Smuggler's Lady (33 page)

“You are not at the moment,” Rutherford pointed out unarguably.

“Maybe not, but I will be.”

Damian's lips tightened at this, but he kept silent.

“You cannot marry someone with such a past.” Merrie tried again. “Only think of the scandal. If my activities were ever discovered, and it is not inconceivable that they might be—enough people in the village know my identity, and there is the cave and passage as evidence—I would hang.”

“I am prepared to accept that risk.”

“Well, I am not.” They both fell silent at this impasse, then Meredith declared. “I do not wish to run this race any more. You may tell everyone that I am a hopeless case and will never make a whip.”

“And perjure my immortal soul!” Damian expostulated. “My good girl, you will leave Margaret Pickering at the starting line. When we return to London, you may lionize in a perch phaeton and pair.”

“I do not wish to do so.”

“Do not sulk, Meredith,” Damian advised. “It is most unbecoming, and I am wholly impervious to such displays. Besides, you will simply be cutting off your own nose to spite your face.”

Merrie accepted the truth of that, as he had known she would, with her usual self-knowledge, albeit reluctantly. On the Saturday, she drove Rutherford's chestnuts well up to their bits in front of an admiring audience. His lordship declined to sit beside her, maintaining that he was perfectly confident of her ability to control them, and only he was aware of his sweating palms. The following day, she won her race but handsomely conceded to Lady Margaret that the glory lay entirely with Rutherford's horses. If Lady Margaret had been driving them, she would have been assured of victory. Since no one was prepared to dispute this, the matter ended amicably without loss of face. Damian, in the privacy of the stables, examined his horses' mouths anxiously. If Meredith had damaged them, he would have borne the blow in silence; however, her hands had clearly been as light as he had hoped, and the gamble paid off.

Lady Blake and Lord Rutherford returned to London, each set on a course of action and a goal completely in opposition to the other. Rutherford was more than ever determined to bring his mistress to accept that, whatever she might say, she was firmly entrenched in society and became more so by the hour. Meredith was equally determined to demonstrate to Rutherford how uncomfortable it would be having a wife censured by society. It should not be difficult to be thought bad ton, and, in such an event, not even Damian could persist in his obstinacy. Maybe then, he would permit her to retire to Highgate, and they could enjoy their last few weeks together without further dissension. In fact, Meredith could not see why such an arrangement should not continue for as long as they both wished. She would have to return to Cornwall during school holidays, of course, but for the rest of the time ... And in the summer, Rutherford could visit his Cornish estates and they could set up house in the cave again ...

Some inner caution prevented her from outlining to Damian this splendid answer to all their problems. While he was still set on marriage, he would agree to nothing less. Once he realized how impossible it was, then would she offer the alternative. Of course, he would find a suitable wife at some point, sooner rather than later. But that was not a subject upon which Meredith cared to dwell.

“My dear sir, I am most honored, but do pray get up.” Meredith stood in the drawing room of Cavendish Square several days after the return from Belvoir, struggling with laughter as she looked at the rather more than middle-aged gentleman on his knees before her.

Sir Tobias Morely staggered to his feet, somewhat red-faced with the exertion and extreme nature of his emotions. “Well, what d'ye say, dear lady?” he wheezed. “Shall we make a go of it?”

“A glass of claret, sir?” Meredith turned her back on her unexpected suitor, buying a little time as she poured wine. It was common knowledge that Sir Tobias Morely's affairs were in dire straits, and he had been hanging out for a rich wife for months. Her present predicament could be laid entirely at Damian's door. Why the devil had he put it about that she was a wealthy woman? A respectable competence would have served his purpose equally well. Since he had put her into the situation, he could extricate her, Meredith resolved.

“Sir Tobias, you do me too much honor.” Smiling and fluttering her eyelashes, she handed him the glass of claret. “But I fear that I am not in a position to answer for myself. Pray, sit down.”

Sir Tobias, looking a little startled, eased a plump rear, straining against canary-yellow pantaloons, onto a chair. “Don't quite take your meaning, my lady.”

“You should know sir, that Lord Rutherford is in some way responsible for me. I am not at all good at business.” Her hands passed through the air in a gesture denoting total incompetence, if not complete idiocy. “My poor dear husband was well aware of my deficiencies in such matters—”

“My dear lady,” Sir Tobias made haste to interrupt. “Not deficiencies, do not say such a thing. Ladies should not be troubling their heads about such matters. I should apply to Rutherford, I take it.”

“Exactly so. He will know just how to answer you.” Meredith smiled in a friendly way that sent Sir Tobias hotfoot to Brook Street in search of Lord Rutherford.

Damian was in his book room when his butler brought him Sir Tobias Morley's visiting card. “Thank you, Carlton. Tell Sir Tobias that I will join him in the library directly.” Rutherford concealed his puzzlement at this extraordinary visitation. He and Morely moved in quite different circles and that gentleman was some ten years his senior. He was perfectly respectable, of course. Having pockets to let was hardly a social crime, it was far too common a condition. Curiosity considerably piqued, Rutherford went to join his visitor.

