Smuggler's Lady

by Jane Feather

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Jane Feather comes a heart-quickening romance of two adventurers drawn together in a dangerous game of deception and desire. . . When Lord Rutherford arrives in Cornwall to appraise his newly inherited estate, he finds the coast overrun by smugglers and the countryside sadly lacking in amusements. But the dowdy young widow he dismisses as unworthy of his attention is not at all what she appears. . . To her neighbors, Merrie Trelawney is a poor widow who keeps to herself. But under cover of darkness, she leads a band of reckless smugglers to pay for her late husband's debts. When Lord Rutherford discovers her scandalous secret, he pursues her relentlessly, determined to prove that the thrills she can find in his bed will be far more fulfilling than her lust for adventure. . .

Release date: August 26, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 354

Sample

“The sky will clear before long.” The short, stocky Frenchman peered anxiously up into the black canopy where an ominous gray tinge threatened.

“Aye, but ‘tis only a quarter moon.” The slight figure of his companion shrugged. “We cannot always bend the elements to our will, mon ami.”

“More’s the pity.” Jacques frowned at the busy, silent scene in the small cove, where a fishing boat rocked without lights in the shallows, figures moved with orderly speed, each so certain of his task that they carried crates and bundles ashore with a familiarity that required neither words nor light. “We shall be away before the clouds break,” he said. “It is you will face the danger, Meredith.”

“ ’Tis not an unfamiliar one, Jacques.” Another shrug and the figure adjusted the knitted cap that fitted tightly around a small, well-shaped head. “The coastguard are a pesky lot these days, though. For some reason, they appear to have taken uncommon offense at our activities.” A low musical laugh accompanied the statement and the Frenchman smiled his understanding.

“A fact that adds to your pleasure, I’ll be bound.”

“You were always a sharp one, Jacques.”

“Never a fool, that’s for sure, and never one to court danger without cause.” He began to move across the sand, his companion keeping pace beside him. “Our task is completed, it seems,” the Frenchman resumed, taking in the neat piles on the sand, the sudden stillness of one group of men, the movement of others back to the boat. “We’ll make good our escape until our rendezvous next month.”

“I think it would be as well to change the position of the signal,” Meredith said thoughtfully. “If all’s well, we’ll show the beacon at Devil’s Point, four nights into the new moon. It is agreed?”

“Agreed. God keep you until then.”

“And you, Jacques.”

Meredith did not linger, after the firm handclasp, to watch the Frenchman and his crew into the boat. The task facing the group of Cornishmen on the beach was onerous and fraught with danger as they loaded onto patient ponies the casks of brandy, bales of silk and lace, well-wrapped bundles of tobacco that were so eagerly awaited by the customers in the villages and hamlets of the county. The deliveries could not be made immediately, and for this night the contraband must be transported to the safety of the cool, dry cave beneath the cliff some two miles to the west of this secluded cove.

As the procession moved across the beach toward the narrow path snaking up to the cliff road, Meredith looked back to the dark Atlantic Ocean. The French boat was nearing the line of surf crashing against the hidden reef at the entrance to the cove. There was one small break in the reef, invisible to all but the skillful and initiated. Jacques was both, and the watcher on the beach could not tarry to see him safely through.

As they reached the cliff head, the clouds parted and for a breathless instant the moon shone clear, shedding its silver illumination on the dark-clad, silent group.

“We’re like butterflies on the end of a pin,” a rough voice grumbled.

“If anyone’s out to pin us tonight, Bart, we’ll have a surprise for them,” Meredith replied with a sardonic laugh that somehow conveyed both confidence and reassurance.

The clouds closed over the treacherous light once more, and the procession moved on, the ponies’ hooves, muffled in sackcloth, making little sound on the stony road.

Saracen lost his footing for the hundredth time in the hundredth pothole and Damian, Lord Rutherford, gave vent to his ill temper in a powerful oath, deciding for the hundredth time that Cornwall was only fit for Cornishmen. He had been riding for hours along murky, ill-paved roads, through an unfriendly countryside, until evening became blackest night and the journey’s end appeared no closer. He was alone—a condition he tended to prefer these days, anyway—Walter’s horse having gone lame some two hours back, and his lordship, after one look at the only accommodation available in the nearest hamlet, having decided, with a well-bred shudder, that the open road was infinitely preferable. Now, he was regretting the impulse. Better a flea-bitten mattress and dirty sheets than this wasteland.

