Smuggler's Lady by Jane Feather

scampered off, disappearing through the blackened oak door of the tavern. It was only mid morning but the taproom was doing a roaring trade, the fishermen having returned from the dawn setting of the lobster pots, with little to look forward to but the tedious business of mending nets and pots.
    The atmosphere was more subdued than usual, however, the talk less ribald, the laughter less raucous. On one or two faces, the expression was downright sullen. The boy, looking around through the smoke of many pipes, saw the reason. Young as he was, he spat on the sawdust of the floor. The presence in the Falcon of the hated coastguard from Fowey was an unforgivable intrusion. No one knew what they hoped to gain by it. They’d not hear anything to their advantage, that was for sure. Indeed, the two men lounging against the bar looked as uncomfortable and out of place as they felt. They were not in uniform, but the homespun britches and leather waistcoats did little to disguise them, and they were morosely cursing the stupidity of those dolts in Fowey who knew nothing of Cornishmen and thought spying on them was a simple matter. The fact was, the very sight of a stranger, be he the epitome of innocence, was enough to make them clam up, and some of the fishermen in the taproom had an ugly look to them. You’d not want to meet them in a dark alley on a moonless night.
    The appearance of a small boy, wriggling like an eel through the throng, drew little remark. When he whispered to Bart, only a few took notice. As far as the revenue men were concerned, the lad had probably been sent by his mother to fetch home her errant husband. Amongst those few who could make an informed guess as to the child’s business, a ripple communicated itself. If Merrie was in the village in search of Bart, then something important was afoot. It was also reasonable to assume she did not know of the revenue spies in the taproom.
    Bart listened, cuffed the lad in a friendly fashion, sending him about his business. All perfectly ordinary, nothing at all untoward. But it was not he who left the inn on the boy’s heels. Bart remained to down another tankard and make several derogatory remarks as to the strangers’ attire, remarks that they struggled to ignore even as they found themselves surrounded by a mocking circle of bearded men. Thus occupied, they did not remark Luke Trewatha’s exit.
    Luke sauntered past Merrie as she sat her horse across from the tavern. They exchanged no words, but Meredith immediately continued on her way down the village street, out along the coast road. Something had kept Bart in the tavern, and Luke had made it clear she had best hasten her own departure. Bart knew now that she wanted to speak with him, though, and would make the agreed rendezvous in the cave beneath the house, two hours after nightfall. She would find out then what was amiss in the tavern.
    It was as much by accident as design that she came to the low stone wall surrounding Mallory House and its gardens. Lord Mallory had not encouraged visitors, and there were few in the community familiar with either house or property. Now, however, Merrie reined in her mare at the gate to look with undisguised curiosity at the activity. Men were at work in the gardens, weeding, trimming, and scything. They swarmed over the outside of the house, repointing chimneys, replacing roof tiles, repainting the woodwork. The sounds of hammers and saws rang in the morning air. Lord Rutherford appeared to have employed every available pair of hands in the neighborhood, she thought. He must, then, be planning an extended stay unless he did not feel the need to oversee the work himself.
    â€œGood morning, Lady Blake. This is indeed a delightful surprise. Have you come to return my call?”
    The voice came from behind her. Merrie realized that she had been so absorbed in her reflections that she had lost awareness of her surroundings and had not heard his footsteps on