Smuggler's Lady Read online

  “Lad!” She beckoned to a child of around six, barefoot and in torn britches and a grimy shirt. He pulled his forelock and crossed the narrow street.

  “Yes’m.”

  “A penny for you, if you’ll go into the Falcon and tell Bart I’d like a word.”

  The boy scampered off, disappearing through the blackened oak door of the tavern. It was only mid morning but the taproom was doing a roaring trade, the fishermen having returned from the dawn setting of the lobster pots, with little to look forward to but the tedious business of mending nets and pots.

  The atmosphere was more subdued than usual, however, the talk less ribald, the laughter less raucous. On one or two faces, the expression was downright sullen. The boy, looking around through the smoke of many pipes, saw the reason. Young as he was, he spat on the sawdust of the floor. The presence in the Falcon of the hated coastguard from Fowey was an unforgivable intrusion. No one knew what they hoped to gain by it. They’d not hear anything to their advantage, that was for sure. Indeed, the two men lounging against the bar looked as uncomfortable and out of place as they felt. They were not in uniform, but the homespun britches and leather waistcoats did little to disguise them, and they were morosely cursing the stupidity of those dolts in Fowey who knew nothing of Cornishmen and thought spying on them was a simple matter. The fact was, the very sight of a stranger, be he the epitome of innocence, was enough to make them clam up, and some of the fishermen in the taproom had an ugly look to them. You’d not want to meet them in a dark alley on a moonless night.

  The appearance of a small boy, wriggling like an eel through the throng, drew little remark. When he whispered to Bart, only a few took notice. As far as the revenue men were concerned, the lad had probably been sent by his mother to fetch home her errant husband. Amongst those few who could make an informed guess as to the child’s business, a ripple communicated itself. If Merrie was in the village in search of Bart, then something important was afoot. It was also reasonable to assume she did not know of the revenue spies in the taproom.

  Bart listened, cuffed the lad in a friendly fashion, sending him about his business. All perfectly ordinary, nothing at all untoward. But it was not he who left the inn on the boy’s heels. Bart remained to down another tankard and make several derogatory remarks as to the strangers’ attire, remarks that they struggled to ignore even as they found themselves surrounded by a mocking circle of bearded men. Thus occupied, they did not remark Luke Trewatha’s exit.

  Luke sauntered past Merrie as she sat her horse across from the tavern. They exchanged no words, but Meredith immediately continued on her way down the village street, out along the coast road. Something had kept Bart in the tavern, and Luke had made it clear she had best hasten her own departure. Bart knew now that she wanted to speak with him, though, and would make the agreed rendezvous in the cave beneath the house, two hours after nightfall. She would find out then what was amiss in the tavern.

  It was as much by accident as design that she came to the low stone wall surrounding Mallory House and its gardens. Lord Mallory had not encouraged visitors, and there were few in the community familiar with either house or property. Now, however, Merrie reined in her mare at the gate to look with undisguised curiosity at the activity. Men were at work in the gardens, weeding, trimming, and scything. They swarmed over the outside of the house, repointing chimneys, replacing roof tiles, repainting the woodwork. The sounds of hammers and saws rang in the morning air. Lord Rutherford appeared to have employed every available pair of hands in the neighborhood, she thought. He must, then, be planning an extended stay unless he did not feel the need to oversee the work himself.

  “Good morning, Lady Blake. This is indeed a delightful surprise. Have you come to return my call?”

  The voice came from behind her. Merrie realized that she had been so absorbed in her reflections that she had lost awareness of her surroundings and had not heard his footsteps on the grass verge. A little shiver ran down her spine as she determined that this exchange should be pleasantly dignified. Her position on horseback gave her some advantage over the foot soldier and certainly ensured that there could be no physical contact. She turned slightly in the saddle, smiling graciously down at him.

  “We are not quite so unconventional, sir, that an unmarried lady may pay a call on an unmarried gentlemen with impunity.”

