The Tyrant (31 page)

“We'll see that,” said Holt grimly. “Two of you men guard the stairs. Don't alarm the ladies if you can help it. The rest of you—this way.”

Sinclair said meaningfully, “Stay close beside me, Phoebe.”

Holt threw him a withering look and marched toward the line of light that shone from the open door to the library.

Phoebe took Sinclair's hand and half-ran along, praying.

Holt stamped into the lighted room. Peeping around the soldiers, Phoebe could have laughed aloud. Meredith was sprawled in the chair, apparently dozing, his chin propped on his left hand, his right hand loosely clasping the book on his knees, and Satan curled up on top of it. As the dragoons entered, Meredith started, his elbow slipping from the chair arm realistically. He blinked up into Holt's fierce countenance. “What … the…?” he muttered, and yawned.

Unafraid, Satan sat up and inspected the new arrivals disapprovingly.

“We shot a rebel,” snapped Holt. “Damn sure he rode this way. Where's your brother?”

“Just behind you, Captain,” said Jeffery, in an irked manner. “And I'd be in my bed had you not raised such a fuss.”

“Your bay mare has been rid hard,” snapped Holt, addressing Carruthers but fixing Jeffery with a piercing stare.

Meredith scowled. “Did you take Spring? Where the
devil
have you been?”

Jeffery drew himself up. “If you must know, I went to that cockfight in the village.”

“Damn you, Jeff!” Meredith leaned forward slightly. “I
told
you—”

“I'll remind you, brother, that I am past one and twenty,” snarled Jeffery.

Marvelling, Phoebe thought, ‘How can they do it? How can Meredith look so cross when he must be in frightful pain?' She saw his eyes slant to her and realized in the nick of time that he must stand. She sank quickly onto a nearby chair as he snapped, “Your extreme age don't give you the right to take my mare out, and—But we'll discuss this in private. What do you want of us, Holt? I promise you there are no wounded rebels in this house.”

Holt grinned broadly. “Not even you, eh?” He fetched Jeffery a clap on the back that made him stagger, and watched him narrowly.

“Devil take you! I'm no lover of Charles Stuart,” declared Jeffery angrily.

Voices were raised in the Armour Hall. Meredith got to his feet, Satan scrambling onto the chair arm. “If you've upset my mother, Holt,” he gritted, “I'll register a protest with Fotheringay, by God, but I will! This is becoming damn ridiculous!”

Otton came strolling in, his dark hair free of powder and much disarrayed, his eyes heavy with sleep. “What's to do?” he drawled.

“As a former army officer,” said Holt, “I ask you, on your honour, sir, if any injured man has sought sanctuary in this house tonight?”

Otton stared at him. “You may be sure the dog would have woke us all, had that happened.”

Holt's lip curled. Looking at Jeffery, he said, “Unless the fugitive was known to him.”

To her horror, Phoebe saw that Meredith was leaning precariously. He half-sat, half-fell into the chair, not perceiving that Satan had claimed it, and the cat made a frantic lastminute dart for life. A grimace of pain twisted Meredith's face, but he had turned away so that the lapse went unnoticed by all save Phoebe, who flinched with sympathy. “Jeff,” he said wearily, “to reassure poor Holt, would you please submit to an examination?”

“Be damned if I will,” flared Jeffery, glaring at Holt.

“He seems to think you are stoically concealing a mortal wound,” said Sinclair with a sly grin. “Poor chap likely won't sleep a wink do you not humour him.”

Jeffery said disgustedly, “Fella's lushy drunk, was you to ask me.”

“We shall all humour him,” Otton laughed. “Clothes off, everyone! Inspection time!”

Phoebe's heart lurched. She gave a little scream.

Otton glanced at her. “Whoops! As you were, men!”

“Very amusing, I'm sure,” snapped Holt, red-faced.

“No, really, Jacob,” purred Otton. “Enough is enough.”

A trooper ran to the door. “Captain!” he called breathlessly. “They got the chap cornered over to Birch Hill!”

Holt brightened. “No surprise there!” He clicked his heels. “Apologies, Carruthers. Duty is duty.”

“So they tell me,” said Carruthers drily.

The soldiers marched off with a stamp of boots and a jingling of spurs.

Sinclair said, “Come along, Phoebe. Bed for you, my girl.”