The directions had seemed straightforward, if he’d understood them, given as they’d been in that abominable accent that bore little relation to human speech as Lord Rutherford knew it: Keep to the coast road some ten miles, bear left at the gibbet at Hacket’s Cross, and the village of Landreth would somehow appear. So far, he had come upon nothing remotely resembling a gibbet, with or without a swinging corpse, and the dark Cornish night enclosed both man and horse, the crash of the breaking surf to his right the only sound.

Until the sudden clash of steel upon steel drove irritation to the four winds, sending the soldier’s blood racing and drawing a long whinny from the horse, as seasoned a campaigner as his master.

“Easy, Saracen.” The soft command was hardly necessary as the Mameluke training reasserted itself, and the black quivered in readiness, velvet nostrils flared to catch the smell of powder and blood that indicated battle. There were voices raised in anger and confusion, the bellow of a musket. Lord Rutherford eased his mount into the scrub beside the road, dismounted, and crept toward the bend that hid the action from his quickening interest.

A veritable melée met his gaze as he crouched with some discomfort behind a gorse bush. In the darkness, he could make out only a tangle of figures, could hear only a muddle of orders shouted in a variety of voices. One figure caught his eye. Lithe and quick, with the supple speed of youth, the young man was everywhere, a short sword flashing, and slowly Lord Rutherford discerned a pattern. One group of combatants was in uniform, coastguard clearly, the others darkly melting into the night. As he watched, he saw the smugglers reduce in number, fading into the blackness as if by some prearranged plan. Those in uniform tripped over their feet and their swords, following a bungled series of orders that seemed to focus on the dancing stripling and two others—burly and broad as oaks—who kept their opponents fully occupied with a series of tantalizing maneuvers. Above the racket came a light, melodious laugh, taunting the revenuers to yet further futility as their prey vanished into the night.

“Break now, Bart!” The command rang clear and decisive over the general cacophony. The accent was as roughly Cornish as any Lord Rutherford had heard this day, but there was a lightness to it, hardly disguised by a note of assertion, so well entrenched as to defy all opposition. The two burly men were suddenly figments of his imagination, gone heaven only knew where, and for a second only the youth remained, poised on the edge of night, radiating a mocking defiance. The instant before he, too, vanished, the dark sky gave way to a sliver of moonlight that revealed a profile, sharply etched against a tight, knitted cap; a tip-tilted nose with a scattering of freckles, the curve of a well-sculpted mouth, the squared-off side of a small chin, and then the light was doused and the figure was no more.

Damian remained in hiding, as puzzled as the discomfited coastguard by the mysterious disappearance of their foes. It was as if the earth had swallowed them, and that taunting laughter seemed to hang in the air so that the revenue men bickered amongst themselves and threw accusations of stupidity as they gathered themselves together and rode off down the cliff road in the direction of what his lordship rather hoped was the village of Landreth.

Meredith crouched on the narrow ledge just below the cliff overhang, listening to the tumult on the road overhead. The cliff at this point appeared to fall sheer to the rocks beneath, and even in broad daylight the sandy shelf was invisible from above. It was a perch fit only for a goat at the best of times but in an emergency could be a lifesaver. Tonight, when the trap had been sprung, the smugglers had followed the routine they had practiced many times. One by one, they had dropped over the cliff under cover of darkness and the distracting tumult of their fellows. Singly, they had crept along the ledge, hugging the cliff face, until the ledge petered out and they had swung themselves up onto the cliff road a quarter mile from the site of the ambush, to vanish into the scrub and gorse. Now only Meredith and Bart remained, waiting in hiding until the night was still and quiet again after the retreat of their disgruntled opponents.

“’Tis as well to be forewarned,” the burly Cornishman grunted, heaving himself onto the road and stretching an arm down to his companion. Meredith took the proffered hand and scrambled up beside him.

“Indeed it is, Bart.” A light chuckle enlivened the night. “They’re such addlepates, though, there’s little amusement to be had in outwitting them.”

“More than enough for me,” Bart stated. “I’ve no ambition to swing from the gibbet at Hacket’s Cross, but there’s times when I think you do.”

