Smuggler's Lady by Jane Feather

their carriage. Now she found, to her dismay, that they had been gone a half-hour since. The company in the ballroom was quite depleted, and Merrie was faced with the humiliating prospect of presenting her predicament to Patience.
    â€œMy dear Meredith.” Patience bustled over to her. “What excitement!” She fanned herself busily, plump, beringed fingers curling around the ivory sticks. “Such attention as he paid you. Quite unlooked for! ”
    â€œQuite,” Meredith agreed drily, then, seeing the flash of surprise in Lady Barrat’s eyes, moderated her tone. “It was a mere kindness on his part, Patience,” she fluttered, dropping her gaze, playing with her fan with a fair assumption of embarrassment. “He happened to meet Rob yesterday and was kind enough to say that he found the young scapegrace quite engaging.” It was half true, at least!
    â€œOh, I see.” Patience was clearly relieved at such a simple explanation for an extraordinary circumstance. “We are all sensible of your difficulties, my dear.” Her voice dropped confidingly. “Sir Algernon, you know, would be most willing to offer advice. A single woman is not equipped to manage growing boys.”
    â€œYou will thank Sir Algernon for me,” Meredith said with a demure smile. “Such consideration quite overwhelms me.” Her fan moved rapidly, hiding the flash of irritation in her eyes. Now, more than ever, she was determined not to reveal her carriage-less state to her hostess. Patience was clearly expecting her to make her farewells. It was hardly seemly for the widow to be amongst the last guests, but Meredith smiled blandly, turning toward the terrace. With any luck, Patience would be so occupied with bidding farewell to the others that she would not remember Lady Blake. She had simply to slip through the doors into the garden and make a discreet escape. It was but three miles home, easily walked in less than an hour even in thin slippers and an evening gown. Patience would just assume that she had left in her usual retiring fashion, too shy to intrude with her own farewells. A polite note of thanks on the morrow would satisfy the courtesies.
    Her disappearance was simply accomplished for one accustomed to moving with speed and stealth and taking advantage of what cover was available. It was a soft night, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, and, once clear of the house, Merrie, with a blissful sense of release from captivity, sat on a bank to remove her stockings and slippers, the better to enjoy her solitary walk. She was about to tuck the skirts of the loathed bombazine into the legs of her frilled pantalettes to free her stride when the unmistakable clop of hooves rang from around the corner of the paved road.
    Merrie’s heart sank as she thought of the picture she must present. There was little hope that the rider would not know her. Strangers were not wont to be abroad at this time of night, and she would be a familiar figure to any resident for miles around. There was nowhere to hide, except the muddy ditch, but, for once, there was nothing illegal about her presence on the road in the middle of the night. Small comfort, perhaps—the sight of her would set the gossips’ tongues to running. The sound came closer and she pushed her shoes and stockings behind her on the bank—no time to put them on again. Inspiration would come, it usually did, but the explanation for her plight would depend on the identity of her discoverer. A local farmer would require something less elaborate than a fellow guest at the hunt ball. Tucking her bare feet beneath her skirts, Lady Blake sat upon the bank, a veritable picture of patience-in-waiting, as the horse and rider drew near.
    â€œThe deuce take it!” an all-too-familiar voice exclaimed. “If it isn’t Lady Blake, taking her ease by the roadside.” He sat the most magnificent black Meredith had ever seen, one