The Tyrant (25 page)

“Jove,” he said. “See what you mean!”

A hush had fallen over the group. Apprehension seized Phoebe in a vise as the same Captain of dragoons who had found them in the cave marched purposefully across the room, an agitated Conditt hovering behind him, and two troopers waiting in the doorway.

His tricorne under one arm, the Captain said, “My regrets for the intrusion, Carruthers.”

Lucille uttered a little cry of fright. Jeffery stood very straight beside her chair. Sinclair's face was the colour of chalk.

Meredith said in frigid accents, “I fancy my butler must have explained that we entertain guests. Do you wish to speak to me, Holt, I would suggest—”

“I cannot stand on ceremony in this matter. I must tell you that my men are even now searching this—er, your various buildings.”

Both Lady Eloise and Mrs. Carruthers sprang up. Sinclair moved at once to his mother's side. Lucille clung, shaking, to Jeffery. Otton, swinging a gold-chased quizzing glass, regarded them all with covert amusement.

“For what?” exclaimed Carruthers, his brows gathering into a black scowl. “There are no rebels in this house, Captain.”

“Then you will have no objection do we—” Holt's cold gaze had slid to Jeffery, but at this point suddenly encompassed Otton. His jaw dropped. He looked almost ludicrously astonished.

Otton stood and bowed, grinning.
“Encore nous nous rencontrons, mon ami.”

“Ah—ha…” breathed Holt, staring wide-eyed.

“I am a fairly frequent visitor, you know,” Otton pointed out mildly. “Carruthers is that rare commodity—my friend.”

Obviously making an effort to recover, Holt said, “I fail to see why you should object to a search, Carruthers. All loyal subjects are expected to cooperate in apprehending rebels. Especially,” he added, his voice hardening, “reserve officers.” And he marched out, his troopers following him briskly.

Meredith gestured, and Conditt hurried to him. “I am so sorry, sir. He would not permit that I announce him. And there are so many of them.”

“How many?” interjected Otton casually.

Wringing his bony hands, Conditt said, “Oh, Captain, I do not know. Twenty, at least! They're—they're
everywhere,
Mr. Meredith!”

“Are they, by God!” growled Carruthers.

“Lay you odds half of 'em never find their way out,” Otton murmured; and added, his keen eyes fixed on Sinclair, “be funny if they found something, would it not?”

Jeffery looked at Otton curiously. Placing a different interpretation on his remark, Lucille moaned for the safety of the T'ang Dynasty flask, the Cellini bowl, the Meredyth ruby.

Carruthers demanded, “Conditt?”

“A member of the staff goes with each one of them, sir.”

“That was well done.” An approving grin lit the dark face, and Conditt gave an audible sigh of relief. Carruthers went on, “Still, it would behoove me to stay with our zealous Captain. You will forgive, Mama?”

“Yes. Do go, dear.”

He bowed, gave an almost imperceptible jerk of the head to Otton, and started away.

“Alas,” sighed Otton, regarding Phoebe tragically. “I am summoned. Ever the faithful sycophant.” And he wandered off, Lucille's anxious “Why
ever
did they come here again…?” following him.

In the hall, Carruthers waited. “You know Holt?” he demanded as soon as the door closed.

“We have had some … encounters. A dangerous man, friend. And a very ambitious one. Have a care.”

“Why should he have been so shocked to see you?”

Otton shrugged, watching the quizzing glass that swung gently from his long white hand. “I fancy he is surprised to discover I have a friend. He knows me well.” The cynical dark eyes lifted to meet Meredith's keen ones levelly. “And he follows the same lure as do I.”

“The devil! Do you think this poor fugitive they hound to a firing squad really
is
on my lands?”

“If he was and I knew of it, can you suppose I'd not have warned you?”

For an instant Carruthers watched him, unsmiling. A glint crept into his eyes. He said, “I think you would throw me to the dogs if it was a case of my life or the treasure.”

Otton spread his hands in a faintly French gesture. “But, of course.”

Carruthers murmured one word. Otton shuddered and covered his ears. But as Carruthers started on his way, he called softly, “I sometimes wonder, Merry, why—knowing me so well—you still name me friend.”

