Smuggler's Lady (30 page)

“Does the invitation to Belvoir please you, Merrie? If you do not like it, I daresay we can make an excuse, but it is most gratifying to receive it.”

“I beg your pardon, Bella?” Meredith, realizing that she had heard nothing of the question, flushed guiltily.

“You have not been listening to me!” Bella rebuked her. “It is of all things what I most dislike. George does it to me and sometimes I could
kill
him!” She glared with unusual ferocity, and Merrie made haste to apologize, blaming her absent attention on pleasurable reminiscences of the previous evening.

Somewhat mollified, Arabella repeated that they had received an invitation from the Duchess of Rutland to join a house party at Belvoir Castle. Would Merrie enjoy it? Rutherford was also invited, she added. On receiving Merrie's agreement, Bella left her to get dressed, displaying no more than a discreet smile when her guest informed her that she would not be dining at home that evening.

Still thoughtful, Meredith got up herself, responding only absently to Nan's inquiries and comments. This distraction prompted Nan to demand acerbically what mischief she was planning and to receive Merrie's innocent disclaimers with a disbelieving grunt.

Meredith was indeed planning mischief. She had told Rutherford last night that she considered he had issued a challenge, one she had accepted. The statement then had been made simply out of anger at his duplicity; on reflection, the matter now assumed more serious proportions. She would pay him back in his own coin but, in so doing, would remind him forcibly of her true nature and convince him once and for all of the impossibility of anything more than glorious adventuring between them.

Rutherford, unsure of what he would find when he appeared that afternoon in Cavendish Square to spirit her away to the love nest in Highgate, was lulled into a sense of security by the bright, vivacious, definitely loving Meredith. Not once did she refer to their conversation on the balcony, and he made the grave error of allowing himself to assume that she had decided the issue was not worthy of battle.

“I would like you to teach me to drive,” Meredith announced, watching appreciatively as he caught the thong of his whip with a slight turn of his wrist. “Then I should like to drive myself in a perch phaeton and pair.”

“Very dashing,” said Damian, amused. “I will engage to teach you, but, if you have no aptitude, then take my advice and forget the idea. Nothing looks more laughable than a cow-handed whip.”

“Cow-handed,” Merrie reflected, “is a most descriptive term.”

He chuckled. “It is, but do not use it in polite circles; it is excessively vulgar.”

Meredith, storing the term away for future reference, asked amiably, “Do you think that I will be cow-handed?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I think it most unlikely. But as yet I have only seen you drive a gig and pony.”

“I have good hands when riding. You said so yourself,” Merrie pointed out. Soon after her arrival in Cavendish Square, Damian had presented her with a spirited chestnut gelding that had delighted her even as she refused the gift, insisting on accepting the horse merely as a loan. He had conceded equably with the simple request that she exercise the loan regularly. As a result, Lady Blake's chestnut rapidly became a familiar sight in Hyde Park. Arabella, who did not herself care for riding, had quickly decided that riding habits became Meredith almost better than any other form of dress and had taken the matter in hand most energetically. Merrie now possessed more riding habits than she would once have thought it possible to wear in a single lifetime. Those considerations, however, belonged to another world, one that seemed to have receded into a dim and distant past.

“At Belvoir I will teach you,” Damian now promised. “On one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That you accept the fact that I know what I am talking about and do exactly as I bid,” he replied with a grin. “I realize it will be a little difficult for you, believing as you do in your own supremacy—”

“I do not,” Meredith protested, half laughing, but unsure whether he was only funning.

“And do you not?” Those expressive brows shot up. “I think, Merrie Trelawney, that there are few people you trust to manage things as well as you.”

“Perhaps so.” She played with her gloves restlessly. “I have reason to trust
you
though. You have demonstrated your ability to manage any number of things including me on more than one occasion.”

Rutherford shot her a sharp look but her expression was as equable as her tone, and he decided to let the matter rest. “Do you look forward to visiting Belvoir, love? ”

“I find the idea of Merrie Trelawney as guest of the Duke and Duchess of Rutland monstrous diverting,” she replied, chuckling. “Can you imagine how Patience and Lady Collier would react?”

“Abominable girl!” he declared through his own mirth. “Have you no delicacy of feeling?”

“None whatsoever,” she responded cheerfully. “I may acquire a veneer of London polish, Rutherford, but I am essentially abominable. You would do well to remember that.”

