The Tyrant (27 page)

She blinked up at him. “Oh dear … you have cut your head.”

He brushed an impatient hand at the graze across his temple. “Never mind about that. Is anything broken, do you think?”

She experimented by moving cautiously. How white he was. “No, I don't think so, thank you. Are you all right?”

With a muffled groan, he snatched her up and crushed her to him. She really had no objection except that it seemed only sensible to retain one or two ribs. She murmured, “Nothing
was
broken…”

He put her from him. His eyes were suspiciously bright, but he said roughly, “
Now
do you see what might have happened had we attempted Brooks's stupid scenario?”

“I see,” she contradicted, “that—that someone wants your death, sir.”

He laid her down again very gently. “Stay there,” he commanded. “I'd best find out how my nephew goes on.”

“My heavens!” said Phoebe, and was at a loss to understand how Brooks could have slipped from her mind.

XII

Having sought Carruthers out in the stables, Otton walked back across the yard with him, arguing frowningly, “Young Ramsay said you fell almost at the brink, Merry, and that your arm, in fact, went over the edge.”

“It was a trifle close, I'll admit. I would have told her to jump, but the ground was too rough, and when it was safer”—he shrugged—“there was no time left.”

“Hmmmn. It would seem, my tulip, that you've a determined enemy.”

After an introspective moment, Carruthers said slowly, “Every man has enemies, Roly. Unless he's a jelly-backed mealy-mouth.”

“Not every man has enemies who resort to murder. Would to heaven I'd been with you. I'd have tracked the dirty blackguard.”

Carruthers cuffed his shoulder. “And perchance got that pretty head blown off your shoulders, had the fellow an extra gun to hand.”

Otton shrugged. “Quick and clean. There are worse ways. What d'you intend to do?”

“Do? What the devil can I do?”

They had reached the back door to the new wing and, exasperated, Otton drew his friend to a halt. “You know damned well it was one of Lockwood's people.”

“No, no. You're quite out there. Lockwood is hot at hand, but he's one of the most sporting men I know. To shoot from ambush would be utterly repugnant to him, and he'd have the liver out of any of his people who'd dare try such a thing!”

Otton said grudgingly, “I suppose it
could
have been accidental. A poacher so intent on his game he didn't notice your party coming. I give you my word if
I
decided to have a shot at you, I'd not miss. And there's no one else unaccounted for, except—” He broke off suddenly, and finished with rather forced heartiness, “You're right, it
must
have been a poacher.”

Carruthers eyed him steadily. “It was not Jeff, Roly.”

“Of course not. Didn't mean to imply—”

“We've had our differences, but he'd never wish me harm, much less attempt it.”

*   *   *

“I could scarce wait to tell you,” said Jeffery, carrying Rosalie Smith's basket as they walked side by side through the golden afternoon. “I'd have brought the volume to show you, save that—” He paused, his lips tightening. “Well, my brother was in the library and I'd no desire to endure another lecture from him.”

Rosalie dropped some wild thyme into the basket and slanted a glance at him. “Why? Is Merry cross with you?”

He rolled his eyes heavenwards. “A massive understatement! I'm given my choice between Jamaica and a pair of colours!”

She halted, staring at him. “Good heavens! Why?”

“Two unforgivable crimes. One: I refuse to stop seeing you, and—”

“Oh, Jeff! You should not be here, then!”

He dropped the basket and seized her hands. “I'll own I'd not expected to find you so close to the Hall, but I'd have come to the village to find you at all events. I shall see you as often as I please!”

She pulled free. “What is the second reason he is so angry?”

“Oh, it's nonsensical! It chances that—I've a friend named Horatio Glendenning, and there are rumours he's sympathetic to the Stuart Cause.”

She whitened. “Is he a Jacobite, do you think?”

“I very much doubt it. Tio's the best fellow and has been kind enough to teach me—” He broke off, a flood of colour darkening his fair face.

“Teach you—what?”

He said shyly, “Well, you know Merry's such a tartar, but he's a good fellow, for all that. Only, I can never come up to what he expects of me. I—I'm not clever at Latin or Greek; I've no bent for debates, or interest in politics; I've no ambition to become a general, or to command some great flagship. Only—I am rather keen on … on architecture.”

