The Tyrant (6 page)

“Yes. If I leave within the hour. Your sire is protesting already at my haste, so I've had to invent that my brother is ailing. Oh—you will meet Jeff, incidentally, for he's down for the Long Vacation.”

“A college man, is he?” Sinclair's face lit up. “We'll have plenty to discuss, then.”

“I doubt it. Jeff is no scholar. More interested in muslin than leather bindings, unfortunately. Well, I must be off.” He stood, adjusting the sword-belt about his lean middle. “Incidentally, Ramsay, I suggest it would be less trouble were you to have your hamper brought down here. You'd have not such a distance to haul Lance, and you could explain it away by saying you wished to take some of these books. I doubt any of your servants would find aught in that to quarrel with.”

Sinclair agreed this was a better plan and they walked to the door together. Sinclair added diffidently, “Sir, you've been jolly good about all this. I'm most damnably sorry you were dragged into it.”

To his surprise, Carruthers clapped him on the shoulder. “So am not I. Lance and I have cried friends since childhood. Did he lose that fine head through any neglect of mine, I'd never forgive myself. I should rather be thanking you, Ramsay. I told your sister you probably fancy yourself a fine high-flown hero, but—”

Sinclair gave a furious exclamation and jerked away.

“Perhaps I had better have said, an idealistic idiot,” Carruthers amended with a twinkle. “Nonetheless, for such a sprig, you've done not too badly.”

Sinclair met the strange pale eyes that were so at odds with the bronzed face, and sensed it was high praise from this blunt individual who appeared to pay little heed to the flowery speech and manners of fashion. Pleased, he flushed darkly, and said a shy “Thank you.”

“One thing,” murmured Carruthers, his hand on the latch, “Keep your sister clear, insofar as you are able. And—don't fret for her sake, Ramsay. I'll break this betrothal in some fashion, so that I may continue my blissful bachelorhood and she can wed her gallant Adonis.”

*   *   *

His blue eyes glazed with shock and his handsome features suddenly pale and drawn, Brooks Lambert gasped, “
Meredith … Carruthers?
Of Meredith Hall in Wiltshire? No! My God—no! I don't
believe
it!”

The afternoon was warm and muggy, the silence of the birds warning of the storm that Ada Banham's bones had forecast earlier. The greenish light inside the graceful little summerhouse played softly upon Phoebe's pale green gown and deepened the hue of the great eyes that gazed anxiously at her stricken suitor. Poor dear Brooks. If only she could tell him. But, much as he loved her, he was first a soldier, second a lover, and she dared not confide so deadly a secret. “Are you—acquainted?” she asked.

“Acquainted?” He drew a hand across his eyes as though trying to wipe away his confusion.
“Acquainted?”
He laughed harshly. “Oho, am I not!”

The following flood of profanity brought her to her feet, crying an appalled
“Brooks!
My mama allowed me to tell you, but I'll not listen to this!”

He checked abruptly. “Oh—Jove, I do apologize! It was just—I cannot credit—” He was silent a moment, then closed his eyes briefly and said in a controlled but quivering voice, “Phoebe—Meredith Carruthers is—is my
uncle!
”

She stared at him, her pretty mouth falling open slightly. “But—but he
cannot
be! Why, he must be only a few years older than you!”

“He is nine and twenty. Paul Carruthers had two daughters of his first marriage. His wife died when their eldest girl, Sylvia, was fifteen. Carruthers remarried, and Meredith was born. He was one year old when Sylvia eloped with George Lambert against Paul's wishes. I was born to them the following year. Paul cut my mama off, of course. Never spoke to her again, or left her a penny.” He drove one fist into his palm. “Of all the scurvy tricks.
Him
—of all men!”

Phoebe, who had sunk down beside him again, tried to collect her scattered wits. “You told me once that you've an uncle who—who makes you an allowance. He—he is not…?”

Again, that bitter travesty of a laugh rang out. “You have it, ma'am!”

She had never seen him so enraged, and, distressed, she said gently, “My poor dear, I know what a shock this is, but—he
is
your kinsman, and if he has been so generous as to—”

“Generous! If you could see him, lording it over his hapless tenants, wringing the last ounce out of the poor clods! As for his wretched brother, God help him! Jeff writhes under Meredith's heel!”

