The Tyrant (44 page)

Hopelessly confused, Phoebe stammered, “But—if he
knows,
he could not have been—I mean, she cannot be his—Well, then, they
cannot
— Oh! I do not
understand
! You just said Rosalie is to be wed—and that she has loved him all her days.”

“And so she has, my dear. It was because of his son's devotion to a village girl that Malcolm Lockwood forbade their marriage and he and Lancelot parted in anger.”

“
Lascelles
…?” said Phoebe, still bemused. “But—but if Rosalie loved
him,
why did she not show it? I'd have thought—Oh!” She clutched Lucille's hand. “Did she remain silent for fear Sin and Jeffery would not help Lance?”

Lucille nodded. “The little minx was afraid that if they guessed she and Lance were long promised, they might not continue to take such risks for his sake. She was wrong, and it was naughty of her to lead those two poor boys on, but—when the life of the one you love is at stake…”

“Yes. Who could blame her? But—she knows the truth about herself now? Jeffery knows?”

“I could not remain silent after I realized how Meredith—Well, I went to see Malcolm Lockwood. The soldiers tried to keep me out, but Lambert was there, dear boy, and I told him I meant to tell the Squire what I thought of him for hurting Meredith. He let me pass, and when we were alone, I confessed the whole to Sir Malcolm. He was—very kind, and at once gave his consent. Lancelot and Rosalie will be wed as soon as they are safely on French soil.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Phoebe. “Only…” Her brow puckered again. “Why did Meredith let me believe he loved her?”

Lucille said helplessly, “My dear, I do not know. All I can tell you is that when my dear Edvard died, life became to me an intolerable burden. Each morning, I woke to despair, and the future loomed cold and dark and empty. Meredith says little and keeps very busy with our tenants and our properties. But sometimes I see a look in his eyes, and—oh, dear Miss Ramsay, I fear he lives in that same terrible despair that I knew!”

*   *   *

Brooks Lambert stood very still in the green saloon, staring incredulously at Phoebe's beautiful, troubled face. After a long moment, he echoed, “Not
marry
me…? But—why? I thought your papa had withdrawn his objections? The termination of your betrothal to Carruthers has been published. I—I do not understand.”

Miserable because she was hurting him so, she said, “Brooks, dear, I am indeed sorry. But—but … I
cannot
wed you. You see—”

He seized her arms and said in a voice she scarcely recognized, “Has that sneaking swine come around begging you to take him back? Has he dared to—”

Irked, she pulled free. “Do you mean Meredith Carruthers?”

“Yes, by God! If I thought he'd dare—”

“I have not seen him since we left the Hall. But it makes no difference. I wish I could say this without hurting you, but—you see, I—I love him. I shall never marry anyone else.”

He stared down at her, his face unreadable. Almost whispering, he said,
“You … love … Carruthers?”
He laughed harshly. “Lord alive, but this is rich!
You
—beautiful, kind, graciousness personified; and that—that scarred, brusque, unpolished dog? My poor darling—you are
ill
!”

There was a twist to the fine mouth that she had never seen; a sneer in the voice, and, in those deep blue eyes, a little flame that appalled her. She stepped back. “I think you must forget, Brooks, that the man you just spoke of in so disgraceful a way is your kinsman, who has supported you these—”

“He is rich,” he grated, advancing on her so that she drew farther back, a little frightened. “
That's
the truth of it, eh? It's his money you want!” He grasped her arms in a pounce that brought a shocked cry from her. “Well, I'll not hold that against you, love.
We
shall be rich, I promise you. Richer than your wildest dreams! You've no need to throw yourself away on that cur, for—”

“Let me go!” she stormed, angry now. “I would love Meredith Carruthers had he not a penny! He is the bravest, most caring, truly honourable man I ever knew! I
love
him! And he loves me. And I think you had better leave, Brooks.”

His face was flushed and suddenly far from handsome. “Do you
really
think that, Miss Phoebe?” he jeered. “Then allow me to tell you something. I'll not go. And you shall not marry that worthless clod. By an accident of birth,
he
inherited a fortune, and
I
was doomed to the life of a poor relation! He threw the poor dog a bone … a pittance!”

