The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  Meredith said, “So soon?” He addressed his mother, but for an instant his gaze had gone to Jeffery. Phoebe intercepted both that look of steel and his brother’s fading smile, and could all but feel the rising tension in the room.

  “Oh, yes, am I not efficient?” trilled Lucille, pouring Jeffery another cup of tea. She gave a little-girl giggle. “I must be truthful. Rosalie came up from the village to help. She has such a fine hand and is always so willing, sweet child.”

  Jeffery’s preoccupation with his brother was abandoned. He said eagerly, “Rosalie Smith? Jove, how surprised I was to find her all grown up! A childhood friend, Miss Ramsay, grown into a charming girl! She tells me you have kindly loaned her some of our books, Mama. Did you know she has an interest in birds?”

  Eyeing him uneasily, Lucille agreed, “Yes, a very great interest.”

  “One supposes your fascination with bats will increase,” said Meredith drily. “In the meantime, I’d like a private word with you.” He stood. “You will excuse us, ladies?”

  Lucille turned pale. “You may run along, Meredith,” she quavered, “but you are not to take Miss Ramsay away, and I want Jeffery to tell me about this new interest in—did you say bats, dearest?”

  Meredith bowed expressionlessly, and left them. Phoebe waited a few minutes, but sensing that Lucille wished to speak to her son alone, made her excuses and started off on the long trek to her bedchamber to put off her riding habit. She encountered Meredith in the cavernous Great Hall, conversing with a pleasant-looking man whom he left when he caught her eye. Going to her, he asked, “Assistance required, ma’am?”

  She hesitated, then, as they walked slowly towards the stairs, said, “I think you are angry again.”

  “Not with you, Miss Ramsay. Did you really find my lands beautiful?”

  It was a warning to stay clear. She accepted his right not to discuss whatever had so enraged him that he fairly vibrated with it, but ignored his question. “Mr. Carruthers, why was your glove left in Sir Malcolm’s kennels? Did someone deliberately seek to throw suspicion on you?”

  “Or perhaps merely throw my glove at the Squire’s dogs,” he said lightly.

  Halting, she said, “You must realize it is a serious matter. If you have an enemy who would do so dreadful a thing and try to implicate you—”

  “If I do, I can think of no possible reason why you should be troubled by it, ma’am. I am only sorry we had to meet that old curmudgeon.”

  “Perhaps he is curmudgeonly because he misses his son.”

  “Are you always so kind as to make excuses for bad temper?” He smiled faintly. “If so, you may even begin to think more kindly of me.”

  She laughed. “Ah, but you have no sons to vex you, sir.” She regretted the words the instant they were spoken, and he reacted just as she feared he might.

  “Only a fribble of a brother,” he muttered, his brow darkening again.

  In an attempt to pull his thoughts from Jeffery, she asked, “Shall you see Sir Malcolm’s son? Perhaps you could help them to reconcile. What is his name, by the way?”

  “Sir Malcolm Lockwood.”

  Starting up the stairs, she said, “Well, I know that, foolish man. I mean his son.”

  Again, that brief hesitation. Then he replied quietly, “Lancelot.”

  Phoebe stumbled on the second step and clung to the railing. Turning back to look down at him, she gasped, “Lancelot? Surely— My heavens! He is not Lascelles?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He changed his name, as did so many, in an attempt to protect his family.”

  “But … but … Oh! You must tell him! Poor man! To think that his son is so badly hurt and only a little distance away! You should have told him when—”

  A footman passed, glancing at them curiously.

  Carruthers interposed a curt and low-voiced “Pray moderate your tone, Miss Ramsay. And I should have done nothing of the sort.”

  Indignant, she cried, “I cannot credit that you could be so—so unfeeling! The Squire is not a casual acquaintance—he is the Lieutenant’s father!”

  His lip curled. “Do your powers of recollection cease at that point? Certainly, you heard Lance beg me to say nothing. I gave my word I would not. A gentleman don’t break his word and, despite my many failings, I hope I am still a gentleman!”

  He turned on his heel and left her, his spurs jingling as he returned to the man who still waited at the far side of the hall.

  Phoebe went upstairs, vexed by his ill manners and stupid stubbornness, and dismayed by the awareness that her little chat with him had done nothing to improve his dark mood.