Over his shoulder, Carruthers called, “Because I know you better than you do. I hope.”

Otton shook his head and went back into the crimson saloon.

*   *   *

It was almost dark by the time the soldiers had concluded their search, and they were tired and hot and frustrated. It had been thirsty work, and as Captain Holt marched across the Armour Hall, he slanted an oblique look at Carruthers's set face. “My fellows would be the better for a tankard.”

“And you too, I fancy. There is a decent tavern in Dewbury Prime. It is called—”

“I am aware of what it is called.” Holt stamped across the terrace and down the steps. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said ironically, taking the reins a trooper handed him.

“The only possible return for your courtesy,” replied Carruthers with equal irony.

Holt reddened, swung into the saddle, and went clattering away at the head of his troop. Carruthers watched them disappear into the dimness of the night and returned to the house.

He was able to allay his mother's fears and to assure her that all estates were being subjected to the same treatment, since the hunted man was known to be an aristocrat. His brother looked troubled. Carruthers fixed him with a brief but meaningful stare, and the boy nodded a weary acknowledgement of an impending interview.

Walking in to dinner on the arm of her betrothed, Phoebe whispered, “What crimes has your poor brother committed, Sir Implacability?”

“Two. One is that he persists in crying friends with a man highly suspected of Jacobite leanings. I believe that is what prompted this evening's invasion.”

“Then you must
tell
him, Merry! If he knew—”

“If he knew he'd be as guilty as am I. No, ma'am. Not while I can possibly prevent his involvement!”

“But how can you force him to obey you?”

“By exercising my tyranny, m'dear. And, by God, if I failed to act for his first offence, I most certainly would do so for the second!”

Irritated, Phoebe thought, ‘The second being the irresistible Miss Smith,' and said no more.

Despite the long delay, the food was still excellent and the meal went off well enough, although there was a good deal of anxious speculation from Mrs. Carruthers as to the possibility of desperate fugitives lurking about the area. It was almost ten o'clock by the time the ladies withdrew and, because of the lateness of the hour, the gentlemen soon joined them. Lady Eloise, who was musical, agreed to go to the harpsichord and played a selection of operatic airs by Herr Gluck, who had arrived in London the previous year. His new opera was not held in high esteem, and to judge from Meredith's expression, he shared the views of the critics. Sinclair was quiet and preoccupied, Jeffery looked miserable, and Lucille showed a tendency to doze off. Phoebe was relieved when the tea-tray was carried in, and very soon afterwards Lucille announced her intention to retire. Sinclair accompanied his ladies, and Meredith escorted them to the stairs, handed them their candles, and wished them a good night. From the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw Otton, a thin cheroot in his hand, strolling across to the withdrawing room where were French windows open to the garden.

As they started up the stairs, Sinclair murmured, “Jupiter, but that was a close one! You bore it very well, old lady, but I hope I never see you turn so pale!”

“Thank God it was no worse! How frightful it
could
have been!” She started to tell him about Lascelles, but he interrupted, saying that Carruthers had already told him that he meant to arrange for someone to stay with Lascelles for as much of the time as was possible lest the man do something disastrous while in the throes of delirium. Wondering how Carruthers meant to accomplish this, Phoebe entered her parlour.

Ada was dozing in the chair, and Phoebe sent her to bed, claiming that she had come to get a shawl and meant to sit out on the terrace for a little while, to escape the heat inside the house. Ada was not an admirer of night air. It was, as she lost no time in advising her young mistress, dangerous to the health, containing many noxious fumes from plants and flowers that “turn poisonous” after the sun goes down. Besides which, it was well known that germs, spiders, and all creatures that bite and sting are abroad at night in search of the unwary.

Braving these perils, Phoebe at length was able to creep down the stairs, across the Lancastrian wing and into the Armour Hall of the connecting wing. A sleepy lackey sprang to open the front door and she repeated her small excuse of the heat in her room. This provoked another lecture, the well-meaning man urging that if she meant to walk in the grounds, she not go too far. “Not with them murdering Jackeybites skulking about, miss.” Thanking him for his concern, she escaped.

