Her heart beginning to leap about with nervousness, Phoebe said, “Captain Lambert came seeking us.”
“So I see. One of my people is bringing a cart to take this silly rascal back to the Hall. We’ll be fortunate are we not rained on before we reach home. Now, what’s to do, Brooks?” With a faint smile, he said teasingly, “I think I do not like to find you alone here with my lady.”
Lambert said, “Well, that’s the point, you see. Phoebe is my lady.”
VIII
It was said. Phoebe thought numbly, ‘I could have handled it more diplomatically than that!’ and felt utterly wretched.
Carruthers stood motionless, staring at Lambert’s wry smile in silence.
Thunder growled, closer this time.
Lambert asked anxiously, “You don’t object, do you, Merry? Phoebe said neither of you wanted this betrothal.”
“You…?” said Carruthers in a very soft voice. “You are her—fine brave gentleman?”
Well—er, yes,” answered Lambert, flushing slightly.
The pale eyes darted to Phoebe, and she was reminded of Sinclair’s remark about being transfixed. “Truth?” he demanded.
Her voice cracking in a ridiculous way, she said, “Brooks and—er, I—”
“Yes, it is truth,” interpolated Lambert, irked. “Do you think I—”
“Be silent!” The words were flung at him, and he stared uneasily.
“Miss Ramsay,” Carruthers grated, “I am at a loss to understand why you saw fit to conceal this—attachment. Perhaps you will be so good as to explain.”
“Don’t take that tone with her,” protested Lambert. “She—”
“I asked … her!”
“The devil,” said Lambert, bristling. “There’s no—”
Phoebe interposed desperately, “I told you, Mr. Carruthers, that my family has not given their approval.”
“That don’t explain why you’d have failed to mention that your admirer was my nephew.” He turned a smouldering gaze on Lambert. “You instructed her to keep silent, is that it?”
“Yes. Had I known about it beforehand, you may believe I’d have come to you at once. As it was already a fait accompli, I thought it better to wait until I could come down and explain things, and ask your help.”
Carruthers echoed rather incredulously, “My—help?”
“Well, after all, old fellow, you don’t want to wed Miss Ramsay, and she don’t want to wed you. On the other hand, I want very much to wed her.”
At this point a cart came rattling into view, a tanned youth driving the sturdy cob. Carruthers lifted Justice once more and carried the dog to the rear of the cart, the youth jumping down to lower the back.
Lambert muttered, “He’s in a flame. Dammitall, I might’ve known he’d take one look at you, and—”
“No, no, Lamb! ’Tis only that he is cross because I did not tell him at once. I wish I had!”
“I didn’t want you to have to tell him. He has such a ferocious temper, there’s never any knowing—” He broke off as Carruthers instructed the youth to “take it carefully,” waved the cart off, and returned to them.
“Well,” he said briskly. “Let’s try and come at the straight of this. You want me to draw back, I take it.”
Relieved because the steely look had eased, Phoebe nodded. “You said you were willing to do so.”
“No, ma’am. I said if it was humanly possible to escape this—ah, contretemps, I would do so. I begin to think it may not be possible.”
“What?” shouted Lambert furiously.
“Why?” demanded Phoebe.
“Firstly, ma’am, although neither you nor I want to wed, both our families are delighted by our betrothal.”
“Yes, but you knew when we were obliged to—” She bit her lip as his eyes flashed a warning.
He went on, “Secondly, since I cannot jilt you without ruining you, the only way out that I can see is for you to jilt me.”
“Yes, of course,” said Lambert.
“Oh … dear!” gasped Phoebe, genuinely dismayed. “Is there no other way?”
“If there is, I wish you may tell me of it. And since there has already been a touch of scandal in my family, for my mama’s sake I’d as soon not add to our reputation. Even so, I’d allow you to jilt me were there a possibility you and Brooks could wed. But—”
Lambert interrupted angrily, “But you have begun to think you’d not be averse to take Phoebe for your bride, eh?”
Carruthers looked at him steadily. “I begin to see that to get out of this is going to result in pain to a number of people, and disgrace for me.”