The house in Brook Street was definitely a bachelor's establishment, lacking the grandeur of the Keighley mansion in Grosvenor Square where Damian would eventually take up residence, but it lacked nothing to make it both elegant and comfortable. The staff were discreet and attentive, the apartments spacious, the furnishings of the finest, all of which Sir Tobias Morely noted with more than a degree of envy, consoling himself with the thought of the widow's fortune; eighty thousand pounds had been the figure generally agreed to be correct. It was a nice round sum, Sir Tobias considered, quite sufficient to support an elegant lifestyle, and once the notice was in the
Gazette,
his creditors would fall over themselves to accommodate him again. Matters were definitely improving, he decided, greeting the arrival of his host with a bow. Just this tiresome formality to be dispensed with.

“Sherry, Morely?” Rutherford offered. “Or madeira, if you prefer?”

“Sherry, if you please, dear boy,” Morely said, reposing himself on a striped sofa, examining the gold tassels on his shining Hessians complacently. He certainly cut a more imposing figure sartorially than his host, clad in a plain cloth coat and buckskins. However, not even Sir Tobias could deceive himself when he contrasted his padded shoulders and corseted waist with his lordship's powerful physique that clearly needed no unnatural supports or additions.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Morely?” Rutherford asked with a polite smile, taking a seat opposite his guest.

“A happy business.” Sir Tobias beamed, sipping his sherry. “This is a fine wine, Rutherford.” Damian inclined his head and waited patiently. “Fact is, Lady Blake has sent me to you.” Sir Tobias sat back, still beaming, as if all had thus been explained.

Rutherford, however, was quite at sea. “Lady Blake? Forgive me, Morely, but why should she do such a thing?”

“For your consent, of course, dear fellow. A mere formality, I am sure, but she is such an innocent little thing—no head for business—y'know how the ladies are? Says you handle her affairs and will know just how to make things all right and tight.”

Light was beginning to dawn. Rutherford found himself torn between amusement and annoyance—a not unfamiliar combination where Merrie Trelawney was concerned. He could not begin to imagine why the little wretch should involve him in a matter that she was more than capable of dealing with herself unless it were out of her usual mischief—which seemed more than likely. “Exactly what did Lady Blake say?” he asked cautiously.

“Just that she cannot manage her own affairs—such a sweet little thing, I wouldn't have her troubling her pretty head for the world . . .” Morely smiled, looking expectantly at Rutherford.

“No,” Damian agreed blandly. “It would indeed be a pity if that pretty little head were to be troubled with such mundane affairs. In general, it is a great deal easier for all concerned when such pretty heads are left empty.”

“Quite so,” Morely concurred, his beam, if it were possible, widening to reveal yellowing teeth with a significant number of gaps. “Her late husband, she explained, understood her inability to grasp matters of business and appointed you as guardian of her affairs.”

Damian began to wonder if a little judicious violence would be justified when next he faced his mistress. He could see her fluttering and simpering in front of this rotund idiot, apologizing for her stupidity when she had more brains in her little finger than this profligate fool had in his entire overweight body! What would she do if he refused to play her game? Of course, knowing Merrie's deviant thought processes, she probably thought he had caused the problem in the first place and therefore it was his responsibility to solve it. Rutherford decided that he would shoulder that responsibility on this occasion, but he would exact a subtle penalty for her mischief.

“There is one small problem, Morely,” he said smoothly, refilling his visitor's glass with careful deliberation. “But it is hardly insuperable.” He offered a reassuring smile at his guest's suddenly anxious countenance. “Not for a patient man.” The smile broadened as Sir Tobias wriggled a little.

“Don't quite get your meaning, Rutherford.”

“Oh, it is quite simple. Under the terms of Sir John Blake's will, his widow forfeits her inheritance should she remarry before her twenty-fifth birthday.” He took a reflective sip of his sherry, regarding Morely over the rim of the glass. “Lady Blake's twenty-fourth birthday is in six months, as I recall. So you will need to be patient for a mere eighteen months. Unless, of course, you are willing to marry the lady as she stands? There is nothing to prevent you.” Kindly, he averted his gaze as the discomfited suitor struggled to compose himself and find the most graceful words of retreat.

Meredith did not hear from her would-be bridegroom again, and it was not until the following evening that she saw Damian. He was a guest at a dinner party given by the Beaumonts so the opportunity for private conversation was inevitably limited, but it could have been found had he so wished. It became very clear to Meredith after the first five minutes that he did not. He greeted her with impeccable formality and that special smile but showed no inclination to move aside with her. She was obliged to participate in the general conversation and, when her urgent looks across the circle received only a puzzled smile, decided that either he was being deliberately obtuse or had some ulterior motive for ignoring her mute appeal. That motive became obvious when he took her into dinner and, in the general business of settling down at table, she was able to broach the matter on her mind.

“You have been tolerably amused, sir, since last we met?” she began, realigning the heavy silverware of her place.

