Smuggler's Lady (11 page)

Merrie had her answer ready. “With thrift,” she replied easily. “I know of no other way. Theo would have me marry a rich husband.” She chuckled. “Poor Theo finds poverty most degrading. But I know of no eligible candidates and, in order to avoid the attention of the matchmakers, play my little game of reclusive, sorrowing, soft-headed widow.”

How neatly she had satisfied his curiosity as to the masquerade she played for the benefit of her neighbors. It was perfectly reasonable to suppose that a young widow would be the target of matchmakers in such an inbred community. Pendennis was still intact, if mortgaged, and could be considered adequate compensation for relieving the widow of her single state. And it was perfectly reasonable that she should wish to avoid unpleasantness in whatever manner she chose. Lord Rutherford should have no further need to puzzle over conundrums. She did, however, feel just a prick of guilt as the truths, half-truths, and downright lies tripped off her tongue with such consummate artistry. That in itself was rather strange. Her conscience was rarely troubled by the deceptions she practiced. Did it perhaps have something to do with the fact that it was Rutherford she was deceiving so cleverly? Meredith decided that she did not want to pursue that avenue and was saved from further uncomfortable reflection by an interruption that proceeded to create more problems than it solved.

“Merrie! Do you know what Seecombe has just told me?” Rob burst into the room, his usual impetuousness not at all impaired by his bandaged arm. “Oh, good day, sir. Are you come to inquire after me? I am quite well, as you see, and the arm does not pain in the slightest.”

“That is indeed good news,” Rutherford responded with creditable gravity. “You have quite put my mind at rest.”

“Yes, I thought it would do so.” Rob's eye fell on the heap of broken glass against the wainscot. “What happened?”

“An accident,” Meredith said smoothly. “Pray ring the bell for Eliza.”

Rob's curiosity about the glass was fortunately easily satisfied, and he pulled the bell rope. “I was about to tell you what Seecombe has just said.”

“So you were,” Merrie agreed. “Lord Rutherford and I are all agog.”

Rob, who had a remarkably unsuspicious nature, saw only genuine interest on the faces of his elders. “He says the Gentlemen will ride tonight.”

“Really,” said Merrie in a bored tone. “I had thought you were about to tell me that the world was coming to an end. Yes—it is the glass, Eliza. An accident, I am afraid.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and busied herself removing the evidence of her mistress's outburst.

Damnation! Merrie cursed silently. She had been hoping that news of tonight's delivery would escape Rutherford. As a stranger, he would not normally have been apprised of it, and to her certain knowledge there was nothing to be delivered to Mallory House.

“Well, I think it monstrous exciting,” Rob declared. “And I shall stay awake and watch for them.”

“Much good will it do you,” his sister said in dampening tones. “Pendennis, as it happens, does not expect a delivery this night. Our cellars are full.”

The boy's face fell. Even Damian, in spite of his own interest in the news, was obliged to laugh. Rob looked at him reproachfully. “I do not know what is amusing, sir.”

“No, of course you do not,” Rutherford agreed. “If you are able to ride with one arm and care to do so, you may accompany me home. Harry has unearthed a deal of fishing tackle in the attics. If any of it is any use to you, you may have it with pleasure.”

“May Theo come too?” Rob asked, hopping from one foot to the other. “He is a more serious fisherman even than I am, sir. He actually thinks tickling trout unsportsmanlike!”

“An opinion that I am sure he shares with the trout,” Rutherford said solemnly. “By all means fetch him, but I should warn you that I leave in ten minutes—with or without you.”

Rob scampered off and Lord Rutherford said, “I play the part assigned to me, as you can see, Lady Blake.”

“I did not intend that you take it seriously, Lord Rutherford. You surely cannot wish to saddle yourself with two schoolboys for the afternoon.”

“No,” he agreed, “there is nothing I wish less. Walter shall have the charge of them.”

Merrie laughed. “Well, if you are not very careful, Rob will develop a lasting passion and will be forever on your doorstep. He is a most faithful friend.”

“I will bear the warning in mind, ma'am.” For a moment there was silence between them, then Lord Rutherford held out his hand. “Come here, Merrie,” he instructed quietly.

She moved toward him even as the sensible, lucid part of her mind told her to remain where she was, safely at arm's length.

“You have a reward to claim,” he said softly, taking her hands. “It is one I cannot resist awarding. I had not expected, when I made this foray into Cornwall, to be so diverted, Merrie Trelawney.”