Horrified, scarcely able to credit this transformation from his usual gallant charm, she struggled to be free. “You are despicable! Merry had no need to give you a penny! You never have known squalor or want, but many men born to those conditions have fought their way to success, and many men born to wealth have squandered their way to poverty. Merry fights always to improve the lot of his people! To cherish his mama and guide his brother, when it would be so much easier to shrug and turn away! Oh! You are hurting me, Brooks! If you do not let me go, I shall scream for help.”

He released her, but watched her with such brooding disgust that she wondered she could ever have imagined she would marry this bitter, vengeful man. Walking to the door, shaken as much by the realization of what she had so narrowly escaped as by this terrible confrontation, she said, “Please do not call here again.”

In his normal, pleasant voice, he said, “Phoebe, he will not marry you.”

With her hand on the latch she replied, “If that is so, then I shall never marry. Goodbye, sir.”

He moved very fast, to throw one arm across the doorway. Smiling down at her, he said silkily, “Then Carruthers's head will be on a spike on Temple Bar within the month.”

She stood utterly still, staring up at him, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks.

“
And
—your so dear brother's,” he purred. “And
his
so dear brother's.” He laughed softly. “That would break the heart of his stupid flibbertigibbet of a mother. I fancy your family is made of—er, stronger stuff, eh, my love?”

Stunned, her mind seeking numbly to comprehend, she allowed him to pull her back and close the door. “You—you went to him…?” she whispered. “That day after I was k-kidnapped … My God! Did you arrange
that,
too?”

“Not as it went. Otton and I staged it so that I could ‘rescue' you and win over your beloved grandmama. But Otton wants the Jacobite treasure, and he suspected Meredith was hiding the courier. He kidnapped you in an attempt to force Carruthers to give up the cipher.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. Many a slip. I was luckier. You see, I knew about the secret room. I went there, looking for you, and found Lockwood, fast asleep.”

“And so—you blackmailed Meredith.”

His eyes gloating at the memory, he said, “I brought my troop into the courtyard—do you recall? And I went up and told the dear fellow he had three minutes to choose between life without you—or death for just about the lot of you!” He chuckled. “Lord, shall I ever forget the look on his face! He was so maddened he actually tried to attack me, would you believe it? I had to be a little rough with the fool, which delayed me a trifle. But he really had no choice. I had him”—he put out one long, well-shaped hand and, slowly, closed it—“where I had wanted him for years. Life has its moments, my love. Life has its moments!”

“Why?” she whispered. “You don't love me. I doubt you have ever loved anyone but yourself!”

He frowned aggrievedly. “I did love you, m'dear. But—more to the point, my Aunt Ophelia admires you tremendously. She's extreme wealthy, you know. You will recollect my telling you I was her heir. I did fail to mention one little qualification—I inherit only if
you
become my wife. My dearest girl, you do not look happy.” He bent over her as she sank into a chair. “I promise to be generous and attentive. I have other—er, playmates, I'll be honest. But—you shall always come first with me.”

Sick, aching with grief, she thought, ‘Merry … my poor darling…'

Lambert chucked her under the chin and when she jerked her head away in revulsion, he said softly, “Meanwhile, I shall offer you the same choice I gave Meredith. The decision, my love … is yours.…”

*   *   *

It was rare that Lady Martha joined her son and his wife for breakfast, but the following morning was bright and the sun crept under her eyelashes early. She lay in bed, troubled, and at length rang for her abigail. An hour later, she went downstairs in search of company. Her decision was not altogether salubrious; Sir George was in a quarrelsome mood as a result of the good offices of a ‘close friend' who had whispered to him of the rumours that were abroad regarding his daughter's broken engagement. “They'll have more to titillate 'em when they read today's
Spectator,
” he snarled. “And considering this is supposed to be a time of joy, to look at the inhabitants of this house would convince any—” He glanced irritably at the lackey who crept in and went around the table to offer the tray and the card it held. “What the deuce d'you want?” demanded Sir George.

