Smuggler's Lady (3 page)

A raw-boned bay mare stood in the stableyard, its head held by a distinctly subdued Master Wiley.

“Who does she belong to?” his lordship inquired, swinging from his own mount.

“Squire Barrat, my lord.” The answer came promptly. “He's up at the house payin' a call.”

“On whom?” Rutherford's eyebrows rose as he handed over Saracen's reins.

“Why—on—on you, m'lord,” Bill stammered, nonplussed by such a strange question.

“But I am not there,” his lordship pointed out gently.

“I think as how 'e's waitin' on you, m'lord.”

“Ah, that makes a little more sense.” Lord Rutherford bestowed upon the lad a deceptively benign smile. “Why do you not tether the mare in the barn? Then you may be able to devote your single-minded attention to my horse.” With a brisk nod, he turned and strode up to the house.

Sir Algernon Barrat stood in the newly dusted parlor, feeling distinctly awkward. If it had been left to him, he'd not have intruded upon his new neighbor quite so precipitately, but Patience showed little of that quality in her nature and had informed her husband that, as the leading member of the local gentry, it behooved him to make all speed to welcome Lord Rutherford. It was most fortuitous that there was to be a hunt ball on the morrow. It would be a perfect opportunity for his lordship to make the acquaintance of his worthy neighbors, and Sir Algernon was instructed to invite him to dine at South Hill beforehand. Balls and dinners were pesky occasions at the best of times, Sir Algernon reflected gloomily, but they'd be the very devil if a man had this degree of chaos on his hands, and what a man fresh from London society would find to appeal in the countrified company Lady Barrat had to offer quite defeated Sir Algernon's imagination. But his lady was formidable and the commission must be discharged. Sir Algernon was resolved, however, that he would hint gently that of course no one expected Lord Rutherford to attend in the circumstances, and he would be quite happy to tender his lordship's excuses to Lady Barrat.

The squire was surprised, therefore, and Lady Barrat much gratified by Lord Rutherford's prompt and easy acceptance of the invitation. Neither of them, fortunately for good neighborliness, were able to see inside his lordship's head where dread foreboding at the prospect of an evening of cloddish insipidity warred with the knowledge that only thus would he be likely to make the acquaintance of the Trelawneys, and only thus could he make discreet inquiries about the Gentlemen. Sir Algernon, returning to his eager wife, pronounced his lordship to be “a decent sort of fellow, not one to stand on ceremony,” and the sherry that had been unearthed from old Mallory's cellars more than met with the squire's approval.

 

 

“Why must you always look such a dowd, Merrie?” Rob examined his sister critically the following evening. “You did not do so when Sir John was alive.”

“I was a giddy young wife in those days, Rob.” Meredith examined her image in the glass above the mantel, tucking a recalcitrant auburn wisp into the severe knot at the nape of her neck. “I am become a sober widow with a host of responsibilities and must dress accordingly.”

“Stuff!” Theo looked up from the piece of wood he was whittling. “Rob has the right of it. You do not need to look such a fright. Does she, Hugo?”

His elder brother, thus appealed to, pondered the question. “It would not be proper for Merrie to dress in bright colors or to show signs of frivolity,” he pronounced. “And I do not think it polite in you to say she looks a dowd and a fright. She dresses with decorum as suits her position.”

“Thank you, Hugo.” Meredith smiled at the younger boys who were regarding their brother with unabashed disgust. “I appreciate your concern, my loves, but we must all bow to circumstances on occasion. Anyway,” she chuckled, “you must own that there would be little point in looking ravishing this evening. Who am I to charm? Young Peter Fox-moore? He would be a most eligible
parti
if I was inclined to cradle-snatching and willing to hunt every day of my life. Or perhaps Sir Giles? Now there's a thought,” she mused. “He cannot be above sixty, and his temper is only a little affected by the gout.”