  Ada greeted her with a glowing look. “What a lovely day, miss.”

  “It would be, were we away from this horrid place,” said Phoebe crossly.

  “Oh, I dunno. It’s got a lot to—er, recommend it.”

  Allowing her blouse to be removed, Phoebe glared at her. “I suppose that coy look means you have captivated some poor helpless male.”

  “Has Mr. Carruthers upset you, miss?” evaded Ada demurely. “A bit of a tartar, ain’t he? But his people think the world of him. And I must say as I likes them devilish eyes. They make me come over all jellyfish-like.”

  “Vulgar baggage!” snapped Phoebe, turning on her in a flame. “He is a stubborn, arrogant, foul-tempered—”

  Ada’s mouth hung open. “But—miss! If you hate Mr. Carruthers, why ever did you agree to wed him?”

  Close to tears, which was as infuriating as it was inexplicable, Phoebe cried, “Wed him? La, I’d sooner wed a coal scuttle! If ever there was a—” Ada’s stupefied expression restored her to reality and the perils of her situation. She drew a deep breath and turned away. “Oh, pay me no heed,” she muttered.

  “Dear Miss Phoebe.” Ada patted her shoulder consolingly. “A lover’s quarrel, right enough. ’Tis what adds spice to the pudding, so me ma used to say.”

  It was, thought Phoebe broodingly, a singularly revolting expression. But she wondered, as Ada hummed happily while removing her riding habit, why she felt so very miserable.

  * * *

  Meredith Carruthers’s temper, sorely tried by the obtuseness of Miss Phoebe Ramsay, was not improved by the subsequent interview with his steward, nor by the long wait for his brother. It was another half-hour before Jeffery was able to leave the breakfast table. He arrived in the stable area to find Meredith in the large barn looking like a thunder-cloud and the steward obviously relieved by the interruption. Boles, a man of middle years, ample girth, and excellent humour, had been in the service of the family since boyhood. He was that rare commodity, a contented man, enjoying his cheerful wife, his six lively children, and, now that Mr. Paul was gone, his work. He beamed at Jeffery, whom he considered a right slap-up young gentleman and, in response to a jerk of the head from his employer, made his excuses and slipped away, taking with him the groom who had been currying a fine bay mare.

  It was warm in the fragrant barn, and Meredith’s coat was slung over his shoulder. Noting his expression, Jeffery attempted to head off disaster and attacked first. “This fellow Ramsay,” he said. “I take it you’re aware he is annoying Rosalie Smith?”

  Meredith frowned. “I was not aware they’d met. Do you say he has behaved towards her in an ungentlemanly way?”

  “Well, not—er, that, perhaps. But there’s not much doubt what he intends. It is not always necessary that a man see a lovely girl more than once to—er, that is—well, I saw him—”

  “Indeed? You were present during this—ah, orgy?”

  Clenching his fists, Jeffery growled, “I chanced to see him pawing her.”

  Stiffening, Meredith said sharply, “Did you, by God! I’ll own myself surprised, for I’d not have thought him the type to take advantage of one of our people whilst he was a guest in my house. I’ll put a stop to it, you may be sure.” He added slowly, “As I would did any man maul her.”

  “Deuce take it,” exclaimed Jeffery, burdened with the guilty aw
areness that he’d not only carried tales, a trait he despised, but that he’d actually had very little justification. “If you mean me!”

  “Should I? It will not do, Jeff.”

  “I should like to know just what you mean by that!”

  “Nonsense. You know perfectly well what I mean by it. If you plan to enter the petticoat line, my lad, you must look farther afield.”

  “To leave the field clear for you—is that it?”

  Meredith’s jaw set ominously. “You forget, I think, that I am betrothed. As you conveniently forget other things.”

  Before the lash of tone and look, Jeffery felt suddenly very small and stupid, which did not help his temper. “For instance?”

  “I have just learned that you were rusticated at the beginning of May! One collects you enjoyed a jolly sojourn in Town.”

  Jeffery paled, but said with defiance, “You may think whatsoever you please. Be damned if I’ll allow you to dictate—”

  Meredith flung his coat aside. “I shall dictate to you for so long as you are under my guardianship. You young fool, d’you think I do not know what you were about? You were with Glendenning again.”

