The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

“Stumbled onto a glove. Speaking of which, you look awful! Have you been ill?”

  “Stumbled onto a sword-point.” The laughing gaze turned to Phoebe once more.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” exclaimed Carruthers. “Allow me to present Captain Roland—er, Otton. Roly, my betrothed, Miss Phoebe Ramsay.”

  Phoebe curtseyed and Captain Otton swept her an impressive bow. “Can I believe this?” he said, his eyes twinkling at her. “However came you to be so taken in, ma’am? Or have you performed some great and noble deed, Merry, to win yourself so fair a flower?”

  Phoebe blushed, and thought, ‘What a saucy rascal!’

  “Never you mind what I’ve done,” Carruthers retaliated. “You see what I meant when I told you I had named my black truly, Miss Ramsay!”

  Otton extended his arm, she slipped her hand onto it, and he led her across the hall to the stairs. “Never listen to him,” he whispered. “He’s terrified for fear I might win you away from him.”

  “Be off, varlet,” said Carruthers, stepping between them. “But—not too soon, I hope. You do stay with us, Roly?”

  With a hand on his heart, Otton said, “Nothing could drive me away!”

  Amused by such outrageous flirting, Phoebe excused herself and went up to her chamber to change for luncheon. Ada found her mistress unusually quiet, and having made a few attempts at conversation, she lapsed into silence.

  Phoebe’s thoughts drifted from the legend of the lady with the rose to Meredith’s plans to renovate the old house and the castle. He loved his home. Pride for it shone in his eyes, and his voice held a caressing note when he spoke of it. Not that she could blame him. It was a monstrosity at the moment and could never be made into a conventional dwelling, but it had its own unique charm and, with a good architect and a great deal of money, could be vastly improved. There was no doubt but that Carruthers had the wherewithal, and what fun it would be to engage in such a large undertaking.…

  Her reverie was interrupted when Sinclair scratched at the door and entered to say contemptuously, “Who is that jack-at-warts downstairs with Carruthers?”

  “Jack … at-warts?” gasped Phoebe. “You cannot mean Captain Otton?”

  “Well, he’s a counter-coxcomb if ever I saw one. Did you mark the blacks?” He sprawled in the armchair. “Effective, I’ll own, in a sinister sort of way.”

  “No, really,” she cried, much diverted. “He is quite the most handsome gentleman I ever saw, and a very good friend to Meredith Carruthers.”

  “And something of a dandy, eh?”

  “A dangerous dandy, Mr. Sinclair,” Ada put in, “if that there colleychemardey is to be believed.”

  All attention, Sinclair said, “Colichemarde? Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Me first lady was wed to a fencing master. I knows all the swords, I do. And that nasty murdering thing in especial. My lady’s husband was used to say as it was designed by Count Königsmark, and the man as carried one meant to kill.”

  Sinclair put up his brows. Phoebe looked at him curiously. “Is that truth, Sin?”

  “An exaggeration, but there’s no denying it’s a fine duelling sword. I’ll be dashed! So our—” He checked, springing to his feet as Lucille Carruthers peeped around the door.

  “Do I interrupt?” she asked timidly.

  “Of course you do not, dear ma’am,” said Phoebe, standing to welcome her. “My brother just stopped to chat for a minute.”

  “And must go and change for luncheon, is he not to starve,” declared Sinclair, and with a smile and a little bow, departed.

  “I hope I did not chase him away,” said Mrs. Carruthers. “But—I am most anxious to have a tiny cose with you, Miss Ramsay.”

  X

  Ada had closed the door quietly behind her. Mrs. Carruthers was neatly disposed upon the love-seat, and Phoebe waited expectantly.

  Lucille fluttered her fan, smiled, and said shrilly, “How—how lovely you are in that blue gown, my dear.”

  “You are very kind, ma’am. But—forgive … are you also rather troubled about something?”

  Lucille closed her fan, gripped it between both little hands, and stared down at it. “Not that—exactly,” She peeped up at this beautiful creature she so very much wanted for her daughter-in-law, and quavered, “Frightened, perhaps.”

  Phoebe crossed to sit beside her. “Is it— I mean, has Meredith—”

  Lucille sighed, rose, and walked to the window. Gazing blindly into the sunny gardens, she said in a voice that shook, “It is of my son that I—I wish to speak, yes. There are—things you should know, since you are to be part of our family.”

  Horrified by the deepening tangle of this deception, Phoebe sprang up. “Oh, no, ma’am! Please do not—”

  Lucille turned a pale, stricken face. “You are still betrothed? You have not drawn back? His—his temper and brusque ways have not—”

  ‘Oh, heavens!’ thought Phoebe, and said helplessly that the betrothal was unbroken.