“As I said before, sir, I am happy to be of service.” Somehow, the intended sardonic note was lamentably absent and she knew the vulnerability of her wanting was like an open book. Merrie tugged at her imprisoned hands. “Are not ten minutes passed, sir? Theo and Rob will be waiting for you.”

Damian smiled. “So, you will not claim your due. But that is perhaps wise, in the circumstances. It will certainly be more satisfactory when we can be assured of privacy.” With that, he raised her hands to his lips, then very gently kissed the corner of her mouth. “I will not forget what is owed you, Merrie Trelawney.”

He left her then, standing alone in the parlor, shivering as if the sun had just gone behind a cloud. She could not possibly indulge in a flirtation with Lord Rutherford. She had been mad to think it feasible. Such a thing was only possible if one was carefree, heart-free, had nothing to lose. One could not flirt lightly with a man who aroused such imperative longings, particularly when the man in question was more than aware of the effect he had and had too little delicacy to hide that knowledge!

What a pickle it all was! But there was a delivery to be made tonight. Thoughts of Damian, Lord Rutherford, had best be buried deep if she were to have her wits about her. On those wits hung the safety of more people than herself.

Lord Rutherford kept his impatience well in check as the day wore on. The soldier, after all, was well accustomed to biding his time, watching and waiting for the optimal moment for attack. Rob and Theo afforded some distraction, and, whenever he could do so discreetly, he encouraged them to talk of their past, their parents, life with Sir John Blake, and in particular of their sister. Rob required no encouragement. Theo was more careful until he realized that his interlocuter already knew a great deal, information that he could only have gleaned from Merrie.

Damian sent them home in time for dinner and prepared to pass a long, solitary evening. At what hour did the Gentlemen ride? Not before midnight, surely. Walter, watching anxiously, saw no signs of the dreaded depression in his lordship's preoccupation. He drank but two glasses of claret with the mutton chop and boiled potato provided by Mrs. Perry and, instead of settling over the brandy bottle for the night, informed Walter that he was going to take a stroll in the evening air.

He walked through the village, keeping ears and eyes alert for a sign that something out of the ordinary was going to take place. But everything seemed as usual. The taproom at the Falcon rang with customary merriment, and judging by the crowds, every man in the village was there. He had little doubt but that the smugglers were amongst the noisy drinkers. They would have to be villagers and fishermen from the immediate area, but it would be foolish of them to jeopardize their mission and their safety by dulling their wits with mine host's home brew.

They wouldn't be doing so, of course. These men knew what they were about, as he had seen that first night. They'd hardly arouse suspicions by behaving in an unusually abstemious manner on the night of the delivery, not when there was the possibility of a revenue spy in the village. But where did their leader come from? He had seen no one in the village remotely resembling that lithe stripling, but, if his suspicions were correct and the youth was most definitely
not
a youth, then that was hardly surprising. None of his enquiries had yielded any information of note. No one he spoke to had ever seen the Gentlemen—it was not considered wise to pry, such indiscretion might lead to a reduction in supply, and that fate was clearly viewed as one to be avoided at all costs by the bucolic squirearchy. However, since he himself had no vested interested in discretion, his lordship decided to pursue his investigation in person. He had it in mind to track down the Gentlemen this evening—not a difficult task, surely, since they would be out and about the village, and it was hard to imagine how they could make a delivery without being in some way visible.

One hour before midnight, he took to the cliff road on foot, looking again for the spot where he had come across the skirmish. The conversation between the youth and the man called Bart had made clear that the goods had been safely stowed before the ambush. It was to be assumed that the hiding place was somewhere near the cliff road and that the smugglers would begin tonight's ride from there.

When he first heard the sounds—a chink of a bridle, a whispered exclamation—he was hard put to place them, so disembodied and disoriented they sounded in the darkness. Then he realized that they came from immediately below him. He inched forward until he was lying prone, gazing down over the edge of the cliff at a narrow trail snaking against the cliff face. The ponies were dark shapes, the figures of men like specters, all moving in an eerie silence. The youth was easy to distinguish by his size. He seemed tiny beside the others, yet, as before, the slender figure riding astride the lead pony was invested with that indefinable aura of authority. The watcher on the cliff blinked, shook his head in disbelief, crept even closer to the cliff edge until his shoulders were suspended in mid air. But even this added proximity could not alter the facts. There was no denying the evidence of his eyes. The set of her shoulders beneath the dark jacket, the tilt of her head in the tight knitted cap, that square little chin were all unmistakable. Damian wondered why he had not guessed. With hindsight it seemed obvious. It explained that unusual muscular, supple vibrancy that so intrigued and excited him. It explained all the games she played; it explained that sense of déjà vu he had constantly in her presence.