“Yes, indeed, thank you,” he responded. “And you also, I trust.”

“Yes,” she answered. “We have had a great many callers.”

“Your popularity is without question,” he said with a smile. “Did you attend the balloon ascension yesterday?”

The conversation was taking an unpromising turn, Meredith decided. Popularity and callers had been a much better avenue. “It was not particularly successful,” she said dismissively. “You have, I am sure, received many callers yourself.”

Damian had some difficulty maintaining his countenance. He had absolutely no intention of offering her any assistance, having decided that she would pay for her mischief by remaining in ignorance and suspense over the outcome of his meeting with her unwelcome suitor. “A few,” he responded unhelpfully. “You seem remarkably interested, my lady, in the minute details of my social life.”

“Not at all, sir,” she replied loftily. “I was merely making polite conversation. Were any of your callers of particular interest?”

“None that comes to mind at this moment,” he answered. “Tell me, have you yet visited the Elgin marbles? If you have not, I should be happy to escort you.”

Meredith gave up. Pride prevented her from broaching the subject directly so she fretted and fumed for several days until honored by a second, even more passionate offer from the Honorable Francis Matthews. Since this young man suffered from the incompatible combination of expensive tastes and mediocre income, she had not far to look for the reason behind the honor done her. He, too, Meredith sent to Rutherford, this time receiving in return a message from his lordship. It read: Darling love, while I must always be more than happy to assist you in any way, I know from experience how adept you are at refusing offers of marriage. You need only tell future hopefuls that you are not free to marry under your late husband's will until you are twenty-five. It appears to be a sufficiently discouraging put-off.

Meredith tore the missive into shreds, which she was in the process of consigning to the wastepaper basket when Grantly opened the drawing room door to announce the Honorable Gerald Devereux. The smile she gave him was so clearly effortful that he crossed the room swiftly with an expression of concern. “What has happened to put you out?”

“Oh dear, Mr. Devereux.” She smiled guiltily. “You always seem to come in when I am in the midst of one of my sad passions. You must have formed a dreadful impression of my temperament.”

“How could you think such a thing?” he soothed, taking her hands in a grip that was a little too intense for propriety. Merrie, too angry with Damian to concern herself about such trivialities, left her hands where they were.

“You are very kind, sir, but let us talk of pleasanter matters.”

“But will you not tell me what has distressed you?” He squeezed her hands. Merrie, suddenly remembering Damian's warning at Belvoir, withdrew them from captivity as discreetly as she could.

“It is a small enough matter,” she said with a shrug, “just a little damaging to my pride. But that is no bad thing. One's vanity should be piqued on occasion for the good of the soul. Pray do be seated.”

Devereux accepted the invitation, saying, “I do not mean to pry, Lady Blake, but sometimes it helps to share one's troubles with a sympathetic ear. I would be all sympathy, I assure you.”

“Yes, I believe you would.” She smiled with genuine warmth. Whatever the world and Damian might warn, Gerald Devereux had a nice touch when it came to soothing wounded spirits. “It is just that I find offers of marriage from fortune hunters most demeaning. Ridiculous of me, of course.”

“Not at all ridiculous, dear lady,” he expostulated with a most gratifying sincerity. “It must be unpleasant in the extreme. I have always thought ladies of substance are subjected to great insensitivity in that area.”

“You do understand, then,” she said.

“Indeed, yes. Will you not also sit down?” He moved invitingly on the sofa and Meredith, unwilling to appear unfriendly, sat beside him. “You have, I take it, received several of these unpleasant offers?”

“Yes,” she agreed ruefully. “I am barely acquainted with my eager suitors and strongly suspect that it would not matter a jot if I had a crooked back and a walleye.”

Devereux repossessed her hand. “Those suitors, dear Lady Blake, are definitely in the minority. There are those for whom your fortune is of no importance.”

“If so, they have not shown themselves.” Merrie fell neatly into the trap and could have kicked herself for her naivity. Removing her hand hastily, she rose to her feet and went to the mantelpiece to pull the bell rope. “You will take a glass of wine, Mr. Devereux?”

“Thank you.” He stood up, a disconcertingly serious look on the ascetic countenance. “They are, perhaps, a little too discreet—unwilling to appear forward by declaring themselves too soon.”

The arrival of the footman saved Merrie from the need to find an answer immediately, and, when he had left, she was able to offer some inconsequential remark about the extraordinarily clement autumn weather. Devereux appeared to take the hint and replied in kind. When he took his leave, however, Meredith could not pretend to ignore the particular warmth in his voice or the pressure on her hand. She seemed to be in a pretty pickle, and, while Damian was certainly responsible for the unwelcome attentions of fortune hunters, she could hardly blame him for Devereux's interest. As far as she knew, he was perfectly well established for himself, and, while a rich wife was never to be sneezed at, it was not a matter of life and death for him. She must obviously do something to discourage him, but that was made difficult by the fact that she did not really wish to. He was pleasant company, and that ready sympathy and understanding of a predicament that Rutherford seemed to find merely amusing was most comforting.