  “But it is considered quite proper for a young lady to go abroad unattended?” he queried with raised eyebrows.

  “Not for young ladies, sir, no. But I do not fall into that category. Only the highest sticklers would see anything to censure in a widow of advanced years going about unescorted,” she responded sweetly.

  Lord Rutherford pursed his lips, examining her. Her riding habit of rust-colored cloth was serviceable rather than elegant, but it was well cut, and the color complimented her hair, tendrils of which escaped from beneath the brim of her tall hat. Her muslin stock was pristine and beautifully starched, lifting that square little chin, and no expense had been spared on her boots. Although the scuffs on the leather were visible through the high polish, the boots were clearly of the highest quality.

  “A widow of advanced years,” he mused. “I can only assume, ma’am, that you are fishing for a compliment. I cannot decide whether to oblige you or not.” The smile he gave her quite took her breath away. Warm and conspiratorial, it invited a light, flirtatious response.

  “Oh, but think how unkind it would be to disappoint me,” she countered before she had time to question the wisdom of accepting the invitation. “You must realize how few compliments come my way.”

  “Well, if you will go about dressed as you were the other evening, it is hardly surprising,” he retorted. “And, by the by, I intend to discover your reasons for that absurd masquerade. They are presumably part and parcel of the whole conundrum.”

  Merrie felt a stab of panic. There was no knowing what this man would find out if he put his mind to it. “There is no conundrum, sir. Merely an impoverished widow who cannot afford the frills of fashion.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but that is really doing it a little too brown.” His eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Pray do not insult my intelligence with such tarra-diddles. You may be able to pull the wool over the eyes of your neighbors, but I am not so easily deceived.”

  Meredith chewed her lip in frustration. “I fail to see what business it is of yours, my lord, how I choose to dress.”

  “Strictly speaking, of course, it is none of my business,” he said thoughtfully. “But I am in sore need of occupation these days, and a little mystery to unravel will fill my idle hours quite nicely.”

  “I am flattered, sir, that I should be considered worthy of such attention. It is a signal honor to be able to serve your lordship in such a manner.” She clipped her words, incensed at the cool arrogance of the statement that quite destroyed her resolution to avoid undignified sparring.

  He bowed. “The honor is all mine, my lady.”

  “I am certain the activity will soon pall, sir.” She gave him a shark’s smile. “Small-town mysteries will not be able to compensate you for the absence of those luxuries and comforts to which I know you must be accustomed. You know the tale of the princess and the pea, of course? I am forcibly reminded of it when I think of you tossing and turning on Matthew Mallory’s bed.”

  The barb seemed even more successful than she had hoped, and Merrie suddenly found herself very glad that she had the advantage of the mare’s back. Lord Rutherford’s face went ominously still, and the gray eyes became as cold as the winter sea. “I do not find the comparison amusing. You seem to be in the habit of making such remarks. You would be advised to cease them forthwith.”

  Meredith decided that she was not going to be intimidated although some inner caution told her to take the advice. “Lord Rutherford, you may find our quaint ways moderately diverting at the moment, but you’d not survive the tedious ordeal of a Cornish winter.” She made no attempt to disguise the not
e of mockery in her laugh. It was a statement in which she believed wholeheartedly, anyway. No London buck would survive more than a week of winter in these parts when the roads became impassable, the sea grew wild under the lash of winter gales, and folks kept to themselves within doors for weeks at a time. There was little social intercourse, and even the parish church bore empty pews of a Sunday.

  “It pleases you to think me such a poor-spirited creature, then, ma’am? I can assure you I have suffered many greater hardships than any Cornish winter could impose.” He spoke harshly, his bitterness exacerbated by the realization that he sounded like a schoolboy defending an accusation of cowardice. He had no desire to boast of his army career or to repine over its loss to anyone, and now he found himself on the verge of doing both to this infuriating, mocking creature who seemed to delight in nettling him and stood in sore need of a lesson in manners.