“There’s little real danger if we’re warned as we were tonight. Had we been surprised with the ponies on the beach, it would have been a different matter. As it is, everyone’s away to their beds, the goods and ponies are in the cave. All’s right with the world, Bart.”

“Until the next time you decide to lock horns with the revenue,” the Cornishman muttered. “There was no need to walk into that ambush tonight.”

“There was every need, Bart. It was necessary to show them that they do not deal with ill-prepared fools. But we’ll not do it again, I promise.”

“And with that, I suppose I must be satisfied.” Bart peered up at the sky. “We’d best move before the moon finally shows herself. The road’s no place to be discovered at this hour of the morning.”

His companion nodded agreement, and the two clasped hands briefly before making off across the headland, blissfully ignorant of the watcher hidden in the gorse.

Lord Rutherford retrieved his horse, wondering if he could believe the evidence of his eyes and ears. If so, there were some very strange goings-on in this benighted land. A tiny smile played over his lips, a smile that transformed the somewhat forbidding countenance. It was a smile that had been conspicuously absent in the last six months and one that would have gladdened his mama’s heart had she been on that lonely Cornish road to see it.

The smile lasted just as long as it took Lord Rutherford to find Mallory House, outside the village of Landreth in the county of Cornwall. His cousin Matthew had been a reclusive eccentric, not given to the society of his family—or anyone else if rumor were true—and the slate-roofed, gray-stone manor house offered little sign of welcome to the traveler. The driveway was clogged with weeds, the hedges were untrimmed, the paint was peeling on the great door. His lordship’s lip curled in distaste as he hammered the tarnished brass knocker and stood back, looking up at the shuttered windows. Cousin Matthew had been dead these two months, but his heir had instructed the servants to remain in situ until he came to examine his inheritance and make what provision was necessary. They had also been instructed to prepare for his arrival, but there was little sign that his orders had been obeyed, a dereliction to which Colonel, Lord Rutherford, was not accustomed.

Lord Rutherford regretted yet again that he had yielded to impulse and abandoned Walter and the comforts, however dubious, of the country inn. He pounded the door a second time, the noise reverberating in the still night. Then came the creak of bolts, muttered expletives, and the door groaned wide on its hinges. A bowed figure in cap and nightgown, a horse blanket over his shoulders, held a candle high, peering up at his lordship to demand, “What’s all this then? The last trump?”

“I am Rutherford, man,” his lordship declared crisply. “Did you not receive my message?”

“Aye,” the old man muttered. “But we wasn’t expectin’ you in the middle o’ the night.”

“Have someone see to my horse.” Lord Rutherford pushed past the servant to stand in the stone-flagged hall lit only by the man’s candle.

“There’s nobut meself and the missus—not till mornin’.”

His eyebrows meeting above gray eyes, Damian stared in cold disbelief at the old retainer. He was not accustomed to being addressed thus by servants, regardless of the time of day or night, and his expression said so with alarming clarity. Under that hard glare, the elderly man shuffled his slippered feet on the cold stone floor. Rutherford’s expression did not lighten even as he recognized that the servant was old and frail, and clearly his late master had not been particularly exacting. After what he’d seen this night, little would surprise his lordship about this godforsaken country, but the hour was too advanced for a lesson in conduct toward a peer of the realm and the heir to a dukedom. Time enough tomorrow to bring a little military discipline to bear.

“Show me to the stables, then,” he directed. “I’ll see to him myself. While I do so, you’ll be pleased to fetch brandy and food. I’ve ridden many miles this night and am exceeding sharp-set.”

“What is it, Harry?” A thin voice quavered from the dark oak staircase, and an elderly woman, bearing a lantern, shuffled into the yellow circle of candlelight.

“ ’Tis his lordship from London,” her husband informed her. “Come to see to his inheritance.”

“I’m in need of supper and my bed,” Rutherford announced.

“Well, I don’t know as ’ow we’ve much in the way of vittals, m’lord,” the woman said with a worried frown. “There’s a morsel o’ pig’s cheek in the pantry left over from Harry’s supper ...”

Damian shuddered. “Bread and cheese will do, woman. Surely you can lay hands on that?”

“I daresay I might,” she agreed. “You’ll be wantin’ sheets on the master’s bed, I’ll be bound. Hasn’t had none on it since they took him away—rest his soul.” Muttering, she shuffled off into the nether regions, taking the lantern with her.

