“He has so far told me nothing I do not already know, ma’am,” said Carruthers tersely. “Leave the leg wound, it is bound at least, and your brother can tend it. We’ve very little time, for I don’t doubt but that we are missed by now. Lance, I want the truth, if I’m to help you get to Salisbury; though how in the deuce I’m to do so, the Lord only knows!”
Lascelles gasped threadily, “Sometimes, ’tis … best not to know … too much.”
“Perhaps. But if I’m to lose my head in your devil’s brew, I want to know more of it. First—is your sire aware of your Jacobite involvement?”
“My God—no! ’Twould kill him, I think! Merry”—the thin hand clawed out frantically, “you’ll not tell him? Swear it!”
“I’ll not tell him without your permission, naturally. But I think you underrate him.”
Lascelles sighed with relief and lay back. “God bless the old fire-eater. Do you two go on any easier these days?”
“No. He hates my—er, insides. Just as he loathed my father. And do not try to change the subject. Why is it so ‘vital’ that you should get to Salisbury? You might better have laid low, I’d think, instead of running around in your condition.”
At this point Phoebe succeeded in removing the glass fragment, and Lascelles closed his eyes and said nothing.
Carruthers grated, “I mean it, Lance. The truth—or no help from me.”
“You are perfectly horrid,” said Phoebe, desperately ignoring the blood on her hands and trying not to be sick. “I suppose you would be cool and composed with every dragoon in the country on your heels! What difference does it make if he panicked and ran?”
“It makes a deal of difference if my good friend here is the courier the soldiers hunt so eagerly.”
Sinclair, who had remained silent during the interrogation, had reached for the decanter of wine, and Phoebe saw his hand jerk. His bewigged head turned swiftly to Carruthers, his obvious alarm frightening her.
“Courier?” she said. “What courier? What does he mean, Sin?”
Carruthers said grimly, “I’ve a friend in the military who told me that certain of the Jacobite fugitives carry part of a message. It has to do with the treasure that Prince Charles amassed to finance his regrettable Cause, but was unable to put to use before the end came. True, Lance?”
Lascelles hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “The Prince sent out a call for contributions. His followers were very generous. Jewels, plate … works of art, even, poured in. Now that … that our Cause is lost, the Committee who had—charge of storing the treasure, plans to restore it to—to the donors.”
Carruthers shook his head. “Folly on folly! Is it truth that Charles Stuart was unable to get the treasure to France because of our blockade?”
“Yes. So, in desperation, he … had it sent down to England, hoping to ship it from—from here. But then—” He sighed drearily. “Culloden. And it was all … over.”
“Jupiter! Do you say the valuables are in England now?”
“At three temporary locations, chosen in haste and—not very secure, unfortunately.”
“And it is to be restored to the donors from each of the locations?”
Lascelles sighed, his head falling back against the old mattress on which they’d laid him.
Sinclair muttered, “Do not keep at him so, for heaven’s sake. He’s fairly exhausted. I’ll tell you. The treasure is to be collected and shipped to some central destination. It’s no use your asking me where, for no one knows save the Committee who sent out the ciphers.”
“More than one, is there?”
“Yes. But how many I do not know. Only that each consists of a verse in which is hidden part of the message. Each courier is to deliver his portion to a secret destination. One man will decode them and know the location to which the treasure is to be delivered.”
“But—how is it to be done?” asked Phoebe, gazing at her brother in fascination. “I mean—how are they planning to transport so vast a hoard?”
“I’ve no idea, thank goodness. My only function in all this is to try and help the poor devils get clear.”
Lascelles said, “You must know how Jacobite sympathizers are treated, Merry. The families whose men followed Stuart have lost homes … land, every possession. They are quite literally starving to death. We must get their valuables back to them. I must … get my message de—delivered … I…” The words faded into silence and he appeared to sink into sleep.
Watching him sombrely, Carruthers muttered, “God help us all!”
* * *
Sinclair dragged an old trunk to swell the pile of bric-a-brac they had gathered to screen Lascelles, now covered with some moth-eaten but warm blankets they’d found. “You two had best get back to the ball,” he said breathlessly. “I’ll see to his leg. Here—take the candle. After you go, I’ll uncover the half-window, and the moonlight will serve well enough.”
Carruthers took the candle holder, cut off Lascelles’s humble flow of gratitude by advising him he was a damned pest, then started across the cavernous chamber beside Phoebe. “Jove, what a witches’ brew,” he muttered. “You contrived to keep yourself neat, Miss Ramsay. I hope you may think of as neat a means to get the thimble-brain down to my country seat, for I certainly cannot.”
Phoebe was relieved that he was willing to try, and said hopefully, “We could perhaps dress him as a groom or a footman, and—”
“And sit him on the box and watch him roll off and under the wheels within two minutes? Good God, ma’am! The gudgeon cannot stand up, much less walk! We’ll be fortunate can we get him to the carriage before he lapses into a fever!”