“A morning caller, for Lady Martha,” the lackey notified the chandelier.

“So it has started,” she said, reaching for the card. “My personal friends know perfectly well I seldom rise before noon, and none but a gabble-monger would come so soon after—” The cup in her hand jolted, sending coffee splashing. “Ah…” she whispered, turning the card over and reading the brief message while her son and Lady Eloise watched curiously.

“Well?” demanded George. “Which of your tabby friends wants to hear all the grisly details?”

To the lackey, Lady Martha said, “You may show the gentleman to my parlour, Dennis, and tell him I shall join him in ten minutes.”

“Gentleman?” echoed Sir George. “What gentleman?”

Sailing to the door like a frigate in a fine breeze, his mother threw over her shoulder, “My new lover!” and was gone, leaving him to splutter and glare at the departing and grinning lackey.

*   *   *

Captain Roland Otton, strikingly handsome in dark brown velvet and gold brocade, bowed low as my lady entered her private parlour. “My felicitations, ma'am,” he murmured.

“For what?” she barked, surveying him with distaste.

“Why, for having found me.” He ushered her to a chair as though she were a guest in his house, rather than he in hers. “How did you manage it, pray? I had fancied my flat well hidden.”

She shrugged impatiently. “The never-failing source.”

“The servants? Ah. Even so, it was unwise for me to come here. Reputations must be considered.”

Her lip curled. “Thank you, but I believe my good name will survive.”

“'Tis my own I worry about,” he declared demurely. “I am a dedicated villain, my lady. I do not
help
people.”

She stared at him. “Well, if ever I heard such rubbish! I collect that is your grandfather's verdict. I like Muffin, but he holds himself too up, which causes him at times to be a heartless old curmudgeon.”

Otton's dark countenance had become very still. “No, ma'am,” he said gently. “I really cannot permit that you speak of him so. I had supposed very few people knew of my—er, former identity, but my grandfather was—is—perfectly correct in his assessment of my character. Have I your leave to sit down?”

She gestured to the nearest chair, which he occupied, managing to do so gracefully, although it was a straight-backed and uncomfortable article.

“I am disgusted with you, Mathieson,” said my lady unequivocally. “Because of your ‘character,' as you call it, at least one and possibly two men are dead.”

“Forgive,” he corrected again, “if I beg that you call me by the name I now use. And as for your accusation, I will accept responsibility for one, although Ben Hessell is an evil animal and may yet live. Still, they both were, as am I, greedy for gold. They knew, as do I, the risks involved.”

She leaned forward, her fierce eyes piercing him. “To steal Phoebe was a cruel and wicked thing to do, which you know very well.”

“But of course. What would you expect of so depraved a character?” He smiled on her, the fine black eyes twinkling, one chiselled white hand lazily swinging the silver chain of his quizzing glass.

“Lud!” uttered my lady, baffled. “What a dreadful waste.”

“Well, it was,” he agreed, deliberately misinterpreting. “However, to cry over spilt milk pays no toll, I've learned, so let us to business. How much are you prepared to pay?”

“Pay?” she said, blinking. “I had hoped to enlist your aid out of your friendship for Meredith Carruthers.”

“Dear old Merry.” He touched a slight discolouration still visible under his chin. “I bear him no ill will because he near broke my jaw after I had spared his life. Now, tell me of your nefarious plot, but keep in mind, dear Lady Martha, that I am a poor soldier. My services run high.”

Despite herself, a twitch of amusement disturbed the set of my lady's stern mouth. “What makes you think I enlist your aid in a ‘nefarious plot'?”

He spread his hands. “Why else would you come to me, ma'am?”

*   *   *

The Dowager smuggled her morning caller out of the house through a side door, but when he came around to Clarges Street, Otton could see no sign of the link boy he had hired to walk Rumpelstiltskin. He frowned a little. Surely, the wretched urchin would not dare … But then he saw Rump some distance off, a man bending over his hoof, another man watching closely, and the link boy nowhere to be seen. Scowling, Otton began to run. Coming up with the pair, he cried angrily, “What the devil are you doing to my horse?”