Smuggler's Lady Page 6

  Chapter Five

  Meredith was rarely troubled by sleeplessness, but her dreams that night were confused, and she slept later into the morning than was her custom.

  Nan woke her eventually with the reminder that the steward was waiting in the library for his monthly discussion of estate business.

  “Oh, Nan, why did you not wake me earlier?” Meredith sprang from bed. “I cannot imagine how I could have been such a slug-a-bed.”

  Nan, looking at her erstwhile nursling’s heavy eyes, sniffed but refrained from comment. While Meredith sponged herself with water from the ewer, she laid out a simple day dress of faded muslin, knowing that Meredith would be out and about on the estate once her interview with Mr. Farquarson was over.

  “I suppose the boys have breakfasted already.” Merrie fumbled with the buttons on her sleeves in her haste. Nan, tutting, pushed her hands away and did the task herself.

  “Hours ago,” she said. “Master Hugo’s with his books, Master Theo’s off to the village, and the good Lord only knows what that young rapscallion Rob is about.”

  Merrie laughed, knowing full well Nan’s great fondness for Rob. “He’ll be back when he’s hungry,” she declared, twisting the thick, auburn braid into a coronet around her head. “Having first regaled every available pair of ears with the most intimate details of the household.”

  That thought gave her pause; her forehead puckered as the image of Damian, Lord Rutherford, rose with alarming clarity. She had already come to the conclusion that she would avoid any further encounter even if it meant immuring herself in Pendennis until the charms of Cornwall palled on the London buck and he decided to return whence he came. He was quite the most detestable creature it had ever been her misfortune to meet—so arrogantly certain of his superiority, so devastatingly assured of achieving his own ends, so appallingly powerful. Meredith gulped as her eyes met their reflection in the glass. It was the consciousness of that power that frightened her. It was not simply that he was physically so much stronger than herself although she had ample reason for knowing that, but there was something else, something indefinable about the aura of authority he carried—a feeling she had that once he set his mind to something, nothing and no one could stand in his way. And if he set his mind to something concerning Merrie Trelawney ... ?

  She shivered. Why did he call her that? She was known as Merrie only to her most intimate friends, family, and household, and it had been five years since she had legitimately been known as Merrie Trelawney. Yet, Lord Rutherford used that name as if he had the right—as if it carried some special significance, just for him.

  She gave herself a vigorous mental shake. There was a busy day’s work to be accomplished, a household and estate to manage, decisions to be made. Thoughts of domineering noblemen who didn’t recognize when they were unwelcome had no place in the scheme of things.

  Meredith went downstairs. “Seecombe, would you be good enough to bring coffee to the library? I am behindhand this morning and have no time for breakfast.”

  “Certainly, Lady Merrie.” Seecombe inclined his head, determined that he would take rather more than just coffee to the library. Her ladyship needed to keep up her strength. The entire household was aware of the struggles Lady Blake had to keep her head above water as they were also aware that, while their wages were occasionally late in coming, they were always paid as the first priority. Sir John had had a fine time gambling away his fortune, and it was a crying shame that, young as she was, his widow should be reduced to such desperate straits. A lesser woman, they all knew, would have sunk beneath the burdens, but her ladyship refused to surrender. The boys were kept in school, no member of the household had been turned away, the pensions and gratuities to retired retainers were maintained. How she did it was the puzzle and a subject for considerable speculation in the kitchens of the neighboring manor houses, if not in the drawing rooms.

  Meredith greeted her steward with a warm smile. “Are you come to depress me, Stuart? You are looking uncommon grave.”

  “ ’Tis the matter of the Longwood cottages, Lady Blake,” Farquarson said ponderously, laying his hands on plump thighs in worsted britches. “The expenditures cannot be delayed any longer. The roofs must be repaired and the alley repaved before winter. The tenants have been understanding, but I fear they will begin to grumble before long and with good reason.”

