The Tyrant (29 page)

“Phoebe,” he murmured. “Is it at all possible—”

Terror overwhelmed her. With a muffled and incoherent apology, she fled, leaving him standing alone in the enchanted glade.

XIII

Phoebe left confusion to find more confusion. A familiar carriage was drawn up on the drivepath, and servants hurried to and fro, unloading bandboxes and valises, while others loaded in more of the same. In the Great Hall, a distracted Hampden rushed past, carrying Lady Eloise's jewel case, and divulged that Lady Martha Ramsay had arrived and that Miss Belinda had contracted whooping cough and was in a proper state, calling for her mama.

Phoebe went quickly to her mother's suite. Despite her cold, Lady Eloise was cheerful, for it was, she admitted, lovely to be going home, how ever much she had enjoyed her visit. “Your grandmama will stay with you, my love,” she said hoarsely. “I had hoped Sinclair might escort me, but he is nowhere to be found, and Papa has sent my own footman and two grooms beside Alfred Coachman, so I shall go along well enough. Still, I wish the naughty boy was going with me. Well, never mind. Belinda is doubtless counting the seconds, so I must be off. You know how she frets if I am not there when she is poorly.”

Lady Martha came in, and was duly embraced by her granddaughter. She was full of instructions on how to care for the sick child, and assurances that Eloise was not to worry about Phoebe, for they would be very comfortable.

They all trooped downstairs to see my lady off, Phoebe embracing her mama fondly, and sending her love to her ailing sister; Lady Martha adding a caution against allowing Belinda to get up the moment she felt better; and Mrs. Carruthers tearful because she was losing her new friend.

Waving, as the carriage rumbled along the drivepath, Lady Martha said for Phoebe's ear alone, “What a wretched shame that aggravating grandson of mine could not have been here! Your mama has been telling me of his infatuation for that village minx, and I would like of all things to have had an excuse for packing him off home!”

Fond as she was of her brother, in a way Phoebe agreed with these sentiments. But Sin would not have left, of course; certainly he'd not leave them to solve their traitorous problems alone. And how shocked Grandmama would be did she only know that there was more to threaten him at Meredith Hall than the presence of a beautiful but ineligible damsel.

*   *   *

Roland Otton sat in the window-seat of his bedchamber contemplating the peaceful gardens. “If you must know,” he said at last, “his mother was half-sister to mine.”

“I see.” Carruthers leaned against the bedpost, arms folded, and said coldly, “So our estimable dragoon
is
your cousin, and set you here to watch us.”

Otton's impenitent grin was a white gleam. “Come now, dear boy. I do my own watching, and I am never ‘put' anywhere. At least, not without a considerable fee. And my cousin Jacob is almost as short of the ready as am I.” Carruthers fixed him with a hard look, and Otton protested aggrievedly, “Zounds, but I've visited you often enough before and you've not accused me of—”

“Suppose I told you that you were overheard talking with your ambitious cousin and that you promised him you would spy on us?”

Indignant, Otton responded, “I'd say that's dashed unfair! You must play the game by
your
rules.
I'm
the one so base as to eavesdrop on private conversations!”

Meredith's lips tightened. He shoved his shoulders from the bedpost and stood straight.

Otton chuckled and held up both hands. “I am an invalid, Merry! Recuperating from a horrid wound. You would not strike a sick man?”

“
Would
you betray us for that damnable gold?”

“There is something to betray?” Otton's eyes sharpened; he said eagerly, “You mean you
have
given sanctuary to the fool? My dear chap, all I ask is the cipher. Do as you wish with the wretch. A copy only, and I'll be gone, nor ever breathe a word, upon my honour!”

Carruthers frowned, and said cautiously, “Then the tales of ciphers are true?”

“Deliciously. They are concealed in four stanzas of a poem, each containing part of the destination to which the treasure is to be conveyed. Lascelles is one of those carrying a stanza.”

“You've ferreted out a lot. My felicitations. Do you know to whom the stanzas are to be delivered?”

“Would that I did!” Otton's manner was brisk now, his affectation fallen away like a discarded cloak. Rising, he asked, “Merry, have I your hand on this?”

