The Tyrant (24 page)

Phoebe trod closer. The plate proclaimed, ‘Clemency, Ladye Meredyth-Carruthers.' She knew, after a timeless moment, that Carruthers was close by, and turned to find him watching her, his face enigmatic. She was conscious of a panicked bewilderment, and said hurriedly, “She is lovely. You didn't tell me that—that she had red hair.”

Otton teased, “Merry's fatal weakness.”

“Since you are so adept at conducting house tours, Roly,” said Carruthers, somewhat flushed, “I mean to make you work for your supper. Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Otton has asked to be your guide. I am going to keep a promise by showing my betrothed through the castle.”

Otton murmured
sotto voce,
“And I think
I
am a villain!”

Outside, the wind was rising, whipping about the weeds that sprang from between the cobblestones. Justice bayed happily and came limping over to join them. Carruthers bent to inspect his paw.

“What is worrying you?” asked Phoebe.

“Oh, the old fool won't keep the bandage on, but it's much improved.”

“I didn't mean that. You are disturbed about something.”

“I—er dread you will disapprove of my ancestral Keep and—”

“Mr. Carruthers,” she interpolated sternly, “you asked me a short while ago if we could be friends.”

“Yes, and you said we could, but almost at once took me in violent aversion.”

“For which I apologized. If I truly were your betrothed, sir, or your—your wife, you would have the right to protect me, but since we are no more than friends, nor ever likely to be—”

“Anyone who dwells on my lands, or is a guest in my house, is entitled to my protection, Miss Phoebe, and— Great gadzooks, what a demoniacal glare! I beg you will stop frightening me so. Will you be as domineering when we are married?”

“I will very likely take an axe to you,” she said through her teeth.

He chuckled. “I'll lend you one when we reach the Keep. If you can hoist it, I'll be much surprised. Now be a good girl and come along. My mama keeps country hours, as you know, and you will want to change that pretty gown before dinner, I expect.” He proffered his arm.

Phoebe ignored it, and marched on with her head very high.

“Justice,” sighed Carruthers, one hand on the dog's furrowed brow, “your name denies you a place in this procession.”

Phoebe's lips twitched, but she walked on briskly, Carruthers and the hound following. When they had crossed the drawbridge and reached the steps leading to the massive front doors, however, Carruthers took her elbow. “Be careful of what you say in here,” he warned softly. “There are ghosts everywhere.”

Ignoring this frivolity, she whispered, “We
are
going to see the Lieutenant?”

“He was in such a turmoil about that blasted cipher, I don't trust him. He's half out of his head, and there wasn't much in it to begin with.”

She gave him an indignant look, and he added, “Your axe awaits;
entrez, s'il vous plait, mademoiselle.
”

The door opened easily and Phoebe went inside. She stood in a narrow hall that led off to either side. Faintly lit by slotted windows in the deep outer walls, it was a gloomy place and the air was chill and dank. She reached instinctively for Carruthers's hand, and found instead cold steel. She glanced around swiftly. He held a gigantic war axe, the handle of which he had put into her grasp. “Ready to decapitate?” he asked.

She eyed the weapon with some dubiety. “All right. Let go.”

He rested the point of the great curving blade on the stone floor and stood back. “Swing away,” he said, holding aside his cravat and tilting his head obligingly towards her.

Phoebe swung up the axe. About half an inch. “Oh, my!” she gasped.

“Do not torture me,” he complained. “This waiting for death is agony.”

“Wretch!” She gripped the haft with both hands, settled her feet and heaved. The axe lifted. Phoebe gave a squeal. Carruthers grabbed the weapon in time to prevent its amputating her toes. “Would you object to employing the method of the Borgias instead?” he enquired. “I think this little dealer in death is more like to put an end to you than to me.”

She laughed breathlessly and relinquished her grip. Carruthers grinned and replaced the weapon in sturdy brackets beside the doors.

“Is this the Great Hall?” asked Phoebe, looking about disparagingly. “It's awfully narrow. And what is that hole in the ceiling?”

“It is not the Great Hall, doubting Thomasina, but the outer death-trap. That hole up there was kept closed until the enemy was fairly inside, at which point boiling pitch was poured on them.”