“There is Lord Rutherford,” Rob interrupted sturdily. “He is the right age and I like him.”

“Now when did you meet Lord Rutherford?” Merrie demanded as her little brother flushed guiltily.

“At Withy Brook,” Rob muttered. “I was tickling trout. And you don't need to rip up at me, Hugo, because Lord Rutherford didn't mind a bit and we had a long talk.”

“About the Trelawneys, I daresay.” Merrie sighed. “I imagine Lord Rutherford is now intimately acquainted with our family history.”

“He wanted to know,” Rob protested. His predilection for unselective, unsolicited communication to all and sundry was generally frowned upon, but he was determined to defend himself on this occasion.

“Yes, Rob.” Merrie shook her head at him in mock exasperation. “I'm sure he was quite fascinated. However, I think it most unlikely that he will deign to grace what modest entertainment we can offer—far too provincial for the heir to the Duke of Keighley. And, if village talk is anything to go by, he has a worse temper than Matthew Mallory, so the less we see of him the happier we shall be.”

“He is not at all like Lord Mallory,” Rob persisted. “He is young and handsome and—”

“Rich,” Theo interrupted with a grin. “A perfect catch for you, Merrie. Just think, all our troubles would be over.”

“Your levity is most unedifying, Theodore,” Hugo reproved. “It is also quite inappropriate. While I would be the first to agree that the Trelawneys are as ancient and respectable a family as any in the county, it would hardly be considered a suitable match for a Keighley.”

His audience burst into peals of laughter at the conclusion of this dignified speech.

“Hugo, you are a nod-cock,” Theo gasped. “I was only funning. Can you imagine Merrie as a duchess?”

“Enough, all of you!” Meredith attempted to restore order to the proceedings. “Since I consider the likelihood of my making the acquaintance of Lord Rutherford remote in the extreme, I should be obliged to you if you would drop the subject. I have absolutely no intention of marrying anyone at all and would be much obliged, Rob, if you would refrain from match-making.” She softened the words with a smile, tugging his hair, but they were all well aware that their sister had spoken in earnest, and it was never wise to arouse her anger.

The double doors to the parlor were opened at this juncture to admit a thick, broad-shouldered figure in britches and baize apron. “The horses have returned from the fields, Lady Merrie. Jem will bring the carriage round in five minutes.”

“Thank you, Seecombe.” Meredith picked up her cloak from the arm of a sofa. “I do feel a little guilty, expecting the horses to work in the evening when they have spent a hard day in the fields. Perhaps I should tell Jem to bring the carriage back after he has left me at South Hill. I will attempt to procure a ride home with the Abbotts. It is not a great deal out of their way.

“You cannot do that, Merrie,” Theo protested. “It is so shabby. It is bad enough that everyone should know we have no carriage horses, but there is no need to draw attention to it.”

“Well, if I do not mind, I cannot imagine why you should,” his sister retorted. “We cannot overwork the horses in the interests of pretending to a position that we do not have. I shall most definitely send Jem home.” With that, Lady Blake swept from the parlor, leaving two of her brothers glaring at the discomfited third.

“If you had not said that, Theo, she would not have decided to send the horses home,” Hugo declared.

“No,” Rob put in, for once in agreement with his senior. “You know how out-of-reason cross she gets if we seem to complain about being poor.”

“Well, I am sorry,” Theo said in an unapologetic tone. “But I was not really complaining, I was just stating a fact. Merrie is overly sensitive, sometimes.”

“She is not!” Rob, who would never hear a breath of criticism of his sister, flew at Theo, and Hugo, after failing to halt the scrap with the weight of his words, resorted to methods both more effective and more natural.

