Smuggler's Lady

by Jane Feather

  “But my love, Damian will—”

  “He will not!”

  Arabella flinched at the flashing eyes, the sharp crackle in the previously modulated voice. “I do not know what you have concocted between you,” Meredith went on, “but I can assure you that I and only I am responsible for expenses of this nature. I have accepted your hospitality most gratefully, but that is as far as it goes.”

  Arabella pulled a rueful grimace. This stumbling block had not occurred to her, but it was a major one. Merrie could not enter society in gowns made up by her maid. And the gowns were only the beginning. There were hats and shoes of every description, shawls and scarves, gloves and mittens and stockings, cloaks and wraps. The list was endless. Her brother had said to spare no expense. Had he not envisaged his mistress’s reaction? Or had he hoped Arabella would succeed in persuading her? Well, his sister decided firmly, he was going to have pull the coals out of this fire himself. Even for a beloved twin, he had laid too much upon her shoulders already.

  “It must be as you say, of course.” She smiled amicably at Merrie. “Do you wish to choose one of the gowns we have seen? I would suggest either the yellow craped muslin or the cream cambric.”

  Disarmed by this easy capitulation and guiltily conscious of how she must have embarrassed her hostess in front of the modiste, Merrie agreed to take both gowns. If necessary, she would have to send to lawyer Donne for more funds. The money was earmarked for the estate; however, once she was back in Cornwall and had resumed her customary activities, she would replace it easily enough. But she was only at the beginning of this adventure, Merrie reminded herself. It were far too soon to think of its conclusion.

  Bella had a few words with Madame Bernice who, as a result, beamed and congratulated Lady Blake on the two gowns she had chosen as effusively as if she had bought all those listed earlier by Lady Beaumont. Meredith responded with a smile and did not concern herself with this volte-face. Obviously, the modiste would swallow her disappointment, maintaining her courtesy in the interests of good relations with such a valued customer as Lady Beaumont.

  Arabella prudently put the rest of her planned morning aside since she rather suspected that visits to milliners and bootmakers would not find favor with her ferociously independent guest. Resolving to send a message to her brother at the earliest possible moment, she suggested to Meredith that they return home for luncheon and then perhaps Meredith would care to explore the neighborhood around Cavendish Square a little. She herself was in the habit of resting for an hour or so in the afternoon and hoped her guest would not mind being left to her own devices.

  “Not at all,” Meredith concurred easily. “I should like to walk outdoors of all things. It will not cause raised eyebrows?”

  “Oh, no, for you will have a footman to escort you,” Bella assured her.

  That did not strike Meredith as at all necessary but, if it was considered to be so, she would accept it with a good grace.

  Accordingly, she was safely out of the house when Lord Rutherford arrived to answer his sister’s urgent summons.

  “What’s to do, Bella?” He greeted her in his usual forthright fashion. “From the tone of your message, I expected to find murder and mayhem.”

  “It is a great deal too bad of you, Damian, to put me in this abominable position,” his sister told him roundly. She had received him in her boudoir where she reclined on a striped chaise longue, a copy of Mr. Southey’s latest poem lying neglected but prominently displayed on the table beside her.

  “Cut line, Bella,” Rutherford advised equably, picking up the book and leafing through the pages.

  Arabella told him the story in no uncertain terms. “I will not be put in the position of executing those tasks that you find distasteful, Rutherford, and so I tell you. It is not at all comfortable to be with Merrie when she is put out,” she concluded, falling back against the cushions.

  Rutherford could not help a rueful grin. “No, I do know what you mean. But do not rip up at me further, Bella. I swear that I had no intention of putting you in an abominable situation or of expecting you to deal with unpleasant tasks.”

  Bella, somewhat mollified by this assertion, demanded in robust tones to know what her brother intended doing about the pickle since his plan could clearly not go forward if Meredith was not to be persuaded into an ample and suitable wardrobe.

  “To tell the truth, I had not envisaged this,” he admitted. “I had thought that, having accepted the situation in principle, my obstinate little termagant would have no qualms with the details. Experience should have taught me otherwise.”

  “So, what will you do?” his twin persisted.

