The Tyrant (10 page)

“No,” he said baldly. “His mama's reputation.”

Astonished, Phoebe gasped, “His
mama's
? You cannot mean it! Tell me!”

He was not one to gossip, and looked uncomfortable. “I don't really know, save that years ago there was some sort of lurid scandal.”

“My heavens! And
this
is the family Papa was so happy to marry me into!”

*   *   *

The blue saloon was fairly well preserved, the couches faded but not uncomfortable, fine old rugs upon the polished boards, and some beautiful paintings and prints adorning the walls. Phoebe noted these details only in a remote fashion, however, for she was appalled to see scarlet coats among the dozen or so people who turned expectantly as Conditt opened the door and announced them. It was natural enough, of course. Carruthers was a former army officer, and likely had many friends among the military. His reluctance to bring the fugitive into his home took on another dimension.

Mrs. Lucille ran to them with a glad little cry. “Here you are! Now I mean to introduce you, my lady; Jeffery will take your son under his wing, and—Meredith! Come here and do your duty!” But as a murmur of admiring comments was heard, and her sons came forward dutifully, she murmured behind her fan, “Meredith is very cross with me, because I arranged this little welcome party for you. He says you are too tired, but you are not tired, are you, Lady Ramsay?”

Phoebe was of the opinion her affianced was correct for once, for she was sure her mama was very tired indeed. Ever courteous, Lady Eloise murmured that she thought it a charming gesture, and was borne off by her triumphant hostess.

Meredith, looking very well in his dark blue coat and paler blue unmentionables, offered Phoebe his arm. “I'm sorry about this,” he muttered. “But I collect we're properly in for it.”

“For a short while,” she amended.

“One hopes,” he said gruffly, and waved forward the handsome young man Phoebe already knew to be his brother.

Jeffery had changed into a dull-gold velvet coat and a waistcoat of rich gold brocade. He lacked his brother's breadth of shoulder, but he was graceful, and the colour of his dress emphasized his light hazel eyes. He had powdered his fair hair, and on one slender hand a great topaz sparkled. He came up to be presented, threw Phoebe an elaborate bow and was clearly awed. Despite this, he said with a twinkle that she had his deepest sympathy, and shook hands with Sinclair, then went off with him.

Chuckling, Phoebe said, “What a nice boy.”

“Yes. He's a good fellow.” Carruthers took up her hand and startled her by pressing a surreptitious kiss into the palm. “Try to look smitten, for God's sake,” he murmured. “I'm believed to have swept you off your feet, remember?”

She smiled at him adoringly. “So long as you confine such onerous duties to my hands, we may go along without open warfare, sir.”

“We had better, ma'am! Be very careful not to snipe at me tonight. Both the officers who dine with us are extreme shrewd.”

One of those officers called, “Come on, Merry! You cannot keep her all to yourself, you graceless dog!” and Carruthers gave a commendably reluctant grin and began the business of presenting his affianced to his friends.

The officer was Major Hilary Broadbent, a slight, fair-complected young man with freckles that spoke of hair to match his sandy brows, and long eyes of an even lighter shade of hazel than those of Jeffery Carruthers. His easy manner betrayed a deep friendship with his host. “You don't deserve such a glorious Fair,” he declared, bowing over Phoebe's hand. “I shall make it my business to see you accused of some heinous crime, so as to steal her away.”

Phoebe laughed. Carruthers pointed out that he had already fought several duels and one more would be child's play, and they moved on.

The second military gentleman was a drawling, dandified type with a languid manner and penetrating dark eyes. Phoebe judged him dangerous and treated him with polite cordiality. The other guests were, by and large, a likeable group of people, all eager to congratulate Carruthers and to be pleased by his lovely and pretty-mannered prospective bride.

Dinner was served in a large and rather depressing chamber, which Carruthers said was “the small dining room.” Both before and during the excellent meal, he was the butt of considerable teasing because of his having so completely hidden his
tendre
for the fair Miss Ramsay. He took it in good part until the second hour, when his chin began to tilt upward. Lucille stood earlier than Phoebe had expected and led the ladies to the withdrawing room.

