The Tyrant (5 page)

“Yes.” Half distracted herself, Phoebe asked inconsequently, “Mama, can bats trample people?”

“What a ghastly notion! I had supposed they only fly. Have they paws? Lud. I shall have to ask Sinclair. Here we are at last! Now, be
very
careful, child. I do not want Sir George any more upset than he is already.”

Phoebe went, trembling, to face her sire.

Sir George stood by the withdrawing room fireplace, his square, weathered face enigmatic. Lady Martha was seated beside the open window that looked onto the terrace. Meredith Carruthers, looking grim but less intimidating in riding dress, bowed over Phoebe's hand and, straightening, shot her a molten glance holding a warning that made her knees wobble.

“At last,” said Sir George, “we may get on with this unfortunate business.” His stern gaze threw Phoebe deeper into an agony of dread, and imagination led her on a daunting tour of all the possible punishments for her depravity.

“… have met before, I gather,” her father was saying, looking at her expectantly.

‘Met before…?' Oh, he must mean that she had met The Tyrant before. She stammered, “Y—yes, sir. We met at the breakfast party the bats gave last spring.”

“Good … God!” breathed Sir George, staring at his daughter.

“Wherever are your wits gone a'begging?” yelped Lady Eloise nervously. “'Twas the
Wyndhams'
party!”

Praying the floor might open and swallow her, Phoebe gulped, “D—did I not say so?”

“You said 'twas the
bats'
party.” My lady's voice faded. “And I really must discover whether they have paws, horrid creatures.”

Carruthers looked from one to the other, astounded.

“What the deuce are you talking about, my lady?” rasped Sir George. “Here we are, faced with the scandal of the year, and you gibble-gabble about bats! Now, Phoebe, Mr. Carruthers has generously taken the blame for the disgraceful contretemps into which you have plunged us, between you. I'll tell you frankly, half the County went home chortling with glee, and I've no doubt the tale is already circulating through Town. You realize that there is but one way to mend the situation.”

“You m—mean to … to send me off to Aunt Ormsby,” she said miserably.

“Lord above, what nonsense!” cried Sir George, casting his eyes at the ceiling.

From the window-seat, Lady Martha put in, “Such a step would merely verify your shame, child. What your papa seeks to do is to coat it with at least a veneer of respectability.”

“To which end,” Sir George interposed, with a hard look at his formidable parent, “Mr. Carruthers has made a most attractive offer for your hand, Phoebe. And I have accepted.”

It seemed to Phoebe that those words rang on the air with the lingering resonance of a great bell. She was so shocked that it was incredible to her that she did not faint. It was not possible! Married to
The Tyrant?
Only because she had tried to help a fellow human being, was she to suffer this most frightful fate? She turned a white, stricken face to Carruthers and met eyes of grey ice and an expression that she thought positively Satanic.

Lady Eloise took her daughter's cold little hand and led her to Sir George, who in turn took her to Carruthers. “Sir,” he said, “this is a havey-cavey business at best, and one you might have prevented by the use of a little—ah, gentlemanly restraint.”

Carruthers's sneer became even more marked, but he drawled, “I was—overwhelmed by your daughter's beauty, sir. I'll not apologize for it.”

Numb, Phoebe allowed her hand to be passed into his strong clasp.

He bowed and kissed her fingers, straightened, and said with a tight smile that did not reach his flinty eyes, “I shall strive to make you a good husband, ma'am.”

She made no reply, staring at him as one in a trance. He squeezed her fingers so hard she almost cried out, but it reminded her that Death still hung over them. Somehow, she replied, “You do me great honour, sir,” and sank into a curtsy from which she was not at all sure she would be able to rise.

Carruthers's hand was under her elbow. Lifting her, he said blandly, “I think this has been a surprise for your daughter, sir. Since we are now betrothed, I beg the indulgence of a moment alone with her.”

Sir George frowned. “I'd have thought you'd enough ‘moments' last night! We want no more lapses from polite behaviour, Carruthers.”

Carruthers stiffened, his dark head drawing up and back; a look was levelled at the older man that appeared to have come from some Olympian height.