  Lucille’s hand went to her throat. “Thank goodness!” She sat in the window-seat, but when Phoebe made as if to join her, she said quickly, “No—pray do not. What I have to say is—painful in the extreme, and—”

  “Then I beg you will not so distress yourself. There is not the need.”

  “You mean, I expect, that you have heard of my—disgrace.” Lucille bowed her head. “Then—my dear child, you must let me tell you the truth of it, for I fear you will have heard a rather—garbled version, at best.”

  ‘Poor little creature,’ thought Phoebe. ‘She is telling me this because she thinks I am going to marry her immoral son, and how dreadful she will feel when she finds it is all a sham after all!’ And because Lucille must not suffer such an embarrassment, she said boldly, “Mrs. Carruthers, I have no wish to pry, and—and surely all families have secrets, or things they are not perhaps quite proud of, and—”

  “But I am proud!” declared Lucille, her head coming up. “I loved once, with all my heart. I shall never feel any shame for that. I want to tell you my story because I fear you may be cross with my son. And that my—manner also may have caused you to think— Oh, please, let me explain, as best I may.”

  And so Phoebe listened perforce, cringing with shame.

  The story was a familiar one. The lovely but timid girl, fresh from the schoolroom, the older man, already widowed, handsome, assured, much courted, so that Lucille had readily consented to become his bride, though he was more than twice her age. The idyllic happiness of the first few months; Carruthers’s eagerness to show her his great country estate, an estate that proved to be sadly neglected and that he left as soon as he tired of the youthful innocent he had wed. He had visited her from time to time, and when she presented him with the heir his first wife had failed to provide, he had begun to warm to her again. But then—and this Phoebe had not known—had come the accident.

  Paul Carruthers had become a devotee of the favourite sport of an Indian friend: a dangerous sport, unknown in England, called polo. It appeared to consist of two teams of horsemen in competition for a small ball which they pursued with vigour and long-handled mallets. Paul had enlisted some friends to try the sport. A reckless player, however, he had inevitably come to grief. He was struck in the eye by a flying mallet and rendered unconscious. Recovering, he seemed to have suffered no major ill effects, but from that day his slightly autocratic nature began to deteriorate. Occasional flashes of temper became more numerous and ever more violent. Whispers spread through the ton of scandalous affaires, yet his behaviour towards his lonely and neglected young wife was increasingly unkind. He became obsessed with the mastery of weapons, which was as well, since his quarrelsome disposition led to several duels, all of which he won. Lucille, who had looked forward to his visits, began to dread them, because now, if she displeased him, he struck her.

  Despite her isolation, she was so beautiful that she attracted attention, and Paul returned one spring to find she had set up a small court of admirers.
Enraged, he bullied one quite innocent, middle-aged gentleman into a duel and crippled him. The scandal plunged Lucille into isolation once more, the gentlemen staying clear of so dangerous a diversion. Paul, triumphant, went back to Town, and for several years Lucille was left to her child and her solitary life, only occasionally interrupted by visits from her husband.

  And then she had met Edvard Hoagland, a soft-spoken, fair man of Norwegian ancestry. He had gazed at the sad-eyed beauty and given her his heart, and she, hungry for affection, had found at last a gentleman who adored her and could not seem to do enough to make her happy.

  “I had seven years,” Lucille murmured. “Seven years of such happiness as I had never known. And then…” Her voice was almost suspended; she said threadily, “Paul found out.”

  “My heavens!” said Phoebe. “How awful.”

  “I expect—you may have heard … that Paul went to Town and challenged Edvard. But—first, he … he came after me.” She drew a trembling hand across her eyes. “He’d not been here for almost a year. I can see it, as if it was yesterday. I was in the drawing room, arranging some roses in a tall crystal vase. The sunlight was so bright, slanting through the windows. The house was quiet and peaceful. And then—he came in. Like a crazed savage. He began to scream at me—the most ghastly denunciations. I think I had always known that, sooner or later, it must come, but I was so terribly frightened, I could not say a word. I just stood there, unable to move, unable to cry out. Paul tore the vase from my hands and smashed it against the hearth. I ran then, but—he caught me and—and dragged me back by my hair. He snatched up what was left of the stem of the vase, and he said … he would so disfigure me that—that no man would ever look at me again!” She gave a muffled sob and jerked her head away.

  Stunned, Phoebe stared at her, then, with a little cry of pity, ran to gather her into her arms. “You poor little thing! How ghastly!”

  Clinging to Phoebe, shaking, Lucille went on, “I screamed. And—Meredith came.”

  Phoebe was very still. “Ah…” she breathed.

  Lucille nodded. “He was home for the Long Vacation, and he heard me. The servants were too afraid, but he got between us, somehow. He was only fourteen, but he was strong and he managed to force Paul’s hand from my hair. I ran, terrified. And then—” She buried her face in her hands. “My husband was mad … quite out of his mind! He—turned on the boy! Oh, my God! I shall never forget. Never! Poor Meredith’s face…!”

