The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  Dazed, but hearing her angry denunciation, Jeffery said feebly, “No, no, Mama. My … fault. Not—Merry’s.”

  “Not Merry’s!” she exclaimed, wiping his mouth tenderly. “As if I had not seen him strike you down so brutally!”

  Meredith picked up his coat and stalked out, not so much as casting a glance at Phoebe.

  Seized by the belated awareness that she might have spoiled the match she had so eagerly welcomed, Lucille turned a dismayed glance to the silent girl. She encountered a shocked look and said falteringly, “My—my apologies, Miss Ramsay. My sons … a small disagreement only, you understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Phoebe quietly. “I have a brother myself. Will you pray excuse me?” And without waiting for a response, she hurried into the yard.

  She was seething with indignation when she entered the house. It seemed imperative that she come up with Meredith at once, but there was no sign of him in the rear hall. She went outside again and hurried around to the front. The man she met was not her quarry, but the perspiring steward, who had been mopping his close-cropped head, and now clapped on his wig in embarrassment.

  “You are Mr. Boles, I believe,” said Phoebe. “Did Mr. Meredith come this way?”

  “No, miss.” He eyed her curiously. “Nothing wrong, I trust?”

  She hesitated, but his broad countenance radiated kindliness. “I’m afraid he and his brother had a—er, slight disagreement,” she told him.

  “Turn-up, eh? Well, if I may be so bold, miss, it’s nought to be in a pucker over. They come to cuffs from time to time, being two very different articles, as you might say. But—Lord help any outsider as dares cause trouble with either one. The other’s after him like a shot!”

  “I guessed as much. Only—well, Mrs. Carruthers chanced to see Meredith level his brother rather neatly.”

  “Lordy, Lord! Then the fox is in with the chicks, and no mistake. The missus gave Mr. Meredith a raking down, I’ll warrant.”

  “Yes. Do you know where he went?”

  He ran a thoughtful gaze over her. A lovely little creature and no denying, he thought. But she’d a mind of her own, and unless he mistook the matter, that mind wasn’t exactly soppy with love for her future husband.

  Aware that she was being summed up, Phoebe turned her dimpling smile on the steward and, with a sigh, he capitulated. “He’s likely gone to the old abbey, miss.” He indicated a wooded hilltop. “If you follow the track there, going up the side of the hill, you’ll come to it.”

  VII

  The path was fairly steep and seemed even steeper in the heat of the day, and it was some minutes before Phoebe reached the pleasant shade of the trees. She could see no sign of a building, but walked on. After a while, the woods grew oddly hushed. The sun still slanted in a delicate tracery through the branches, the breeze moved the upper leaves idly, but lower down the air was very still, even the bird-songs seeming muted. She saw a structure ahead and hurried forward. There was not much left of the abbey to which Mr. Boles had referred: one soaring, crumbling wall, part of the aperture wherein had been a high Gothic window, and a tumbled heap of large stone slabs. The light wavered, the sunlight dancing through the leaves to draw sparkles from a little stream that chattered busily past the ruins.

  Carruthers was sitting on a massive slab, head and shoulders resting against the wall, one knee drawn up and his arm propped across it. She walked slowly towards him. He looked up, frowned in irritation, but came to his feet.

  Stopping before him, Phoebe found herself talking very softly, almost as though it were required here. “How lovely this place is. Like a chapel.”

  He drawled a cynical “Have you come to pray for my depraved and despotic soul?”

  She knew a moment of intense impatience, then thought, ‘He must be hurt and angry. And he knows I witnessed that disgraceful little scene.’ “I do not believe you to be depraved, Mr. Carruthers,” she said.

  “Only despotic, eh? Well, I take leave to tell you, ma’am, I did not drag you here by your hair!”

  She sighed. “You are all consideration, but I will take leave to tell you something, also. Namely, that if I thought ’twould serve to free us from our—unhappy entanglement, I’d gladly allow you to drag me back to Pineridge in such fashion.”

  “Would you? Well, I can sympathize with your feelings. If ever there was such a damnable coil!”

  She gave a shocked gasp and threw one hand to her heart.

