Smuggler's Lady

by Jane Feather

  “Good morning, Lord Rutherford.” Merrie greeted him with a smile that was all sweet innocence except for the sensual suggestion lurking in the sloe eyes. Damian instantly forgot his irritation. If Devereux wanted to bask in a little of that radiance, his lordship could afford to be generous—just as long as that particular look was reserved for his eyes only.

  Horses, hounds, red-coated huntsmen, grooms, and riders milled around the circular gravel sweep outside Belvoir Castle in the crisp chill of early morning.

  “There is something immensely stirring about a meet,” Merrie observed to Beau Brummell as they strolled down the castle steps, surveying the lively scene before them. “I enjoy the meet and the ride but not the kill,” she confessed.

  “How very poor-spirited of you, Lady Blake,” Rutherford teased, drawing on his gloves. “May I assist you to mount?” Cupping his palms to receive her booted foot, he tossed her up effortlessly, asking softly as he handed her the reins, “Tell me, does Arabella approve that habit?”

  “Why? Do you not?” She frowned down at him. “Mr. Brummell has been kind enough to offer only favorable comment.”

  “That settles the matter, then,” he replied promptly. “It is not that I do not care for it, quite the contrary, but—uh—the audacity took me aback for the moment.”

  “You are a great deal too strict in your notions, Lord Rutherford,” Merrie accused with a roguish gleam. “I would never have believed it—after last night.”

  “Minx!” he said softly. “I’ll have my revenge for that later.”

  Mr. Brummell left the hunt at the fourth field, much to Merrie’s amusement. “It is, of course, ridiculous to imagine him with splashed boots and muddy tops,” she confided to Damian as he drew up alongside her at a check. “But I must confess, your friendship puzzles me.”

  “Because I am not of the Bow Window set?” He laughed.

  “Yes. You always dress elegantly, but—”

  “Nothing to compare with Brummell,” he finished for her.

  “No,” she agreed. “Why, I have never even seen you in a pair of Hessians. You always wear riding boots and buckskins.”

  “Neither Brummell nor I are fool enough to believe that the clothes make the man,” Rutherford told her, “for all that George would have the world believe it. Our friendship is based on genuine liking.”

  “I like him too.” Merrie narrowed her eyes at a large hedge, carefully circumvented by those ahead of them in the field. “Shall we take the lead, sir, by jumping that barrier?” She was off without waiting for answer, and Damian set his raking bay to the jump minutes behind, offering up silent prayers that there be no ditch lurking on the other side. They landed safely, fortunately, and by early afternoon Meredith agreed to his suggestion that they abandon the hunt and return to Belvoir for her first driving lesson.

  This, Merrie discovered to her disgust, was not as amusing as she had expected. For a start, Damian had a quiet, stolid pair of horses from the Rutland stables put between the shafts of his curricle.

  “Why are we not to drive your chestnuts?” she demanded naively.

  “My dear girl, you do not imagine I would risk my horses’ mouths on a rank novice,” he replied, handing her into the curricle. “Besides, they have not been out today and will be very fresh. You could not possibly hold them.”

  Meredith’s eyes flashed, but she swallowed the acerbic response as it rose to her lips and took the reins and whip. “We are going to the main gate,” she was told. “Hold up your hands. If you drop them in your lap, even these staid creatures will break into a trot.” She discovered, as they made their way down the wide driveway, that, quiet though they were, the pair between the shafts were an infinitely different breed from the dappled mare that pulled her gig at home. They were instantly responsive to the slightest tug of the bit, the merest flick of the whip, and Merrie found herself thankful that she did not have Rutherford’s chestnuts in hand.

  When they reached the iron gates at the entrance to the park, Rutherford told her to walk the horses through. Meredith did so, somewhat surprised at how narrow the gate seemed when one was responsible for negotiating it. She became very familiar with that gate over the next hour as she took the horses through it at a trot, a canter, and finally at full gallop. They approached the entrance head on, from the left, and from the right.

  The gatekeeper’s children clustered around, appearing to derive considerable amusement from this extraordinary, repetitious activity. When Merrie, taking the corner approach too sharply, shaved the side of the curricle against the stone gatepost, a gasp ran around the spectators.

