owl house inn painted in black on a gilt background.

"He must be hiding out. Unless he has turned smuggler, there is very little hereabouts to appeal to one of his habits,” Miss Trevithick replied, in accents that indicated Mr. March's habits were deep-dyed in worldliness.

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