  Meredith sucked the tip of her thumb in the unconscious manner she had had since a child whenever she was troubled. She had intended to pay off the final mortgage payment on Ducket’s Spinney with the profits from the last run. Now, it would have to be delayed. Reclaiming the estate had so often to take second place to necessary maintenance, and the latter was so much less satisfying than sitting in solicitor Donne’s office in Fowey, handing over a banker’s draft, and receiving in exchange the deeds to whatever part of the estate she had managed to buy back. The solicitor had no more idea than anyone else where the money came from but assumed that extraordinary thrift was responsible. One had only to look at Lady Blake herself to see one area of strict economy.

  “Very well, Stuart. Set the repairs in motion.” Having bowed to necessity, there was no point repining. She poured coffee, nibbled a piece of bread and butter, and, in typical fashion, put the disappointment out of mind as she and the steward went over the accounts.

  After Farquarson had left, however, Merrie sat at the chipped oak desk that had also escaped the auctioneer’s hammer, staring out of the long windows facing the sea. The sea ... two runs a month would solve all her problems. She could pay off debts and maintain the estate. But doubling the profits meant doubling the risk, particularly with the revenue become so active. While Jacques, she knew, would agree to the proposal, would Bart and the others be willing to accept the increased risk? Well, she would not find out unless she asked, and there was work to be done that would not be done if she sat like a dressmaker’s dummy gazing out of the window.

  “Seecombe, I shall be in the stables until nuncheon. The farrier comes this morning and I must talk with him.”

  “Very well, my lady.” The manservant held the side door for her and she went out into the warm, summer day. It was such a relief to be outside, after the gloomy confines of the library, that she skipped a little on her way to the stableyard. It would not matter who saw her here where she was surrounded only by friends.

  It was nearing noon when Lord Rutherford’s stallion trotted up to the front door of Pendennis. The doors stood open on the balmy air, and a rather ancient red setter cocked an ear at the new arrival before resuming her nap in the sun. There was a pleasantly somnolent, relaxed atmosphere about the gracious, mellow stone house standing as it had done for two hundred years amidst well-tended, flower-filled gardens, hedges and shrubs neatly trimmed. Rutherford examined his surroundings appreciatively before hitching Saracen’s bridle over the stone knob of the balustrade, mounting the short flight of steps, and pausing in the doorway to look for something with which to herald his presence. There appeared to be neither door knocker nor bellpull. Cornish habits were most singular. Where else would one find front doors standing open to all comers? He took a tentative step into the dim light of the hall. As if on cue, the baize door at the rear swung open to reveal a substantial, gray-haired figure, his britches and waistcoat covered by a green apron, who trod towards him.

  “Sir?” Seecombe managed to convey disapproval in the very inflection. Strange gentlemen at Pendennis were not to be encouraged in this manservant’s opinion.

  Damian was not amused. This covert incivility seemed to be a characteristic of Cornish servants. “Is Lady Blake at home?” he inquired, directing a flinty stare at this most unbutlerlike figure.

  “She is not, sir,” he was informed.

  “When do you expect her?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  There seemed to be nothing for it but to leave his card, something he had hoped to avoid, having a strong suspicion that his quarry, once alerted, would atte
mpt to elude him.

  “It’s Lord Rutherford! I told you it was his horse, Theo.” Rob, preceded by a cocker spaniel pup with flying ears, catapulted into the hall. “Good day, sir. How do you do? This is my brother, Theo. We have been in the village, you know, down by the quay,” he added, as if the information were eagerly sought. “Have you come to call?”

  “That was my intention,” Damian agreed. “But I understand your sister is not at home.” He nodded at Theo, who was gazing wide-eyed at his lordship’s cravat, the set of his coat, the snug fit of the buckskin britches across powerful thighs.

  “Is—is your coat made by Weston, sir?” Theo stammered.

  “As it happens. But you should not stare so. It shows a sad lack of sophistication.” Lord Rutherford did not consider the snub to be particularly severe, but clearly its recipient was unaccustomed to any form of set-down for he flushed with mortification and began to stammer an apology.

  “Oh, do not be in such a taking, Theo,” Rob advised. “It only makes you look silly. His lordship did not mean to be unkind, did you, sir?”