“Is that a warning?” he asked, suddenly sober.

“Just a reminder, should you be in danger of forgetting.”

Rutherford whistled softly through pursed lips. “Why do I feel so uneasy, Merrie Trelawney?”

“I cannot imagine,” she replied with the smile that was as bland as milk pudding.

Meredith journeyed north to Belvoir in a state of cheerful anticipation. The prospect of spending a week under the same roof as Rutherford was heady indeed. They would be obliged to conduct themselves with due circumspection, of course, but the double game was one at which they were both skilled and one that they both enjoyed. The covert glance, discreet innuendo, the secret, intimate brush of a hand ... Her heart danced. This week would provide an interlude before she set about her plan to convince Damian and the ton that the widow Blake was no eligible
partie
for the heir to the Duke of Keighley. A house party at Belvoir Castle was neither the place nor the occasion to put such a plan into action. While it would be most effective, it would be abominably uncomfortable for the Beaumonts in such close quarters.

Arabella, overjoyed that George had agreed to make one of the party, was bubbling with a pleasure that her husband could not help but find touching. It had been at his brother-in-law's energetic suggestion that the marquis now accompanied his wife but, in view of Arabella's heartwarming joy, Lord Beaumont was not about to award the credit where it was due.

It was late afternoon when the chaise turned in at the iron gates of the park, and they were all glad to see the gray stone building of Belvoir Castle looming majestically at the head of the driveway. Meredith gazed appreciatively around the great stone-flagged hall where an enormous fire blazed in the hearth, offering warmth and welcome to the arriving guests.

“Arabella, George, how delightful. And Lady Blake, you are most welcome.” The Duchess of Rutland came forward from the fire where she had been standing with a party of men who, judging by their muddy boots and garments, had just returned from a day's shooting. “You must be exhausted after your journey. Come and warm your hands by the fire, then you shall go straight to your apartments and rest awhile before dinner.” Chattering in this kindly fashion, she drew them over to the fire where introductions were performed.

“Why, Mr. Devereux, I did not know you were to be of this party.” Meredith smiled pleasantly, greeting her acquaintance with well-concealed surprise. When Devereux had called in Cavendish Square only two days previously, he had made no mention of his intended visit to Belvoir although Meredith had been quite open about her own plans. Now, he gave her a somewhat enigmatic smile as his lips lightly brushed her fingertips.

“A little surprise, ma'am. A pleasant one, I trust.”

“A delightful one,” she responded politely, feeling again that slight prickle of unease. Gerald Devereux could not be intending to pursue a light-hearted flirtation into deeper woods, could he? No, of course not. Merrie dismissed the absurd thought as she followed the footman up the stairs to her bedchamber.

She did not feel remotely fatigued and, after some hesitation, decided that she would cause no offense to her hostess by taking a walk around the grounds. True, it was a damp, dank late October afternoon, but, after being boxed up in a chaise for the greater part of the day, her muscles ached for a stretching. A footman, recovering with well-trained speed from his surprise, opened the front door for her just as Lord Rutherford's curricle, drawn by a pair of blood chestnuts, drew up.

“Lady Blake.” He sprang down, taking her hand. “If I were a coxcomb, I would dare to hope that you were come to meet me.” His tone was jocular, offering a perfectly acceptable sally for the ears of footmen and grooms. The gray eyes, however, glowed and her fingers quivered in his palm in inevitable response.

“I was about to take a short stroll, my lord.” Merrie smiled. “We are but newly arrived ourselves, and I have a need to shake out the fidgets from my legs.”

“Like a restless colt,” said Damian in an amused undertone before raising his voice. “We will meet at dinner, then.” He bowed, released her hand, and disappeared into the house.

Merrie watched him go, a tiny smile playing over her lips as an outrageous idea glimmered, then burst gloriously in her mind. He would presumably be welcomed by the duke and duchess, a courtesy taking maybe ten minutes, then he would surely be shown to his apartments. Making a pretence of examining the shrubs bordering the gravel sweep occupied nearly ten minutes; then she returned to the house, reaching the hall just as Rutherford, escorted by a footman, attained the gallery at the head of the stairs. Casually and with the utmost discretion, Lady Blake followed, her demeanor indicating that she knew just where she was going as they turned down a corridor toward the west wing. If there were no ladies' apartments in this part of the castle, her presence might be remarked for all her apparent confidence, Merrie thought but was instantly reassured when a maid, bearing a dressing case, passed her, vanishing, after a discreet knock, behind a paneled door. Damian had not turned around, there was no reason why he should have, but Merrie fell back as her quarry reached the end of the corridor. Slipping into a deep window embrasure, she watched, making careful note of the door opened by the footman. It would not do to make a mistake! Merrie had to stifle a giggle at the thought before returning, with casually confident step, to her own chamber in the east wing.