She glared at him. “I realize you cannot help your natural tendencies, Mr. Carruthers, but must you always be so pessimistic?”
He leaned to her and murmured softly, “Were I to follow my ‘natural tendencies’ at this moment, I’d likely put you over my knee and spank you. And that silly chub of a brother of yours! He likely fancies himself a fine high-flown hero! Let him find himself faced with a disembowelling knife, and—”
Phoebe whirled on him, tears suddenly blurring her eyes. “How horrid! Do not! Do not!”
He grunted. “My apologies. But you must stop treating this as a jolly adventure and face cruel reality.” Looking into her distressed face, he gave an impatient exclamation. “Enough! Lance ever had more pluck than good sense. I wish you were not involved, but you’ve courage, I give you that. Have you also a coach with a false bottom, perchance? Or a Trojan Horse?”
“A Trojan Horse…” she echoed, ignoring his reluctant compliment. She halted at the foot of the steps that led up to the hall door, and said excitedly, “Sir! If you were to invite us to visit your estate in Salisbury—”
“Near Salisbury,” he corrected, balancing the candlestick on the end post of the stair railing.
“We could take a large trunk,” she went on, “and—”
“And stuff poor Lance inside?” He chuckled. “’Twould have to be a large one indeed. He’s a longshanks.”
“Oh, laugh then! All you can do is sneer. If you’ve a better scheme…”
Unexpectedly, a quirkish grin was slanted at her. “No. My apologies. You are perfectly right. And your idea is none so bad, except—our poor benighted fugitive cannot grace your ancestral pile for long, Miss Ramsay. Whatever we do must be done at once. I have but now made your acquaintance. On what possible pretext could I suddenly invite you and your brother on a sufficiently extended stay to warrant your taking such a monstrous amount of—”
A sharp click. A heavy hand was on the door latch. Phoebe gave a squeak of terror, the sound cut off as she was seized by iron hands, wrenched into a crushing embrace, and passionately kissed. Half-smothered, her ribs seeming to crack, torn between fright and outrage, she heard her father roar, “Unhand my daughter, sir! You damned scoundrel! How dare you?”
Carruthers leapt back. “Oh … Lord!” he groaned, with realistic dismay.
Sir George R
amsay stood on the top step, his face mottled with fury. Lady Eloise, white and terror-stricken, peered from behind him, and a small crowd of guests and servants supplied a scandalized background for the dramatic tableau.
Shivering, Phoebe gulped, “I—I can explain, P-Papa.”
“You can best let me do so, ma’am,” said Carruthers. “Sir George—”
“I will talk to you in my study, sir!” rasped the enraged father. “You will be lucky do I not employ a horsewhip! As for you, Miss Ramsay—get to your room!” And as Phoebe stood, rooted in numb misery, he snarled, “At once!”
She flew, the crowd parting before her, on each face a mixture of curiosity and condemnation. The entire horrid affair was too much for her already overwrought nerves, and tears streaked her face as she ran to the main stairs, trying not to see the gentlemen who grinned behind their hands, the ladies who whispered and shook their heads in delicious censure. Rushing along the first-floor hall, she saw her door swing open. Her abigail, Ada Banham, anxiety written large on her dark, pretty face, cried, “Oh, Miss Phoebe! We been that frightened! We been looking and looking for you!”
Flinging herself into those cherishing arms, Phoebe wailed, “I am ruined, Ada! Oh, but I am quite … r—ruined…!”
* * *
The whisper of her name disturbed Phoebe. For a moment she lay between sleep and waking, staring at the bed curtains. They were shaken agitatedly, and again her name was hissed. Sin’s voice. With that awareness came the flood of memory, terrible and unrelenting, so that she threw open the curtains and saw by the light of the candle he held that her brother waited, elegant in a fresh coat of blue satin, the great cuffs and pocket flaps adorned with dark blue braid.
“At last,” he grumbled, sitting on the side of the bed. “You women! Talk about insensate! How could you sleep after that miserable farce?”
“Oh, Sin,” she cried imploringly, sitting up and clutching at his hand. “What has happened? I was sure Mama would come up, but no one has been near me. Not even Grandmama, and she usually forgives me before anyone else.”
“Not your fault, old lady,” he said gruffly, his thin, finely etched face solemn. “The fault is mine, and I wish to God I’d not involved you, but—if you knew, Phoebe! What that devil Cumberland has wrought in Scotland by way of reprisal is—well, beyond belief that any human being could be so—so bestial! And how the poor escaping Jacobites are hunted and—Oh, I won’t go over it again. I’m only sorry you had to bear the brunt.”
“Silly,” she said, squeezing his hand fondly. “As if I would not be willing to share whatever scrape you get into—or that you would not help me in time of need! Only tell me what has happened. Did Papa challenge Mr. Carruthers?”