Phoebe now became the recipient of the good-natured teasing, and she found it tiresome indeed, partly because it was all a sham, partly because she did not know the proper answer to some of the questions, and partly because she could hear a light rain pattering at the windows, and she was full of anxiety for their fugitive. She wondered uneasily how Carruthers and Sinclair could hope to get away from all this company so as to take Lascelles food and some protection from the weather. She was further troubled by a fear that her brother, an idealist who was inclined to expect too much of people, had set Jeffery down as a silly dandy. Sinclair had a fine and sometimes devilish vocabulary, and she could only hope he would not antagonize the younger Carruthers.

By the time the gentlemen joined them, Phoebe was not only ready to drop from weariness, but was concerned for her mother, whose kind eyes looked positively hollow with fatigue, but who would, she knew, fall to the floor sooner than disappoint her hostess by pleading exhaustion.

Meredith came at once to Phoebe's side, as befitted a sorely smitten suitor. Bowing to her ear, he imparted that her brother was a fiend with the tongue of an asp, and that she looked properly hagged.

She leaned back in her chair and smiled up at him. “How
very
un-charming you are, dear sir,” she said very softly.

“Oh, yes,” he said just as softly, “I lack all the social graces, praise God! Allow me to demonstrate.” He stood and raised his voice. “My friends, you will forgive do we go early to bed tonight. My betrothed and her family have been travelling since early morning, and are fairly exhausted.”

Such blunt dismissal of guests was new to Phoebe's experience, and she stared at him in astonishment, aware that her mother's mouth was all but hanging open.

Major Broadbent rose to his feet at once. “You are perfectly right, Merry. I'll be off, and thank you for your hospitality.” He kissed the hand of his hostess, bowed to my lady and Sinclair and, voicing the hope he would meet Phoebe again very soon, went out.

Lucille was plainly distressed and implored her friends not to run away, saying that although Lady Eloise and Miss Ramsay certainly must be fatigued, there was no need for everyone to leave.

Carruthers maintained a cool but implacable silence and, taking the hint, the other guests made their polite farewells and departed.

When they had gone, Phoebe retreated to the stairs with her mama, Carruthers leading the way, and proffering their candles.

My lady bade him a rather disjointed good night and started up the stairs on Sinclair's arm.

Phoebe accepted her candle and gave her affianced a searching look. “Good gracious, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your concern, but in truth I wonder you've a friend to your name.”

“Concern be hanged! I had to get rid of that lot if your brother and I are to tend to our—encumbrance.”

She stared at him, not quite knowing whether to be amused or stern.

While she was thinking about it, Carruthers swooped down and planted a kiss on her cheek.

She jumped back, saying indignantly, “I thought it was agreed there was to be none of that!”

He shook his head at her. “You'd make a poor spy, Miss Ramsay. You seem quite incapable of understanding that this is a most deadly predicament you have got me into.”

“Of course I understand, but—”

“It is of vital import that we keep up the pretence if we are to come out of this alive.”

She glanced around. “Certainly. But there is no one here to—”

“One of the first things I learned in my military career,” he said gravely, “was that one does not fail to post sentries merely because there is no sign of the enemy.”

Phoebe regarded him suspiciously, then started up the stairs. She halted on the third step and looked back. He stood there, watching her. She fancied to detect a quickly suppressed grin, but then he said, “I believe we have taken sufficient precautions for tonight, ma'am. Mustn't overdo it.”

The insolence of the creature! She announced with regal hauteur, “I was merely going to enquire as to when you mean to attend the—er, encumbrance. My brother is very tired.”

“Then he'll be a touch more so. I've to present my head for combing, first.” And with a short bow, he strode back towards the drawing room.

She remained there for a moment, looking after him. How straight was his walk, yet with the faintest suggestion of a cavalry swagger. Would his mama really comb him out? At dinner there had been an unmistakable hint of Lucille's holding a partiality for Jeffery, who was certainly the more charming and agreeable of her offspring. Still, Phoebe went to her suite troubled by the knowledge that because he had helped them, Carruthers must now attempt to pacify an incensed parent.