Rutherford watched the train out of sight along the path. His original plan to follow them now seemed unnecessary. He had solved the major mystery—the identity of that competent stripling who laughed in the face of danger and handled a small sword with the best. What he was to do with the knowledge was a problem for another day. He decided, in the absence of the band, to retrace their steps, find out, if he could, where this operation had its headquarters. That piece of information could well stand him in good stead at some point.

A few yards along the road, he found a narrow path leading down to the trail below. Following the tracks of the pony train, he came to a point on the trail just below the cliff where stood Pendennis. What he found there at first puzzled him mightily. There was a cave set into the cliff, but it appeared far too small to serve any useful purpose. Yet it was clearly the one they had used, judging by the prints of man and beast scuffed into the sand. It took ten minutes of minute exploration before he found the concealed opening behind the boulder at the rear of the cave. Half an hour later, he stood again on the cliff path, in no doubt at all that the tunnel from the central cavern led directly to Pendennis. Its origin definitely predated Meredith's arrival as bride of Sir John Blake. How had she discovered it? And, even more to the point, how had she prevented Rob from discovering it? Presumably she would return to the house via the cave once this night's work was accomplished—always assuming that it would be accomplished safely. Rutherford decided that speculation on the outcome of Merrie's mission would be fruitless. He found the way up to the cliff above, there to await her return.

The soldier was accustomed to keeping vigil, as he was accustomed to discomfort, but the hours dragged nevertheless, the muscles in his shoulders stiffening. Although it was high summer, the dew was heavy, striking a chill through the cloth of his britches as he crouched in the scrub. But the chill was nothing compared to his anxiety as he strained his ears for a telltale sound, peering at the sky for the first gray streaks of dawn. The delivery was taking an unconscionably long time unless he had been mistaken and she had returned some other way and was now safely abed and asleep. Should that prove to be the case, Damian, Lord Rutherford, shivering in abominable discomfort and with an anxiety akin to fear, decided that Merrie Trelawney had best have a care for her skin when next they met!

He was about to call a halt to his watch and return home for what was left of the night when he heard a soft whistling from the path below. Looking down he saw the familiar, slender figure, hands thrust into the pockets of her britches, kicking up sand in a manner that expressed the total lack of a care in the world as she whistled cheerfully, if somewhat tunelessly. With relief came anger. How dared she return so nonchalantly while he had been kicking his heels in cold and trepidation for hours! As he watched, she suddenly broke into a little dance, pulling off the knitted cap, tossing it into the air with a soft, exultant laugh. His anger faded, admiration and more than a touch of envy taking its place. He knew the wonderful feeling that followed danger and tension, the sense of a job well done, of well-earned peace and relaxation. It required considerable restraint to refrain from calling down to her as he shared vicariously in the youthful, carefree high spirits she was exhibiting.

Merrie was indeed feeling very satisfied with the night's work, the proceeds of which were contained in a bulky leather pouch in her back pocket. Tomorrow, she would divide them up and Bart would see to the distribution of the shares. Next month, it had been unanimously agreed, there would be two runs. The first they would make to the Eagle and Child in Fowey. If all went well, there would be others. Still whistling, she fetched a straw besom from the back of the cave and began to swerep the sand of cave and path, obscuring the prints of men and ponies. It was a small precaution, probably unnecessary since few people came this way, but one could never be too careful, she thought with a smug little smile. As she retreated into the cave, she swept the sand clean behind her, and, when Merrie Trelawney disappeared behind the jutting boulder, there were no signs of any activity other than that of the wheeling gulls and the breaking surf.