“Ugh.”

“It is the origin of the phrase ‘a warm reception.'”

She looked at him. His face was innocent, but one long bronzed finger was tracing the outline of his jaw. She knew the gesture by now. “You're fibbing.”

He started to guide her to a flight of steps and a crumbling arched opening. “You don't know that.”

“Oh yes, I do.”

“How?”

She smiled mischievously. “I think I will not tell you. It gives me an advantage.”

He said obliquely. “You already have too many of those, Miss Ramsay.”

Phoebe decided it was best to avoid his eyes. “Oh, now this is
really
a Great Hall,” she exclaimed as they went up the steps and passed through the arch. “My heavens! You could entertain all London in here!”

Her voice echoed through the enormous chamber. It was not nearly as decrepit as she had expected, and although the walls were fallen away in places, there was no debris on the flagged floor. Larger windows admitted the daylight, revealing lofty vaulted ceilings and, directly across from where they stood, a vast fireplace. Phoebe went to inspect the large carving above the mantel. “Your crest,” she said, turning to him.

He nodded. “Rather nice, isn't it?”

She reached up, her fingers tracing the deep indentations. “A griffin, an eagle, a sword and a rose. What does the Latin mean?”

“Gentle be my strength.”

“Oh, I like that! And I like this old place. Meredith, do you really mean to restore it?” She turned to face him. “It would be such a pity not to. It is part of the history of our land, and heritage is so terribly important, do not you think?”

“I do.” He gazed down at her. His expression was very far from being fierce and, even by the muted light, she saw that the blue flame again lit his eyes. He stepped closer. His fingertips touched her cheek, sending sparks through her veins. “Would it please you were I to restore it?”

She said faintly, “It is … none of my business, of course. I … should not have…”

His arm slipped around her. She lifted her face, and he kissed her. Gently this time, but with a soft, heightening passion that made her head spin and her knees tremble. Desperate, she groped for the memory of him kissing Rosalie, and pulled away. “You—take shameful advantage of … of the situation,” she gasped.

“Of course.” He still held her hand and pulled her back towards him.

She wrenched clear. “Where is Lieutenant—Lascelles? In the dungeons, I suppose.” She started to walk to a crumbling downward spiral of stairs at the side of the hall.

Carruthers drew a deep breath. “No. This way.”

He took her to another arch that led into a long corridor, but before they went through, he paused, glanced keenly around, then pressed on two of the stone slabs simultaneously. A crack appeared in the wall. Carruthers pushed, and gradually the wall swung inward until a narrow opening, large enough for a man to squeeze through, was revealed. He motioned Phoebe inside and she entered a tiny chamber. Lascelles, fully dressed save for his coat, was sitting on a crude wooden bed. He struggled to his feet, stammering a welcome.

“Pray sit down, Lieutenant,” she said. “You should be in bed.”

“And I knew you would not be, you dolt,” growled Carruthers, shoving the little door closed again.

Lascelles's haggard face was flushed. He smiled and said cheerily, “Must try to get my strength back. Never—never get well, lying about all day. It
is
day?”

Phoebe touched his forehead gently. “Poor soul. Yes, it is afternoon, and— Oh, Merry! He is so hot!”

Carruthers came at once and the feel of the burning, dry skin brought a vexed “What have you been about? You were in better case this morning. You've been trying to walk, and worked yourself into a fever, you dimwit!” He forced his friend to lie down.

Lascelles struggled against the strong hands and, failing, began to pluck fretfully at the blanket Phoebe pulled over him. “You do not understand,” he muttered. “I
must
deliver the cipher! Gave my word … of honour. Must get it through … must…” He sighed wearily and his eyes closed.

“Damn!” muttered Carruthers, frowning down at him. “Here we've brought him safe through a veritable sea of dragoons; I've a house fairly crawling with military, and now, for a bonus, have a hungry bounty hunter under my roof; and all the block can think of is that curst stupid cipher!”

Phoebe said, “So that is what worried you. Your friend Otton is a bounty—”

“Otton?” Lascelles's eyes were wide and frantic. He struggled up, tossing the blanket aside. “Murdering swine! You'll not take me!” He hurled himself at Carruthers, striking out furiously.

