The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  Such blunt dismissal of guests was new to Phoebe’s experience, and she stared at him in astonishment, aware that her mother’s mouth was all but hanging open.

  Major Broadbent rose to his feet at once. “You are perfectly right, Merry. I’ll be off, and thank you for your hospitality.” He kissed the hand of his hostess, bowed to my lady and Sinclair and, voicing the hope he would meet Phoebe again very soon, went out.

  Lucille was plainly distressed and implored her friends not to run away, saying that although Lady Eloise and Miss Ramsay certainly must be fatigued, there was no need for everyone to leave.

  Carruthers maintained a cool but implacable silence and, taking the hint, the other guests made their polite farewells and departed.

  When they had gone, Phoebe retreated to the stairs with her mama, Carruthers leading the way, and proffering their candles.

  My lady bade him a rather disjointed good night and started up the stairs on Sinclair’s arm.

  Phoebe accepted her candle and gave her affianced a searching look. “Good gracious, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your concern, but in truth I wonder you’ve a friend to your name.”

  “Concern be hanged! I had to get rid of that lot if your brother and I are to tend to our—encumbrance.”

  She stared at him, not quite knowing whether to be amused or stern.

  While she was thinking about it, Carruthers swooped down and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  She jumped back, saying indignantly, “I thought it was agreed there was to be none of that!”

  He shook his head at her. “You’d make a poor spy, Miss Ramsay. You seem quite incapable of understanding that this is a most deadly predicament you have got me into.”

  “Of course I understand, but—”

  “It is of vital import that we keep up the pretence if we are to come out of this alive.”

  She glanced around. “Certainly. But there is no one here to—”

  “One of the first things I learned in my military career,” he said gravely, “was that one does not fail to post sentries merely because there is no sign of the enemy.”

  Phoebe regarded him suspiciously, then started up the stairs. She halted on the third step and looked back. He stood there, watching her. She fancied to detect a quickly suppressed grin, but then he said, “I believe we have taken sufficient precautions for tonight, ma’am. Mustn’t overdo it.”

  The insolence of the creature! She announced with regal hauteur, “I was merely going to enquire as to when you mean to attend the—er, encumbrance. My brother is very tired.”

  “Then he’ll be a touch more so. I’ve to present my head for combing, first.” And with a short bow, he strode back towards the drawing room.

  She remained there for a moment, looking after him. How straight was his walk, yet with the faintest suggestion of a cavalry swagger. Would his mama really comb him out? At dinner there had been an unmistakable hint of Lucille’s holding a partiality for Jeffery, who was certainly the more charming and agreeable of her offspring. Still, Phoebe went to her suite troubled by the knowledge that because he had helped them, Carruthers must now attempt to pacify an incensed parent.

  Snuggling into bed, she sent Ada off for the night. She yearned to go to sleep at once, but as soon as she was alone she sat up again and began to read one of the marble-covered novels her papa so deplored, knowing that if Sinclair saw a light under her door, he would come in for a moment. Despite her efforts, she had fallen asleep sitting up when she felt the book gently slipped from her hands and found her brother bending over her.

  “Oh, Sin,” she said, stretching sleepily. “Thank goodness. Dearest, you will take care and let me know what happens?”

  He sat on the side of the bed and yawned, stretching his legs out. “It has happened,” he said.

  Phoebe snatched the little clock from her bedside table. “Heavens! Twenty minutes until three o’clock! Sin, how is Lascelles? Were you able to move him?”

  He gave her a weary smile. “One at a time, old lady. When Carruthers and his mama— Lord, you should have heard her scold him! One might think him the world’s worst ogre to have heard her lamentations!”

  “What—with you in the room?” she gasped.

  “In the adjoining room. But she made such a to-do, she must have known I could hear. That pretty brother of his had tried to bring her out of her pet whilst Carruthers was giving you your candle, but he soon lost all patience with her and went stamping off to bed. I’ll own I could scarce blame him. But when Carruthers came back, she properly flew out at him.”

  “She is braver than I! I fancy he gave her one of his icy set-downs. Or did he rail at her? I’d not put it past him.”