Damian rose stiffly to his feet. For this time, at least, she was away to her bed in safety, so he could seek his own with a peaceful heart. He was, however, uncertain how many more such nights he could endure and keep silent. During the long hours of his vigil, he had had ample time to look at the extraordinary revelation that had hit him between the eyes when he'd recognized the figure, sitting so straight, tall, and indomitable astride the pony loaded with contraband. What had begun as a game informed by the need for a little revenge had taken a dramatically serious turn. He was in love, for the first time in his thirty years, and with just about the most unsuitable creature imaginable. It was not hard to picture his mother's reactions—or those of the gouty duke. Strangely, the thought made him laugh. One thing was clear. While he might just possibly be able to take an indigent Cornish widow into the bosom of his family, an active smuggler was out of the question. Somehow or other he was going to have to persuade Merrie Trelawney to join the ranks of the law-abiding.

 

 

When next he saw her, it was some six hours later. The bells of St. James's had been pealing joyously for half an hour, summoning the faithful and not-so-faithful to matins. One would need to be on one's deathbed to be excused attendance at the village ritual and Damian, after three hours of dreamless sleep, a substantial breakfast, and twenty minutes of Walter's skilled massage, rode across the fields, divided between the desire to see Meredith and the dread at the company picture he knew she would present and the part she would oblige him to play.

Merrie, with Hugo, Rob, and Theo in attendance, stood beneath the lych gate in conversation with an elderly couple whom Damian recognized as Admiral and Lady Petersham. Tethering Saracen to the railing, and drawing off his gloves, he walked toward the group.

“Ah, Lord Rutherford.” Lady Petersham greeted his approach with her vague smile.

“Rutherford, morning,” the admiral boomed, presenting his good ear to his lordship in order to catch the reply.

“Good morning.” Rutherford bowed punctiliously before turning to acknowledge Lady Blake. “Ma'am, your servant.”

“Oh, dear, Lord Rutherford. You do me too much honor,” she fluttered, attempting to curtsy, extend her hand, and keep hold of her prayer book at one and the same time. The prayer book proved to be the last straw and fell to the ground. Damian, expressionless, bent to pick it up. As he handed it to her, she gave him an up-from-under look, brimming with mischief. His lordship resolved to inform her at the earliest possible moment that, if she desired his cooperation in this deception she practiced for the benefit of her neighbors, it was encumbent upon her to play fair. Cutting short her babble of thanks, he turned to the boys, all of whom appeared quite unaffected by their sister's extraordinary behavior. Hugo was sober-suited and solemn, Theo resigned, but Rob, Rutherford noticed, bore a suspiciously innocent expression belied by the suppressed excitement in the Trelawney eyes.

The bells ceased their chiming and the group moved swiftly up the path to the heavy oaken doors. Mr. Grantham, the verger, was well known for his insistence on punctuality, and it was a brave soul who would creep in once he had closed the doors.

Damian walked behind the Trelawneys, his eyes fixed on the youngest member. As they approached the door, Rob put his hand in his back pocket, which pocket seemed at once to come alive. Rutherford's hand closed over the boy's shoulder

“Take it out, my friend, whatever it is,
before
you go inside.”

Meredith turned, giving them both a startled look that changed to exasperation as she saw her brother's guilty expression. “What
have
you got this time?”

Seeing little hope for it, Rob drew from his coat pocket a tiny field mouse. Under the inplacable stares of his elders, he released the creature on the path. “Is that all?” his sister inquired sharply, and when Rob nodded dispiritedly, pushed him in front of her. The organ had begun to play and Mr. Grantham was glowering impatiently, so she had little time to exchange more than a speaking look with Lord Rutherford before hurrying to the Blake pew, where she firmly placed Rob between herself and the wall. Lord Rutherford followed the sidesman to the Mallory pew and the service began.

Damian's pew was across the aisle from the Trelawney's, one row behind, so he found it possible to observe them covertly throughout what seemed an interminable two hours. Hugo wore an expression of complete devotion, attending to Vicar Elsbury's monotonous sermon as if his life depended on it. Theo and Meredith produced responses, sang, prayed and appeared to listen with impeccable duty. Rob ridgeted and made no attempt to disguise his boredom although otherwise he behaved himself.

Meredith, Rutherford decided, even allowing for his partiality, looked positively hagged. She wore a satinet gown of unrelieved black. The color would have done little for her even when her complexion bore its usual vibrant tones and her eyes their customary brilliance. As it was, she was as pale and heavy-eyed as one would expect of someone who had not gained her bed before dawn. While what little of her hair he could see still retained its luster, most of it was hidden beneath a hideous widow's cap—a monstrosity that he had not seen her affect before.