Nan was awaiting her impatiently. “Just you come along now, Meredith. I had your water brought up an hour ago. Stone-cold it is by now, and serves you right, gallivanting about.” The dark mutterings continued as Merrie was dressed in an evening gown of pale-lavender crape with long, full sleeves buttoned tightly at the wrist. Meredith gathered that Belvoir Castle was a nasty, drafty place, the staff so busy looking down their noses they were in danger of tripping over their feet. Nan did not care to share sleeping accommodation with anyone, not even Lady Beaumont's maid, but then she was always ready to make sacrifices, as Meredith ought to know.

Merrie agreed that she did know, refraining from her usual fidgets as her hair was brushed, braided, and fastened in a coronet at the crown of her head, the side curls feathered about her ears. Nan fastened the tasseled cord at her waist, draped a silver embroidered scarf over her elbows, and nodded in satisfaction.

Merrie kissed her. “Do not wait up for me, Nan dear. I can undress myself, and you need have no fears for my safety here!” Her eyes twinkled wickedly and Nan smiled, albeit a little grimly. “Just you behave yourself,” she admonished. “I know that look you've got, my girl, and it bodes no good.”

“I cannot imagine what you mean.” Laughing, Merrie whisked herself out of the chamber, remembering as she reached the head of the stairs to change her skip to a more decorous step.

The drawing room appeared to be full of a great many people, most of them strangers to her. There was no sign of Arabella or her husband, and it was with a measure of relief that Merrie greeted Mr. Brummell, who came over to her sofa, looking as unobtrusively elegant as ever.

“Do you hunt tomorrow, Lady Blake?” he inquired, taking a seat beside her.

“That rather depends,” Merrie answered, “on whether I shall be quite outshone.”

Mr. Brummell smiled appreciatively. “You are an apt pupil, Lady Blake. One should, indeed, never attempt anything in public if one is not quite sure of one's superiority.” Raising his quizzing glass, he examined their fellow inhabitants of the drawing room and pronounced, “I do not think you need have any fears. There is no lady present to outshine you in the equestrian arena.”

“Then I shall most definitely hunt,” averred Meredith. “In fact, I enjoy the sport so much I should have been sadly disappointed to have been obliged to forgo it. I am doubly grateful to you, Mr. Brummell, for your reassurance.”

“My pleasure, ma'am,” he said gravely. “I am quite willing to be flattered although not accustomed to being so with such transparency.”

Meredith chuckled and received a droll smile. She was, as her companion had noted before, quite indifferent to the consequence his attention bestowed upon her. She was totally unawed by Beau Brummell, found him merely amusing and a good conversationalist. She was not, however, unaware of the advantages his friendship bestowed on her socially and not at all averse to holding him at her side. It was all part of the game, after all—Beau Brummell entertaining and being entertained by such a one as Merrie Trelawney.

She felt Damian's approach before she saw him and, as Mr. Brummell's attention was claimed by a lady in a turquoise turban, patted the freed seat beside her.

“You are recovered from your journey, Lord Rutherford?”

“Thank you,” he said with appropriate solemnity. “I trust you managed to rid yourself of the fidgets, Lady Blake.”

“Yes, thank you,” she responded primly. Then her dimples peeped. “Must we be so odiously formal for the entire week? I shall never be able to keep a straight face.”

“I beg you will try,” implored Rutherford. “I fear an entire week of this masquerade is going to prove a sore trial.”

“Why did you come then?” Meredith fluttered her fan of frosted crape, showing him only a pair of utterly wicked eyes.

“Because I could not resist the opportunity to be under the same roof with you,” he replied softly. “As well you know. If you will only behave with circumspection, we shall brush through quite tolerably. Just do not tempt me to laughter with any sly remarks.”

“Bella did say that it would not be considered remarkable if you were to pay me more than ordinary attention,” Merrie remarked in a casual manner. “The family connection, you understand?”