  “I must bid you good day. There are matters requiring my attention.” With a curt bow, he walked off through the gate, pausing to talk to one of the gardeners, never once looking back as Merrie returned to the road and her way home. Curiously, her clear victory in that exchange brought her little satisfaction.

  Later that afternoon, Walter looked despondently at the colonel’s black expression. The batman had begun to hope that this Cornish expedition had finally done the trick, so cheerful as his lordship had been. But now he was staring morosely into the empty grate, holding a glass of port, his fourth so far in the last hour, as if it were a lifeline.

  It wasn’t that the colonel couldn’t hold his wine, Walter thought. No one would ever know when he was foxed except for the eyes that became shuttered and expressionless. But it seemed to increase his depression rather than alleviate it. The simple luncheon produced by Martha Perry lay neglected on the sideboard, and Walter had too much regard for his head to risk having it bitten off if he suggested again that the colonel eat.

  “Have you nothing better to do, Walter, than stand there sighing like a virgin on St. Agnes’s Eve?” Rutherford snapped.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Walter said woodenly. He did not change his position and the colonel appeared to forget his presence again.

  The sounds of commotion outside at first did not penetrate his melancholy although Walter moved swiftly to the open French doors. “What the devil?” the batman exclaimed, staring at a knot of workmen shouting and gesticulating at something on the roof.

  “What’s that infernal racket?” Lord Rutherford’s eyes snapped into focus.

  “Dunno, Colonel, something on the roof, it looks.”

  Damian gave vent to an ill-tempered oath, striding past Walter into the garden up to the workmen. “What in Hades is going on?” he demanded.

  “Village lads, m’lord.” The foreman tugged his forelock. “Young devils’ve found the ladders, but those tiles are loose ...”

  Looking up, Rutherford saw a group of grimy, impish faces, and one that he recognized as having no place with the village lads. His heart missed a beat as he bellowed, “Rob, come down here, this instant!”

  At the sound of his lordship’s voice the boys disappeared over the crown of the roof in a slithering, squealing mass, all except for Rob who hesitated, clearly wondering if obedience or flight was his best course. As he wavered, his foot slipped, dislodging a tile. Damian watched, transfixed, as the boy lost his footing and sat with a thump to slide inexorably down the steep pitch of the roof, his arms flailing wildly. Rutherford moved, running to the spot beneath the roof where Rob was bound to land. He could only cushion the fall as the boy was catapulted in a tangle of limbs. Knocking Rutherford off his feet, Rob landed awkwardly, his body largely protected by Damian’s, but his arm was twisted beneath him, and he gave an anguished scream as his would-be rescuer tried to disentangle himself.

  “Easy now.” Damian gentled the boy as he helped him to sit up, took one look at the greenish cast to the white face, and held Rob’s head as he crouched, retching miserably into an overgrown flower bed, his arm hanging limply at his side. When the spasms ceased, Lord Rutherford lifted him easily and carried him into the house.

  “I b—beg your pardon, sir,” Rob whispered. “I d—d—did not mean to be such a milksop.” He blinked rapidly to dispel the tears filling the large purple-black eyes that seemed to be the Trelawney hallmark.

  “That, young man, is not a word I would apply to you,” Damian declared brusquely although his eyes softened. “There is nothing cowardly about feeling pain although trespassing on roofs is foolish beyond permission!” He laid the boy on the sofa in the library. “Walter will look at your arm.”

  “Is—is it broken, do you think?” Rob asked and bit his lip hard as Walter, with those incongruously gentle hands, began to feel the injured limb.

  “You had best pray that it is,” Lord Rutherford said grimly. “Otherwise, my friend, by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be eating your dinner off the mantelpiece! ”

  The threat had the desired effect; the small face set, the shoulders stiffened as Rob determined to endure Walter’s examination in silence. Damian turned back to the French doors, hiding his smile. “You there!” He summoned one of the workmen. “Can you find someone to go to Pendennis and tell Lady Blake what has occurred? There is nothing to concern her unduly, and I will convey the lad home myself as soon as he has rested.”