She stood at once. “Yes. Oh, how dreadful this is!”

Otton glanced curiously at Meredith. “You keep late hours, old fellow. And you look like the devil.”

“I stayed up to have a word with my—brother,” said Meredith, catching his breath for an instant as Satan sprang onto his lap once more. “And I'm afraid I may have caught Lady Eloise's cold. Jeff—stay here, if you please. Good night, Miss Ramsay,” he added, managing to stand up. “Don't worry about this nonsense.”

Phoebe smiled and went out, trembling in every limb, Sinclair gripping her arm tightly. She heard Otton drawl, “From the frying pan to the fire, Jeff. My prayers will be with you!
Bonne nuit.
”

As they approached the stairs, Phoebe glanced back. Otton was sauntering lazily towards the Armour Hall. She whispered frantically, “Sin, he suspects! Did you see how he stared at Meredith?”

He muttered, “I'm only glad Mrs. Carruthers did not waken—or Lambert! The fat would really have been in the fire!” He glanced over his shoulder. “He's gone. I don't think he will give Carruthers away, whatever he may suspect. He's only out for himself. I'm going back to give Jeff a hand, and how ever tired poor Meredith is, we've to make some plans. No—not
you,
my girl! You've done enough. Go to bed, and stay there!”

She clutched at his arm. “You
will
come? Or Jeff? I'll be worried to death.”

“I'll come, then. Bless you, old lady. You're a dashed good sport.”

The ‘dashed good sport' went to her room, where she burst into tears. Weeping, she gathered together Meredith's bloodstained clothing. The men had shoved it all under the bed, but if the troopers had again searched the house, they would have been discovered. She wrapped all the telltale articles in the butchered pillowcase and stuffed it under the mattress. She felt drained and very tired, but she dried her tears, poured some of the brandy into her water glass, and sipped it. She made a face, but she could feel the liquid fire igniting her interior regions, and she soon felt much restored.

Half an hour later, a soft scratch on the door preceded Sinclair's appearance. He crept in, looked at the glass in his sister's hand, and lifted one eyebrow. “Is there another glass?”

“You'll have to use the decanter. Sin—how is he?”

Sinclair took a healthy swallow, and blinked rapidly. Taking the bedside chair, he replied, “Not about to turn up his toes, but the poor fellow's in a deal of pain, though he won't own it.” He shook his head. “He's not wanting for pluck, your betrothed. Hey—have you been piping your eye?”

“I fear I rather disintegrated. Oh, what
ever
are we to do? Meredith
must
have a doctor, and soon! He is sure to be worse tomorrow. He'll never be able to hide it!” Her eyes closed briefly. “I keep thinking … suppose Holt had clapped
Merry
on the back, as he did Jeffery…!”

They looked at each other soberly.

Sinclair muttered, “We'd all be on our way to the Tower. Carruthers says he has the cipher well-hid and will try to explain away his appearance by claiming that ‘cold' has worsened. We shall have to think of something better, but the poor devil was all in. It was as much as he could do not to give way, I think, but there was not a murmur of complaint because I dragged him into this mess. I only hope … it don't end with his head on a spike!”

Phoebe sank her face into her hands. Sinclair was at her side at once and slipped his arm around her. “Sorry, m'dear. You've become rather fond of him, I think.”

“How could I help it?” she said brokenly. “Sin—we
must
find a way out of this, for his sake.”

He nodded glumly. “I wish I could think of one.”

“I think I may have,” she said, and as he turned to her eagerly, she went on, “It's a desperate chance, and so much will depend on Meredith. If he should be delirious in the morning, or too weak to function normally … I do not dare to think what—But never mind that. We must pray very hard tonight. Sin—go and fetch Jeffery, and I'll tell you my scheme. Perhaps he may have already thought of something better, but if not—it just may serve.”

XIV

Standing motionless in Birch Hill's sunny morning room, Sir Malcolm Lockwood turned a white, stricken face from Phoebe to Jeffery Carruthers.

Jeffery said kindly, “Perhaps you should sit down, sir. I'm afraid we broke it rather bluntly. The thing is, we're rather pressed for time.”

Lockwood groped blindly for the sofa and huddled on it. Phoebe walked quickly to sit beside him. “I am so sorry, Sir Malcolm. I expect it is a sad blow to you.”