“The stables, man!” Rutherford swung impatiently on his heel and strode to the door, Harry following, huddled in the coarse blanket.

It had clearly been some time since the stables at Mallory House had housed an animal of Saracen’s caliber, if, indeed, they ever had done so. Two cart horses and a sway-backed nag occupied adjoining stalls. The remainder were empty, bearing odorous signs of their previous occupants. Lord Rutherford decided that he was unequal to the task of mucking out stables in the early hours of a July morning. Saracen would have to endure dirt and discomfort for one night, as his lordship gloomily supposed he must, also. In future, however, he resolved to keep Walter at his side throughout this entire, misbegotten expedition.

The heel of a stale loaf and a chunk of cheese clearly destined for the mousetrap did little to relieve his spirits. The brandy, however, was more than tolerable, a fact that did not surprise his lordship unduly after the scene he had witnessed on the cliff road. The Gentlemen were clearly very active on this part of the Cornish coast and would provide some compensation for discomfort.

Cousin Matthew’s bedchamber was as gloomy as if the corpse still remained. There were sheets on the feather mattress, though, and an oil lamp on the bulky armoire. A pitcher of cold water appeared on request, initial reluctance to fulfilling the request having disappeared miraculously when it had become a sharp order issued in tones more suitable to a barrack square. His lordship was slowly becoming resigned to the idea that London ways had not reached Cornwall. He could have appeared unexpectedly at any one of the establishments owned by the Keighley family, at any time of the night, and been received as if it were mid morning and he had been eagerly awaited. But those establishments were staffed by veritable armies, a far cry from the morose, elderly retainers who had served Cousin Matthew and were now to serve him. Or would do so, if he could bring himself to remain beyond the morrow, Rutherford reflected moodily, dousing the lantern and climbing onto the high mattress. He sniffed suspiciously—the linen was most definitely musty, but at least it didn’t feel damp. He’d endured much worse in the Peninsula, of course, but he hadn’t had a stiff shoulder then, and what a soldier expected in a war was rather different from what a man expected in his own house in a country at peace.

The small cave was cool, dry, and as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Meredith moved to the back and then seemed to vanish into the rock face. The entrance to the narrow tunnel, just high and wide enough for a small pony, was concealed behind a jutting boulder in the far corner. The tunnel itself widened as it burrowed into the cliff, eventually opening into a vast cavern where a single lamp burned, sending spectral shadows a-dancing on the rough-hewn walls. The six ponies who had formed the baggage train earlier glanced incuriously at the slim figure, more interested in the contents of their nosebags now that their task was completed. Bundles, boxes, parcels, and casks were stacked against the sides in orderly ranks, and Meredith viewed the results of this night’s work with a contented smile. There would be a goodly profit to be had, of which her own share would supply the final mortgage payment on the forty acres of Ducket’s Spinney. The process of reclamation was slow but steady, and, at least, sufficient funds were now ensured for the boys’ schooling for one more year.

Meredith took the lantern and left the cavern, not the way she had come but by a further passage at the back—a passage that climbed steeply through rock, coming to an abrupt halt at an impenetrable wall. The slight figure did not pause, however, but merely stretched upwards, pushing at a slab of rock in the passage roof. The slab fell back with a dull thud on the thick blanket waiting to muffle the sound of its fall. Meredith hitched herself through the opening with an experienced agility, leaning down to bring up the lantern before replacing the slab. She stood now in a small pantry where slate shelves bore jars of preserves, crocks of butter, and rounds of cheese—the produce of the home farm that kept the household supplied with all but the luxuries.

Merrie removed her boots and, carrying them and the lantern, crept out of the pantry and into a large kitchen, warmed by a black-leaded range, silent but for the ticking of the grandfather clock beside the dresser. It was two-thirty, and the household would not stir for another three hours. On stockinged feet, she made her way out of the kitchen, past the back stairs and through the green-baize door that separated the servants’ quarters from the main part of the house.