“But, dammitall, she—don’t want you!”
“True,” said Carruthers agreeably. “But the chances of her being able to marry you are remote, and I find myself unwilling to face ostracism and censure in so uncertain a cause.”
“I’ll win ’em over!” Lambert declared. “I’ll find a way! I’ll go to your grandmama at Pineridge, Phoebe. On my knees, if I must!”
“Grandmama is coming here,” she said.
“Excelsior! Only let me try, Merry! You know you’ve always maintained you mean to remain a bachelor. If I can win the old lady over, Sir George will not dispute it, and your mama likes me, doesn’t she, Phoebe?”
“Yes. You know she does.”
“There must be some way to get into Lady Martha’s good graces,” said Lambert. “If you would only help us, Merry.”
Carruthers regarded Phoebe speculatively. “On a condition—perhaps. Miss Ramsay, if you are forbidden to wed Lambert, you will be obliged to marry someone, no?”
She nodded.
“In that unhappy event, would it be repugnant to you to become my wife? No—do not answer quickly, out of courtesy. I want the truth. I know I am not a handsome fellow and inclined to be quick-tempered. You must not hesitate to be honest if marriage to me would repel you.”
Firing up again, Lambert cried, “Now, see here!”
“Well, of course it would not!” exclaimed Phoebe.
She looked so indignant that Carruthers’s lips quirked into his sideways grin. “Then I think I will not allow you to jilt me; at least for a while. However, before you explode, Lambert, let me say that I appreciate your predicament, and mean to do my best for you. If you can win Lady Martha Ramsay over within a month, I will find some pretext and withdraw my offer. If not—the spurious betrothal will become a genuine one.”
Phoebe searched his face, but his expression was unreadable.
“A month!” Brooks cried, triumphantly. “I’ll think of something, Phoebe, I swear it! Surely, between the three of us, we should be able to find a way out! Merry, you’re a dashed good fellow. I know how difficult it will be for you. Thank you!”
Carruthers said, “Save your thanks till the twenty-ninth of August, Brooks.”
The lightning flash was brilliant, and the thunder spoke an instant response. Lambert’s mare shied skittishly, and he said, “Jove, I must go, or my fiendish Colonel will have me facing a firing squad. Merry—you’ll see that Phoebe gets back safely?”
“Marplot! Here I had thought to toss her into the Quarry for her betrayal of me.” Carruthers threw Phoebe up into her saddle. “Shall you return tonight, Brooks?”
“I hope so, but I rather doubt it. Fotheringay’s a stern taskmaster!”
Carruthers jerked around. “Fotheringay? Major Mariner Fotheringay?”
“Lieutenant Colonel now, dear boy. You know him?”
“I do. He’s a tartar. Have a care. If you are demoted your chances will lessen, you know.”
Lambert groaned, waved, and rode off through the spattering rain.
Phoebe murmured, “If only I could tell him how we entrapped you into this, Mr. Carr—”
“Meredith.” He stripped off his coat and handed it up to her. “No, do not argue. As you can see by this brown face of mine, I’m accustomed to being out in the weather.”
She pulled it around her shoulders. It was
still warm, and smelled of him: soap and leather, and the faintest hint of a clean, masculine fragrance. She felt snug and, oddly, secure.
Carruthers was grinning at her. “What became of your arms?”
She waved one.
“That will not do, ma’am. We’re in for a downpour, and you must put it all the way on.” He mounted up, leaned over and helped her slip her arms into the sleeves and fold back the great cuffs. “There, that’s better.”
She put her hand on his wrist, then shrank as the lightning flared garishly and the thunder cracked, seemingly just above the tree-tops. Carruthers’s hand turned to claim hers and hold it strongly. “Don’t be scared, but I think we’d best get out from under these trees.”
“Oh! Look at the rain! Meredith, you will be soaked!”
“Yes. Only think what a pest you are.”
She smiled, and they started off, side by side.
He said, “I fancy you are wishing me at Jericho for not immediately falling in with your plans. The thing is, I’d not realized our betrothal would so delight my mama. And—well, she has known a deal of grief. I’d prefer she not suffer any more, on my account.”