“Jeff!” she cried enthusiastically. “How splendid! Only think—Merry longs to start work on renovating the Hall. Why don't you tell him of your—”

“Lord—no! Not yet. He'd think I was only saying it to persuade him to give me more time, or he'd put me with some horrid tutor who'd look down his nose and make fun, and tell Merry I'm a hopeless case. Anyway, Glendenning's very clever at it, and he's been so kind as to help.”

“Jeff, you
must
tell Merry! If he knew why you'd been seeing Lord Glendenning, he—” She interrupted herself. “Is the viscount a Catholic?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, but— Oh, now you look just like Merry! He
will
have my friendship with Tio was the cause for a crowd of dragoons to search the Hall last evening, and—oh—Jove!” He leapt to support the girl, who swayed dizzily, her face paper-white. “Whatever is it? Are you ill? Look here! You've hurt yourself!”

She looked swiftly at the stain on her sleeve. “No, it was my—my grandfather cut himself while shaving, and I helped him. Jeff—did the soldiers really go through the Hall? What did Merry say?”

“Oh, he was mad as fire, but I still don't think it was my—Rosalie! Now why are you weeping?”

“Nothing. Nothing! It is only—these are such frightening times, and poor Merry has—”

A new voice demanded irately, “What the deuce is the matter?”

Rosalie stepped back. Relinquishing his delightful armful, Jeffery scowled to see Sinclair Ramsay, a large volume under his arm, hurrying across the woodland glade that had, until this moment, been so peaceful. “Devil take the fellow,” he muttered.

Rosalie dried her eyes and managed a tremulous smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ramsay.”

Sinclair had every intention to tell Jeffery of the riding accident, but the sight of Rosalie's woebegone little face drove all rational thought from his mind. “What have you done to her?” he snarled. “How has he made you weep, ma'am?”

“Oh, no, really. Mr. Carruthers did not—”

“What the blazes d'you imply, Ramsay? And whatever I've done is no concern of yours!”

“Damn you, you have caused her to cry!”

“No, sir. Truly, he was trying instead to comfort me. Pray tell me what is the book you have brought, Mr. Ramsay.”

Jeffery interposed scornfully, “It is the book I was telling you of, Miss Rosalie. There was no cause for
you
to bring it, Ramsay. I've already told her about it.”

Ignoring him, Sinclair stepped closer to the girl and opened the book. “See here, ma'am. It tells of some very large bats who are—”

“Every bit as big as your grandpapa was talking about, Rosalie,” put in Jeffery, also moving closer and fixing Sinclair with a grim look of warning.

“Indeed?” Rosalie's eyes began to twinkle, as a girl's will when two young men quarrel over her. “Thank you for bringing the book to show me, Mr. Ramsay.” She took the volume and looked curiously at the page he had marked.

“They are, in fact—” began Sinclair, taking another pace, his eyes flashing.

“Carnivorous,” Jeffery snarled, looking extremely carnivorous himself as he edged closer to Sinclair, his chin jutting.

“And,”
went on Sinclair with stubborn determination, “they are from—”

“South America—damn your eyes!”

Rosalie looked up. Her two swains had quite forgotten her and stood only inches apart, their impassioned faces thrusting at one another. She shook her head, took up her basket and, leaving the book, went on gathering her herbs. She left also angry voices that grew in volume until Sinclair gave a crow of triumph and roared, “The flying fox bat! And you did not know, so don't pretend you did!”

“It was
my
subject to share with her. Who asked you to come sticking your long nose in? You knew no more than I, at all events!”

“To the contrary,
I
have known about bats since I was in leading strings!”

“Probably used to ride on one!” Jeffery's chortle was interrupted as Sinclair planted a flush hit on his nose.

“Oh, dear!” Rosalie sighed.

*   *   *

Carruthers rode into the yard and dismounted stiffly. Bobby was first to reach him, and pocketed the groat with a whoop of triumph as he led Spring away.