Carruthers laughed at him. “Use your wits, man! I've all I can do at the moment to keep my guests entertained and to introduce Miss Ramsay to my friends and tenants. It is quite possible that we may not be able to break this betrothal. Can you really suppose I'd endanger my betrothed, my family, my estates by hiding some wretched Jacobite? I hold no brief for the Stuarts; never have. And I've more to do with my time than go hunting this Lascelles fellow.”

Briefly, the black eyes glared frustration. Otton tossed himself into a chair. “Well, I've time aplenty,” he muttered. “If he's hereabouts, I'll get to him before the army does, damn his eyes!”

Carruthers looked at him thoughtfully. “Have you no pity for the poor devil?”

“None. Nor understanding of what drives 'em. I'll tell you this—they're a rare breed. It never ceases to amaze me that a man like Quentin Chandler, for instance, with everything to live for, would be willing to endure wounds, starvation, torture, and even face the horrors of the block—all for an ideal. Oh yes, a rare breed.”

“If you think that, I wonder you can bring yourself to hunt them down so mercilessly.”

Otton shrugged. “It is because the good Lord spared me the paths of the honourable. Too painful a road by far for a comfortable hedonist.”

“How very pleased your grandfather would be,” Carruthers said deliberately, “that you have so fully lived down to his expectations.”

There was a faint hiss of indrawn breath; one long hand clenched hard, and for an instant Otton was very still. When he lifted his gaze, his eyes were more than usually brilliant. “One can try, dear Meredith.” He sighed. “One can but try.”

*   *   *

“He
offered
?” echoed Phoebe, staring in astonishment at her handmaiden's pink cheeks. “But—we've not yet been here a week!”

Fastening the pearls about Phoebe's throat, Ada said, “Henery came to Pineridge once with Mr. Meredith. 'Sides, it don't take a week. Not when the right man puts his arms round you. When I first see my Henery, I thought he was a bit of all right, 'cause I always like a big, manly chap. And when we came down here, I noticed how kind he was. Always respectful to the females, and a bit on the shy side. Not the Fancy Dan what always knows how to say the right clever things. I looked up one day while I was popping a bit of pig's trotter in me mouth, and he was watching me—with such a
look
on his face!” Smiling nostalgically, she broke off, horrified. “Oh, miss! I never meant to go and make you sad. I won't say another blessed word!”

“No,” said Phoebe rather huskily. “I'm very interested. Please go on.”

If talking would help, thought Ada, she'd talk all night. Miss Phoebe wasn't happy, that was plain, and never had she served so gentle and uncomplaining a lady, nor one so little given to puff off her consequence. “Well,” she said, “when I got over me choking fit (the pig's trotter went down the wrong way, account of the Look) I give Henery a grin. And he give me a grin back. And after supper, he whispers to me from the side hall, so out I goes. And we walked and didn't say much, but then he held me hand.”

“What did you feel when he did that? Tingly?”

“Oooh, yes! But nothing like when he—begging your pardon, miss—when he kissed me! On the cheek, it was. And I felt like as if I was floating off. And when I turned round, he grabbed me and give me such a buss! I wonder I got any teeth left! And I got all over quivery-like. And that's when I knew Henery was my man. And he knew too, 'cause he—popped the question, as you might say.”

“How wonderful.” Ignoring the inevitable ramifications of this unexpected betrothal, Phoebe persisted, “And—and did you ever feel that—that
sure
with any other man?”

Ada shook her head. “Not in the same way, I didn't. Course, it don't come all at once, like a voice from heaven, or something. It sorta grows and you don't hardly notice. And then, one day, something happens, and—bang! You got no more doubts. With me, it was the pig's trotter.”

Phoebe smiled rather wanly, and then sighed.

The poor little thing was proper heart-broke, thought Ada, and no wonder. Forced into marriage with Mr. Carruthers, when her heart belonged to that handsome Captain Lambert. Always so friendly and bright was the Captain. And Mr. Meredith was a good young man, but not much of a one for larking about and smiling all the time and saying saucy things. Ada's warm heart was wrung, and she had to turn away.

Walking to her grandmother's suite, Phoebe was deep in thought. Surely, if she cared for them equally, she must love neither? Or perhaps her moment of revelation had yet to come.

