The Tyrant (34 page)

Carruthers said wearily, “Go on. You've something churning around your fiendish brain. What is it?”

Otton looked at him uneasily. “You're properly pulled, and I've stayed too long. However, and to wit—the suspicions I cherish are mine own. You must develop your premise from the fact that if we rule out most of the servants, there are only five could logically have done the thing. Myself, Jeff, young Ramsay, Lambert, or your man.”

“What stuff! As though I would suspect you. And why would Lambert do away with me when he relies heavily on the allowance I make him? Howell's been with me for ten years. It certainly was not my brother, and as for Sinclair—gammon! The boy's decent as … as they come.”

“And that arm is giving you Hades, I see.” Otton stood. “I'll go. Only came because I knew you'd be stewing.”

“Well, dammit, I'm still stewing! Roly—tell me what is in your mind.”

“Oh, very well.” Otton settled one shoulder against the bedpost. “You say you do not suspect me. Why? You know that I'm after any loot I can lay my hands on and would not hesitate to throw you to the wolves did you stand in my way.” Carruthers gave a derisive snort, and Otton sighed and went on, “Lambert seems an honourable man and certainly must value the allowance you make him. He dotes on your lady, however, and he may suspect you are winning her to a more kindly regard of your gruff and glummery.”

A different light brightened Carruthers's tired eyes. “Do
you
think I am?”

“Control yourself, Don Juan. What I think matters not. The thing is that if Lambert is ‘one that loved not wisely but too well,' he might decide the world would rub along very well
sans
your disturbing presence.”

Breathing rather unevenly, Carruthers demanded, “The rest, please.”

“You will not like it, but…” Otton hesitated, laid a cool hand on his friend's forehead, and scowled. “I thought so! Very well, Merry. Straight between the eyes, and then I'm off before Linden removes my head. Of us all, Jeff has the strongest motive. If you die, he stands to inherit the fortune and the lands—”

“Wrong. On both counts. My father made other bequests. And the estates are entailed.”

“Yes, but does Jeff know that?”

Carruthers's triumphant grin faded.

“One of these years, my close-mouthed friend, you are going to have to tell that boy the truth of—”

“We do not discuss that now. Go on, Roly.”

“You disapprove of his friends and his record at school, and have threatened him with expulsion to the colonies or to the cavalry. Now that, alone, is sufficient grounds.”

Carruthers tossed his head impatiently. Otton could not know that Jeff, well aware that Lockwood had intended a near miss, would have had absolutely no reason to substitute soot for black powder. Unless … He frowned. Unless it was all a clever screen to direct suspicion at someone else. The powder on the shrubs could have been ‘discovered' later, if Phoebe had not noticed it. Disgusted with such disloyal thoughts, he said, “Ridiculous! Is that all?”

“Not—quite. Jeff has seen you cuddling his—er, light o' love in your sacred spinney.”

For a moment Carruthers stared in silence, then he muttered, “What the—devil d'you mean?”

“I mean, my sly rascal, our voluptuous villager. Rosalie Smith.”

XV

Jeffery had supported his brother throughout Dr. Linden's temporary surgery at the site of the duel, and his garments were liberally marked with Meredith's blood. Lucille and Lady Martha returned home in time to see Jeffery's coat being carried downstairs by his valet, Dr. Linden following. Terrified, Lucille heard the word ‘duel,' assumed Jeffery had been shot, and went into screaming hysterics, the uproar so alarming that Meredith heard and tried to get up. An irritated Linden returned to the sick-room and administered a heavy dose of laudanum. Lambert, attempting to speak with Phoebe, found her distracted and unable to spare him the few minutes he requested. He was obliged to return to the army post at Salisbury, and rode out, morose and silent, accompanied by Otton.

Late in the afternoon, Otton returned alone. Instead of going directly to the Hall, however, he turned off the lane some distance before reaching the lodge gates and dismounted in a clump of trees. He was expected, and Ben Hessell rose from the fallen trunk on which he'd been lounging, and snatched off his greasy cap.

“Well?” demanded Otton.

“Ain't no one seen no sign, sir,” whined Hessell, “but young Carruthers was lotsa times with that there Catholic lordship. Glendenning. And Mr. Ramsay cries friends with a Mr. Devilley or suchlike, as is known to be—”

“Could you perchance mean
de Villars?
” interrupted Otton intently. “Mr. Trevelyan de Villars?”