“Heaven forfend! The gentleman is an accomplished duellist. He’s been out three times that I know of, and never been bested yet. But—Lord, what a rumpus! Mama was in hysterics, and Papa conducted poor Carruthers off to his study as though the headsman waited beyond the door!”
“Oh, dear! Whatever did Mr. Carruthers say?”
“Lord knows. I had it from my man that Papa did most of the talking, and that Carruthers came out stiff as a poker and his face as white as it had been red when he went in. Papa was all smiles, though.”
Awed, she whispered, “Good gracious! How did Carruthers manage that?”
“I cannot imagine. He didn’t impress me as being the diplomatist. The ball went on in high style, as you may guess. I doubt our guests can wait to regale their acquaintances with so juicy a scandal. All the old tabbies were fairly titillated.”
Phoebe moaned and sank her face into her hands, then spread her fingers to peep through and ask, “Did you see Grandmama? Is she enraged?”
“Do you know,” he said slowly, “I think she is not. She’s a shrewd creature. Mayhap she thinks it was just a moment’s foolishness.”
She sighed, then said, “How selfish I am, to be asking only of myself. What of your poor fugitive? If Carruthers has gone, how can we hope to—”
“Lascelles fell asleep trying to thank me, poor fellow. I felt guilty, leaving him in such miserable surroundings, but I fancy he’s more comfortable than he’s been since Culloden. And Carruthers ain’t gone, love. He overnights.” He saw her great eyes widen fearfully, and patted her hand. “I’d not tell you, save that you’d as well prepare yourself. Papa and Mama and Grandmama are to interview you and Carruthers at ten o’clock this morning.”
Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream.
* * *
Surveying herself in the standing mirror, Phoebe moaned, “Lud, I’m so pale as any ghost. We shall have to use rouge today, Ada. I’ll not have my family think I come before them crushed by guilt.”
“What I don’t understand, Miss Phoebe,” said Ada Banham, her little face contorted as she struggled with the nine and twenty pearl buttons that closed the back of the cream muslin gown, “is why you went off with Mr. Carruthers the way you did, when your heart was give to Captain Lambert long ago. He’s an attractive man and the ladies fairly sigh over him, but—”
“Attractive!” said Phoebe, defensively. “He is the most handsome man I ever saw!”
Ada pursed up her lips. “He has a beautiful form, I give him that. And I like the way his hair curls a bit, for all I think he should powder it, as do the other gents. But he’s got a chin, and I’d not like to be the one to try his temper.”
“Good heavens, girl! I was speaking of the Captain, not that horrid Meredith Carruthers!” She saw Ada cease her efforts to peer around at her in perplexity, and amended hurriedly, “He is a—er, passionate fellow, I grant you.” And, remembering that sudden embrace, she had to admit it had been quick thinking, but—Lud, she’d as well be kissed by a bear! Very different to Brooks’s tender caresses. Heaven help the girl Mr. Carruthers chose! She’d find she had wed a ruthless volcano. She was amused by the simile. Fire and ice … She realized that she was staring blankly at her reflection, and that Ada was watching her with such a silly grin that she yearned to box the girl’s ears. “I wonder my mouth is not bruised,” she said, inspecting it.
“Oooh!” squeaked Ada, hugging herself with vicarious enjoyment.
Restraining her irritation with an effort, Phoebe was overcome by a new wave of apprehension. “Oh, Ada, what will happen, do you think? If they send me up to Aunt Ormsby in Harrogate, I shall die! She is such a dragon!”
Ada, who was part gypsy and well seasoned with the lore of The Folk, said, “A big stripey spider runned ’crost me shadow. Afore breakfast! I crooked me fingers, but it was too late. ’Twill be a black day, miss, no doubting!”
“Oh, never say so! Ada—how did they know we had gone down to the basement?”
“One of the lackeys thought he saw you go down the hall, but no one never thought of looking in the basement till they’d searched everywhere else. It wasn’t me, miss,” she added in sudden anxiety. “I loves you dearly, I do, and would be trampled to death by bats ’fore I’d betray you to your doom.”
“Phoebe!” Lady Eloise had thrown open the door to her daughter’s bedchamber, and stood there, agitated. “Whatever keeps you, naughty creature? Hurry, do! Your dear papa has had such an upset tummy, and grows impatient!”
Running to seize her hand and cherish it to her cheek, Phoebe cried, “Oh, dear Mama, pray do not be angry. ’Twas but a misunderstanding, and—”
“Now come along, and whatever you do, you must not cry! Quick!” My lady hurried her into the hall and towards the stairs. Pausing at the landing to give her daughter’s gown a tug here and a twitch there, she muttered, “Yes, you look charmingly, but I do not see why you keep that wretched girl to serve you. I vow she looks for all the world like a pert young witch! She would drive me distracted. Did I hear her speaking of bats? Ugh!”
“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.”
The Tyrant Page 3