Smuggler's Lady by Jane Feather Page B

You seem to be in the habit of making such remarks. You would be advised to cease them forthwith.”
    Meredith decided that she was not going to be intimidated although some inner caution told her to take the advice. “Lord Rutherford, you may find our quaint ways moderately diverting at the moment, but you’d not survive the tedious ordeal of a Cornish winter.” She made no attempt to disguise the note of mockery in her laugh. It was a statement in which she believed wholeheartedly, anyway. No London buck would survive more than a week of winter in these parts when the roads became impassable, the sea grew wild under the lash of winter gales, and folks kept to themselves within doors for weeks at a time. There was little social intercourse, and even the parish church bore empty pews of a Sunday.
    â€œIt pleases you to think me such a poor-spirited creature, then, ma’am? I can assure you I have suffered many greater hardships than any Cornish winter could impose.” He spoke harshly, his bitterness exacerbated by the realization that he sounded like a schoolboy defending an accusation of cowardice. He had no desire to boast of his army career or to repine over its loss to anyone, and now he found himself on the verge of doing both to this infuriating, mocking creature who seemed to delight in nettling him and stood in sore need of a lesson in manners.
    â€œI must bid you good day. There are matters requiring my attention.” With a curt bow, he walked off through the gate, pausing to talk to one of the gardeners, never once looking back as Merrie returned to the road and her way home. Curiously, her clear victory in that exchange brought her little satisfaction.
    Later that afternoon, Walter looked despondently at the colonel’s black expression. The batman had begun to hope that this Cornish expedition had finally done the trick, so cheerful as his lordship had been. But now he was staring morosely into the empty grate, holding a glass of port, his fourth so far in the last hour, as if it were a lifeline.
    It wasn’t that the colonel couldn’t hold his wine, Walter thought. No one would ever know when he was foxed except for the eyes that became shuttered and expressionless. But it seemed to increase his depression rather than alleviate it. The simple luncheon produced by Martha Perry lay neglected on the sideboard, and Walter had too much regard for his head to risk having it bitten off if he suggested again that the colonel eat.
    â€œHave you nothing better to do, Walter, than stand there sighing like a virgin on St. Agnes’s Eve?” Rutherford snapped.
    â€œBeggin’ your pardon, sir,” Walter said woodenly. He did not change his position and the colonel appeared to forget his presence again.
    The sounds of commotion outside at first did not penetrate his melancholy although Walter moved swiftly to the open French doors. “What the devil?” the batman exclaimed, staring at a knot of workmen shouting and gesticulating at something on the roof.
    â€œWhat’s that infernal racket?” Lord Rutherford’s eyes snapped into focus.
    â€œDunno, Colonel, something on the roof, it looks.”
    Damian gave vent to an ill-tempered oath, striding past Walter into the garden up to the workmen. “What in Hades is going on?” he demanded.
    â€œVillage lads, m’lord.” The foreman tugged his forelock. “Young devils’ve found the ladders, but those tiles are loose ...”
    Looking up, Rutherford saw a group of grimy, impish faces, and one that he recognized as having no place with the village lads. His heart missed a beat as he bellowed, “Rob, come down here, this instant!”
    At the sound of his lordship’s voice the boys disappeared over the crown of the roof in a slithering, squealing mass, all except for Rob who hesitated, clearly wondering if obedience or flight was his best course. As he wavered, his foot slipped,