Meredith sat back against the shabby leather squabs of the heavy, old-fashioned carriage as the two cart horses drew it, bumping and creaking, across the ill-paved roads toward South Hill. Although she had laughed when her brothers had accused her of looking a fright and a dowd, there were moments when she regretted the necessity for her drab disguise, moments when she dreamed again of dressing with the elegance and frivolity of the years before and during her brief marriage. Had she wished, she could still have dressed with a degree of modishness in spite of her straitened circumstances. Silks, satins, and laces were easily available to the smuggler, and Nan was an accomplished seamstress, but the need to appear as a sorrowing, impoverished widow, bravely shouldering her responsibilities, was too important to yield to vanity. No one, not in their wildest fantasies, would suspect that the smuggler who played with the coastguard like a cat with a mouse, who conducted a most efficient business to the satisfaction of all concerned, was also Lady Meredith Blake with her dull, shabby gowns and mouselike manners.

The carriage drew up outside the foursquare solidity of Sir Algernon Barrat's South Hill. Until Sir John's death, the Blakes had been the acknowledged leaders of the community by virtue of family and property. Now the Barrats had that honor, and Lady Barrat was always scrupulous in affording her dethroned neighbor every consideration—a fact that set Merrie's teeth on edge. She could not, however, refuse the charitable attentions without seeming churlish or drawing unwelcome attention to herself. It was for this reason that she formed one of the select group invited to dine at South Hill before the ball.

“Meredith, my dear.” Patience Barrat hurried across the drawing room to greet her guest. “How well you are looking.” Kindly, she refrained from any hypocritical comment on Merrie's gown of brown bombazine, the old-maidish fichu at her neck, and the obviously darned cotton mittens. She remembered the time when Lady Blake's gowns had been the envy of all, but it was hard to imagine that now. The poor creature was quite ground down by her debt-ridden widowhood and those three great boys.

“All our good friends are here, my dear, so you will be quite comfortable,” she reassured Meredith, drawing her into the room. “We have one excitement though. Lord Rutherford has graciously accepted Sir Algernon's invitation to join us. I do not suppose any of our young ladies will catch his eye, but you can be sure there are some hearts a-flutter in the village.”

“Yes, indeed,” Merrie murmured, keeping her eyes lowered to hide the unlooked-for flash of chagrin. She had not had to wear the brown bombazine tonight. Her green silk, while it had seen better days, was not nearly so frumpish. Sternly, she told herself not to be so foolish. Rob may have liked the man, but what possible interest could she have in or for a London dandy? Besides, she was hardly in a position to indulge in a flirtation, however harmless.

She was making polite small talk with the elderly Isabelle Carstairs when the butler, in weighty accents, announced Lord Rutherford. There was no denying the quiver of excitement that greeted the arrival of his lordship. Merrie was conscious of a twinge of embarrassment as Patience gushed and twittered and exclaimed at the honor his lordship did her humble abode and how she hoped he would not find the society of simple country folk insipid. Quite how Lord Rutherford could answer that gracefully, Meredith could not imagine. It was a question of the “Have you stopped beating your wife?” order and she watched his reactions with covert interest. He made some deft response, bowing low over his hostess's hand. Meredith was obliged to acknowledge that he was indeed personable.

His evening dress was appropriate to the country: long, black pantaloons strapped under his shoes, a black coat with no adornment but its superb cut, a plain cravat tied with a simple elegance that put to shame the elaborate confections of the young sprigs around him. The dark-brown hair was brushed neatly but without artifice. Meredith revised her opinion. Whatever Lord Rutherford may be, he most definitely did not belong to the dandy set.

She dropped her eyes hastily, turning again to Mrs. Carstairs. Patience was introducing his lordship to those whom she had decided might interest him. It would be Merrie's turn at some point, but the shabby, indigent widow would come low on the list of importance.

“Meredith, may I present Lord Rutherford.” The moment came at last. Merrie turned from Mrs. Carstairs to curtsy, giving him her mittened fingers. The darn on the wrist, though neat, did not escape his lordship's notice.