  Damian found himself hastening to assure them both that nothing had been further from his mind. He had not, in fact, intended to be unkind but had responded automatically to what at first sight struck him as ill-bred scrutiny. He looked again at the two boys, noting their resemblance to their sister and the very clear fragility of the older’s dignity. It brought a stab of youthful remembrance and, anxious to make amends, he smiled. The smile was returned with instant trust and warmth, and his lordship felt absurdly relieved that his flash of irritation had not irretrievably blotted his copybook.

  “Merrie is only in the stables,” Rob was saying. “She will be back soon, will she not, Seecombe?”

  “I couldn’t say, Master Rob,” the manservant replied repressively. “Not being party to her ladyship’s plans.” With that, he returned to the servants’ quarters.

  “That’s such fustian!” Rob looked after him indignantly. “Merrie always tells Seecombe when she is coming back and where she is going. Do you think he can think Merrie would not care to see you, Lord Rutherford?”

  “I wish you would learn to hold your tongue occasionally.” Theo, his composure recovered, rebuked his young brother sharply. “I cannot imagine what Lord Rutherford must think. Will you step into the parlor, sir? I will send someone to fetch my sister.”

  “But she will be back shortly,” Rob protested. “And who will you send?”

  “You,” Theo hissed in an undertone.

  Damian stepped through the door Theo held for him, wondering if at any minute he would be required to separate the warring brothers.

  “Go and tell Merrie that Lord Rutherford is here, Rob,” Theo instructed.

  “But she is probably on her way back. She only went to talk to the farrier about Jen’s canker, and I saw him leave above ten minutes ago.”

  “She will like to know that she has a visitor,” his brother said, looking daggers.

  “Oh.” Comprehension dawned on Rob’s open countenance. “You mean that she might wish to change her dress when she knows that Lord Rutherford has come to pay a call?”

  Rutherford began to examine his surroundings with an appearance of overpowering interest, ignoring the hissing behind him. He could not help but near Rob whisper, “I do not care what you say. Merrie does not care a jot for such things.” There was a muffled squeak, sounds of a scuffle, then silence. Rutherford turned from his contemplation of the only pieces of any note in the shabby, yet cheerful room—a pretty, japanned workbox resting on a small satinwood table beneath the window—to find himself alone. It was with a measure of relief that he sallied forth, unaccompanied, in the direction of the stableyard. His reception had been sufficiently unconventional for him to feel justified in going in search of the lady of the house; besides, he strongly suspected that in the heat of their squabble Masters Theo and Rob had quite forgotten any intention of alerting their sister to the visitor if, indeed, they remembered his presence in the first place.

  The stables, as he had expected, were to be found on the westerly, sheltered side of the house. They were clean and orderly, bearing all the marks of good management, unlike his own at Mallory House. Of Merrie Trelawney, there was no sign.

  A lad was sitting on an upturned pail, a hunk of bread and cheese in one hand, a tankard of ale in the other. He vouchsafed the information that he’d last seen the mistress in the barn. Damian accordingly made his way to the red-roofed building. It was dim and dusty within, and he stood for a moment, inhaling the rich fragrance of the hay, noting the orderly stacks of bales. This was one establishment that would not go short in the winter months. The signs of good husbandry were everywhere, in the clean, dull gleam of forks and rakes, the swept yard, the full rainwater barrels.

  “Lady Blake?” he called into the dimness. Silence greeted him.

  Meredith, up in the hayloft, froze. What the devil was he? Some kind of nemesis pursuing her even into the safety of her own sanctum? Perhaps if she kept quiet, he would go away again. Booted footsteps sounded on the stone floor of the barn below.

  “It’s been some years since I played hide-and-seek so you may have to remind me of the rules,” he said, and there was a distinct note of amusement in the voice. Merrie reviewed her options rapidly. She could continue to cower like a hunted rabbit behind the hay bales, she could demand in self-righteous panic that he leave her property instantly, or she could declare her presence. Only the latter option allowed any dignity, but, even as she hesitated, Lord Rutherford’s neat brown head appeared at the head of the ladder rising to the loft. “Ah, there you are,” he announced with calm pleasure. “I have been calling you, but I expect you didn’t hear.”