So that was why he had struck the bargain with Lambert. She said, “Then we must see that she is not injured by this horrid mess.”
He was briefly silent, then asked, “Do you notice how short is the distance you can see clearly?”
She blinked through the downpour, then cried eagerly, “You mean to go to Lieutenant Lascelles!”
“Mariner Fotheringay is an excellent officer, and very determined to become a full colonel, I’ve no doubt. To capture Lance would turn the trick for him. I wish your brother had not disappeared, but—never mind.” He paused of necessity as another peal battered them. “I’ll take you as far as the drivepath, Miss Phoebe, and you can explain to my mama that I turned aside to free a sheep that was drowning, or some such thing. If you find your brother, tell him to head north to try and come up with me.”
She looked at him uneasily. His white shirt was already clinging wetly to his muscular frame. “Oh, you are soaked,” she cried, and drew Showers to a halt. “And north is in the opposite direction!”
“Yes. Do come along, ma’am. We waste time.”
“No!” She reined about. I will come with you and help. We must be halfway there.”
“If you suppose for one minute that I would—”
Phoebe kicked home her heels and Showers galloped off.
Swearing in exasperation, Carruthers followed.
* * *
Phoebe trod cautiously along the littered floor of the Cut, Carruthers holding her arm and guiding her around puddles, rocks, and other obstacles. They had left the horses tethered under a clump of stunted trees, and seemed to have been clambering amongst undergrowth and boulders for an inordinate length of time. Phoebe tripped over her wet skirt, and Carruthers’s grip tightened.
“If you would just have stayed with the horses, as I told you to do!”
“No. You might need me. Besides, I mean to be sure—”
“Hell and the devil!”
His firm clasp was withdrawn and he was running. Peering through the grey curtain of the rain, Phoebe saw him leap a fallen tree branch, then go to his knees. Her heart leapt into her throat. She plucked up her skirts and stumbled on as rapidly as possible. “Are you all right?” she gasped, coming up with him.
“Yes. But this stupid gudgeon is not!”
She saw then that he was lifting Lascelles, who looked dead, and was sprawled in full view of anyone who might have come past.
“I’ll have to haul him again,” grumbled Carruthers. “Do you go on ahead, ma’am. I’ll direct you. And have a care, this loose shale is tricky.”
He pulled Lascelles across his shoulder, then struggled to his feet. Slipping past, Phoebe set off, his softly called instructions guiding her to a dense growth of vines and shrubs. She pulled these aside, revealing a shallow indentation in the rocky wall. Carruthers carried Lascelles inside and laid him on the blankets that had been smuggled here the night before.
“I’ll have to tie that wound again,” he said roughly. “Do you see if you can find the brandy. We brought a flask. And tear me some bandages from that old sheet, if you please.”
She obeyed, flinching as she watched his crude surgery, yet noticing that, despite his begrudging manner, his hands were very gentle. When he was done, he wrapped the injured man in one of the blankets, and Phoebe used another piece of the sheet to dry Lascelles’s wet hair. Carruthers, his own dark locks dripping, propped his friend’s head and shoulders, and Phoebe contrived to get a little of the potent liquor through Lascelles’s teeth. For a moment there was no change, then he coughed weakly, groaned, and blinked up at them.
“Merry…?” he faltered. “What—the deuce…?”
“What, indeed? Are you quite out of your senses? Why did you venture out?”
Lascelles frowned, then said fretfully, “Must get … cipher delivered. Late now. Gave—gave solemn … word. Must get—away from here!”
“Now listen, you confounded idiot, the military are thick, searching for you! I’d tie you if I thought it would serve, but it won’t. So I must move you into my Keep.”
Phoebe looked at him sharply.
Lascelles started up, frantic. “No! Merry—you cannot! Think of your mama … and Jeff…”
“Damn you! Do you think I’ve not thought of them? Phoebe, will you stay with him while I bring the horses up?”
“No,” she said, and ran out of the little shelter and into the rain.