Meredith Carruthers was a confusing blend of the stern and the tender, besides which he was an immoral man, but his mother's tale had touched her heart. She could no longer deny an admiration for him, and the poisoning of the Squire's dogs continued to trouble her. She was not of the opinion that there would be a duel, but if there was any chance that Roland Otton could throw some light on why Carruthers's gauntlet had been found at Lockwood's kennels, she meant to beg him to do so.

It was cooler outside. There was no moon, the stars hanging like brilliant jewels against the velvety blackness of the heavens. Phoebe peered about without success for Otton's tall figure. She walked the length of the terrace, turned back, crossed the gardens to the new wing, and was relieved to find that the drawing room windows still stood wide and that from across the hall a glow of light shone from the study. She thought, sympathetically, ‘Poor Jeffery!' and went towards the rear of the house, moving with caution so as not to trip in her high-heeled slippers.

She could discover no sign of Otton and was about to give up and return to the house when she caught a whiff of smoke. Relieved, she started to call to him, but with the windows wide open, Carruthers might hear, and she had no wish to attract his attention. She crept to the drivepath, straining her eyes, and halting, surprised, when she heard low voices near at hand.

“… not dreamed my arrival was so fortuitous. Do tell me, coz, have we our cipher-bearer comfortably trapped?”

It was Roland Otton's low, sardonic drawl. Phoebe stood rigid.
Coz?
The response caused her an even greater shock.

“Were he comfortably trapped,” muttered Captain Holt, “I'd not be compelled to order my men to rake through every damnable inch of your freeze-me-dead friend's damned decaying monstrosity! And furthermore, Roly, I find it a devilish strain on coincidence for you to have ‘chanced' to arrive here just as we have cornered one of the couriers. You're hot on the trail of that treasure—admit it.”

“Dear my Jacob, why this resort to redundancy? You know I mean to have it.”

“Even if the finding of it costs Meredith Carruthers his head?”

A pause. Holding her breath, Phoebe could all but see Otton's shoulders go up in his graceful shrug. “All's fair in love and war. I think he is not involved, but if he is—winner take all! Now tell me, Jacob, what have you?”

“A rebel cur who calls himself Lascelles. Twice we've had our hands on him and he's gulled us. He's wounded and has been on foot this last seventy miles, and running, with dogs after him part of the way. Threw himself through a window to escape Mariner Fotheringay, and was properly cut up by the look of things. He must be all in. We lost him near Guildford, but have reason to believe he'll head this way. See here, Roly, if you spot him,
I
want him!”

“For a stupid promotion? If you help me snabble the treasure, you'll be a deal better off! Besides, without the other stanzas of the poem, what good would one be to those Whitehall maggot-wits?”

“There must be some clue, else you'd not seek it either. Certainly, it contains part of the message, which might be all we'd need to come at it. If I can but get my hands on Lascelles…”

After a short silence, Otton asked, “What makes you think Carruthers is involved? He fought with
you
fellows, not for Bonnie Charlie.”

“He became squeamish after Culloden.”

“But you did not, eh, Jacob?”

Holt snapped, “I follow orders. War is no game for children.”

“Precisely. Nor for innocent women and babes.”

“You'd do well to guard your tongue, cousin. And your friend would do well to tighten his rein on his scatter-wit of a brother.”

“Jeffery? No fear there, dear boy. He despises the Jacobites.”

“Yet cries friends with Horatio Glendenning, who cries friends with Trevelyan de Villars, both up to their ears in aiding rebels, I'll go bail. And both of whom will be lucky to have their heads when we see the end of this.”

A soft whistle sounded, then Otton said, “I still think you're in the wrong of it. However, it opens an interesting door. Rest assured, coz, I'll watch here, and if anything…”

They were moving towards her. Shivering despite the heat of the night, Phoebe fled.

The same lackey swung the front door open as she hurried across the terrace and he again disregarded protocol by murmuring in a friendly way that he had been a touch worried about her. “Another minute or two and I'd have fetched the master,” he said with a fatherly smile.