The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  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?”

  “After what he’s been through, m’dear, I fancy this will be an easy ride for him.” Despite the light words, his young face was grim. His fear was that the carriage might be stopped and searched. If that happened, there was but one course to follow; he would have to take full responsibility and be prepared to pay the hideous penalty. At least, he was not the head of his house and his family did not stand to lose everything; especially when he swore they had no knowledge of his Jacobite connections. On the other hand—he frowned, riddled with guilt—if Meredith Carruthers were caught, it would be a very different matter!

  * * *

  Sir George Ramsay had the sensation of having ridden a whirlwind. He had been rushed to London, where Carruthers’s solicitor had received them despite the lateness of the hour. A report had been offered of the financial colour of the Carruthers holdings and investments. His future son-in-law had snapped out terse instructions for a most generous settlement. Dazed and delighted, Sir George was also considerably exhausted by the time he
alighted from the dusty carriage.

  That Carruthers meant to set off at once, hauling half his prospective bride’s family on an extended visit to his country seat, Sir George found baffling. He himself had prior commitments that made it impossible for him to accompany his daughter, as Eloise and Sinclair were to do. He rejoiced with his wife in private over their good fortune, and went down to wave goodbye. The little procession set forth: three carriages, and Carruthers riding Percent, Sinclair’s favourite hack. Sir George and his three remaining ladies went back into the house. Sir George adjourned to the small saloon and took off his wig. He fell asleep blissfully recalling Meredith Carruthers’s properties and fortune and, above all, that splendid settlement.

  * * *

  Not until they were well under way did Phoebe fully realize the enormity of their peril. Carruthers had warned that the roads were clogged with military; they were liable to be stopped and searched at any point of their long journey, and if the wounded fugitive was discovered, her beloved brother would certainly pay with his head, and very likely Carruthers would also. She and her mother could claim complete unawareness, and there was no doubt but that Sinclair and Carruthers would swear the ladies had had no knowledge of the presence of a traitor, but it would be small consolation to escape with her life if her brother were to lose his. She felt crushed by the threat of such a disaster, and it was all she could do to maintain the air of excited anticipation that was, she knew, expected of her.

  My lady Eloise was not surprised that her son should choose to occupy the third carriage in solitary state, surrounded by his books. She did think it rather odd that so dashing a lover as Carruthers should elect to ride, rather than be in the coach with his beloved, but there was no doubt but that he was the athletic type of man. She also thought it peculiar that the large old coach which conveyed the servants and a good deal of the luggage should have the second spot rather than bringing up the rear, but she kept such thoughts to herself. She was not sorry of the opportunity to have a long talk with her naughty daughter, but Phoebe’s rather astonishing lack of knowledge of the gentleman with whom she must certainly have been conducting a clandestine flirtation puzzled her. “Has he told you nothing of his family, or his estates, my love?” she asked with a lift of the eyebrows.

  “He is—er, not much of a talker, Mama,” said Phoebe, adding in desperation, “but he has a well-informed mind.”

  “Does he, so? Upon what subjects?”

  ‘Good heavens!’ thought Phoebe, and then remembered Carruthers telling Lieutenant Lascelles he had been at Culloden. “Military matters,” she replied.

  My lady stared at her. “He talks to you of … military matters?”

  “Yes. For I was most interested to hear of—Cumberland, you see. And—and dogs, of course.” (He would have dogs, surely?)

  “How very … romantical,” said her mother feebly, trying to equate such scintillating conversation with a man who had ruthlessly swept her daughter into a secluded basement for an hour.

  Unhappily aware of her mother’s bewilderment, Phoebe improvised, “And he is very—er, poetical.”

  My lady brightened. This was more promising. “Whom does he favour, love?”

  ‘Whom, indeed?’ thought the bedevilled Phoebe. If she named Shakespeare, it would be just like so contrary an individual to know not a single line when Mama asked him, as she most certainly would. “He—composes it himself,” she declared.

  “How splendid! I would never have guessed, for he looks so very much the strong, silent type of man. I vow, you can never judge by appearances!”

  Phoebe seized this remark to turn the conversation to the appearance of one of her mama’s most despised ‘friends’ and the creation she had worn to the ball. Since this had been a truly splendid garment, and the lady in question was endowed with an equally splendid bosom, most of which had been generously displayed, this launched my lady into such a long-winded discourse upon the lineage, disposition, miserable marriage, and obnoxious offspring of her ‘dear friend’ that Phoebe was able to indulge her private worries for several miles.

  When they stopped for luncheon at a fine posting house near Hindhead, it was discovered that the second carriage had taken another route. Swinging from the saddle, Carruthers handed the ladies down the steps and into the inn, explaining that he had thought it as well to send the servants by another road. “Quicker,” he said, with a charming smile, “but rather dull. I thought it might be nice if you were to find all your belongings neatly unpacked by the time you arrive at the Hall.”

  “How very thoughtful,” said my lady, beaming at him.

