The Tyrant (35 page)

“Thoroughly. I only slipped away for an hour. Phoebe, I must see you. I've grand news.”

She looked at him regretfully. She had news for him also, news that must sadden the dear soul. “Very well, Brooks. Meredith—please! You have made an appearance. Your mama must be pleased. But you look very tired. Go back to your room, I beg you.”

“I will,” he promised. “As soon as you return. Brooks, you must not keep Miss Ramsay away too long. This party is in her honour, you know. We cannot both be absent.”

Lambert nodded and offered Phoebe his arm. Taking it reluctantly, well aware of the puzzled glances that turned to them, Phoebe said, “I want to talk with you also, Brooks. We can be private in the Hall of Mirrors, I think.”

He led her there quickly, passing several maids and footmen who eyed them with curiosity, so that Phoebe's cheeks were quite pink by the time they reached the huge, echoing hall.

Lambert swung her to face him. “Grand news, love! I met your Aunt Hesther in Salisbury. She was just about to send off her footman with a letter for you, and entrusted it instead to me.” He handed Phoebe a sealed letter and went on with exuberance, “It is from your mama, but pray do not read it now, for I've little time, and your aunt told me the gist of it. Sir Terence Glover is dead!”

Shocked, Phoebe exclaimed, “Oh, I am so sorry! Mama must be greatly distressed, for he has had a tendre for her forever.”

“He must have,” said Lambert with a grin. “Phoebe, he has left
everything
to Lady Eloise! Your aunt says it is in the neighbourhood of
eighty thousand pounds!
”

Her eyes became enormous. “Eighty … thous— My heavens!”

Catching both her hands in his, he said, “Do you not see, my darling? It means your family is no longer in straitened circumstances! Can I but win your grandmama's good opinion, they'll likely be willing to give me your hand now!” He swept the stunned Phoebe into his arms and bent to kiss her.

She pulled away quickly. “No, Brooks! I must tell you—” She broke off as the back door swung open. A flurry of wind blew the cloak of the girl who stood on the threshold. A girl of delicate beauty, her golden curls peeping charmingly from beneath her hood, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment when she saw them. “Oh! Your pardon,” she stammered, dropping a curtsy. “I did not—I mean—forgive me!” And she fled.

“A regular little Fair, is she not?” said Brooks, amused. He tilted his handsome head as, distantly, a clock struck the half-hour. “Gad, I must be off, or Fotheringay will have my ears! What d'you think of my news?”

“Wonderful,” she managed hollowly. “But I must—”

“Lord, that's right! You wanted to tell me something. Can you be very quick, m'dear? I'm treading on thin ice by even coming here tonight.”

She looked up into his smiling eyes, and her heart sank. He loved her, and to hurt him was dreadful. What she had to say should not be tossed at him in so hasty a way, and the village girl's sudden appearance had made the moment even less opportune. She said, “I wish we had more time. Perhaps it had better wait.”

“You're an angel to be so understanding.” He pressed a quick kiss on her brow. “I will get away early in the morning. Can you meet me for a ride? I'll wait for you in that cluster of elms near the mound they think contains ancient artifacts. The one 'twixt here and Dewbury Minor. Do you know it?”

She said she did, promised to meet him there at seven o'clock, and let him kiss her hand before he left by the same door at which Rosalie had appeared. When she returned to the party, Meredith was nowhere to be seen. She was not surprised, and although she appeared bright and happy, as she had done earlier, her heart was heavy, and she was relieved when at last the party came to an end.

As soon as she could get away, she took her brother along to Lady Martha's suite and shared the news contained in her mother's letter. Lady Eloise had written in haste, having reached home to find Belinda already on the road to recovery. She was both devastated by her long-time admirer's demise, and astounded by his generosity. ‘It will,' she wrote, ‘make all the difference in the world to the family. The girls are assured of proper come-outs, and dear Sinclair can be off to University next term with no need to impose on Mr. Carruthers's good offices.' Sinclair was ecstatic. Lady Martha merely said, “Hmmnn…” and fixed Phoebe with a steady and disconcertingly penetrating gaze.

The company had stayed much later than was expected. The party was declared a resounding success by a jubilant Lucille, already entertaining plans for a large formal London ball, and dinner was little more than a light meal and a recapitulation of the day's triumph.