  Carruthers scowled down at her. “If my language offends, I apologize. I’ve not a silver tongue at the best of times.”

  Phoebe, who had been present at several lively exchanges between her sire and his outspoken mama, folded her hands in saintly fashion and declared that she could endure it. “For they are only words, after all, and I expect it is merely a matter of—what a lady is accustomed to.”

  His eyes narrowed. “To judge by the conversation of most ladies these days, you must be accustomed to nonsense.”

  ‘Brute!’ she thought, and responded meekly, “Oh, yes. For it is, you know, what the gentlemen like to hear.”

  He threw back his head and gave an unexpected shout of laughter. “Touché! Do you always come up fighting?”

  “Only when excessively provoked.”

  “Is rare in a woman. Usually, they tend to—” He bit his lip.

  “Dear sir, you must not deny yourself on my account.”

  “Be grateful, ma’am,” he warned, amused. “I restrained a most unkind comment.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, have you a flag? A family banner, perchance?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “May I suggest you hoist it at once to the top of your flagpole? Truly, this is a very special occasion!”

  He chuckled and took her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “Little shrew!”

  “Large Tyrant,” she returned equably, but marvelling at the change laughter wrought in him.

  “Miss Phoebe,” he said, the smile lingering in his eyes, “might we, do you think, cry friends?”

  Such an overture was completely unexpected. Her cheeks flamed and her heart began to flutter in so silly a way that she could hardly command her voice, but she managed, “That would probably be advisable, Mr. Carruthers, since we plot our treason together.”

  “I have another name, you know,” he pointed out gently.

  “Yes. Well—Mr. Meredith, then.” She started to pull back, but his grip tightened. Phoebe looked up at him questioningly. The hushed silence, the dim arboreal light enfolded them. Carruthers drew her close, and kissed her.

  It was a kiss that bore no resemblance to those that Brooks Lambert had shared with her. Carruthers’s hands were like iron; his mouth was hard and fierce and hungry. She felt crushed and half smothered, and something else; something powerful and primitive, so that, frightened, she drew back. He released her at once, and she stood staring up at him. The eyes she had thought grey and icy were lit as with a clear blue fire. The lean planes of his face were pale beneath his tan, and the mouth that had taken hers so demandingly curved to a smile at once tender and confident.

  Muddled, she asked inconsequently, “What is this place?”

  “It is called Abbaye Enfoncée.”

  “Why? It is not submerged, but on a hilltop.”

  He glanced with proprietary fondness around the little glade. “Yes. But the monks who built here were very taken with the peace and stillness.” He added with the shyness of a man fearing ridicule, “It—er, does have rather an atmosphere of being under water, do not you think?”

  “That is exactly it,” she murmured. “An enchanted undersea hilltop.”

  Distantly, someone was calling. She started. “Good gracious! You kissed me, Mr. Carruthers!”

  “Merely exercising my rights.”

  “But—we—”

  “We are officially betrothed, you know.”

  He was still holding her hands. He was, in fact, pulling her back to him. She wondered in a remote
way if her ribs would survive another of his hugs. The blue blaze was in his eyes again; he was leaning to her, lips parted, that incredible tenderness in his face that made her breath hasten and her resolution disappear altogether. Resistless, she swayed closer.…

  “Phoebe…? Where in the duece are you?”

  “Sin!” And he sounded impatient. Phoebe drew back. She felt positively twittery, and said in a hurrying rush, “I must go.”

  This time he did not release her, but said huskily, “He’ll find you. Let him wait a minute.”

  “No. I should not— We must not— Oh, you are a dreadful man!”

  She ran quickly from the little glade, hearing his low chuckle sound behind her.

  Sinclair came toiling up the hill. “So there you are! Lord, Phoebe, there’s the deuce to pay!”

  “My heavens! Not Lascelles?”

  “No, no. Lambert is come, which is going to make it so dashed difficult. Why is your face so red? Oh—because your love is here, I suppose.”