“Lady Blake,” he murmured in response to the introduction. “Servant, ma'am.” His lips brushed the air above the small hand in his palm. This drab creature surely could have nothing in common with that young scamp Rob Trelawney. Damian had created an image of Meredith Blake, conjured from her brother's artless prattle. The image most definitely did not match the reality. It was impossible to form an impression of her features since she seemed incapable of raising her eyes from the contemplation of his shoes. Her voice was barely a whisper. Her figure appeared passable in as far as it was possible to judge beneath the voluminous folds of that hideous gown, and her hair, although confined in a most matronly knot, was a promising color, lit as it was by a shaft of evening sunlight piercing the room through an opened casement.

“Mmm—Have you, my lord—I mean, I trust . . .” The meek whisper faltered, her fan fluttered vigorously, and her reticule fell to the floor.

Rutherford bent to pick it up. “You were saying, Lady Blake?” he prompted in a somewhat bored tone. Did she ordinarily behave in this ridiculous fashion? Or was something behind this inordinate display of nervousness? Perhaps she was not accustomed to being spoken to by men? She was like a chicken without a head, gushing her thanks as she received the dropped reticule, bobbing another curtsy, her eyes still riveted to the floor.

“So very kind,” Lady Blake murmured. “It was nothing of any importance.”

His lordship had little doubt of the truth of this, but the rules of his upbringing obliged a polite disclaimer. Under this encouragement, her ladyship whispered that she hoped he found Cornwall to his liking.

“Uncomfortable, ma'am,” he responded dismissively, wondering how best to extricate himself from this painfully stilted exchange.

Arrogant buck! Merrie thought, raising her eyes for the barest second. They were the color of sloes, deep purple, and the flash of indignation quite took his lordship aback. But then her gaze dropped to his shoes again and she murmured something incomprehensible. Rutherford decided that he had been mistaken, this feeble creature was quite incapable of feeling any emotion as positive as indignation. He glanced at Lady Patience in clear appeal, and his hostess came to his rescue with the injunction that he escort her in to dinner.

Meredith, escorted by the very deaf but equally loud-voiced Admiral Petersham, was left much to her own devices during dinner, a circumstance that suited her very well since it left her free to observe. Lord Rutherford was playing his part manfully, but there was more than a hint of impatience about the firm mouth. There was a good deal of humor about that mouth, though, on the rare occasions that it relaxed, and the gray eyes, set beneath most expressive brows, were remarkably intelligent. While he was not precisely handsome, Meredith thought, if he ever lost that look of barely concealed, impatient boredom, he would have a most pleasing countenance. However, such a possibility was extremely unlikely. Lord Rutherford did not appear as if he could find anything worthy of attention or amusement in his present situation, a circumstance, Meredith decided, for which he had only himself to blame. Effete aristocrats who found country living uncomfortable should stay in the cushioned luxury where they belonged. Merrie was unaware that she was looking directly at the subject of her cogitations. She was so accustomed to being ignored at gatherings of this kind that occasionally, feeling safely invisible, her guard dropped. It proved to be a mistake this time.

Lord Rutherford, raising his gaze from the overcooked venison on his plate, searching desperately for a new topic of conversation, met those sloe eyes again, framed in a luxuriant curly fringe of eyelash. There was no mistaking the critical appraisal of that look or the fact that the owner of those eyes did not like what she saw. His lordship realized with an unpleasant shock what it was that she found so distasteful. He glanced around him, but there was no avoiding the truth. Lady Meredith Blake was looking at him and only him. Still in shock, he noted absently a wide, humorous mouth set above a square, little chin before her head turned to respond to some remark from her neighbor and he heard that nervous little titter again. Surely he'd imagined it? What possible right or justification had that drab little mouse to regard
him
with such patent critical dislike? He wouldn't be surprised if she'd never gone further afield than Fowey! After dinner, he decided grimly, he would seek further speech with the lady, and, if she offered him any impertinence, she would have cause to regret it.