  “He was meek as a lamb. Agreed with everything she said.”

  “Oh! Is there anything more horrid! One is left with nothing to say! Poor lady. Well, never mind that, tell me of our rebel.”

  “We found him well enough. Had to walk, though, because Carruthers did not dare risk waking the grooms.”

  “Poor Sin. How very tired you must be. Is it very far?”

  “Seemed seven leagues to me, but Carruthers made nothing of it. I think the man is solid steel and don’t know such a word as ‘tired.’ At all events, between us we helped Lascelles to a little sort of hollow in the wall of this famous Cut. It’s devilish country, Phoebe. I’d never be able to find it again.”

  “Were you able to leave him in any kind of comfort?”

  “Not much, but he was grateful, poor fellow, and said it was better than many a hole he’s slept in. He told us he had spent most of one night up to his neck in water, when they’d set dogs on his trail.”

  “Oh, poor man! How ghastly this is! One might think the war was not over at all. Do you think he will be safe there?”

  Sinclair gazed drowsily at his muddied boots. “Carruthers says he’ll likely be all right for a few days. As soon as Lascelles is able, he means to deliver his cipher. He’s half crazed with anxiety to be done with it.”

  “Yes, he would be. He struck me as the steadfast type of man. Well, thank heaven he is not still in Surrey!”

  Sinclair nodded, and stood, but Phoebe called him back at the door to beg that he not take Jeffery Carruthers in violent aversion.

  “Can’t very well, since he’s my host,” he said. But he stuck his head around the door to add with a grin, “But he is a block, you know! Oh, by the bye, Carruthers means to take us on a ride about the estate in the morning. Early. Best get into your habit first thing.”

  “But it’s morning now,” wailed Phoebe.

  “Then be so kind as to let me to my bed, m’dear,” said her brother, and went away, muttering, “Gad, but I hope that dainty Jeffery don’t mean to ride with us.…”

  V

  Sinclair’s aversion to Jeffery Carruthers had been heartily reciprocated. Jeffery had not the least intention of accompanying the riding party next morning, nor did he mean to endure a jeremiad from his brother, and thus was up and out at an hour that astonished his valet almost as much as it would have astonished Carruthers.

  The rain of the previous night had stopped. The sky was a clear blue, the air pure and cool. Jeffery found the head groom in the stables and ordered up his favourite horse.

  Leading out the rangy grey, the groom, a large young man with pleasant features and light curly hair, said slyly, “Poor Mouser is properly betwattled, sir. Bean’t used to waking at this hour.”

  “Never mind your impudence, Henry Baker,” said Jeffery, straightening the frill of his jabot, and wondering if he should have worn the blue riding coat instead of the bottle-green.

  “Were I being imperdent, sir?” Baker slapped a saddle on the grey. “Now fancy that. And I didn’t think as I’d said a word on Rosalie Smith.”

  “No, you rascal,” Jeffery responded, colouring up. “And you’d best not, or I might mention a bright-eyed little lass by name of—er, Ada something-or-other.”

  It was Baker’s turn to redden. Jeff
ery grinned at him. “You great clunch, I saw you staring at her last evening when you was helping unload the coach. You’d best be careful, Baker. She’s got a saucy way with her eyes, that one.”

  “Aye, sir,” mumbled the big man shyly. “But they do be awful pretty eyes. And what am I to say if Mr. Meredith asks for ye?”

  “Only the truth, my lad,” said Jeffery, swinging easily to the saddle. “You’ve no least notion where I went.”

  Watching him ride out, Baker shook his curly head worriedly. “I got a very good notion where ye be going, Master Jeff,” he muttered. “And if ye ride round that paddock, Mr. Meredith’ll have your ears, so he will!”

  Had Jeffery been aware of this sombre prediction, he would have shrugged it off and gone on his way, but perhaps with a shadow thrown over his plans. As it was, he proceeded blithe and untroubled through the brilliant morning, and was rewarded on approaching the village by a sight of the very maiden he had hoped to find. His pulse quickening, he leapt from the saddle, and called, “Good morning, Miss Rosalie.”