  “What if I was? I—I suppose you’ll not dare to say that he’s beneath my touch? Tio is—”

  “Horatio Glendenning is a fine fellow. He’s also a man who has been on the Town several years, and—”

  “And I,” interposed Jeffery, smarting at the implication, “am a silly stripling, is that it? Well, you may as well know that I was with Tio. I like him, and I like his brother, and be damned if I can see why you object.”

  “I object not to him, or Michael, but to the company they keep, and the beliefs Tio holds. You know he runs with de Villars and that crew.”

  “And from that you deduce that Glendenning is a Jacobite? Stuff! I’ve heard nothing to substantiate it. Besides, you sold out because of Cunningham, so you must—”

  “To have sold out because I was revolted by needless brutality is one thing. To bring down a military surveillance on this house is quite another! And apart from that indiscretion, I should like to be apprised of the reason you were rusticated—this time.”

  “Some snivelling sneak wrote to you, I gather.”

  “It would appear to be a courtesy that my friends write me, since you choose not to be above-board.”

  Jeffery’s eyes fell. Very red in the face, he muttered, “It is only until next term, for Lord’s sake.”

  “I did not ask till when. I asked why.” A pause, then Carruthers said in a kinder voice, “What the devil ails you, Jeff? If you hate Cambridge, only say so and I’ll haul you out and buy you a pair of colours, or—”

  “I don’t hate it.” Jeffery stole a glance at him and said with a sheepish smile, “But thank you for the escape route.” The frown returned to his brother’s eyes, seeing which he frowned also and, with a typically swift change of mood, added irritably, “Deuce take it, were you never rusticated? No, I suppose not. You’re so damned sober and industrious! One might think that since you take after Papa, whereas—”

  In sudden white-faced fury, Meredith gritted, “Do not ever say so, or by God—” He shut off the savage words, then added harshly, “For Lord’s sake, do not push me into an action I’ve no wish to take. Tell me why you were rusticated.”

  Jeffery hesitated, started to speak, tightened his lips, and turned away. “No. It was a personal matter.”

  “A petticoat, I suppose. Dammit, Jeff, you offer me little choice but to—”

  “To do what?” flared Jeffery. “Have me flogged and thrown into the oubliette? I am a man now! For the love of heaven, leave me be!”

  Meredith caught his wrist as he started away. “I’ll not leave you be while you ruin yourself and bring danger on this house!”

  Striving in vain to free himself, Jeffery shouted, “I’ll not endanger your precious estate, blast it all!”

  “There are people dwelling on this ‘precious estate’ you turn up your silly nose at. Or does Mama’s well-being matter a jot to you?”

  It was the last straw. Torn between remorse and a secret sense of valiant justification, Jeffery’s temper burst its bounds. He wrenched free, thus also tearing the shoulder of his new coat. With a cry of rage, he lashed out.

  Meredith dodged the blow and retaliated as hotly. It was not the first time they had engaged in fisticuffs in the heat of a quarrel, and for a few minutes the action was fast and furious. Jeffery was eight years younger, and although slenderly built, was fast and well-taught. Meredith, however, was solidly powerful and in perfect condition from long days spent in the saddle or toiling with his men on the land. His own wrath soon evaporating, he contented himself with blocking Jeffery’s furious attacks but making no attempt to strike back. Unable to break through that strong defence, Jeffery’s rage was fanned to the boiling point. Meredith evaded a flying fist by the simple expedient of a supple sway to the side, and said with a grin, “Oh, enough, bantling.” He lowered his fists and stepped clear.

  Blinded with wrath, Jeffery jumped in and struck hard and true. Hurt at last, Meredith reacted instinctively. Jeffery was smashed backwards and went down to lie with arms wide tossed and crimson streaking down his chin.

  * * *

  “Do come, Sin,” urged Phoebe, critically viewing the pale primrose gown and the matching hat Ada had set over the dainty cap atop her curls. “It is such a lovely day, and Mrs. Lucille is eager to show me the gardens.”

  Lounging on the bed, her brother grinned at her reflected image. “Much you care about the gardens unless Lambert’s in ’em. When does he arrive?”