“Good gracious! I thought—that is, he seemed brusque, but a gentleman-like type of man, withal.”

“Very,” he responded scornfully. “Like his father before him, who drove his poor wife to—” He closed his lips over that improper utterance.

Dismayed, she peered up at him anxiously. “To—what?”

He stood and stamped off to stare blindly across the park. His shoulders sagged then. He said brokenly, “That was very bad of me. Forgive, I beg you, Phoebe, and forget what I said. It is not really so, and was most dishonourable in me to rail at him when he has been so good. Merry's a—a hard man, but a just one. Only—the thought of my perfect love … given into his keeping!” He swung around, revealing a ravaged countenance. “Phoebe, my darling girl, I am behaving like a proper fool. How much worse it must be for you!”

Phoebe lowered her eyes, wringing her hands in helpless misery. In a flash he was beside her and had dropped to one knee, his strong grip closing over her agitated hands. “I won't let it happen, dearest. I swear it! I'll take you off to the Border, before—”

“Elope?” she gasped, horrified. “Brooks! You cannot mean it!”

He said wildly, “It would be better than seeing you condemned to life with a man you do not love.”

‘It would, indeed,' she thought, but she put a quieting hand over his lips. “I should not say this, but—I think Carruthers is not—that is, there is a slight hope that he is—er, reluctant.”

His eyes had narrowed. He searched her face. “Do you say he was pushed into it?” He frowned, then muttered, “Aye, Lucille would, at that.”

“Lucille? Do you speak of his mama?”

He nodded. “A lovely little creature but has known precious little of happiness, poor soul. She is terrified of him.”

“But—you said—”

“She can influence him. True. He tries to make amends. And, come to think of it, he never has been much in the petticoat line.” Brightening, he returned to sit beside her once more. “This puts a different light on things. Love, why didn't you tell me at once, and I'd not have ranted so?”

She said ruefully, “I should not have told you at all and perhaps raised false hopes. Even now, Lamb, it will have to be handled very carefully. My family is—”

“Ecstatic, I do not doubt! Oh yes, I can quite see that!” He scowled, thinking rapidly. “When do you go to the Hall?”

“Tomorrow, if Mr. Carruthers gets back from London in time for us to make a start.”

“I see. Look, Phoebe darling, I'm due a leave, for I haven't had one since I took that wound at Prestonpans. I'll talk to my colonel. I'm fairly sure he'll let me go, and I can be in Wiltshire within a day or two, at most.”

Alarmed, she said, “Oh, Brooks, I wish you will rather give me time to try and work with Mr. Carruthers towards a solution. Besides, where would you stay? I believe his estate is rather isolated.”

“It is, and I shall stay
there,
m'dear. Gad, but there's room enough for me! I'm a member of the family, don't forget, and Lucille is fond of me—deluded woman!” He grinned whimsically, then his fine eyes clouded. He asked, “Have you told Carruthers you love me?”

“I told him I was fond of another gentleman, but mentioned no names.”

“Hmmn. As well. Better to wait a bit. And—what d'you mean, ‘fond'?” He took her in his arms and smiled lovingly down at her. “I will bring you out of this beastly coil and you'll marry me, if only out of gratitude, and never have to be so menaced again. Only think—this is bad enough, but next time it might be even worse. I heard your papa likes Older-wood.… Only say yes, beloved mine, and I'll protect you for so long as I live.”

It was true; Papa and Olderwood were bosom bows. Phoebe shuddered. “Very well, Brooks. If we can break this betrothal, I'll tell my parents I wish to marry you.”

“Allelulia!” he cried, and kissed her.

III

Julia Ramsay, at fourteen a younger version of her beautiful sister, gazed at Phoebe with huge, awed green eyes, and said, “I thought we
never
would be allowed to speak to you in private. Is it true, Phoebe?”

“Did you really spend the whole evening alone with him in the basement?” asked nine-year-old Belinda, perched on Phoebe's bed, her eyes scarcely less wide than those of Julia. “What were you doing?”

“What do you think she was doing?” snapped Julia impatiently. “When a lady allows a gentleman to take her into a dark basement for hours and
hours,
he is trying to fix his attentions, and—”

“You mean he was kissing you and mauling you about?” said Belinda. “Ugh!”