  She turned, a pleased sparkle dawning in her wide hazel eyes.

  Perhaps because he himself was fair, he had never much cared for fair girls, but he was dazzled now by the gleam of the sunshine on her golden curls and the perfection of her dainty features. “What a glorious morning,” he went on, “especially with you to brighten it.”

  “What a nice thing to say.” The soft, cultured tones were a legacy from her mother, who had been well, if not nobly, born, and was said to have married beneath her station in life. If that was so, Grace Smith had never appeared to regret her decision. She had educated her daughter with the encouragement and support of Lucille Carruthers, whom she had once served as companion. As a result, Rosalie was accustomed to speaking with those her tempestuous grandfather said were her ‘betters,’ and she betrayed no timidity now, as Jeffery appropriated the basket she carried. “You are early about,” she teased. “You have changed, Jeff. I remember when we were children how Merry used to fret because he and Lance had to wait for you to be dragged out of bed.”

  “I am a reformed man,” he grinned. “My tutor holds out great hopes of my making him famous someday.”

  “Only listen to the humility of it! Pray tell in which subject you mean to excel. Politics? Or perhaps”—she dimpled mischievously—“the study of the female of the species?”

  He laughed. “The latter, certainly. Would that one might make a decent living at it.”

  They began to walk on together, and she asked in sudden anxiety, “You’re not in financial distress, I hope?”

  “Lord, no,” he said, touched by her solicitude. “The dibs are more or less in tune. I’ll own it will be grand when I come into my inheritance at the end of the year, and don’t have to go grovelling to my brother for every farthing.”

  She frowned a little. “Is he very hard on you? I’d always thought you were good friends.”

  “We are, really. But—well, you know how Merry is at times. He can be so curst cutting.” His handsome face darkened. He said broodingly, “He’s furious because I was rusticated again, and has warned that—” He broke off. “What a fellow I am to be prosing on about such dull matters. Let me see now, you had asked…? Oh, yes. Well, I think I mean to be a great ornithologist. What d’you say to that?”

  She chuckled. “Any particular species, Learned Professor? Or do you only say it to please me?”

  “No such thing! Why should I wish to—” The words trailed off. She was smiling up at him, and he felt a quite unfamiliar depth of affection for the pretty creature. With a great effort he reminded himself that she was one of their own people. Merry was very fond of her grandfather besides, and would really be in a rage if the old fellow was upset. ‘Slow and easy, my lad,’ he told himself, and finished, “—wish to please such a lovely expert on the feathered little varmints? Speaking of which, Rosalie, how came you to have so deep an interest in ’em?”

  She was not deceived, and knew very well how close she had come to being kissed. She had always been fond of this tall boy, but she remembered him more as a harum-scarum playmate than as the handsome aristocrat he had become. A little disconcerted, she replied, “My father loved to watch them, and the books your dear mama allows me to read have helped me to learn a good deal, though I’ve not as much time for reading since Papa died and I have to help in the bakery. Not that I mind that, of course. Mrs. Johnson comes in at ten and all day Tuesdays, but Grandfather is much too old to be working. I am very glad to be of use to him.”

  Jeffery thought it a crime that so delicious a girl should have to slave over dough and hot ovens, but he said, “Yes, of course. But I’m glad you have some time left for reading, and that you are able to use our books. If—” Struck by a sudden thought, he interrupted himself. “I say, do you know anything about bats?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “Have they paws? Or—well, some sort of feet?”

  She laughed hilariously. “Of course they have … whatever did you think?”

  “Never really thought about ’em at all,” he admitted. “I know they hang by their tails, though—”

  Again, that ripple of laughter rang out. “They hang by their feet and their thumbs.”

  He stared at her. “You’re bamming me. What bird ever had thumbs?”

  “Ah, but they are not birds, Professor Carruthers.”

  He chuckled. “Very well, you’ve teased me properly, little rascal. I knew you were bamming.”