Sir John Blake, before his untimely demise three years previously, had managed to sell off most of the family heirlooms, and the stone-flagged hallway was bare, where once a rich Turkey carpet would have kept the chill from Merrie’s feet. The Jacobean oak table beneath the mullioned windows had escaped the auctioneer’s hammer because of its somewhat battered condition, not so the heavy silver tray and the Chinese urns that once had graced its surface. Meredith was now inured to these reminders of her late husband’s profligacy, however, and ran soundlessly up the broad, curving staircase, along the minstrel’s gallery overlooking the hall, and into a large, front-facing bedchamber.

“Nan!” she exclaimed softly. “What are you thinking of?”

The elderly woman asleep on a chintz-covered chaise longue started up, blinking in the light from Merrie’s lantern. “There you are at last, child,” she grumbled. “ ’Tis most inconsiderate in you to be this late. You know full well I cannot go to my rest until I know you are safe and in your bed.”

“That is such nonsense, Nan.” Meredith yanked off the knitted cap and sat on the bed to pull off her stockings. “What could possibly happen to me?”

Nan raised eyes and hands heavenward. “Why, nothing at all, to be sure.” She poured water from a ewer into a matching porcelain basin. “ ’Tis but a bit o’ smuggling you’re about, after all, and the revenue’s only desperate to lay hands on you, after all. Why, of course there’s nothing to worry about, and I’m a foolish old woman who’s only nursed you from your cradle, which gives me no right nor cause for concern . . .”

Meredith made no attempt to interrupt the flow, knowing that only thus would Nan manage to relieve her anxiety. The scolding continued unabated as the elderly maid helped her out of her clothes and into her nightgown, released the dark auburn hair from the tight knot that held the mass confined beneath the cap, and gave it the requisite hundred strokes despite Meredith’s pleading that the hour was too advanced for such niceties.

“You’ll not go to bed with your hair unbrushed, not while I have anything to say about it,” Nan declared. Eventually she released her and turned to pull back the covers on the four-poster bed.

“I cannot imagine the day when you will not have something to say about it,” Lady Blake murmured, climbing meekly into bed. It was one thing to command a band of Cornish smugglers or to outwit a troop of revenue men, quite another to stand against Nan Tregaron when she was determined to have her way.

Lord Rutherford awoke to the rattle of curtain rings being drawn across brass rods. He opened his eyes onto sunlight and onto the wonderful image of Walter.

“Gad, but I’m glad to see you, man.” He hitched himself up against the carved headboard with a grimace. Walter regarded his lordship with wary concern, noting the countenance that was, as usual these days, somber, bearing none of its past humor or the signs of pleasurable anticipation in the new day. He also saw the sudden flash of pain in the gray eyes and drew his own conclusions. After yesterday’s overlong ride, followed by the damp discomforts of this house, it was no wonder the colonel’s shoulder was playing up.

“It was the devil’s own work to find this place, m’lord,” he said. “We’ll be moving on again, I suppose?” It was both question and statement, a technique of his batman’s with which Lord Rutherford was well acquainted. It allowed for the expression of Walter’s opinion, couched in the discreet language of servant to master.

“You don’t care for Mallory House then, Walter?” Damian swung his legs to the floor and looked around the chamber where thick dust coated every surface. “I’m given to understand Cousin Matthew died in this bed,” he remarked casually, thumping the pillows. A cloud of feathers rose in the mote-thickened air.

“Can’t say it surprises me,” Walter intoned. “That couple downstairs don’t know their left foot from their right. Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but this ain’t no gentleman’s establishment.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” his lordship said with some feeling as he rose from the bed and stretched languidly. “It is always possible, of course, that my esteemed Cousin Matthew was no gentleman himself. Although it seems an unlikely eventuality, given his antecedents which, I am assured, were impeccable. Second cousin to the duke, you understand?”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Walter woodenly, turning to open a portmanteau resting on the window seat. “I’ll look to your shoulder now, Colonel.”

“I received my furlough six months ago,” Damian snapped, and there was no disguising the note of bitterness in his voice. “I’ve no need for that nomenclature now.” Shrugging out of his nightshirt, he strode to the open window and looked down at the disordered garden. The lean, powerful frame seemed to vibrate with the pent-up need for action, to radiate an impatient energy.

“You earned it, m’lord, and no wound can take that from you.” Walter spoke with resolute determination. If the colonel snapped his head off, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time these days and was unlikely to be the last. “If you’d just sit down, m’lord . . .”

