by Jane Feather
“Well, I said that you had been kind enough to interest yourself in my brothers because you had told Rob you were in need of occupation after your experiences in the Peninsula.” The look she gave him this time was half rueful, half defiant. “I am sorry if you do not like it, sir, but I had to think of something. I did not mean to betray a confidence.”
“You are thoroughly unprincipled,” he said with mock severity. “But I will reserve my wrath since I feel sure you have not yet made a clean breast.”
“I was obliged to demonstrate, sir, that you could have no possible interest in me, that—that no sensible man could. And I said also that you were willing to advise Hugo where I could not in the matter of his taking orders.” This last was said in a rush as if only thus could the full disclosure be made.
“I am to advise Hugo on—Oh, no, Meredith! That is the outside of enough! The rest I will go along with, will even allow that on the spur of the moment it was an understandable fabrication, but that is gilding the lily beyond what is permissible.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Rutherford.” Meredith began to rub at a smudge on the sleeve of her print gown.
“I do not think you have ever been repentant in your life,” Damian pronounced, lifting her chin again. “What did those cats say to bring about that tantrum? Something to do with hypocrisy, as I recall.”
“It pleases this society to remember my late husband as a pillar of the community, a generous man who undertook to provide for his wife’s orphaned brothers, who gave them wise counsel and exhibited all the qualities they should emulate. A man, in short, whose death was a tragedy for all who knew him.” Her voice was bitter, her eyes filled with cold distaste. “The truth, my lord, was far from that as they are all aware.”
“What was the truth?” He still held her chin but, when she pulled away, released it immediately.
Meredith sighed and went over to the open window. “It was my father’s wish that I marry Sir John. Father knew he was dying, our mother had passed away some two years previously and we were none of us of age. The only possible guardian in Cornwall was an elderly relative of my mother’s, but my father had never got on with the Merediths. I was not unduly averse to the idea. Sir John was personable enough, his Cornish lineage was almost as old as mine, he lived the life I was used to, and Father would die easy.” She shrugged but kept her back toward her audience.
Damian would have found nothing unusual in this story if it had been anyone but Merrie Trelawney telling it. This blind acceptance of a mediocre fate at the command of her father did not sit right with what he knew of the woman.
“My inheritance, and that of my brothers’, was placed, as is customary, in the hands of my husband who was also the boys’ guardian.” She swung round to face him, resting her hands on the window sill at her back. “It is not a pretty story, Lord Rutherford, but a sufficiently familiar one for you to be able to guess at its conclusion. Had my husband not died when he did, we would have been completely destitute. As it was, all furniture and possessions of any value, be they Blake, Meredith, or Trelawney, were sold, and the proceeds managed to cover the outstanding gaming debts. The house and estate are heavily mortgaged, but with stringent economies we are able to keep our independence.”
Rutherford frowned. It was not a pretty story, as she had said, and neither was it unusual except for the personality of one of the chief protagonists. “Forgive me, Merrie, but I do not think you married a man to whom you were basically indifferent just to please your father.”
Meredith decided that Lord Rutherford was a great deal too perspicacious for comfort. But then that was not an unexpected revelation. “No,” she agreed, in her customary forthright fashion. “But had I not done so, the boys would have been separated, sent to live with different relatives out of Cornwall, and it would have been quite dreadful for them. Besides, I daresay I should have been obliged to live with Aunt Mary in Helston.” She pulled a face. “If you had met my Aunt Mary, Lord Rutherford, you would understand why I chose as I did. She has an abominable little pug which must be walked three times a day, and she does not keep enough servants so someone must polish the silverware and do the mending—”
“Enough!” Rutherford gazed at her in undisguised horror. “I quite see that Aunt Mary’s establishment would not do at all.”
“No, but had I been aware that my husband would run through my brothers’ fortunes, I daresay I would have bowed to necessity,” she said grimly. “As it is, I must do what I can to ensure that they do not suffer too much from my mistaken decision.”
“And how do you propose doing that?” Rutherford asked with considerable interest. The statement had been made with such confidence, she must have a definite plan, he decided. Although what an impoverished widow could possibly do to repair such a catastrophe, he could not begin to imagine.
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 intere
st 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.
Chapter Eight
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.