Boles, who had been waiting, scolded, “You spoil the boys, Mr. Meredith. Ain't no need of your giving 'em a tip for doing what they're paid for.” And eyeing the drawn face anxiously, he added, “You been looking like you wasn't getting your sleep o' late, Mr. Meredith. Did you find anything?”

“Only that there were two of the bastards. One mounted, one afoot. And they went off together, seemingly in the direction of the Cut, where the tracks are lost, of course.” Absently flexing a bruised shoulder, he saw his steward's concerned frown, and stopped at once. “Now do not maudle over me, Fred. I feel perfectly fit.”

“Aye. You look fit. Fit for your bed! Now, Mr. Meredith, you've been in the saddle for hours. Wouldn't do you a speck of harm to have a bit of a kip before dinner.”

With a sigh for the bullying of old retainers, Carruthers said he'd likely do that very thing, and added, “Do you know how Miss Ramsay goes on?”

They started to walk to the house together. Stifling a grin, Boles replied, “I hear she's been asleep since you last asked after her, sir, but her woman said she'll come downstairs for dinner. A right spunky lady, if I may say so. Sir—I was thinking, we could send the men out to search along the Cut as far as the village. We might come up with something.”

“Some more bruises and scrapes for the horses, not much else, I doubt. Whoever it was is well away by this time.”

Boles grunted. “And you still think it was poachers, sir?”

“Yes. Which is likely why they ran.”

Boles scowled but said no more, and they parted at the back door, the steward going off towards his own cottage and Carruthers walking into the house, only to check, turn about, and leave again by the front doors. The prospect of a rest in his room held small allure. He was in no mood to have Howell fussing over him as that devoted fellow would undoubtedly feel obliged to do. He started off to his sure haven, but stopped as Lambert strode around the corner of the house, the handsome features reflecting a thwarted fury. Glancing up, Lambert halted and said bitterly, “I properly failed her, didn't I? You won that round.”

Carruthers said coolly, “I'm sorry if you are embarrassed, but her life is too valuable to risk.”

“Dammitall! Do you think I don't
know
that?” His face twisting, Lambert turned away, then, apparently regaining control, faced about again. “I'm behaving like a proper fool. I should be thanking you from the bottom of my heart. Had you not followed … Lord, it don't bear thinking about!”

“No. It doesn't. And you took a nasty fall. How are you feeling?”

Lambert's smile was rueful. “As if my Company had rid over me.”

“Lucky you didn't break your neck. Is your mare—”

Lambert swore. “Curst stupid hack! I'd as soon shoot her!”

Carruthers stared at him. “It's deuced rough country. I scarce think—”

“Oh, pay me no heed! I'm just so damned furious that I let Phoebe down! Sorry, old fellow. Just at this moment I'm devilish poor company.”

He stalked off towards the stables and Carruthers went on his way, deep in gloomy thought.

*   *   *

Jeffery Carruthers eased the back door open, stuck in his battered head, and peered up and down the Armour Hall. “Clear, thank the Lord,” he whispered. “Come on, Sin.”

His bruised face apprehensive, Sinclair crept in. “Can we get upstairs without being seen? I must discover how my poor sister goes on.”

“We'll try the back way. I fancy Miss Phoebe is laid down upon her bed, and likely to remain so today. At all events, you cannot let her see you in your condition. Hurry now.”

The two tattered warriors trod softly along the lengthy halls, ducking into empty rooms when they heard servants approaching, and managing somehow to reach Jeffery's bedchamber without detection. “Safe!” he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief.

“Welcome home,” said Meredith drily, from the armchair.

“Oh … Egad!” groaned Sinclair.

Meredith stood. He looked slightly haggard, but, scanning the cuts and bruises of the combatants, smothered an understanding smile and asked mildly, “Might one enquire how large a mob attacked you?”

Recovering his wits, Jeffery said, “If you are not the most complete hand, Merry! From what Ramsay's been telling me, you've been rescuing damsels in distress. Are you all right?”

“Perfectly all right, thank you. And never look so anxious, Ramsay. Your sister is, I am told, sleeping peacefully and will likely be none the worse for her fall by tomorrow. As for being a hand, Jeff, I must admit I think it rather ill-mannered in you to give a guest the back of yours.”