His sister was not always very wise, Rutherford reflected. “I do understand,” he said drily. “It is that connection which will permit me to teach you to drive without undue remark. But unless you wish it said that you have set your cap at me, you would be advised to maintain a degree of formality.”

“I was under the impression society considered a match between us to be quite settled,” she said, closing her fan with a snap.

“Then society will be out of luck, will it not?”

It was a disappointing rejoinder. Meredith had hoped to see just a smidgeon of guilt. Instead, he appeared quite unperturbed. But then, when it came to verbal fencing, she had long ago become reconciled to the fact that Rutherford had the edge.

Damian, guessing accurately at her chagrin, looked sideways at the set profile. His lips twitched slightly. She looked so adorably put out but, in the interests of the greater good, he repressed his fond amusement, saying with a degree of sharpness, “I have not come all this way to quarrel with you, Meredith.”

“That is not just,” she accused in a fierce whisper. “The quarrels are of your making, not mine.”

Damian sighed wearily. “I think that I must teach you to let sleeping dogs lie.” He stood up and strolled away from her without so much as a nod of farewell.

Meredith watched indignantly as he joined an animated group by the fire while she sat neglected on her couch.

“Lady Blake, what has happened to displease you?” The Honorable Gerald Devereux appeared opportunely, looking at her with a flattering mixture of anxiety and sympathy.

“My face must be damnably revealing,” Merrie said, then pressed her fingers to her lips in horror. “Oh, dear, Mr. Devereux, my wretched tongue! I do beg your pardon.”

“It is not necessary, I assure you.” The piercing blue eyes were alight with laughter. “It is not, as we once agreed, as if you had just emerged from the schoolroom.”

“That is still no excuse, sir,” she responded ruefully. “But it is kind in you to treat such a lapse as unimportant. Will you not be seated?”

Devereux accepted the invitation with alacrity. “How may I entertain you, my lady, so that you may forget whatever, or whomever, has caused your displeasure?”

Was there the slightest emphasis on “whomever”? Had Damian's abrupt departure been as revealing as her face? “Sir, it was but a passing thought,” Merrie replied swiftly. “And a singularly unimportant one at that. But I should be glad if you would identify those of our fellow guests with whom I am unacquainted. There seem to be a great many of them.”

“Gladly,” Devereux agreed. “Now, where shall I begin?”

Meredith found that her companion was as witty as he was knowledgeable and not at all averse to imparting wicked tidbits of gossip about their fellow guests. Damian, stealing a covert glance from across the room at her laughing face and sparkling eyes, recognized that his attempt at punishment had failed lamentably. Merrie appeared more than tolerably amused in his absence.

“Gerald is much taken with Arabella's protegée, Rutherford.” The soft voice of his hostess broke into his musing.

“Indeed?” He looked as surprised as he felt, such an idea not having occurred to him, before composing his features into a suitably indifferent expression.

The duchess nodded. “He has begged most fervently to be allowed to take her into dinner.” Her eyes rested on the two, side by side on the couch. “I wonder if she will succumb. While he is not precisely in financial straits, her fortune would certainly be of use to Devereux.”

Damian experienced a surge of irritation at this matter-of-fact statement. He could not, however, deny it or even comment except in the lightest manner possible without causing undue remark. Clearly he must alert Merrie to the attention she was drawing by that harmless flirtation although, if it was harmless, why should he? Besides, he still intended to make his earlier point stick fast in her mind, and that plan prohibited speech with her until she exhibited some signs of repentance for her sharpness.

Devereux took Meredith in to dinner and she found herself seated at the opposite end of the table from Rutherford. It was not a deprivation for which she could hold him responsible, but the fact that he did not once look toward her during the long hours at table could only be construed as deliberate. She could not afford to appear distracted with her uncomfortably observant companion and so resolutely put thoughts of Damian, Lord Rutherford, to one side. After dinner, Damian joined his host and two other inveterate whist players in the card room, underscoring his intentional neglect, and Meredith began to feel distinctly forlorn in spite of the attentions of Devereux, entertainment offered by a rubber of cassino, and various performances on the pianoforte and the harp. Quite clearly, if Damian intended expressing his displeasure in this fashion for any length of time, the stay at Belvoir would not come up to expectations. However, Meredith had every intention of healing the breach in her own inimitable fashion.