Smuggler's Lady (36 page)

“Which would have been most unchivalrous,” she murmured. “Whatever happened to Mr. Devereux?”

“I imagine he beat a hasty and well-timed retreat,” her companion said dryly. “You are an abominable little wretch, Merrie Trelawney. Now, I am going to have to find you a mild-mannered lady's horse to ride in addition to a quiet pair to put between the shafts of your phaeton.”

“You wouldn't,” Merrie said, regarding him warily from beneath the brim of her velvet hat.

“And do you not deserve that I should?” he asked with complete justification.

“Probably,” she agreed, offering him a hopefully winning smile. “But you will not, will you?”

“No, not this time. But the next time you decide to ride neck-or-nothing in the park, I should be grateful if you did not implicate me!”

Merrie's prank brought no social repercussions, but it had one result far worse than society's raised eyebrows. It brought a very grave Gerald Devereux to Cavendish Square the following afternoon.

Arabella was visiting a sick friend, and Meredith received her guest alone in the drawing room. “This is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Devereux,” she greeted him cheerfully.

“You will pardon this intrusion,” he began slowly, not meeting her eye, “but there is something I must know. Perhaps I do not have the right to know it, but nevertheless I must ask.”

Meredith's stomach began to flutter uncomfortably. “I am quite in the dark, sir,” she said with an assumption of calm confidence. “Pray be seated.” She sat herself on a low, delicate Sheraton chair without arms, a seat that obliged her to maintain an upright posture that was indicative of her alert watchfulness.

“You said to me that your affections were already engaged.” Devereux did not accept the invitation but began instead to pace the long room. “I understood you to say that the fortunate man resided in Cornwall.” Stopping beside the mantel, he looked directly at her.

Meredith thought rapidly. If Devereux was questioning the truth of that statement for a good reason, one she was as yet unaware of, and she persisted in the lie, then the tangle would merely become unknottable. “What is behind this, Mr. Devereux?” she asked quietly.

“Do you have an understanding with Lord Rutherford?”

Merrie inhaled sharply. “Why would you think such a thing?”

He sighed. “Yesterday, after that gallop—your manner of conversing with him—his with you—indicated a degree of intimacy ...”

“We are in some way related,” she interrupted sharply. “I reside under his family's roof.”

“I do beg your pardon, but I formed the unmistakable impression that there was more to your friendship than that. Forgive me, ma'am, I should not be talking in this manner, but, if what I suspect is the truth, I should like to know it so that I may no longer hope. If your suitor was indeed in Cornwall, then I would feel that perhaps I still had a chance, the advantage of presence, you understand.”

Meredith felt the sticky tendrils of deception cling to her and enclose her. How could she answer him with any honesty? If she admitted that she and Rutherford had an understanding, it would be tantamount to admitting to a secret engagement. If she denied it, it would encourage Devereux in false hopes, always supposing she could deny it with conviction.

“I do not intend to marry Lord Rutherford,” she said with great difficulty. That was, at least, the truth. “But that should not give you grounds for hope, my friend. I am not going to marry anyone.”

“That is a very sweeping statement from one so young,” Devereux observed, “but I will pry no further. Whatever reasons you may have for your secrecy, they are not for me to discover.” Coming over to her chair, he took her hand and bowed low. “Yesterday, you said you were a Trelawney. You are not perchance sister to Hugo Trelawney?”

Meredith nodded her head, too startled to think clearly. “He is some years younger than you, sir. How do you know him?”

“We had some dealings at Harrow,” Devereux said easily. “The dealings that sixth formers have with their juniors.” Belatedly, Meredith thought, he released her hand. “I was unaware that Trelawneys were related to the Mallorys. That is the family connection, is it not?”