Carruthers was after her in a flash. “Ma’am, when I ask you to stay—”
“Yes, but I am not Justice. And—no, Merry! If the Lieutenant became agitated and delirious, I could not control—”
His hand clamped across her mouth. Listening intently, he whispered, “Someone’s coming!” and dragged her back into the cave.
With a swoop, he gathered up Lascelles’s discarded rags and the brandy flask. Phoebe flew to pile the bag of food, bottles, and bandages on the heap Carruthers had made. Turning, she cried an aghast “Merry!”
Lascelles, muttering incoherently, was on his feet and hobbling painfully to the opening. Carruthers sprinted after him, spun him around and struck once, then caught him as he fell, dumped him unceremoniously with the piled articles, and threw the grey blanket over the whole.
Phoebe, torn with sympathy, protested, “Had you to strike him?”
“No time to write a letter!”
She was swept up and laid down. “My apologies to your Fine Handsome,” he muttered, swooping down beside her. Before she could gather her shocked senses she was snatched into a crushing embrace and relentlessly kissed.
A sudden brightness; a stifled laugh. Phoebe tore free and jerked her scarlet face to the opening. A captain stood there; not, as she had hoped, one of the young officers who had been guests in the Hall last evening, but a man of sturdier build. She made a swift assessment of a jutting chin below a small mouth, just now pursed with contempt; hard blue eyes, and a person neat, despite the rain. He said on a note of disgust, “So it’s you, Carruthers. My apologies for the—intrusion.”
Two grinning troopers peered from the entrance. Carruthers sprang up and helped Phoebe to her feet. She turned away, instinctively straightening her hair. She shook her wet skirts and stood where she could hide as much as possible of the blanket-covered pile, sick with dread that Lascelles might at any second recover consciousness.
Carruthers said with a rather embarrassed laugh, “Jacob Holt, isn’t it? My affianced and I were caught in the rain and—er”—he winked confidingly—“took shelter. Might I enquire what you’re about?”
“We’re hunting a damned rebel, and when we catch the bounder it will go hard on him, I can tell you. Take care, Carruthers. He’s a desperate rogue and not likely to stop at murder would it help him escape the axe.”
“And you think he is on my lands?”
“If he i
s—we’ll find him! Good day to you. Ma’am.”
With a short salute, he marched out. They heard the diminishing sounds of the search party, and Carruthers slipped outside.
Phoebe, shaking, uncovered Lascelles and propped his head on a rolled-up coat. Carruthers came back, and she asked, “Have they gone?”
“Yes. Towards the Quarry. We’ll go the other way.”
She was aghast. “You never mean to move him now?”
“No choice, ma’am. He’s too far gone to know what he’s doing and would run himself into capture did we leave him another hour. I’ll haul the silly fellow, but can you manage the rest of this paraphernalia? We daren’t leave any evidence.”
“I think you are raving mad,” she told him. But she gathered all the articles into the blanket, rolled it as well as she could manage, and followed him into the dank and deadly afternoon.
* * *
No sooner had Phoebe sent Ada away than a scratch at her door was followed by the appearance of her brother, who crept in, pulled up a chair, and eyed her with a mixture of anxiety and amusement.
“Oh, Sin…!” she gulped, reaching out to him.
He moved the chair closer to the bed and squeezed her hand. “You look a properly drowned rat. What the deuce happened? Mrs. Lucille is beside herself, and Mama says you came back soaked to the skin and with your teeth chattering like castanets, and ’twill be a miracle do you not catch the pneumonia.”
“I know. I am under strict orders to keep to my bed. Have you spoken with Carruthers?”
“I’ve not had the chance. When last heard from, he was spinning some nonsensical tale about your horse running off because it was scared by lightning, and him having to chase it for five miles. On that mare? Fustian!
“Yes. Sin—we moved Lascelles into the Keep!”
Sinclair turned white, then red. Springing to his feet, he thundered, “You—what?”
“Ssshh!” she hissed, throwing a terrified look to the door.
“Do you tell me that wild man dragged you into such a mad start? In broad daylight?”
“Will you be quiet? Sin, he had little choice.”
“He could have sent you to find me! To think he’d be so daft as to—”
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