  It was ridiculous to feel such a crushing sense of guilt. She was not actually betrothed to Lamb. In point of fact, Carruthers had more right to— She thought, ‘Lord, but I must be a shocking flirt!’ and asked quickly, “Why should it make things difficult for Carruthers? You knew we meant to try and break the betrothal.”

  “I didn’t mean just Carruthers. I hadn’t stopped to think that with Brooks staying right in the Hall, and hungry for promotion—and you know how he despises the Jacobites! Blasted sticky.”

  She gave a gasp. “Oh dear! Well, thank heaven it’s such an enormous, rambling place. Hopefully, you and Carruthers can slip in and out and scarcely be noticed.”

  He grunted. “Hopefully. Oh, and the reason I came seeking you is that Mama wants to see you. She’s properly up in the boughs because Lambert has appeared.”

  Phoebe moaned, and hurried into the house.

  Lady Eloise awaited her with an aggrieved air and a firm lecture. Kneeling beside her parlour chair and looking up at her pleadingly, Phoebe pointed out, “But Brooks often comes here. He is Carruthers’s nephew, Mama.”

  “Which is ridiculous on the face of it,” her mother argued. “You might just as well say his cousin, Duncan Tiele, is also Carruthers’s nephew. Which, in the very silly involvements that so often result from second marriages, I suppose he is. You may be sure I shall say nothing to Lucille Carruthers about your—er, about Captain Lambert’s hopes with regard to yourself, and you had best caution him not to do so.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I am sure Mrs. Carruthers will make nothing of his coming here on his leave.”

  “Probably not,” said my lady, the frown still evident in her green eyes. “But I make something of it, Phoebe. And so will your papa! And when the old lady comes … Oh, frightful!”

  Phoebe stared at her. “You mean—Grandmama is coming … here?”

  “Yes. She did not like to come at once, you know, but she told me she means to come as soon as she can get away from that bazaar for the orphanage.”

  “How—lovely,” said Phoebe rather hollowly, and having promised her mother that she would do nothing to displease Mr. Carruthers insofar as Brooks Lambert was concerned, she went off in search of the Captain.

  She had not far to search, for when she stopped in her bedchamber to take off her hat, Ada told her that Captain Lambert had sent up a note. It was brief and to the point:

  P.

  Must see you. Will wait in the Elizabethan garden. Urgent.

  L.

  Phoebe glanced uneasily at the clock. Quarter to twelve. Mrs. Lucille had not yet taken her through the gardens, and after lunch she was to go for a drive with Meredith. Still, if she hurried, there should be time. She went downstairs and out to the back of the house. The air was hot and rather lifeless now, with a few clouds creeping into view to the east. Across the drivepath were lawns and a belt of dense trees, beyond which lay the stables, barns, coach-houses, and tack-rooms. She made her way to the left, following a rock pathway that was extremely uneven. It wound along the rear of the ‘new’ wing and continued past the Lancastrian building, where it was shaded by a depressed-looking and sagging trellis covered by wilting vines. At the end of the pathway was an arched gate, and, opening this, Phoebe found herself in the great courtyard, with to her right the glooming bulk of Castle Carruthers.

  It was of the broad, massy-walled variety, rather than the tall proud type that she preferred, and put her in mind of the central keep at Arundel. Surveying its crumbling walls, broken steps, cracked dry moat, and the gaps in the battlements, she thought it had a melancholy, lonely look, and felt a pang of sympathy for the poor old thing. It was part of the heritage of this land and should not, she thought, be allowed to moulder away until no one would ever remember the sieges it had withstood, or the invincible face it must once have presented to the foreign invader. She realized she was dawdling, and hurried her steps. The courtyard was very wide, the cobbles even more irregular than the pathway had been, and her feet in their light slippers began to be sore. She was relieved when the gate leading to the garden of the Tudor addition came into view. This was where the family dwelt. There was a path in a better state of preservation than the others had been, but she walked on the lawn this time, grateful for the many old trees that provided shade and, hopefully, concealment from the windows. The garden was well tended, and she could see a distant gleam of ornamental water and intricate flower-beds that she would like to investigate when she had more time. At last she came around the corner where the Elizabethan addition commenced. This garden had seen very little care of recent years, by the look of it, but there was what must once have been a charming rose arbour and a drooping summer-house in which a man waited, who rose as she approached and came down the steps.