Before he could comment, however, Lady Martha inserted majestically, “'Tis something tardy to be speaking of propriety, George. I think a stroll in the garden for a newly betrothed pair could scarce be construed an evil act. Especially since it is full daylight.”

Carruthers darted a measuring glance at her. “Thank you, ma'am. By your leave, Miss Ramsay…” and he ushered his fiancée to the terrace.

Neither spoke until they were out of earshot of the house, then he muttered, “A fine mess you've got me into!”

“I!” she gasped, jerking her hand from his arm and glaring up at him, a surge of anger restoring her sagging spirits. “Was there
nothing
else you could think of to extricate us from this—this horrid predicament?”

With a lack of gallantry that was new to her experience, he retaliated, “Do you think I would have resorted to it had there been any other choice? Your papa saw that I had no way out, and lost no time in pressing his advantage!”

Phoebe gave a squeak of rage. “Do you fancy him desperate to fire me off? If you
must
know, my lord Tyrant, I've no least wish to be
Lady
Tyrant!”

She was appalled the moment her hasty tongue had uttered the scathing words. Carruthers became very pale, and she shrank before the savage anger in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said in a soft voice she found unutterably menacing, “you will be so good as to tell me why you chose
that
—particularly charming appellation.”

‘If I say it is what his brother calls him, we'll likely be burying the poor lad,' she thought, and said disdainfully, “Perchance because you always are so stern and cross.”

The piercing eyes seemed to transfix her. “Whereas you admire foppish dandies with pretty wigs and lisps and mouths full of insincere flattery,” he sneered. “How fortunate for you, ma'am, that I like this no better than you, and have no slightest desire to make you my bride!”

‘Wretched, horrid beast!' she thought, and said, fluttering her fan, “Dear me! How
very
lacking in manners you are to say so!”

“A shared fault, apparently. At least there will be no hypocrisy between us. However”— he reclaimed her hand despite her angry efforts to pull it away, and dragged it ruthlessly to his lips—“do you not make at least an
appearance
of finding me somewhat less repellent than an earwig, we shall land ourselves, and your family, properly in the suds.”

She blenched at the reminder and swayed to him gracefully. “I apologize. But you must make an effort too, sir, and try not to freeze me with your eyes! You obviously do not find me attractive either, but—”

“I didn't say I do not find you attractive. You are a very beautiful girl, which you know perfectly well.”

How odd it was that he could say something nice and contrive to make it sound an insult. Seething, she said, “I was not fishing for compliments, Mr. Carruthers, but—”

“Then what were you fishing for?”

“I was trying to tell you,” she said, gnashing her little white teeth as he led her along the path once more, “that I am—am promised to another gentleman.”

He checked and stared down at her, his mouth twisting into that horrid quirkish grin she could learn to hate. “What—without the approval of your parents?” He clicked his tongue. “Never say I am about to be called out by some pretty young whelp?”

“He is
not
a pretty young whelp!”

His right eyebrow lifted to match the left one. “Ah, an ugly young whelp,” he said, interested. “Well now, that's more promising.”

“He is not a whelp of any kind, but a fine brave gentleman.”

“Nonsense! No ‘fine brave gentleman' would behave in so underhanded a fashion.”

“Well, no matter what you think,” she said crossly, “he
is
a gentleman, and—” A dread possibility dawned. “Oh, my! Are you very rich, Mr. Carruthers?”

“Would that make me more acceptable to you?” he sneered.

“It would make you acceptable to my family.”

Amusement crept into his eyes which, oddly enough, suddenly seemed less grey than blue. “You're honest to a fault, ma'am. In the basket, are they?”

“Not deeply, but sufficient to put me in the position of—” She broke off, biting her lip.

“Aha! So your ‘fine brave gentleman' has big empty pockets, eh? Has Lady Martha taken him in aversion, besides?”

The wretch had evidently realized that it was Grandmama who ruled the Ramsays. Phoebe murmured rather forlornly, “Everyone else likes him very much. And Grandmama has never
said
she does not approve. Only—I do not think it is just because he has no fortune, poor dear. He is excessively handsome, you see.”

“Oh, egad! If your grandmama don't set much store by looks, I may well be doomed!”