  “Why cannot they go in for their tea?” she muttered in chagrin. “I am sorry, Rutherford. Have I scraped the varnish?”

  “Probably,” he replied coolly. “But you’ll not do it next time. Try the same angle again.”

  “But I do not want to damage your curricle further,” she protested, more than a little shaken by the accident.

  “Try it again, Meredith,” he repeated. “Do I appear concerned?”

  “No,” she agreed with a rueful little chuckle. “But this is very tedious, and I do not think I have any aptitude.”

  “Do you wish to stop because it is tedious or because you think you cannot do it?” He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, it is tedious,” she mumbled.

  “And did you not agree to do exactly as I tell you?” Taking the reins from her, Rutherford backed the horses into the lane, positioning them for the corner approach. “As it happens, I think you show considerable aptitude. You just lack patience.” He handed over the reins, and Meredith, unsure whether to be pleased with the compliment or incensed at the criticism, squared her shoulders and concentrated on the task in hand. There were no further accidents, and by the time they returned to the house Merrie was convinced she would see those stone gateposts in her dreams.

  “How did you enjoy your driving lesson, Lady Blake?” the Duke of Rutland inquired, coming over to her in the drawing room after dinner.

  “I did not enjoy it in the least, your grace,” Meredith replied with a smile. “But your gatekeeper’s children had a most amusing afternoon, more entertaining than the circus, I am convinced. But you should know, sir, that I am now most proficient at driving through gates at any speed and from any angle. That is the sum total of my skill and is perhaps a little limiting, but I feel sure I shall find the opportunity to use the expertise at some other gate on some other occasion.”

  This lively speech brought a rumble of laughter from the duke and afforded those others around considerable amusement.

  “Rutherford knows what he is about, ma’am.” Sir Charles Stanton spoke up. “If one can drive through a gate at speed without mishap, one can handle most other situations.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” Damian had been standing on the outskirts of the group, concealing his own amusement at Merrie’s sardonic riposte, wondering when she would realize how well she fitted this scene and how much she would miss it if it were not there for her. Merrie Trelawney had carved herself a niche that had little now to do with the background he had invented. “I fear that my cousin found the lesson tiresomely repetitious.”

  “Mayhap the next one will be less so,” Merrie suggested hopefully.

  “Perhaps Lady Blake would agree to a race.” A smooth female voice spoke. “You must know what an advantage such a teacher as Lord Rutherford must give you, ma’am. We ordinary mortals cannot hope to compete.”

  Meredith turned toward the speaker. The daughter of the Marquis of Blandford, Lady Margaret Pickering prided herself on her skill both with the ribbons and as a horsewoman. She had been outshone in the field this morning, both in dress and audacity by the widow, and now saw the possibility of a recoup.

  “I would not presume to match myself against you, Lady Margaret,” Meredith replied. “My instructor may well be a consummate practitioner, but that does not, unfortunately, guarantee his pupil’s skill.”

  “Co
me now, Rutherford.” Stanton’s eyes lit up. “Surely you’ll not let the challenge pass. I’ll lay a pony you can turn Lady Blake into respectable competition for Lady Margaret within the week.”

  “ ’Twill be an easy task, Rutherford, I declare,” Devereux announced, laying his teacup on a rosewood sofa table. “Anyone with hands as light as Lady Blake’s must prove an apt pupil. If you are unwilling, I’ll be happy to take on the wager myself.”

  “That will not be necessary, Devereux,” Rutherford said in cutting accents. The man was becoming the devil of a nuisance! He was continually at Merrie’s side, and the object of his attentions showed little inclination to repulse him. Presumably, she did not realize how particular those attentions were becoming. Damian had noticed before that Merrie’s lack of vanity tended to blind her to the effect she had upon those around her. It was an appealing quality but just a little dangerously naive on occasion.

  Fortunately, in the general interest engendered by Stanton’s idea, the sharpness of the exchange with Devereux went unnoticed by all save Meredith who, from her own standpoint, considered Devereux’s suggestion outrageously presumptious. She was not entirely sure, either, that she cared to be the subject of an animated discussion that occurred without direct reference to herself. There was much talk of the impossibility of a complete beginner acquiring sufficient skill to match an experienced whip in a mere seven days, and many suggestions were offered as to the best methods of instruction.