  Lambert held out both hands as he strode to join her, his enchanting smile warming her heart. “At last,” he exclaimed, bowing his handsome head over her fingers and pressing kisses upon them. “Gad, how I yearn to kiss you properly, my adored girl, but I’d best not, just in case.”

  “No. But do let us get in out of the sun.”

  He ushered her inside, and seized her hand again. “Phoebe, you’re lovelier each time I see you. Tell me what has been going forward. Have you told him that I am the third side of the eternal triangle?”

  “No, because you asked that I wait. I am so glad you were able to get leave.”

  He made a wry face. “I was—with reservations. It seems there’s some miserable hound of a rebel lurking about, and the whole area from here to the coast is to be beaten. I am ordered to join the search if I’m called on. And knowing the Colonel in command down here, I’ll likely be called on!” He peered at her uneasily. “Are you all right, love? You’re frightfully pale.”

  Phoebe was in the grip of cold terror. She managed somehow to reply that she was a little troubled by the muggy heat. “I shall be so glad when this is over, Lamb. However are we to go about it, do you think?”

  He sighed. “With difficulty. The announcement of your betrothal appeared in The Gazette this morning.”

  “Oh, my heavens! But—but I thought— Oh, Lamb! There will be no getting out of it, then.”

  He slipped an arm about her. “Cheer up, dearest. We’ll come about.” Having first cast a furtive glance about the weedy gardens, he dropped a kiss on her brow, and asked, “You are quite sure Carruthers is willing to give you up? I’d think the man who agreed to let you escape him must be properly rabbit-brained.”

  Firmly denying the memory of a dark, ardent face and the kiss that must surely have bruised her lips, she said, “Carruthers is not in love with me. How could be he, for we had never before met to speak of?”

  “Well, that’s a point in our favour, but”—he tilted her face upwards—“I cannot like to see your lovely eyes so worried. Chase away your fears, dear heart. I shall go at once to speak with Carruthers, and—”

  She caught at his hand. “No, Brooks! You must wait!” He stared at her and she went on
hastily, “He was—er, in a black rage earlier, and—”

  “Say no more!” He shuddered. “I know Merry’s black rages. Like father, like son. Mayhap his mood will improve by this evening. I’ll approach him after dinner. It’s as well you said nothing; better I confront him with it.”

  She stood. “You will be careful not to let anyone hear? Mrs. Lucille is very pleased by our betrothal, and I would not wish to hurt her.”

  “Nor I.” Having also come to his feet, he said, “Poor little thing, she has much to bear, one way and another. Must you go so soon, dearest? I’ve had very little of your time, and there is so much I want to ask you.”

  She hesitated, but he regarded her so wistfully that she relented and sat down again. “Just a few minutes, though, and I’ve a question for you, first. Brooks, you must know Meredith well. Has he enemies?”

  “Lord, yes!” He grinned. “The only type of man who can go through life without ’em must be an insipid kind of fellow, and whatever else one might say of my uncle, he’s not insipid. Why d’you ask?”

  She told him about Sir Malcolm Lockwood and the poisoning of his dogs. Lambert whistled softly. “Zounds, but I mislike the sound of that. What did Merry say?”

  “Very little, but it was clear he doesn’t want his mama worried by it, so please do not mention it when she is by.”

  “No, I won’t. But I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I can find out anything. And now for my much more important enquiries.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance,” he said rather hesitantly, “has my rich uncle replaced me in your affections?”

  The question annoyed her. She said, “I scarcely know Mr. Carruthers, but from what you have told me I could not fail to be grateful to him, if only because he has been good to you.”

  “And that properly set me down. As I deserved, for being so crass. Faith, I’ll be lucky do I not drive you right into his arms with my jealousy.”

  “Small chance of that,” she assured him, albeit with another guilty pang because she had already been wrapped in Carruthers’s arms. “I rather gather your uncle is very much enamoured of another lady.” He looked at her curiously, and she said with proper nonchalance, “Rosalie somebody or other.”