Meredith, unaware of the unfortunate notice she had attracted, was conscious only of her own tedium. It seemed an eternity before the covers were removed and the ladies repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. But as she rose from the table, she became conscious of a hard gaze that held more than a hint of puzzlement as well as a distinct flicker of annoyance. For some reason, her chin went up and she returned the look in kind. His lordship frowned, then he turned to his host with a compliment on the port, and Merrie almost scuttled from the room. For a moment she thought of feigning the headache or even a swoon—although she was not sure quite how one accomplished the latter—in order to escape the remainder of the evening, only to remember that she had sent Jem and the horses home and was now dependent on the charity of others. She could not expect anyone to have their horses put to especially to convey her home although she did not doubt that they would do so. They were kindly enough for all their dullness.

The drawing room filled rapidly with those members of the gentry who had received invitations to take tea after dinner. Meredith found it quite possible to blend with the crowd, and when the gentlemen joined them she was engaged in apparently animated conversation with her preferred companions, the matrons whose conversation was always safe and predictable, in whose company she could allow her mind free rein while her tongue trotted along the well-known paths.

Damian watched her whenever it was possible to do so without notice. There was something tantalizingly familiar about the slight figure. Was it simply the familial resemblance to young Rob? The eyes and that splash of freckles across the bridge of the nose were certainly shared by brother and sister. But that was not the reference. He shook his head as if to clear his mind for the elusive memory.

The sound of musicians tuning their instruments, carriage wheels and horses' hooves on the gravel sweep, the excited voices of Landreth's young men and maidens come to enjoy the ball, drew the drawing room party into the ballroom at the rear of the house. Meredith took her place against the wall with the chaperones, mittened hands folded demurely in her lap, slippered feet motionless despite the enticing shiver of the musicians' strings.

“Lady Blake, may I have the honor of this dance?” The soft question took her quite by surprise, and, forgetting her customary caution yet again, Meredith raised her head.

“I am most sensible of the honor, my lord, but I do not dance.” Hastily, she dropped her gaze.

“Then let us talk,” Lord Rutherford said smoothly. “Or do you not do that, either?”

Meredith inhaled sharply, then gave a self-deprecating little giggle. “You must forgive my reticence, my lord, but I am so very afraid that you will find my conversation as insipid as you find our county uncomfortable. We are woefully unaccustomed to receiving visits from such august personages and are quite overwhelmed at the honor you have deigned to bestow upon our poor community.” Her chicken-skin fan beat the air as she turned to her matronly neighbor. “Is it not so, Mrs. Garfield?”

His lordship, having been made to feel like a thoroughly presumptuous coxcomb, was obliged to listen to Mrs. Garfield's effusive agreement.

“Oh, Patience.” Meredith greeted her hostess who had come to ensure her guests were suitably entertained. “We have just been telling Lord Rutherford how he honors us with his illustrious presence.” That nerve-grating titter sounded.

“Yes, indeed, dear.” Patience smiled kindly at Meredith, patting her hand. It occurred to Lord Rutherford that Lady Blake's inanities were accepted without question amongst her neighbors. Why then was he convinced that appearances were deceiving? He knew nothing of the lady, after all, and was much less qualified to make judgments than her friends. He glanced toward the floor where the set was forming.

“Lady Barrat, I beg you will intercede for me. I am anxious to solicit Lady Blake's hand, but she informs me she does not dance. I would not presume if they were playing a waltz, but the cotillion is quite unexceptionable, is it not, ma'am?” The smile he directed at Patience quite took that lady's breath away, so thoroughly did it transform the rather stern countenance.

“Of course, Lord Rutherford,” she concurred. “But Lady Blake is such a retiring soul, aren't you, my dear?”

Meredith lowered her head and fluttered her fan, mumbling in accents of acute distress.

“Come now, Meredith,” Patience said in bracing tones. “A dance will be good for you. You cannot turn down such a partner, you know.”