  “Wait for her downstairs.” Rutherford bent over the chaise longue, raising one elegant white hand to his lips. “Poor Bella, it was quite outrageous of me to expose you to a Merrie Trelawney tantrum.”

  Arabella smiled, completely appeased. “I would not describe it as such. But her eyes flashed in a most alarming fashion and her voice was quite different. I wish you will make all right so that I do not have to be always watching my step.”

  “I shall do so as soon as she returns,” he promised, moving toward the door, adding casually, “I think it likely that you will be dining alone tonight, sister.”

  He left Bella in frowning contemplation of the implications of that statement. If her conclusions were correct, they should bring a blush to the marchioness’s respectable cheek. They did not, however, Arabella being a pragmatic soul beneath the affectations demanded by society. She returned to Mr. Southey with a degree of reluctance. It was a tediously long poem, rejoicing in the title “The Curse of Kahama,” but one must be able to talk of the latest poems should they happen to become the rage.

  Lord Rutherford repaired to the library, meeting his brother-in-law in the hall on the way. The two men had considerable respect for each other although they were little in each other’s company.

  “How d’ye do, George?” Damian shook the lean hand.

  “Well enough, Damian,” came the reply. “I’m glad you sent that relative of yours to Arabella, y’know. Just what she needs.”

  Rutherford pursed his lips, saying quietly, “a little more of her husband’s company might not come amiss, Beaumont.”

  The marquis looked slightly taken aback at this blunt statement. “You know how things are, Rutherford.”

  His brother-in-law shrugged. “Just a piece of fraternal advice, George. Take it or leave it.”

  “When we’ve got these demmed Corn Laws passed, Damian, things will go easier.” Beaumont gave a weary smile, clasping his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “I am sensible of Bella’s needs, but what’s a man to do with only one body? I cannot be making love to my wife in her boudoir and arguing for the protection of agriculture in the Lords at one and the same time.”

  “True enough,” Damian agreed. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.”

  Beaumont made haste to assure him that he had not done so, and the two parted, one with a thoughtful frown as if troubled by some uncomfortable reflections, the other satisfied that he had sown a necessary seed.

  Meredith, having explored Piccadilly, which she knew from Patience to be the heart of the fashionable quarter, was in excellent spirits as she walked back to Cavendish Square, the footman a discreet ten paces behind her. She had discovered Hatchard’s and had feasted her eyes on the bow window filled with all the newest publications. There was a sad dearth of new books in Cornwall, and the prospect of such riches on her doorstep was heady indeed. The annoying constraints of a tight budget were, as always, to be considered, but a small indulgence was surely permissible. In addition, there must be lending libraries in the vicinity. She would consult Bella on this score as soon as may be. This afternoon would also be a good opportunity to write letters to the boys. Her host had just this morning offered to frank her correspondence, and she had a myriad impressions to impart to her juniors although avoiding reference to Rutherford and his sister was going to prove a fo
rmidable task. That brought the other, most pleasurable thought. Damian would be joining them for dinner this evening. It had been agreed between brother and sister that Meredith would not venture upon the world until various necessary changes had been made in her appearance, and she had had time to settle down and learn her way about. Meredith, for her part, was not at all sorry for the delay. She was perfectly happy to submit to the artistry of Bella’s hairdresser, perfectly happy to expand her wardrobe so long as she could do so without outrunning the carpenter, and, for entertainment, she found that the prospect of a family dinner in Rutherford’s company was, for the moment, excitement enough.

  Damian, who had left the library door ajar for this purpose, heard her light tones in conversation with Grantly and went into the hall.

  When she saw him, her cheeks flushed delicately with pleasure. “Why, Lord Rutherford, how delightful. We were not expecting you until this evening.”

  He raised her hand to his lips, feeling the slight tremor of her fingers. “I had some business to transact with Bella, then thought that I would wait until you returned from your walk. Did you enjoy it? Where did you go?” Chattering in this inconsequential fashion, he maneuvered her across the hall and into the library, closing the double doors firmly behind him.