Jeffery announced that his brother had returned to bed, worn out by his short social fling. Phoebe was faintly shocked by his mother's obvious lack of concern. Lady Martha was also taken aback, but when she made a rather pointed comment, Lucille said confidently that they did not know Meredith. He was not the one, she said, to be troubled by a flesh wound, and would likely be fully recovered within a day or two.

Phoebe went up to bed feeling drained and dispirited. She was sure Sinclair and Jeffery meant to visit Lascelles, and she sat in bed trying to read until her brother tapped on the door at half-past midnight. “You will not believe it,” he said in great excitement, “but Rosalie Smith was with poor Lascelles. It is the grandest thing I ever heard. She and Lance and the Carruthers men grew up together, you know, and there is a great bond between them. But can you feature her being so brave as to take such a risk, and she was so grateful to Jeffery and to me, there was no listening to it. Carruthers told her—”

“Carruthers!” exclaimed Phoebe. “Oh, never say he was up again?”

“Well, er, yes. He did come over. He left before we did, however.”

“I should hope so! He is foolish past permission! 'Twill serve him right if infection sets in!” Sinclair gave her a rather surprised look, and she blushed and enquired belatedly as to the condition of Lieutenant Lascelles.

“Oh, he runs a fever, poor fellow, and is fairly beside himself with anxiety for the cipher. Meredith promised that between us we will get it through, but I'll own I cannot think how he means to go about it.”

Phoebe exclaimed, “He cannot go about it at all! Good heavens, does no one realize he is a mere mortal man? You saw that arm. He should lie in his bed for a week at the very least, much less be worrying—”

Sinclair interpolated solemnly, “It is all our heads at stake, old lady, and even were Meredith not greatly concerned with your own—which I begin to suspect he is—he'll move heaven and earth sooner than see any harm come to his family.”

Phoebe fell asleep worrying about those ominous words. She did not sleep well and awoke to a dreary, overcast morning and the drearier prospect of breaking Lambert's loving heart.

When she went down to the stables, a chill wind carried the smell of rain and the clouds were darkening. Almost, she sent back upstairs for the cloak she had refused, but she did not intend to ride with Brooks, and it should not take long to tell him of her decision and return to the Hall.

Henry Baker had been warned of her plans and already had a frisky little chestnut mare saddled for her. He was troubled because of her insistence against an accompanying groom. Already taut with dread of the coming interview, Phoebe had no intention of allowing any other to witness it, and since Ada had hinted at the nature of the ride, Baker did not persist with his plea to escort her, but watched glumly as she rode out.

There were few travellers about on this grey morning. Phoebe passed a farm cart, the driver touching his brow respectfully to her; and some moments later she caught a glimpse of two dragoons riding on an early patrol. She reined up and kept out of sight until they had gone, then urged the mare to a canter. An occasional drop of rain had left its cold touch upon her cheeks by the time she reached the copse Lambert had designated. She slowed the mare again and entered the trees at a walk, her eyes searching. He was waiting in a small clearing, his bay tethered close by, and he came quickly to meet and lift her down from the saddle.

As usual, he looked the answer to every girl's prayer and he kept his arms about her, smiling down into her grave face as he exclaimed fervently, “At last! At last! How long it seems since we were alone and I was able to kiss my beloved without fear of—”

He bent lower. Striving to escape and to avoid his lips, Phoebe saw that even now they were not alone. An unexpected figure crept up behind Lambert; a tall, husky man, his features concealed by a raggedly cut mask, and one upraised arm holding a sturdy cudgel. There could be no doubt of his intent. Phoebe's scream of warning brought Lambert spinning round, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. He was much too late. The cudgel caught him above the ear with a solid thud and he went down without so much as a cry.

Before Phoebe could run, another man had grasped her. Her terrified struggles were brutally restrained. Her call for help was stifled by a rolled strip of cloth that was bound tightly over her mouth. Neither of her abductors said a word as she was tied hand and foot, then dumped unceremoniously into the back of a donkey-cart and a piece of oilcloth drawn over her. Dazed, terrified, half-smothered, she was tossed helplessly against the side as the donkey plodded over the uneven ground. Consciousness reeling, she clung to one thought—‘Meredith…'

*   *   *

“I despise and abominate duelling,” growled Dr. George Linden, tightening his grip on his cringing patient and taking up another instrument of torture, “and yet I do my humble best to mend the wounds of its thimble-witted adherents. Even when—be still!—even when they lie to me. In their teeth!”