This irritated Sinclair, who had been scanning the drivepath, and he exclaimed, “Oh, you two wretched girls! How do you know what goes on between a gentleman and his—er, chosen lady?” He glimpsed the militant gleam in Phoebe's eyes and added hurriedly, “And besides, why should you say ‘ugh' in that silly way? Carruthers ain't a monster.”

“He has been marked by the Devil!” declared Belinda. “Christina Rosewood says he is from an evil house!”

Phoebe protested angrily, “What a dreadful thing to say! For shame!”

“Of course the Rosewood chit says so,” jeered Sinclair. “Carruthers went out with her brother, and—”

“And ran him through, and through … and through!” Belinda had seized Phoebe's new pink sunshade and lunged with it, duello-fashion. “Liver … lights … straight to the heart!”

“Revolting little ghoul!” said Julia. “If Martin Rosewood had been run through the heart he'd be dead, which he is not, for he pulled my hair in church just last Sunday and pretended it an accident! Phoebe—how is it you have never mentioned Mr. Carruthers but kept the secret close-locked in your heart? Do you love him with a deathless passion?”

“No, I do not!” the newly betrothed maiden answered forcefully.

Julia gave a small dramatic screech. “You are
sacrificing
yourself, so that Sin will not go off and shrivel up in India!”

Phoebe threw a repentant glance at Sinclair's frowning face. “In the first place,” she said, trying to mend her fences, “we were
not
in the basement for hours and hours, and Mr. Carruthers was not—er, mauling me about, as you so inelegantly phrase it, Belinda!”

Julia asked, puzzled, “Then what
were
you doing?”

“Lighting a fire, of course,” explained Sinclair.

“A—fire? But … why?”

“Mr. Carruthers had a magic powder from his friend the Devil, and he threw it in the flames. It causes busybody little girls to turn into newts. You are getting gills on your neck already, Julia!”

His sisters subsided into giggles, and Phoebe asked, “Sin, why has Mr. Carruthers fought so many duels?”

He shrugged and said evasively, “He ain't, er, the most placid fellow I ever met.”

“No more than any other volcano,” Phoebe agreed drily.

Staring at her, Julia asked, “Is he very ugly? You are
so
beautiful, it doesn't seem right. And Brooks Lambert … oh poor young man! He will pine away.”

“He will volunteer for a mission of deadly danger,” whispered Belinda, “and be mortally wounded and lie and die in the dust with your name on his lips!” Tears came into her eyes. She blinked, and said unsteadily, “Oh, I do hope he will not, for he is so very kind and handsome, and always gives me sugar plums.”

Sinclair cried excitedly, “Here they come! Lord, but Carruthers must have rushed Papa along!”

They all ran to the window. Peeping through the lace curtains, Julia said, “Why, he's very good-look— Oh! I see. The other side of his face
is
scarred, isn't it? Still, it's not nearly as bad as I thought, and my, but he has fine long legs!”

“Julia!”
exclaimed Phoebe, much shocked. And looking.

Belinda gave a shriek. “He
saw
me! Oooh! What diabolical eyes! They pierced me to the gizzard!” She flung herself backwards on the bed.

The door burst open and Ada ran in, her dark face a mask of tragedy. “He's
here,
Miss Phoebe!” she wailed. “He's
come
!”

“Oh my Lord!” snorted Sinclair. “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'”

Ada gasped, “Oh, Mr. Sinclair! You feel it, too!”

“Gammon!” He slanted a meaningful look at Phoebe. “Come along, old lady. The sooner we're out of this madhouse, the better! No, not you two brats! You'd best go and make yourselves presentable. I've no doubt Papa will wish to present you to Daemon Carruthers.”

Julia and Belinda fled, squealing with excitement, and Phoebe walked with her brother to the stairs. “Sin,” she whispered, “how will you get poor Lieutenant Lascelles into the hamper?”

“Already done. I smuggled him into the book room before dawn, and kept the maids out by telling them I was studying. I'd an idea Carruthers would light a fire under Papa, so I tucked Lascelles into the hamper half an hour ago.”

“Poor soul! He looked dreadfully bad last night, and now this long journey will be so taxing. Sin, you do not think he will expire before ever we reach Meredith Hall?”