Free Smuggler's Lady by Jane Feather Page B

interest, ignoring the hissing behind him. He could not help but near Rob whisper, “I do not care what you say. Merrie does not care a jot for such things.” There was a muffled squeak, sounds of a scuffle, then silence. Rutherford turned from his contemplation of the only pieces of any note in the shabby, yet cheerful room—a pretty, japanned workbox resting on a small satinwood table beneath the window—to find himself alone. It was with a measure of relief that he sallied forth, unaccompanied, in the direction of the stableyard. His reception had been sufficiently unconventional for him to feel justified in going in search of the lady of the house; besides, he strongly suspected that in the heat of their squabble Masters Theo and Rob had quite forgotten any intention of alerting their sister to the visitor if, indeed, they remembered his presence in the first place.
    The stables, as he had expected, were to be found on the westerly, sheltered side of the house. They were clean and orderly, bearing all the marks of good management, unlike his own at Mallory House. Of Merrie Trelawney, there was no sign.
    A lad was sitting on an upturned pail, a hunk of bread and cheese in one hand, a tankard of ale in the other. He vouchsafed the information that he’d last seen the mistress in the barn. Damian accordingly made his way to the red-roofed building. It was dim and dusty within, and he stood for a moment, inhaling the rich fragrance of the hay, noting the orderly stacks of bales. This was one establishment that would not go short in the winter months. The signs of good husbandry were everywhere, in the clean, dull gleam of forks and rakes, the swept yard, the full rainwater barrels.
    â€œLady Blake?” he called into the dimness. Silence greeted him.
    Meredith, up in the hayloft, froze. What the devil was he? Some kind of nemesis pursuing her even into the safety of her own sanctum? Perhaps if she kept quiet, he would go away again. Booted footsteps sounded on the stone floor of the barn below.
    â€œIt’s been some years since I played hide-and-seek so you may have to remind me of the rules,” he said, and there was a distinct note of amusement in the voice. Merrie reviewed her options rapidly. She could continue to cower like a hunted rabbit behind the hay bales, she could demand in self-righteous panic that he leave her property instantly, or she could declare her presence. Only the latter option allowed any dignity, but, even as she hesitated, Lord Rutherford’s neat brown head appeared at the head of the ladder rising to the loft. “Ah, there you are,” he announced with calm pleasure. “I have been calling you, but I expect you didn’t hear.”
    â€œI am rather occupied, sir,” she replied in a definitely muffled voice, turning her head away abruptly back to her task. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
    â€œPleasure? Somehow, the word doesn’t carry a ring of truth,” Rutherford mused, hitching himself into the loft. In the dim, dusty light, he saw her crouched in a corner under the eaves where a round window let in a smidgen of light. “Perhaps I may be of help,” he offered.
    â€œI do not think so, sir.” Resolutely, Merrie kept her back to him, trying not to react as she heard and felt his approach. The devil take the man! Why did he always catch her at a disadvantage? She was dressed like a milkmaid with straw in her hair, grubbing around in the dust. She could not even play the horror-struck, prim, matronly widow in these circumstances—not with any conviction, at least. But then, after last night, that role would carry little credibility with this audience. “If you wish to be of help, Lord Rutherford, you will leave as quietly as you can. They are frightened enough as it is, and I am afraid they will die of heart failure. They are such fragile little creatures.”
    Rather than ask what she was talking about,