“I shall be the envy of all eyes,” Merrie whispered.

Little hypocrite! Rutherford thought with a surge of anger. People did not presume to make game of Colonel, Lord Rutherford, yet this shrinking violet was playing with him like a cat with a mouse, and only he seemed to be aware of it. He took one mittened hand firmly and jerked its owner upright. The gesture was sufficiently discreet to pass unnoticed by all save its recipient, who opened her mouth on an indignant exclamation that was instantly repressed, but a pink tinge crept into the pale cheeks.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm.

As if at the mercy of some puppet master, Merrie accompanied him onto the floor. She could feel the surprised looks as they took their places in the set but was at a loss to know how she could have done otherwise. Anyway, Patience would vouch for her reluctance to behave out of character. But why was Lord Rutherford acting in this manner? Surely she had conducted herself with sufficient stupidity to give him more than a little disgust of the widow Blake? Or had her own instinctive dislike of a man who clearly considered himself far above his present society revealed itself in some way? There had been that exchange of looks at the end of dinner.... No, she was being ridiculous. Even if he did suspect such a thing, it would hardly concern Damian, Lord Rutherford, that a mousy countrified dowd held him in dislike. One thing, Meredith was determined, his lordship would regret his importunity in this matter of dancing.

She was light on her feet, Damian observed, moving with a lithe grace that the folds of bombazine could not hide, moving with a supple grace that he had seen somewhere before, but her knowledge of the steps was apparently nonexistent. She was never where she was supposed to be, bumped into him and their neighbors with blithe unconcern, trod on his toes, exclaiming in embarrassed fulsome apologies until he thought he would shake her. Not once did she raise her eyes from her feet although the scrutiny did not improve their performance in the least, but he became intimately acquainted with her bent neck. It was actually a long, graceful neck, he noted, and the heavy knot of auburn hair at its nape a richly burnished mass.

“Quite clearly you were correct, ma'am, when you said you did not dance,” he declared ruthlessly as the measure ended. “My apologies for having importuned you. Allow me to escort you back to your chair.”

“Why, Lady Blake, so splendid to see you on the floor again after all these years. Will you do me the honor of this next dance?” Sir Algernon appeared in front of them, beaming jovially.

Meredith inclined her head at Lord Rutherford and placed her hand on Sir Algernon's arm.

The following country dance was composed of a series of elaborate figures—all of which Lady Blake performed impeccably. Rutherford stood against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching incredulously. She was a superb dancer! That ludicrous performance had been entirely for his benefit. Quite obviously, there was a great deal more to Lady Meredith Blake than met the eye, and she was not to be treated with the casual disdain that she invited. Well, whatever game it was she played, she would discover that two could play.

He appeared beside her when supper was announced, ignored the flutterings and fumblings, the expressions of gratitude mixed with apology, as he tucked her hand beneath his arm and moved toward the supper room. Meredith felt a stab of unease as she cast a covert look at the face beside her. The features were set in lines of grim determination almost as if he were resigned to performing a distasteful but necessary task. Had Patience perhaps asked him to take the widow into supper? No, of course she would not have done so. The room was full of much worthier women who would fall over themselves for his lordship's attention.

“I am wondering if this is wise,” Lord Rutherford remarked, setting two plates on the supper table. “I have my doubts about Lady Barrat's cook—after the venison, you understand?” He offered her a dry little smile.

Meredith found herself in something of a quandary. On the one hand, she was in wholehearted agreement with him and a bubble of laughter was growing most inconveniently in her chest, but, on the other hand, the contemptuous remark was not one a stranger was entitled to make and seemed entirely in keeping with his previous derisive comments.

“That, my lord, is a Cornish pasty,” she informed him with a hesitant smile, playing with her napkin. “They are considered great delicacies in these parts. Our tastes, of course, are not so refined as yours, sir. How could they be? But when one is accustomed to outdoor work and exercise, one develops a hearty appetite.”