“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?”
“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?”
The Tyrant Page 4