  “I am rather occupied, sir,” she replied in a definitely muffled voice, turning her head away abruptly back to her task. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Pleasure? Somehow, the word doesn’t carry a ring of truth,” Rutherford mused, hitching himself into the loft. In the dim, dusty light, he saw her crouched in a corner under the eaves where a round window let in a smidgen of light. “Perhaps I may be of help,” he offered.

  “I do not think so, sir.” Resolutely, Merrie kept her back to him, trying not to react as she heard and felt his approach. The devil take the man! Why did he always catch her at a disadvantage? She was dressed like a milkmaid with straw in her hair, grubbing around in the dust. She could not even play the horror-struck, prim, matronly widow in these circumstances—not with any conviction, at least. But then, after last night, that role would carry little credibility with this audience. “If you wish to be of help, Lord Rutherford, you will leave as quietly as you can. They are frightened enough as it is, and I am afraid they will die of heart failure. They are such fragile little creatures.”

  Rather than ask what she was talking about, Rutherford decided he would do best to find out for himself. Crossing the rafters, he came to stand behind her. The sunlight in the round window gave the crown of auburn hair a rich luster that distracted him for a moment from his mission. Her simple print gown of faded muslin was an immeasurable improvement on the previous evening’s bombazine, clinging as it did to the supple curves of a deliciously slender frame. Slender, but again he noticed that tautness that had so struck him last night. She held herself almost like a soldier as if her body was a machine under her control. What could she possibly have done in this retiring life she seemed to lead to have taught her that? It was a fascinating question and one to which he would soon find an answer. But unless he could overcome the very clear hostility radiating in his direction, he might as well return to Mallory House.

  He saw that she held in her lap a bird’s nest, perfectly formed, containing three fledgling house martins. Instinctively, he dropped onto his haunches beside her, asking softly, “what’s to do with these babies?”

  “The mother has abandoned them,” Merrie heard herself explain in the same soft tones, “because they would not fly. I have been watchi
ng these last few days, and she has been quite frantic trying to teach them. They are too frightened, the sillies, although they are quite big enough. I have it in mind to take the nest below and put it on the lower window. Perhaps they would be willing to try from there.”

  “More like the cat will get them,” Rutherford observed.

  “Well, it is that or starvation up here,” she declared matter-of-factly. “I intend to try. If you will go back down the ladder, I will pass the nest to you. The ladder is a trifle unsteady, you understand. I am unwilling to climb down in these skirts with only one hand.”

  “A wise decision,” he murmured. “Had you not been wearing skirts, the matter would have been different.”

  Damn the man! He was laughing at her again. Then it occurred to her that her statement had sounded a little peculiar. It only made sense if she was in the habit of not wearing skirts, as his lordship had just gently pointed out. Why the devil did he have to be so sharp? Or she so careless? She had meant exactly that. In her britches, she wouldn’t have thought twice about descending the ladder encumbered with a nest of chicks.

  The only safe course was to ignore his observation. “Would you be kind enough to take the nest, my lord, while I stand up?” She spoke with creditable dignity, holding the nest up to him. The fledglings twittered in distress as he received their home in cupped palms. Rescuing baby birds was not an activity the soldier had experienced before. He had rescued comrades on a battlefield, women and children from marauding armies, and he’d done his share of killing, too. So what was he doing concerning himself in the fate of these pathetic, fragile, little creatures whose chances of survival were minimal at best?

  Rutherford shrugged mentally and accepted whatever direction fate and whim chose to take him. Such abdication made a refreshing change, and he clucked comfortingly at the fledglings, who, sadly, were not to be comforted.

  Merrie stood up, shook out her skirts, brushing off dust and straw impatiently. Wisps of hay clung in the shining auburn coronet. Such an opportunity was not to be missed, his lordship decided with an almost apologetic sigh.