  Meredith gave him a sharp look as she pulled off her gloves and slipped out of her pelisse. “I had intended to run upstairs and leave my things,” she said thoughtfully, tossing them on a chair and untying the ribbons of her hat. “It would appear, sir, that your business with me is somewhat urgent.”

  Damian, who had decided exactly how he was going to deal with this problem, fixed her with a grim eye. “Would you be good enough to explain to me why you saw fit to subject Arabella to such an awkward scene this morning?”

  The color drained from her face. “I do not think you understand, sir. Your sister had some mistaken notions that I was obliged to correct. There was no scene, I can assure you. I do understand that poverty is considered a vulgar condition; nevertheless, it is my condition, and one for which I will not apologize. It was unfortunate that your sister did not fully understand my situation, but I would suggest, my lord, that it was your responsibility to have made her aware of it.”

  Rutherford allowed the speech to continue without interruption, meeting the glaring, challenging sloe eyes with a level look. “Make no mistake, Meredith, Arabella is quite aware of your situation,” he said with careful deliberation. “She was merely doing what I had asked her to do.” He had decided that placation and cajoling would not achieve his object. They rarely did where Merrie Trelawney was concerned. One had to take her by storm, cut the ground from beneath her feet, set her spinning like a top, and then, when she was thoroughly off course, withdraw from the engagement and offer the peaceful solution.

  “You dare to imagine that I would allow you to buy my wardrobe?” Meredith trembled with anger, an emotion exacerbated by her opponent’s apparent calm.

  “I wish you would sit down,” he requested casually. “Since, if you do not, I may not.”

  Meredith set her teeth. “Pray be seated, sir. I prefer to stand.”

  “Thank you.” Smiling, he took a seat on the sofa, crossed one leg over the other, and regarded her attentively. “I beg pardon, ma’am. You were saying?”

  Meredith turned away from him and took two deep, steadying breaths. From the very first, he had had this ability to take control of their encounters by refusing to acknowledge her opposition. As a result, he usually won. This time, there was no question of his winning, but she must maintain control of herself and her anger, however outrageous the calculated provocation.

  She turned back to face him, clasping her hands in front of her, lowering her eyes. “Lord Rutherford, I do not wish to appear ungrateful, and I am, indeed, most sensible of your many kindnesses, but I am afraid I cannot accept your charity in the matter of my wardrobe.” She offered him that humble, self-deprecating little smile and saw with savage satisfaction that she had broken through.

  “Damn you, Merrie Trelawney!” Springing to his feet he gripped her shoulders. “I have told you before that you will not smile at me in that fashion.” Seeing the glint of triumph in her eyes, the contented lift of the corners of her mouth, Damian realized that he had fallen neatly into her trap. It were wise never to underestimate Meredith.

  Releasing her instantly, he returned to the sofa. “ ’Charity,’ my dear, is not the correct word,” he pointed out in a kindly tone. “I am merely fulfilling my obligations. Perhaps you do not fully understand the meaning of a carte blanche? Permit me to explain it to you.”

  Meredith, realizing what was coming, looked at him rather in the manner of a rabbit facing a rattlesnake. “I am entirely responsible for your welfare, dear girl,” he continued. “And for all aspects of your living conditions.” He paused, made a minute adjustment to his cravat. “And that, ma’am, includes the clothes on your back.”

  Merrie thought she would explode. Her palms felt damp and the blood pounded in her ears. They were not the symptoms of anger, she dimly recognized, but of incipient panic at the prospect of her imminent, impending defeat. Think, she told herself; for every trick, there was another. She looked around the room in search of inspiration and found it.

  “I will agree, sir, that in a conventional arrangement, the obligations you describe would certainly fall to you. They would, after all, be payment for services rendered.” Her smile this time was honeyed and Rutherford began to feel uneasy. When he said nothing, Merrie continued in the same sweet tones. “Since I am lodged under your sister’s roof, my lord, it is really impossible for me to render those services. I must, therefore, consider our contract null and void. I shall be perfectly happy to return to Cornwall in the morning if you so wish.”