Meredith's tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her body felt in the grip of a creeping paralysis. Why was he asking these questions? Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. In any other circumstances, the question would be considered perfectly innocuous. So Hugo, in that curious school tradition, had been obliged to act as Devereux's servant for one year, cleaning his boots and making his toast. It was hardly an uncommon relationship in these close-knit circles. Indeed, it would be strange if no one in London had come across the Trelawneys, father or sons, during their school days. “The connection is not with the Trelawneys,” she said without a tremor. “It is with my late husband's family, the Blakes.”

“Ah,” he said noncomittally. “I don't think I know the family. My relatives in Truro have spoken of the Trelawneys on occasion. They are, after all, one of the oldest Cornish families.” He smiled. “But I do not recall their mentioning the Blakes.”

Of all the ill luck! To have drawn the attention of probably the only man in London, apart from Rutherford, to have Cornish connections! How long would it take him to discover the fabricated background? To discover the truth about Sir John Blake's poverty-stricken widow, living from hand to mouth? Meredith was not sure how she managed to see her appallingly knowledgeable visitor from the house. The only thing of which she was sure was that she must remove herself from Cavendish Square before Gerald Devereux delved any deeper.

Meredith planned her next step with great care, taking as her model Lady Caroline Lamb, the wife of Lord Melbourne and the accredited mistress of the romantic Lord Byron. Lady Caroline defied convention with a gleeful deviltry that Meredith found most appealing. It was said that the lady inclined to madness on occasion, but Merrie was prepared to discount that as society malice. One thing was clear, Lady Caroline was no longer
persona grata,
and everyone felt very sorry for her husband. Lord Byron, on the other hand, since he was now all the fashion, could do no wrong. Yet another of society's inequities, Meredith decided as she prepared to join ranks with the lady, whose most recent scandalous behavior had involved attending an evening party attired in a transparent gown dampened in water so that it clung most immodestly to every inch of her body. There had been no underclothes beneath the gown to detract from the shocking effect, and Lady Caroline had certainly succeeded in becoming the talk of the town. One or two others, already considered disgracefully fast, had emulated the fashion but, since, like Lady Caroline, they were sufficiently bad ton to have already been denied vouchers for Almack's, the polite world was able to ignore their behavior. It would be a different matter altogether if the offender happened to be the protegée of the Keighleys.

Meredith laid her plans for the night of the Duchess of Dorset's ball with all the cunning she reserved for outwitting the king's revenue. It was essential that her dress not be revealed to anyone until they reached Dorset House. It was also essential that Nan be out of the way. Meredith was in no doubt that that formidable lady would lock her in her room and throw away the key before she would countenance such a costume.

On that night she allowed Nan to dress her in an unimpeachable gown of spider gauze over satin. Before going down to dinner, Merrie, as usual, begged the elderly nurse not to wait up for her. Nan, who had a slight head cold and was looking forward to her bed and a hot posset, agreed without demur.

After dinner, Merrie went up to her chamber to fetch her cloak. The gauze and satin gown was changed for one of semitransparent jaconet muslin. Normally worn over a satin half-slip, the gown was considered a little daring but well within the bounds of respectability. Damp and unencumbered, it was all and more than Merrie had hoped. She could almost have been naked except that the gown was made up to the throat with a treble ruff of pointed lace, a decorous feature that seemed a subtle joke when compared with the whole effect. A midnight-blue velvet cloak hid the change of costume as she tripped down the stairs to where Arabella and George awaited her.

Her husband's escort so delighted Arabella that she would probably not have noticed if Meredith were in britches and boots and certainly did not remark the muslin peeping beneath the cloak where there should have been gauze and satin.

The pavement outside and the hall of Dorset House were thronged with guests, arriving and departing, flunkeys calling for carriages, helping guests from chairs and chaises. The line of guests on the stairs moving upward to be received by their hostess was two deep, much to Meredith's satisfaction. She did not wish to be noticed until, on reaching the head of the stairs, it would be too late for her companions to engineer a discreet retreat. Arabella, on her husband's arm, was ascending the bottom stair when Meredith, delayed by some judicious fumbling, handed her cloak to the maid who had accompanied them before blending into the crowd.