*   *   *

Knowing that her grandmama's health was not as robust as that grande dame would have people believe, Phoebe had deemed it wiser not to apprise her of the accident until she was comfortably settled. Upon reaching the suite allocated to Lady Martha, however, she found the old lady in a great state of indignation. Sinclair had put in an appearance and one look at his battered countenance had thrown Lady Martha into a rage. “It was bad enough,” she told Phoebe, “that he was in the toils of this village gel, but to think he would be so rag-mannered as to fight—to
fight
with the son of his hostess…! Lud, what is the world coming to!”

Phoebe set herself to calm her, but had spent very few minutes at that task before Lady Martha interrupted to send her abigail away. “Phoebe Ramsay,” she said grimly, when her devoted Swedish minion had left them, “there is more amiss here than your brother's shocking misconduct. Be so good as to tell me and not wrap it in clean linen!”

Very few people had ever succeeded in pulling the wool over those shrewd old eyes, and Phoebe knew better than to attempt it. She spoke of the accident in as light a manner as she could muster, but my lady paled. She did not interrupt, however, only at the finish expressing her fervent gratitude to Meredith Carruthers, and announcing her intention to properly thank him. “Now,” she commanded, having kissed her granddaughter, and snorted her indignation because neither Eloise nor Lucille Carruthers had seen fit to break the news of the runaway, “now—tell me the rest of it. What has been going on with you and Carruthers? And why is Brooks Lambert here?”

And so it went. My lady questioned, and Phoebe answered. The Dowager watched her narrowly, reading more from hastily averted eyes, a tremor in the soft voice, a sudden rush of colour to the smooth cheeks than her granddaughter would have dreamed. Phoebe, she thought, was properly in the boughs. Several possible reasons for this occurred to her, and she determined to have a long chat with Meredith Carruthers.

She was thwarted in this resolution at luncheon because, of the gentlemen, only Jeffery was present. Meredith, suspecting rightly that he would be the object of the old lady's gratitude, had persuaded Roland Otton to accompany him to the village. Sinclair, already in disgrace with his formidable grandparent, made himself least-in-sight, and Brooks Lambert also decided it behooved him to be occupied elsewhere.

Lucille chattered happily, breaking the news that a ‘small dinner party' had been planned for the evening, whereupon Lady Martha zestfully joined with her in an involved discussion of the lineage and relations of some of the prospective guests.

When the meal was over Lady Martha expressed an interest in the famed Hall of Mirrors and Lucille was pleased to conduct her guests to view not only that chamber, but several others that caught my lady's eye along the way. The afternoon was drawing in by the time Phoebe returned to her chamber, and she was quite willing to allow Ada to loosen her stays and put her to bed for a short nap. A deep dread of facing her two suitors plagued her however, and she was unable to sleep. If she begged to be excused from going down to dinner because of the after-effects of her fall, there would, she knew, be no questions asked. She also knew that such an action would merely increase her fears. Besides, the dinner party had been arranged so as to present her to some of Meredith's friends, and she was reluctant to disappoint either her ‘fiancé' or his mama by failing to put in an appearance. She therefore rang for Ada earlier than intended, and instructed her handmaiden to pay particular attention to the dressing and powdering of her hair. This having been accomplished to her satisfaction, she chose a very wide-hooped gown of palest orange, the deep scallops trimmed with Brussels lace. A fine topaz and seed-pearl pendant constituted her only jewellery, and Ada having helped her to don her gloves and handed her a dainty fan, Phoebe went along the hall to collect her grand-mama, her knees trembly, but her head high.

Meredith awaited his ladies at the foot of the staircase. He had bowed to custom for once and had allowed Howell to powder his hair and arrange it in a less severe style. Phoebe thought the loose curls exceedingly attractive and the blue of his faultless coat found an echo in the blue that shone from his intent eyes, setting her heart to beating faster.

Lady Martha threw her arms about the startled gentleman and conveyed her gratitude with words, hugs, and kisses that left him scarlet with embarrassment. She had him to thank, she told him, for her granddaughter's continued existence, and there was no cause to shrivel up because she felt obliged to buss him.