  He earned her further goodwill by having ridden ahead and procured chambers so that the ladies could refresh themselves before partaking of the luncheon he had ordered. He was ushering them up the stairs when Lady Eloise glanced back and said, “My goodness, whatever has become of Sinclair? I will go and—”

  “No, no, dear ma’am,” he said. “He’s likely fallen asleep over his books. I’ll roust him out. Do you go and be comfortable.”

  “Do you know, my love,” said Lady Eloise as they went along the narrow upstairs hall, “I was rather intimidated by Mr. Carruthers at first, and own I worried for your happiness, but I see I was mistaken. What a perfect gentleman. And such a lovely smile. I fancy you two will deal very well indeed.”

  Phoebe replied deviously, “I pray you are right, dear Mama.”

  * * *

  The groom who was serving as coachman to Sinclair Ramsay was not at all upset to be ordered into the coffee room, and the ostlers had already unharnessed the team and taken them off when Carruthers flung open the door and jumped into the carriage. “How is he?” he asked with an anxious glance at the large hamper that took up most of one seat.

  “Asleep, I think,” said Sinclair. “Any sign of troopers, sir?”

  “Yes, dammit! They’re thick as thieves. I’ve detoured twice. I sent your servants ahead purely to get them out of the way. My coachman thinks I’ve run mad, I think, but if it looks as bad when we leave here, I may well have to tell him to detour again, and we’re already late.”

  “But surely most of the troops detain north-south travellers?”

  “Probably. But there’s Bristol and the west coast to keep the military active. You go and join the ladies. Your sister will guess what we’re about, but tell your mama that I mislike the competency of the ostlers so am staying out here. Eat your luncheon, then come, and I’ll go in. We dare not leave our cargo.” He raised his voice slightly. “Lance—are you awake, old fellow?”

  A breathless, barely audible “Yes” answered him.

  Carruthers slanted a grim look at Sinclair. “This is devilish hard on him. Did you raise the lid at all?”

  “Twice. And let him stretch out his legs. And he has fruit and bread and water in there.”

  Carruthers nodded. “Easy with the water, Lance! Hang on, you madman. We’ll get you through. Ramsay—I mean to reconnoitre carefully when we approach my home. If I see troops I’ll ride back and tell your coachman that one of his leaders looks to have picked up a stone. Do you hear, Lance? I’ll choose a spot close to as good a hiding place as I can, and Ramsay will help you out of the coach as fast as may be. Lie low until we’re away, then get to cover. Ramsay or I will come to you just as soon as possible. You understand?”

  “I do. And … from the bottom of my heart—thank you both.”

  Sinclair left the carriage and went into the dining room. Phoebe and his mother were at luncheon. Lady Eloise received his airy explanation of Carruthers’s absence without question, remarking that Sir George liked a man who took care of his cattle before himself. Sinclair ate quickly, excused himself, and went back to the yard, thus enabling Carruthers to seek his luncheon.

  Settling himself down, Sinclair took up a book. The door was wrenched open. He looked squarely into the belligerent features of a beefy dragoon, a straw between his teeth. “What you got in here?” he demanded. “Family jewels, belike?�
��

  Sinclair’s heart jumped into his throat, and his mouth felt suddenly very dry, but this was not his first brush with death, and he managed to preserve a cool demeanour. “You might well think so,” he said, raising the lid of the hamper and holding up a book. “My father’s library, or some of it. First editions. Wherefore I am not allowed to stay for another tankard, but must stick out here with the fusty things!”

  The trooper scrambled into the coach. “Let’s have a look here.”

  Sinclair, his palms wet, slouched back onto the seat. “Help yourself,” he said, and knew he would fight for his life if necessary.

  The trooper picked up a book and, holding it upside down, peered at the contents. “Can’t see nothing valleyble ’bout this,” he muttered.

  “Well, as you see, it was published in Germany in 1480. Please have a care with the pages. My sire loves every one.”

  “Ar. Then that’s why I can’t read it, eh? Writ in German.”

  “True.”

  The trooper tossed the book into the hamper and selected another. “And this’n?”

  “Latin.”

  The trooper said a comprehensive “Cor!” and spat out his straw. “What’s any good Englishman want wi’ a book as is writ in a foreign language? Proper foolish I call it!” And much to Sinclair’s relief, he jumped out and went off shaking his head over the stupidity of the Quality.

  Sinclair leaned back his head. “You awake, Lascelles?”

  “No…” said Lascelles feebly. “I just died!”

  Carruthers, meanwhile, had joined the ladies, voicing much anxiety as to their rate of progress, and begging their pardon if he ate hurriedly. Good manners forbade that Lady Eloise engage him in an involved conversation, but his hand jerked after one of her remarks and he slanted a stupefied glance at her. “Poetry, ma’am?”

  “It is no use to dissemble,” she said with a little laugh. “Your betrothed has betrayed you, sir. I shall be most eager to test your skill before we leave Meredith Hall.”