“Do you say,” he muttered, dazedly, “that—that all the time I thought my son was a confounded Bond Street saunterer, he was instead fighting with Charles Stuart?”

“I'm afraid so, sir.”

“By … God!” whispered Sir Malcolm. He drew a hand across his eyes and sat straighter. “My apologies to you both. It was the shock. And Carruthers has shielded the boy, you say? Is—is Lance very badly hurt?”

Jeffery perched on the arm of a red brocade chair. “He is very weak, sir, and has a leg wound, and the troopers gave him the deuce of a run down from Scotland. You might as well know, he's—” He hesitated, glancing uneasily to Phoebe.

She said, “He is the fugitive everyone's hunting. The one who carries the poem the Duke of Cumberland values so highly.”

The Squire sprang up, a flush coming into his pale cheeks and his eyes kindling. “Now is he, by Jupiter! And to think I called out poor Meredith! Why the deuce did he not
tell
me? Did he fancy I'd be anything but proud of my boy?”

Phoebe and Jeffery exchanged surprised glances. “Lance feared you would be far from proud,” said Jeffery. “He swore my brother to secrecy.”

“Then your brother's a blasted fool for heeding him! He should have told me anyway!”

“You are exactly right, sir,” agreed Phoebe. “But Mr. Carruthers has a ridiculous habit of keeping his word.”

Lockwood smiled. “Does he know you came to me, my dear?”

“No, sir. He will be very angry. But—he tried to deliver the cipher last night, and—”

“
Meredith
did?” Incredulous, the Squire sat down again. “But—he
fought
Stuart! He despises the Jacobites!”

Jeffery said, “Lance is his friend. And is half-demented, fretting about the cipher.”

“God … bless him!” Lockwood turned away and became involved with his handkerchief. When he faced them once more, he said rather unevenly, “By Jove, but I'm deep in debt to Carruthers! I must go over at once and withdraw my challenge to the poor fellow!”

“No, sir!” exclaimed Jeffery.

“You must fight him!” said Phoebe.

His eyes glassy, the Squire mumbled, “The … devil…!”

*   *   *

Sinclair was waiting in the stableyard, and walked to the house between his sister and Jeffery. He said in a low voice, “We've had to take two people into our confidence. His man, a good fellow, Phoebe, who fairly dotes on him; and the head groom. Baker lifted Merry down from his mare last night, and cleaned the saddle, so he had to be told.”

“How is my brother?” asked Jeffery anxiously.

“Howell told me he passed a wretched night, and he looks it, but he's up and dressed. We've had a rare piece of luck in one sense.” He held open the back door to the new wing, and they all passed inside. The hall was cool and deserted, and he went on softly, “Lambert and Otton have gone off somewhere, so they're out of the way.”

“And Grandmama will not come down until after noon,” said Phoebe.

Jeffery asked, “Is my mama about yet?”

“No. She really
has
caught my mother's cold and her maid brought word she would sleep late.”

Phoebe thought, ‘That should give us an hour, at least!'

Carruthers was sitting at the breakfast table, stirring coffee with his left hand, and reading the newspaper. He looked up as they came in, and Phoebe scanned him anxiously. He was excessively pale, and his eyes looked sunk into dark hollows. He came to his feet without apparent effort, but his smile was forced. The servants were in the room, and thus they exchanged formal greetings.

Hurrying to accept a chair beside him, Phoebe remarked, “You do not look well, Mr. Carruthers. Have you been sadly afflicted by mama's cold?”

“I fear I am a trifle indisposed,” he admitted, sitting down carefully, “but colds seldom trouble me for any length of time. I only hope I may not be contagious to others. You were up early, ma'am. Had you a nice ride?”

“Went over to Birch Hill,” said Jeffery, reaching for the marmalade but with his eyes very steady on his brother's haggard face. “Miss Ramsay was desirous of meeting Sir Malcolm again.”

Meredith started, his gaze darting to Phoebe.

She said coolly, “You'd as well know, sir. I went to intercede with him about your wretched duel.”

Meredith was astounded, and the effect her announcement had on the servants was such that he was able to dismiss them. When the doors had closed and they were alone, he demanded, “What the deuce have you two been about?”

Jeffery explained, “It was Miss Ramsay's idea, and there's not a bit of use your flying into the boughs, Merry. You look like the devil, and you will need a logical reason for a surgeon's services.”