  “Aye, I’ll go meself, m’lord. She’ll be in a right taking, I’ll be bound. Thinks the world of those boys, Lady Merrie does.” The man went off at a run and Damian returned to the library. So, she was Lady Merrie to the villagers—still a Trelawney for them, presumably, although they gave her the Blake courtesy title. It was all most interesting: Lady Blake, Merrie Trelawney, Lady Merrie. What other facets of her personality were there?

  Walter looked up from his examination of Rob’s arm as his lordship came into the room. “Is it broken, Walter?”

  The batman shook his head. “No, it’s not broken as far as I can see. Just a severe sprain and painful enough, Colonel, and it needs a splint. He’s a game lad, though. I haven’t heard a whimper.”

  “Of course you haven’t.” Rutherford smiled at the white-faced Rob. “He’s a Trelawney when all’s said and done.” He poured a tot of brandy from the decanter on the sideboard and brought it over to the sofa. “Drink this, Rob. It’ll blur the edges a little when Walter fixes the splint.”

  Rob obediently swallowed, choked, and swallowed again. A little color crept back in his face. “I should go home, sir. Merrie will be worried if I am late for dinner.”

  “I have sent a message to her so she will not worry. When you have rested, I will take you home.” He watched the lad with considerable compassion. Walter was as gentle as it was possible to be, but Rob was in great discomfort as the soldier fastened splints and a tight bandage.

  “That’s the ticket,” Walter said after what seemed to poor Rob an eternity. “If there is any possibility of a fracture, that’ll see to it. You’d best keep away from roofs in future, my lad.”

  The sound of voices in the hall saved Rob from further strictures. “Where is his lordship, Harry?” It was Meredith’s voice, clear and brisk, but the edge of anxiety was unmistakable.

  Damian strode from the room immediately. The chances of old Harry Perry having any notion of the drama that had been enacted was fairly remote. Both he and his wife seemed blind and deaf to the outside world. “I am here, Lady Blake. But there was no need for you to come yourself. Did the messenger not tell you that I would convey Rob home?”

  “Yes, yes, indeed he did.” Meredith drew off her gloves with hands that shook slightly. “But you must know, my lord, that I could not put you to such inconvenience. I am so sorry for the trouble you have already been caused. Is—is he truly unharmed?” The sloe eyes were enormous in her pale face and Rutherford took her hands, frowning at their coldness.

  “My dear girl, do not be in such a fret,” he enjoined her, chafing her fingers. “The boy’s had the devil of a shock and has s
prained his arm badly. He’s lucky it were no worse, but I think he has been punished sufficiently for his recklessness.”

  “Rob is quite incapable of associating cause and effect,” said Hugo forcefully, coming into the hall at this point. “I am always telling him he should not go about with the village boys, but much notice he takes. Perhaps this time, Merrie, you will insist he pay heed, or you can be sure that, as soon as his arm is better, he will have quite forgot the lesson and be hip deep in trouble again. I hope you do not mind, sir”—he turned punctiliously to Rutherford—“but I charged your stable lad with the care of the gig.”

  “That is what he is there for,” Damian observed drily. “I think, if you will take my advice, Hugo, that you would do well not to lecture Rob at present. He is not feeling quite the thing, for all that he’s a game little bantam.”

  “Where is he?” Merrie asked, tossing her gloves onto the hall table and untying the ribbons of her chip hat. “In the library?”

  Damian held the door for her. She almost ran past him to the sofa where Rob was struggling to sit up against the cushions. What happened next surprised Lord Rutherford. He had expected her to fall all over the boy, fussing and scolding in true female fashion, achieving nothing but the relief of her own feelings and the exacerbation of the patient’s. Instead, with no indication of her earlier distress, she examined Rob’s face carefully, looked closely into his eyes, nodding her satisfaction before scrutinizing Walter’s handiwork.