“'S what I said,” Hessell grunted, annoyed.

Otton's dark eyes gleamed with excitement. “By Jupiter,” he muttered. “I wonder … The last sight of Lascelles was near Guildford … I
wonder
…” He stood motionless and lost in thought, while Hessell's bitter eyes watched him with loathing. “By God!” exclaimed Otton, driving one gloved hand into the palm of the other. “How blind! How stupid! That's it, of course!” He whirled on his startled hireling. “You've done well. If this goes as I think, there'll be a bonus for you. Now—in the matter of your other—er, employer. Have you found someone?”

Hessell nodded. “Ready and willing, guv,” he said, adding with a sly leer, “and there weren't no need of you having to dirty yer nice clean hands.”

Otton's eyes narrowed. “Excellent. Now listen carefully, and be sure you keep in mind who
really
employs you.” He lowered his voice and gave crisp instructions. “If anything should go awry,” he finished softly, “send someone to the stables at the Hall, and ask for Mr. Sorenson. Give him this.” He held out a silver button on which was embossed the crest of the old and honoured house from which he had been banished. “Sorenson is my man of all work, poor fellow. He will get word to me, and I'll come. And—” His voice was suddenly menacing. “You will keep your mouth shut. You understand?”

“Not a blessed word won't spill outta Ben Hessell's gob, sir, I promise yer. Knock him right orf his high perch this will, and couldn't happen to a nicer gent. I owe him one. Ar, and more'n one, and—”

“Oh, stow your clack!” said Otton angrily. He turned away, but glimpsed the murderous glare that was slanted at him.

A faint ringing sound, and the point of a long, glittering dagger was at Ben Hessell's throat. He gave a strangled squeal and cringed against the tree-trunk behind him.

“D'you think I do not know what is in your mind, you poisonous slimy thing?” purred Otton. “It would amaze you to know how much blood is on my ‘nice clean hands.' If you would not add yours—have a care! Now get on your way!”

“Yessir! Oh, yessir! I didn't mean nothing, sir!” And, smiling, bowing, touching his brow obsequiously, the big man fawned his way from sight.

Otton scowled after him. “Faugh!” he exclaimed. To have to use such a tool was repellent, but time was running out. He walked over to where Rumpelstiltskin grazed at a tuft of grass. The horse raised its head and nuzzled him affectionately, and he caressed the silken neck moodily. “C'
est la guerre,
Rump,” he muttered. “And the trouble is, life is one long war.” He mounted up and rode through the gates and up the drivepath to Meredith Hall.

*   *   *

Mrs. Carruthers was much relieved the following morning to learn that her eldest son had slept through the night and was feeling a great deal better. Her fears for his life had been extreme, but as soon as she knew he was in no imminent danger of expiring, her mood changed to one of resentment. It was, as she told Jeffery, most inconsiderate of Meredith to get himself shot the day before she had ‘half the County' coming to his betrothal party.

With a gleam of amusement, Jeffery said, “I am very sure it was not Merry's intention to be wounded, Mama.”

“Well, I must say I had thought him a much better marksman than that silly Malcolm Lockwood,” she pouted. “And—he had the entire
year,
Jeff! Why must he fight a duel
now
? With his betrothed in the house, and that terrifying Grandmama of hers. It is too bad of him. It really is too bad!”

Her pique was eased when Phoebe came down for the party, enchantingly lovely in a Watteau gown of primrose taffeta embroidered in gold, the hoops very wide, her hair powdered and piled high on her regal head, and a gold filigree necklace at her throat. “Oh, but you will dazzle them all, my dear Miss Ramsay,” she trilled, and when Phoebe replied shyly that there was “only one gentleman” she wished to dazzle, her cup was full.