  Phoebe sighed and turned to face him, pulling on her mittens. “I don’t know. Oh, what a pickle it is! I have no wish to upset Mrs. Lucille when she has so kindly accepted me for her daughter-in-law. She’s such a dear.”

  “A dear widgeon,” he said without rancour. “Lord, Phoebe, did you ever see such single-mindedness? One might think Jeffery walked on water.”

  “Well, he is a nice boy. A trifle rackety yet, perhaps, but that is only youth.”

  Amused, he asked, “Is that how you think of me, dear dowager? I’m much of an age with him.”

  “Yes, but you were born wise. Besides, Meredith handles him in the worst possible way.”

  “Alas, poor Meredith! He’s the one most truly caught in our trap, and Jove, I wish he were not, for I like the man. Only—” He shrugged. “What matter? You’d best run now. Does Mama go with you?”

  “No. She is a little fatigued from the journey, I think.”

  He crossed to open the door for her, but on the threshold she paused, looking up at him. “You accused me of having taken Mr. Carruthers in aversion, which is not true. But you, I think, really dislike his brother. May I ask why?”

  He regarded her in his serious, unsmiling way for an instant, then gave her a broad grin. “Jealousy. I met the most choice little village lass. It appears he also is enchanted, and when he saw me with her was so enraged he—”

  “So there you are, Miss Ramsay. And how charmingly you look!” Lucille came along the hall with a swish of draperies, herself so lovely in lilac cotton over a white eyelet underdress that Sinclair was moved to compliment her.

  “Such a delightful boy,” murmured Lucille, accompanying Phoebe down the stairs. “’Tis easy to see why the girls so admire him.”

  Phoebe slanted a sharp glance at her. “Sinclair has never been in the petticoat line, ma’am, if that is what you mean.”

  “Good gracious! How forthright you young people are today!”

  “Oh—your pardon. I only meant—”

  “No, no. I admire loyalty. Especially between family members. It is just that—Jeffery chanced to mention your brother was much struck by one of our local beauties. And I—er…”

  “A word of warning?” Phoebe smiled as they crossed the Great Hall and walked towards the back door. “Never say she is a designing woman, ma’am?”

  “Indeed not! The dearest child imagi
nable. Only…” Mrs. Lucille murmured almost to herself, “I cannot like to see Jeffery so…”

  “Infatuated? Surely, he is a handsome fellow, and will have many conquests before he meets his own lady.”

  “True. If only it were not Rosalie. It would never do.… And—and Meredith, you know, is excessive protective of her.”

  A lackey had followed at a discreet distance and now hurried ahead to throw open the back door for them. Lucille smiled at him, then put up her parasol as they stepped into the bright sunlight and walked toward the drive. “Do not misunderstand,” she went on. “My sons are devoted, as you have seen. Meredith is a trifle severe with Jeffery at times, but they are deeply attached, and— What on earth…?”

  A small crowd of grooms and stable-boys were gathered around the open doors of the barn, watching what was, to judge by the sounds, a lively scuffle.

  “How disgraceful,” said Lucille, hurrying forward. “I do apologize that our servants indulge in such crude behaviour.”

  One of the boys glanced around, saw them, and in a flash the doorway was cleared. Determined to put a stop to the brawl, Lucille hastened into the dim interior, Phoebe close behind her. They arrived in the same instant that Meredith declared a halt to the fight. Phoebe gave a gasp of indignation as Jeffery attacked after his brother had lowered his hands. Her shock was smothered by Lucille’s shrill scream as Jeffery went down.

  Meredith spun around. In his shirt-sleeves, his hair disordered, his lean body poised for action, he looked like some young buccaneer, Phoebe thought, and had a brief image of him clinging to the rigging of his great galleon, a cutlass brandished in one hand as he prepared to board an enemy vessel.

  Lucille experienced no such delusions. She flew to sink to her knees beside Jeffery. “My darling boy,” she sobbed, dabbing a dainty square of lace-edged cambric at his split lip. “Oh, my dearest child!” Tears spilled over. She glared up at Meredith and demanded brokenly, “Why? Why must you be forever so—so churlish and harsh? I know you cannot help it, but—is there none of the Bainbridge gentleness in your blood?”

  He said nothing, standing motionless, watching her.