“Lance!” Carruthers blocked one blow and seized the flailing arm. “Lance, you madman—it's me—Merry! Give over, damn you!”

Running to seize his other arm, Phoebe cried, “Lieutenant, it's all right! He's not here. It's all right!”

The light of reason came back into the hollowed eyes. Lascelles breathed, “Merry? Jove, but—it is. Sorry … dear old boy. Thought you was that—that devil … Otton.”

Carruthers directed a warning glance at Phoebe and, together, they guided the fugitive back onto his bed. “We just chanced to mention his name, Lance. Never fear, you're well hidden.”

Lascelles held his hand in desperation. “Leave me your pistol … I beg you, Merry. I'll kill myself sooner than … public dismemberment and—disembowelling knife. M'father…'twould kill him. You won't tell … promise, Merry … for old times' sake. Y'won't … tell…” The pleading words faded into an incoherent mumbling.

Phoebe said, “The poor soul. How ill he is. Those dressings must be changed. I'll—”

“You will do no such thing. I'll attend to it. I cannot have you looking at another man's legs, Phoebe. I mean—Miss Ramsay.”

His eyes twinkled at her. She said sternly, “See that you remember it, Mr. Carruthers. And I think there is no call to use such—terms.”

He laughed softly. “You mean 'tis all right for you to dress the wound in his—er, limb. But not all right to use the word.”

“I mean,” she said, “that I will stay and help you. After all, a woman is better—”

“Better thought of does she do as she's told,” he interrupted, seizing her arm and propelling her firmly to the door.

She opened her mouth to protest.

“Sssh!” he warned, and cautiously tugged the door open.

All was quiet. He nudged Phoebe into the Great Hall.

“Odious Tyrant!” she hissed.

“Little shrew!” he riposted.

Turning from this exchange of compliments, they both were smiling.

XI

The sunlight slanted benignly through the lofty windows of the crimson saloon. Two of the panes were broken and had been boarded, but by and large the dilapidations in this irregularly shaped chamber were minor, and if the furnishings were far from new, they were, at least, comfortable. The company did much to compensate for the shabby surroundings. Captain Otton was dashing in a dull-red coat lavishly trimmed with gold lace, his powdered hair constrained by a red riband; Sinclair presented a neat, if shy, appearance in a tie-wig and a coat of bottle-green that was beginning to show signs of being outgrown across the shoulders, and Meredith was elegant in a peerlessly tailored coat of dark brown velvet over a waistcoat of brown-and-cream brocade and cream small clothes. Lucille Carruthers wore a violet-blue
robe à la française
with violets in her high-coiffed and powdered hair, and when Phoebe's pomona-green sarsenet-and-Alençon lace, and her mother's dove-grey satin were added to the rest, the room was a rainbow of colours.

Otton was in rare form and soon had them all laughing. Mrs. Carruthers seemed happy on this warm summer evening, but confided to Phoebe that she was afraid Meredith would be angry because Jeffery had not yet returned.

“I doubt he will be cross,” said Phoebe. “After all, your son is helping in the search for rebels, and—”

“But he is not, Miss Ramsay. Hilary Broadbent dropped in whilst you were changing your dress, and complained to Meredith that Jeffery only put in a token appearance, and then wandered off somewhere. Broadbent felt we should be doing more to help the military.”

‘Oh, dear!' thought Phoebe.

Jeffery arrived just in time for dinner and hurried into the saloon, shooting the lace at his wrists, his fair hair gleaming here and there through powder that had obviously been hastily applied. He slanted a guilty glance at his brother's face, and watching Meredith's grim expression, Phoebe thought it would be an appropriate time for the lady with the rose to make an appearance. Between his worries for his rebel friend, his rebellious brother, the Squire's poisoned hounds, and his soon-to-be-terminated betrothal, he stood in dire need of
some
moral support.

“He's tough as steel, you know,” murmured an amused voice at her side. “And surely it cannot be as bad as you think.”

Otton was offering a glass of ratafia. She accepted the glass but did not return his smile, looking at him steadily as she said, “It is very bad, Captain Otton.” She was about to request the favour of a few words in private with him when she saw that his lazily mocking gaze had already left her.