  To her consternation, she could read only relief on his countenance. Not an appropriate response to her coup de grâce, surely? But then that was something that had happened before, also. When she had thought she had said something that would leave him defenseless, he responded as if she had given him the one answer he craved.

  “Make no mistake, ma’am, I intend that you shall have ample opportunity to fulfill your side of the bargain,” said Rutherford softly, the gray eyes suddenly hooded in the way that set her heart racing for reasons other than panic or anger.

  “How?” she managed, as her throat seemed to close.

  Damian made a steeple of his fingers, pursed his lips reflectively, and kept her waiting.

  “Do not be so insufferably smug! ” Merrie yielded the dikes of control, wrenching his hands apart. “Tell me at once!”

  He laughed, catching her wrists as she pummeled his chest. “No, do stop, Merrie!” Holding her arms at her sides, he stood up, towering over her as he looked down into her upturned face, shaking his head in a gesture of mild exasperation. “What an abominable girl you are. What am I to do with you?”

  Merrie gasped at this blatant injustice. “It is you who have caused all this, and I will not make peace until this matter is resolved.”

  “Very well then.” He gave her cheek a little pat. “It was a surprise I had intended to keep for a day or two until you were quite settled in, but, since you are so importunate—” She used her regained freedom to drive one fist into his midriff, meeting a rock-hard wall. Damian shook his head again. “I showed you yesterday how to hit me, Merrie. Eyes and nose are the only sensible targets. Now, put on your pelisse.” Picking up the discarded garment from the chair, he held it for her as she pushed her arms into the sleeves.

  “Where are we going?” It was a question designed to return some sense of reality to the trancelike state in which Merrie found herself, but it received a wholly unhelpful answer.

  “Wait and see. Put on your bonnet.” The chip hat went over the auburn knot, the ribbons tied beneath her chin. “Gloves.”

  “Thank you, I am able to put them on for myself.” Meredith seized them when it appeared that he was about to manipulate her fingers into the
holes as if she were a small child who had not yet learned to accomplish the task herself.

  Rutherford pulled the bell rope and asked the footman to order his curricle brought around from the mews. He swung the caped driving coat around his shoulders, a handful of spare whip points thrust through one of the buttonholes, and drew on leather driving gloves. “Shall we go, ma’am?”

  “I am amazed you are willing to be seen in public with one dressed so shabbily,” Meredith threw out with lamentable lack of wisdom.

  “Oh, we shall avoid places where I might be recognized,” he returned airily.

  The curricle stood at the door, drawn by a splendid team of grays. “They are magnificent,” Merrie breathed, diverted from the need to find a suitably cutting response.

  “I am thought to be something of a judge of horseflesh, Lady Blake,” said Lord Rutherford, handing her up.

  “And something of a whip, I presume,” she replied dulcetly. “Tell me, sir, are you perhaps what they call a Nonpareil?”

  He shot her a suspicious look. To judge from her innocent-seeming expression, that suspicion was justified. “Put up your sword, Merrie Trelawney. There’s been enough quarreling between us for one afternoon. I have something infinitely more pleasurable in mind for the rest of the day. Stand away from their heads, Harry.” He gave his horses the office to start as the tiger released the wheelers and leapt onto his perch.

  Meredith decided to take the advice. She was in no doubt as to his meaning, in little doubt that the surprise was going to decimate what she had hoped was a coup de grâce. But, in all honesty, would she have wanted to be right in that instance? The answer was as plain as the nose on her face, as obvious as the now familiar fluttering of anticipation in her belly. She had asked for this from the first; somehow she must reconcile herself to the unpalatable aspects of an agreement that in its essentials was everything she desired.

  Their direction took them rapidly away from the fashionable quarter. Meredith was granted ample opportunity to judge his lordship’s skill with the team of high-couraged grays since their destination was clearly at some distance. They drove north, out of town, in the direction of Hampstead. Meredith was intrigued but, when she asked again where they were going, received the same amused answer as before. The grays easily took Highgate Hill, their stride lengthening as they came into the village. Rutherford turned them around the village green, past the Bull and Bear, and brought them to a halt in front of a pretty, thatched-roof cottage set in a garden of tall hollyhocks and gillyflowers.