An hour later, the long, graceful sweep of the Armour Hall was bright with taffeta and silk and satin, the weather having forbidden a garden party, as had been planned. Gentlemen bowed and postured amid the shields and lances, guarding the delicate blossoms of frailty entrusted to their protection. Ladies cooed and exclaimed and embraced, and noted with eagle eyes the incredible width of the new French panniers Lady Bentley-Harrison affected; the towering height of the wig worn by Mrs. Ursula Siddingham; the ruby gleaming dazzlingly on the white bosom of that scandalous widow, Mrs. Rosemary Monahan (believed to be the new interest of Sir Peter Ward). Justice, banished to the gardens, sat and gazed glumly in through the windows while his arch-enemy, serenely ensconced atop a tall chest, smirked at him in triumph.

Despite the fact that there were several military uniforms among the throng, a small group of gentlemen engaged in an irked discussion of the tactics employed by troopers who had searched their houses. “Like a pack of blasted baboons!” roared one angry octogenarian. Sinclair and Jeffery, resplendent in party finery, joined the group and learned to their increased unease that Colonel Fotheringay had pressed numerous civilians into the search, and had sent off to Southampton hoping to secure the hiring of a pack of hounds that had successfully run a fugitive to ground there. There were a few quietly uttered expressions of sympathy for the poor fellow who had so nearly escaped, only to be seized at the last moment, then a duchess arrived, creating quite a stir, and such dismal topics were abandoned.

For the next two hours a trio of musicians played discreetly, their melodies all but lost in the hum of talk and laughter, the clink of teacups and wineglasses, as the guests drifted about, chatting with this or that old friend, remarking on the beauty of the bride-to-be, and the unfortunate indisposition of the prospective groom. Brooks Lambert arrived in full regimentals and was immediately surrounded by admiring ladies. He was the essence of grace—“the epitome, my dear, dear Martha,” trilled the Dowager Countess of Teignley, clutching her beloved Pekingese to her scrawny bosom, “of British young manhood. And so excruciatingly handsome into the bargain! Do you know, my love, a little bird told me that your lovely granddaughter had a tendre for him at one time.… Poor Carruthers … he had best look to his lady.…” And she smiled a hooded-eyed smile at her ‘dear old friend' and crooked her gnarled fingers more securely about the handle of her teacup.

Phoebe was trying to concentrate on the attempted pleasantries of a rather inarticulate but likeable young clerical gentleman named FitzWilliam Boudreaux, who had escorted his patron, the Duchess of Waterbury. She had not seen Meredith, and her thoughts kept turning to him. A tingling sense of excitement pervaded her being. She knew, without glancing around, that he had entered the room.

As soon as she could do so without interrupting the reverend gentleman, she turned. Meredith was coming towards her. He wore a grey, excellently tailored coat, a silver-and-black waistcoat, and his hair was powdered and arranged in a becomingly tumbled style. Viewing him with the eyes of love, she thought him the most attractive man she had ever known, and saw the scars not at all, but she was angry: He was desperately pale, and the dark shadows under his eyes, the weary lines in his face tore at her heart. He carried his right arm in a sling, but when she stood and reached out to him, he clasped her fingers in his left hand and touched them to his lips.

Those standing nearby smiled fondly at the young couple: the tall, striking man, the slender girl, radiantly lovely in the graceful gown.

“You are without a wit,” Phoebe scolded softly. “You should never have got up so soon!”

He said as softly, “I would not have missed it for the world, ma'am. I wish I
were
a poet—it would take such a one to do you justice this afternoon.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes. “For a man who lacks a silver tongue, you do surprisingly well, Mr. Carruthers.” And raising her fan to hide her lips, she asked, “Have you discovered who tampered with the powder?”

“We are not sure it
was
tampered with, so do not be worrying for—”

“Foolish creature! I will worry until you are gone back to your bed. This is sheer folly.”

Jeffery came over and said with a low voice and a wide smile, “Fotheringay has sent to Southampton for dogs. And they suspect Lance's true identity; the troopers are so thick about Lockwood's estate, you could scarce set a pin 'twixt 'em.”

Meredith swore under his breath, smiled, and said audibly, “But how charming.”

Affecting a giggle, Phoebe whispered, “What did you do with the cipher?”

“Never you mind, my girl. But—Jove, I'd rest easier were it safely delivered. We shall have very little time if— Oh, hello, Brooks. Escaped again, did you?”

“By the skin of my teeth,” said Lambert disgustedly. “That blasted Colonel means to look under every weed from here to the Bristol Channel.”

“Does he? Never say our abused countryside is being beaten again?”