To Walter’s relief, the colonel sat on the window seat without a word although his expression was grim as he readied himself to receive the batman’s ministrations. The soldier’s square hands were incongruously gentle as they moved over the jagged cicatrice carved into Lord Rutherford’s shoulder, and massaged ointment into the stiff muscle and joint. “When d’you think we’ll be moving along then, m’lord?” Walter returned to the original topic in an effort to divert Lord Rutherford from whatever bleak contemplation was responsible for the present grimness. Such attempts at alleviation were usually unsuccessful but must be tried if Lord Rutherford was not to fall victim to another of the black depressions that had dogged him since his service with the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsula had come to such an abrupt end.

“I’m not sure there’s any hurry,” Damian returned. “It’s not as if more intriguing prospects await elsewhere.”

“No, m’lord.” Walter sighed. “There’s hot water for your shaving on the dresser. If we’re to stay here awhile, I’d best see what can be done to make the place habitable. Not to mention the stables,” he added. “I doubt Saracen’ll recover from the shock in a hurry.”

Lord Rutherford gave a somewhat mirthless chuckle as he sharpened his razor on the leather strop. “He’s had worse billets, Walter, as have we. Not much worse, I grant you, but I’ve a mind to improve this one. Such abominable neglect offends me.” The image of a slight figure brandishing a small sword flashed unbidden in his mind’s eye, and the peal of melodious laughter, rich in enjoyment, rang again in his ear. Unless his lordship much mistook the matter, he had stumbled upon a most intriguing situation last night. The identity of the stripling smuggler would bear some investigation and, while it was hardly appropriate for the heir to the Duke of Keighley to consort with such a band of rascals, it was an infinitely more appealing prospect than listening to his mother’s fond solicitude and his father’s strictures on the subject of fulfilling the duties of his heir. At some point, Damian supposed, he would take a wife and set up his nursery, but he was still too close to the soldiering that had occupied him to the exclusion of all else since his twentieth year—too close to it, and too bitter at its abrupt cessation to switch easily and swiftly into the role society would have him play.

“I’ll see about breakfast, then.” Walter moved to the door. “We’ll not get much accomplished on an empty belly.”

“It’s to be hoped you have better luck than I did last night.” Damian drew a long swath through the soap on his face and turned to grin at his batman. “Courage, friend. I’ve a feeling this expedition might turn out to provide some amusement.”

Walter’s unconvinced sniff hid the pleasure he felt at the sight of that grin and the gleam in the gray eyes. He was quite willing to endure any amount of discomfort if it would restore to his colonel the humor and sunny temper of the past. Ailments of the spirit were a deal harder to cure than those of the body, and, while the colonel’s shoulder had healed with the speed of youth and strength, his spirits had remained depressed, seeing only a bleak future of boredom and duty that no diversion could alleviate.

While his lordship completed his ablutions and donned clean linen and his buckskin riding britches, Walter had the elderly couple below stairs scurrying around between henhouse, pantry, and range. Eggs were found, together with a side of bacon, and Walter decreed the ale to be passable. When Lord Rutherford eventually rose from the breakfast table in the hastily dusted parlor, it was with the firm conviction that here, at least, he had found an outlet for his restless energy, a worthwhile task to perform that would provide him with a much-needed sense of purpose. He had not expected to have to put his inheritance to rights when he had set out for Cornwall, and, if he chose to leave it in its present neglected condition, it would make little difference to the long-term fortunes of the future Duke of Keighley, but the soldier’s passion for orderliness found the ramshackle condition of his estate quite intolerable.

By early afternoon the village and the surrounding countryside was buzzing with the news. Young Mary Pendragon and little Sally Harper were up at the manor to help old Martha Perry set the place to rights. Messages had been sent, summoning Jonas Williams, the solicitor in Fowey who was executor of Matthew Mallory’s estate, to wait on Lord Rutherford. It was said Jonas had been in quite a taking when he’d read the message, so sharp had it been. Bill Wiley, who had had a half-hearted care for the stables at Mallory House, had been given a flea in his ear by his lordship’s manservant and had been set to cleaning as if the stables were to house royalty.

Damian, after a morning spent issuing orders and generally instilling the fear of the devil into the slovenly Perrys and anyone else unfortunate enough to earn his disapproval, judged he could safely leave matters to take their course and escaped the hubbub and the clouds of dust being raised by the combined brooms and dusters of the village