  Damian, guessing accurately at Merrie’s indignant thoughts, looked across at her, his eyes narrowed speculatively. “What does the lady say?”

  Meredith frowned. “Must I win the race?”

  The question was debated at some length before it was eventually decided that she need only be a match for her opponent in order for Rutherford and Stanton to win this wager. The race itself would be a different gamble, on which they would take separate bets when they could judge her skill later in the week.

  “I have seen the horses Lady Margaret drives,” Meredith said thoughtfully. “I do not think I could engage to match her, let alone win against her, with the two I had today.” Her eyes met Rutherford’s, the challenge clear.

  “If I win the first wager,” he said, not troubling to hide his amusement, “you may race my chestnuts.”

  “A handsome offer, indeed, Rutherford,” the duke approved. “If Damian don’t consider Lady Blake capable of holding his horses by the end of the week, he loses the wager. He’ll not risk them, that’s for sure.

  It was agreed, but throughout that week Meredith frequently regretted her own agreement. Damian was unfailingly polite, always the soul of patience, but he was a ruthless perfectionist. His pupil was not simply going to be a good whip, she would be able to drive to an inch, not only with a pair but with a four-in-hand. For hours she practiced with the whip, learning how to catch the thong and send it up the stick with a turn of her wrist, how to loop a rein and let it run free again with deft elegance. She handled increasingly spirited horses from the Rutland stables, but never Damian’s chestnuts, learning how to point her leaders so that she could round any corner with the utmost precision and take any entrance, however narrow without the slightest danger of scraped varnish.

  “I do not think, when this week is over, that I shall ever wish to drive again,” she declared bitterly, backing the team for the tenth time in half an hour into a narrow siding along the driveway. “Even in bed, you think of something you have forgotten to explain.”

  Damian chuckled but said only, “Ease your nearside wheeler a little more to the right.”

  “Why is this so damnably important to you?” Merrie demanded, absently dropping her hands. The team instantly broke into a canter. Merrie swore vigorously and unashamedly as she brought them under control again.

  “If those had been my chestnuts, they would have bolted with you,” Damian informed her with infuriating calm. “You must concentrate at all times.”

  Meredith bit her lip hard. “You did not answer my question.”

  “There are two reasons. First, if I decide to do something, I like to do it properly, and secondly—You had better give me the reins for a minute.” He took them from her before continuing in a level voice. “Secondly, I have a great interest in your success—in anything that establishes you as a member of the ton.”

  It was as well he had taken the reins as Merrie once again felt the wash of frustration at this indication of his continued determination. “What must I do to prove to you that I can never belong in this world?” she asked, a note almost of desperation in her voice. “As play, as an adventure for a few short weeks, yes, I can enjoy it. But I could never learn to be a duchess, and I would suffocate under the weight of all the rules and prohibitions, and I would ruin you.”

  “I do not see how you can both ruin me and suffocate,” Damian pointed out.

  “You know what I mean. Do not be obtuse,” she snapped.

  “If you would pause to think clearly for a minute, my dear Merrie, you will see that you are in a fair way to becoming a duchess as it is. The interest of Gerald Devereux, for instance, would hardly be as pronounced if you were not so thoroughly established.” He had been looking for an opportunity to drop what he hoped would be a word to the wise and now gave her a sidelong glance.

  “What has Devereux to do with this?” Merrie demanded.

  “Very little,” her companion returned, “except that he seems determined to fix his interest with you and is not very subtle in his manner of going about it.”

  “And you are accusing me of being indiscreet?”

  “I am accusing you of nothing. Simply telling you that there is talk. Not malicious talk, but you might be well advised to—to be a little discouraging.”

  “Duchesses, of course, are never indiscreet,” Merrie mused, blowing on the silver button at her cuff and rubbing it vigorously with her gloved hand. “They do not creep around corridors late at night on the way to their lover’s bed.” She held her wrist up to the sun, squinting at the button to check that there was no hint of tarnish.

  “I fail to see why they should not,” Damian objected. “Only, if you were the duchess in question, I should hope you would not be in need of a lover.”

  “Oh, you are being absurd,” she said crossly. “I am a smuggler, or have you forgotten that small impediment?”

  “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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “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.