Snuggling into bed, she sent Ada off for the night. She yearned to go to sleep at once, but as soon as she was alone she sat up again and began to read one of the marble-covered novels her papa so deplored, knowing that if Sinclair saw a light under her door, he would come in for a moment. Despite her efforts, she had fallen asleep sitting up when she felt the book gently slipped from her hands and found her brother bending over her.

“Oh, Sin,” she said, stretching sleepily. “Thank goodness. Dearest, you will take care and let me know what happens?”

He sat on the side of the bed and yawned, stretching his legs out. “It has happened,” he said.

Phoebe snatched the little clock from her bedside table. “Heavens! Twenty minutes until three o'clock! Sin, how is Lascelles? Were you able to move him?”

He gave her a weary smile. “One at a time, old lady. When Carruthers and his mama— Lord, you should have heard her scold him! One might think him the world's worst ogre to have heard her lamentations!”

“What—with
you
in the room?” she gasped.

“In the adjoining room. But she made such a to-do, she must have known I could hear. That pretty brother of his had tried to bring her out of her pet whilst Carruthers was giving you your candle, but he soon lost all patience with her and went stamping off to bed. I'll own I could scarce blame him. But when Carruthers came back, she properly flew out at him.”

“She is braver than I! I fancy he gave her one of his icy set-downs. Or did he rail at her? I'd not put it past him.”

“He was meek as a lamb. Agreed with everything she said.”

“Oh! Is there anything more horrid! One is left with nothing to say! Poor lady. Well, never mind that, tell me of our rebel.”

“We found him well enough. Had to walk, though, because Carruthers did not dare risk waking the grooms.”

“Poor Sin. How very tired you must be. Is it very far?”

“Seemed seven leagues to me, but Carruthers made nothing of it. I think the man is solid steel and don't know such a word as ‘tired.' At all events, between us we helped Lascelles to a little sort of hollow in the wall of this famous Cut. It's devilish country, Phoebe. I'd never be able to find it again.”

“Were you able to leave him in any kind of comfort?”

“Not much, but he was grateful, poor fellow, and said it was better than many a hole he's slept in. He told us he had spent most of one night up to his neck in water, when they'd set dogs on his trail.”

“Oh, poor man! How ghastly this is! One might think the war was not over at all. Do you think he will be safe there?”

Sinclair gazed drowsily at his muddied boots. “Carruthers says he'll likely be all right for a few days. As soon as Lascelles is able, he means to deliver his cipher. He's half crazed with anxiety to be done with it.”

“Yes, he would be. He struck me as the steadfast type of man. Well, thank heaven he is not still in Surrey!”

Sinclair nodded, and stood, but Phoebe called him back at the door to beg that he not take Jeffery Carruthers in violent aversion.

“Can't very well, since he's my host,” he said. But he stuck his head around the door to add with a grin, “But he
is
a block, you know! Oh, by the bye, Carruthers means to take us on a ride about the estate in the morning. Early. Best get into your habit first thing.”

“But it's morning
now,
” wailed Phoebe.

“Then be so kind as to let me to my bed, m'dear,” said her brother, and went away, muttering, “Gad, but I hope that dainty Jeffery don't mean to ride with us.…”

V

Sinclair's aversion to Jeffery Carruthers had been heartily reciprocated. Jeffery had not the least intention of accompanying the riding party next morning, nor did he mean to endure a jeremiad from his brother, and thus was up and out at an hour that astonished his valet almost as much as it would have astonished Carruthers.

The rain of the previous night had stopped. The sky was a clear blue, the air pure and cool. Jeffery found the head groom in the stables and ordered up his favourite horse.

Leading out the rangy grey, the groom, a large young man with pleasant features and light curly hair, said slyly, “Poor Mouser is properly betwattled, sir. Bean't used to waking at this hour.”

“Never mind your impudence, Henry Baker,” said Jeffery, straightening the frill of his jabot, and wondering if he should have worn the blue riding coat instead of the bottle-green.