Managing to snatch a breath, Meredith gasped, “Damned inquisitor! And—you know I'd not have … fought Lockwood had it not been—vital.”

“Vital!” snorted the doctor. “You are healthy as any carthorse, else you'd be in a raving fever and this arm would be badly infected. This bone splinter should have come out yesterday, are you aware? But you'd already delayed and worn yourself down to the point I thought it best to allow you a day of rest before I poked about at you. And instead of resting, you cavort at a damnable tea-party! Do not move now, or you'll be sorry! Might a lowly … country practitioner enquire as to when you
did
take this wound, Carruthers?”

Carruthers flushed, lay as still as he could while enduring some more of the doctor's artistry, and at last said unevenly, “I'll pretend you did not—ask that, George.”

Linden laid aside his surgical probe and frowned. He was a fine doctor who could have made a name for himself in Town, but preferred the less remunerative practice of a rural district. He both knew and liked Meredith Carruthers, and the man was no fool. Given pause, he began to bathe the wound. “I can conceive of no reason why—” His hand jerked. Carruthers swore ringingly, and Linden stared at him in consternation. “Merry! The troopers are thick as flies around Lockwood's estate, and there are whispers that Lance— You didn't— You wouldn't— Oh,
damme
! Never mind! Never mind!”

“You know I'd trust you with my life, but—”

“Spare me the favour!” Linden took up his pot of black salve. “By God, I may despise duellists, but if there's anything worse, it's these damnable Jacobites! I've neither patience nor sympathy with the lot of 'em, and if I found one, I'd lose not an instant in turning him over to the nearest dragoon!”

With a twitching grin, Carruthers said, “I wish I may see it.”

“Do you! I served in Flanders, you may recall, and I shall never forgive the idiots who instigate such wholesale slaughter and suffering! And were any extra conviction needed, my favourite cousin bled to death in the mud of Prestonpans thanks to a Jacobite, and for want of a simple bandage such as this I now apply to your needlessly mauled arm. Speak not to me of the Jacobite Cause, Merry. I've not a shred of patience with it!”

Carruthers said quietly, “George, you cannot condone what is going on in Scotland.”

The doctor looked up at him for a moment, then his eyes fell. “You're a fool,” he observed angrily. And wishing he were not so fond of the man, went on, “There's not a blasted bit of use telling you to rest, I'm well aware. But I wish you will make an effort to do so until another major catastrophe looms. Which,” he went on gloomily, “in this house, will likely be five minutes from now!”

As it turned out, he was unduly pessimistic. It was one hour after Carruthers had made his slow way to his study that he leaned back in his chair, put down the list of proposed renovations for Castle Carruthers, stared up at Sinclair Ramsay's troubled face, and rasped, “How long ago?”

“Three hours. She was to ride with Lambert at seven, and she did not take a cloak because she told her abigail she meant to return directly.”

Carruthers's eyes slipped past him to stare blankly at the rain-spattered windowpane. “With Lambert…” he breathed.

Sinclair leaned both hands on the desk-top and said intensely, “No, Meredith! My sister is better bred than that! Even if you believe it of her, can you suppose she would run off leaving Grandmama and me to face you?”

Carruthers hauled himself to his feet. “I can tell you, Ramsay, I'd a sight sooner think it than—”

The door burst open unceremoniously, and Ada Banham ran in, her face streaked with tears. “Oh, sir!” she wailed, running around the desk to hurl herself upon his chest. “I am so fearful for my mistress! It's that black cat! I knew it! A bad omen, if ever—!”

Her voice was growing very shrill. Carruthers, who had barely jerked the sling aside in time, managed to detach her from his cravat and said gently, “I understand your fears, but you do not help by maligning my cat, you know.” She smiled tremulously, and he went on, “That's better. Now, tell me, Ada, which groom accompanied Miss Phoebe?”