Rutherford, some ten steps higher, turned at the sound of his sister's voice. As he greeted the Beaumonts, his eye fell on Meredith's face behind, and he suffered a severe shock. Meredith bore an expression he remembered seeing on the face of young Rob outside the church in Landreth when the boy contemplated the havoc his little field mouse would create amongst the parishioners at their devotions. He could see nothing but her face and in the press was obliged to continue his ascent. Having greeted his hostess, he stepped to one side, waiting in some foreboding. Arabella and George exchanged pleasantries with the Duchess of Dorset, and Meredith mounted the last stair.

Arabella gave a little squeak and instantly suppressed it as her husband squeezed her arm urgently. The Duchess of Dorset had time to see only Lady Blake's face and the demure lace ruff at her throat before Lord Rutherford had taken her ladyship's right hand in a firm clasp, put his arm with slightly surprising familiarity around her waist, announced that he was come to claim his dance, and whisked her into the crowded ballroom.

The orchestra was playing a waltz, a fact of which Damian took instant advantage. He held the slight figure just a little too close for strict propriety but thus succeeded in shielding her front view from scandalized eyes. His gray silk arm and flattened palm covered as much of her back as legitimately possible as he led her expertly around the floor, choosing the most populous areas.

“This gown is sadly damp, my dear,” he murmured solicitously. “I am very much afraid you will catch cold if you remain in it for very much longer.”

“I am not in the least cold,” she returned, gnashing her teeth in frustration.

“Stop scowling, sweetheart,” he advised gently. “You may wish to draw attention to yourself, but you will not wish it said that I obliged you to listen to unpleasantness. I am afraid that is the only possible conclusion to draw from your expression.”

They were moving inexorably to a door at the rear of the ballroom. Meredith struggled to find an expression that was at least neutral but was hampered by the absolute certainty that Damian, Lord Rutherford, was going to extricate her from this carefully engineered scrape without her reputation suffering the merest scratch. Fixing a gargoyle's smile upon her lips, she looked into his face, the sloe eyes glinting.

“I do not think that is much of an improvement,” he said consideringly. “You look to be in some degree of pain. It is clearly incumbent upon me to escort you home with all due speed.”

They found themselves in a small, deserted anteroom adjoining the ballroom. Damian, releasing his tight grip, took hold of her shoulders, stepping back to examine her minutely. He turned her around, subjecting her back view to the same unnerving scrutiny. “Tell me, my love, is this—uh—attire of yours intended as an invitation? I do hope so because I am minded to accept it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Meredith turned to look at him uneasily. There was a note in his voice that she did not care for in the least, and, while she had expected to be viewed with shock by a great many people, this inspection left her feeling small and hot and uncomfortable.

“Oh, come now, that must be obvious,” he replied silkily. “You cannot expect any normal man to resist such blatant allure. You are hardly a naive little virgin, my dear ma'am—a fact you have gone to some pains to demonstrate this evening.” Still holding her by one shoulder, he cupped her breast very deliberately with his free hand. With a gasp, she started back, but his fingers closed like spines over her shoulder, and the smooth caress continued. To Meredith's chagrin, she felt her nipples rise beneath the thin covering, lifting to the circling fingertip.

“Please, do not,” she whispered, casting an anguished look in the direction of the door to the ballroom.

“Would it not suit your plans to be discovered in this so very compromising position?” he asked, sliding his hand round to her buttocks. “I would have thought it perfect. You would never be able to show your face in society again.” His hand burned through the flimsy, clinging material. “And that, my wanton little adventuress, is your object, is it not?” Merrie yelped as a far-from-playful pinch punctuated his question. “Permit me to inform you, ma'am, that that is not an object I will support! Now, come along.” Taking her wrist, he pulled her toward a door in the far wall, muttering, “I have no idea where this will lead us, but at least we are going away from the party.”

An empty corridor appeared on the far side of the door. “What about Bella and George?” Merrie asked, catching up her skirt to enable her to keep up with him. “They will wonder where I am.”