Doomed, indeed! Refusing to respond to the teasing glint in his eyes, Phoebe agreed with a sigh, “Yes, for she holds that very handsome people are often vain and spoiled.”

“I concur. Indeed, were I on the search for a bride, I would far rather settle for a kind plain girl with a well-informed mind than any Toast who is all looks and bosom and has not two thoughts in her head.”

Phoebe shot an outraged glare at him and found him contemplating her low neckline. “You are a vulgar man, Mr. Carruthers,” she declared, unequivocally. “The most important thing is not how much we dislike each other, but how we are to get
out
of this horrid bog.”

“To the contrary, Miss Ramsay,” he declared, just as unequivocally. “Can you only stop thinking quite so much of yourself, you'll realize the most important thing is that we have now an excuse for you and your intrepid brother to visit my estate.”

She flushed scarlet. “Oh! You mean to help poor Lieutenant Lascelles. You are perfectly right, of course. What have you in mind, sir?”

He said thoughtfully, “Your brother is bookish, I gather?”

“Yes. Quite brilliant. In fact”—a dimple flickered briefly beside her vivid mouth—“if we are so unfortunate as to be wed, you will likely have the expense of sending him to University. Another potential pitfall for you, sir.”

“A pitfall I mean to avoid at all costs, I assure you, Miss Ramsay! Nonetheless, if we can find a large hamper, throw a shelf across the upper quarter and fill it with books, we may be able to slip our rebel into the lower section.”

“But books weigh a ton!”

“And he weighs very little, poor devil. Now I've to go into Town and at least make a pretense of arranging a settlement and introducing your sire to my man of business. I've sent my valet posting back to the Hall with a brief letter of explanation for my mother and a warning to expect us tomorrow evening.”

“You had brought a valet here?” she said, puzzled.

“I had been invited to overnight.”

“I see. Are you, then, well acquainted with my papa, sir?”

He ran one long finger down the line of his jaw. “I know him slightly. I have met Lady Martha Ramsay a time or two. She invited me. All of which is beside the point. Can you and your brother manage while I'm gone, do you think?”

“We shall do our feeble best, but—oh dear! Here comes my mama. Mr. Carruthers, pray indulge my selfishness a little and tell me
how
we are to escape this betrothal?”

He took up her hand and again bowing his head over it, murmured, “I don't know. But by God, ma'am, if 'tis humanly possible to escape your toils, I'll do it, I promise you!”

She smiled on him and, as he bent lower, pinched the end of his nose. Hard.

He gave a gasp.

“Adieu, dear sir,” she murmured. And whispered, “Let that be a lesson to you, Mr. Meredith Tyrant!”

“Adieu,” he said, breathing erratically and his eyes rather watery. “Miss Phoebe Shrew!”

“Ah,” cried Lady Eloise, coming up with them. “So you really
are
in love! How delicious!”

*   *   *

“Oh—Jupiter!” muttered Sinclair Ramsay, staring across the quiet book room at Carruthers. “Poor little Phoebe.”

Carruthers bowed and said an ironic
“Merci bien!”

“Oh! Your pardon, sir! I didn't mean—only—”

“Yes, I know. Your sister has other plans, she told me. However, I'm afraid we both are trapped and must make the best of it for the time. Meanwhile, what of Lascelles? Have you been able to provide him with food and water?”

“Yes.” Sinclair glanced to the closed door and crossed to stand beside the window-seat onto which Carruthers had settled himself. “He goes along fairly well, save that he is so weak, and…”

“And?”

“I pray I may be wrong, but—I fancied he was feverish this morning.”

“Damn! We do but need him to start raving in delirium! You've not been giving him wine?”

“Yes. It seems to strengthen him. Should I not?”

“I'm no physician, but I'd say discontinue it. Try barley water, rather. What about a hamper?”

“I've just the thing, and the beauty of it is that we've used it before to convey my books when we go down to Worthing in August. The lackeys are accustomed to its weight. I'll have it brought down from the attic to my bedchamber, smuggle Lascelles to my room tonight, and get him inside it in the morning before you come. You
will
be back tomorrow, sir?”