  “Indeed I am not,” she protested, still half-laughing at him. “They are mammals, you see. And the most fascinating little creatures. I’m sure Merry has some books that will tell you more about them if you are really interested.”

  He assured her that he was, and received a warning that the next time they met she would quiz him to see how much he had learned of the subject.

  He escorted her as far as the village green, and watched her go on her way, her walk as graceful and unaffected as her manner. ‘What a little darling of a girl,’ he thought. And, turning for home, was so lost in reverie that he failed to see the malevolent glare that was levelled at him by the large villager who leaned from a cottage window. Nor did he see Ben Hessell spit contemptuously into the weedy garden as he passed.

  “Mammals, by Jove,” he murmured, and hastened his stride. He must find the books Rosalie had spoken of and learn as much as he might so that he could present himself without delay for the quiz.

  * * *

  Despite the early hour and her interrupted night, Phoebe went downstairs humming softly. The morning was bright, and she knew the brown habit with the big gold buttons became her. In the hall, a maid with dust mop in hand bobbed a curtsy. Phoebe bade her good morning, wandered to an elaborate gilt mirror, and took one last careful glance. Her broad-brimmed straw hat with the great orange feather curling down could be set, she decided, just a trifle more to one side, and she adjusted it carefully. The mirror reflected another face crowned by a flowing periwig. She turned and crossed to the far wall and the portrait that hung there, somewhat overshadowed by the tall armoire chest beside it.

  The gentleman wore a magnificent blue velvet coat with snowy lace at his throat and wrists. His mouth was shapely but disdainful, his features lean, and a half-moon patch on one cheekbone enhanced the beauty of a pair of thickly lashed grey eyes. Phoebe stared, fascinated by that arrestingly handsome face. The chin was sharper than Meredith’s, there was a difference about the mouth, also, and his son had not inherited such a perfectly chiselled nose, yet the likeness between the two, especially about the eyes, was marked. She was so intent that she failed to hear a step behind her, and gave a little shriek as the hat she had so carefully arranged was knocked forward over her eye.

  Spinning around, she found Carruthers behind her, looking amused. “What a miserable trick!” she exclaimed. “You’ve an odd sense of humour, sir.”

  The quirkish grin dawned and he reached upward. “You give me credit for a deal more
courage than I possess, ma’am. Wretched beast, will you never mend your manners?”

  The last remark was addressed to the large black cat that he lifted down from the top of the chest.

  “So this is Satan,” Phoebe said admiringly. “What a beautiful creature.”

  “And, like most beautiful creatures, spoiled, vain, and ill-mannered.” He met her level stare and drawled mockingly, “Dear me! Did you fancy I referred to you, Miss Ramsay?”

  Fuming, she stroked the cat, which had draped itself lazily over his arm. “Not unless you judge me beautiful.”

  “I am hoist by my own petard,” he sighed. “Horns of a dilemma! Allow me to escape by presenting another of my—encumbrances. Wicked hat-whacker, pay your respects.”

  He lifted the cat until it looked directly into Phoebe’s face, and it blinked great amber eyes at her, purring. She ruffled up the dense fur about its neck and it emitted an amiable trill and began to knead the air with big paws.

  Justice padded up and sniffed enquiringly. Satan became a hissing porcupine, jumped down, and streaked away; the hound in hot, if rather ungainly, pursuit.

  “Will Justice catch him?” asked Phoebe anxiously.

  “For his sake, I sincerely hope not. Satan would make mincemeat out of him.”

  She said, smiling, “I did not mean to be ill-mannered. I apologize for assuming you had knocked off my hat.”

  He bowed gravely. “I have no need to remove it. At present.”

  There seemed to be some hidden meaning to the words. She could not guess what, and deemed it safer not to enquire, so returned her attention to the portrait.

  “I see you have discovered my father,” he said.

  “Yes. A splendid gentleman.” He made no comment and, watching him from under her lashes, she added, “It seems rather an odd place for him.”

  His eyes were fixed on a point below the level of the frame. “Does it? I’ll admit I can think of a better one.”

  “You are very like him,” she persisted.