  Her own eyes blurred with tears, Phoebe said huskily, “It was not your fault. How horribly lonely you must have been. And it would be a—a poor son who did not try to prevent so frightful a thing! I am very sure that Meredith has never blamed you.”

  “No. Never. The servants came then, and Paul stormed out of the house. He went straight to Town and challenged Edvard.” She looked haggard, suddenly, her eyes turned into the past with a grief so deep that Phoebe dared not say a word.

  “He killed him,” said Lucille. “That gentle, kind, wonderful human being. He destroyed that dear life. When I heard … I thought I would die, too. I wanted to be dead.”

  Phoebe hugged her tight and gently dried her tears. “There,” she said, her smile quivering, “it is all said and we can forget about it. Only … I am so very sorry.”

  Shyly, Lucille kissed her cheek. “How kind you are. But—the dreadful thing—the most dreadful thing, Miss Ramsay, is that—in spite of what he did, in spite of the fact that I know how very much he loves me … sometimes, I can scarcely endure to look at Meredith.”

  A pang pierced Phoebe’s heart. “Because of those scars? I suppose they must remind you of it all.”

  “Yes. But more than that … I feared and hated Paul. I despise his—his very memory. And—it makes me so ashamed, but you see, Meredith is—is so very like him. The eyes, you know. The way they have of seeming grey when he is angered, and blue when he is happy. He is not like Paul, of course. He is strong, but kind too, and honourable. And, underneath that fierce way of his, he is very shy and tender. I know all that. Yet … oh, how dreadful it is!”

  Phoebe was silent. So much had fallen into place. She thought, ‘He knows how he repels her, so he has built a wall of coldness to protect himself. I suppose that is why he meant never to wed, for fear of having someone else turn from him in fear and revulsion. Poor soul. How dreadful…’

  Lucille was watching her anxiously. “My dear, if you despise me, I shall quite understand. But—if anything has occurred here to—to lessen your regard—Miss Ramsay … you do care for him, still?”

  How pleading the blue eyes. Phoebe could hear Carruthers saying ‘My mama has known a deal of grief. I’d prefer she not suffer any more on my account.’ She felt the trap closing around her, but—surely this was not the moment to break free? And so, she said gently, “I do care, ma’am. Your son is a very fine gentleman.”

  * * *

  “You are a very fine idiot!” Having delivered himself of this encomium, Roland Otton leaned back in his favourite chair of the pleasant library and regarded his scowling friend with amusement. “You know the chit for ten minutes and offer?” He sat straight again and wagged a censorious finger. “I’ll tell you what it is. You’ve chose her because—”

  “She is a beautiful girl,” said Carruthers hastily. “And my mama—”

  “—Because she has red hair,” Otton overrode ruthlessly. “She fits your hallowed legend.”

  “Nonsense!” Carruthers carried his tankard over to the window and stared at Satan, who lay atop the terrace wall with his legs hanging down each side. “As if I’d do such a bird-brained thing. What a romantic you are, Roly.”

  Otton laughed softly. He was a man of few friends, for he had learned very early in life that to offer either love or trust was to invite pain and disappointment. Carruthers had dealt out neither commodity, and was one of the less than half dozen men for whom he held a deep respect. Resting his chin on one long-fingered hand, he murmured, “Yet yours is the scarlet phiz.”

  When he felt the heat of his countenance subsiding, Carruthers moved to occupy a chair. “If it is,” he said coolly, “it’s because I offered before—”

  “Offered! You were manoeuvred into it, I’ll warrant! Oh, never glare, old fellow. When I saw you in May, you’d no more intent to become a benedick than a tailor. Less, by Jove!”

  “A lot can happen in two months.”

  Otton touched his chest and said ruefully, “I’ll own that! I suppose you’d have me believe you took one look at each other and tumbled deep into love! The Ramsays are short of the ready, I heard. Not under the hatches precisely, but—the jolly old Carruthers fortune would not be viewed with disdain.”

  Carruthers growled, “Which would explain why she wants to cry off.”

  Otton’s amused grin faded. “Does she now. Why?”

  “As I started to say before I was given the benefit of your ignorance, the poor girl was as trapped—well, what I mean is, I was unaware that she had already plighted her troth.”

  “Without the knowledge of her family? Naughty girl! Then why publish the notice? Ah—did her eager papa wait on the flagway until The Gazette opened its doors in the dawn so as to get the announcement in print before you could draw back…?”

  “Do try not to be so vulgar, Mathieson.”

  “Otton.”

  Carruthers fixed him with a scornful look.

  Otton grinned. “Your icy shards are wasted on me, dear boy. I’ve no shame. But speaking from the loathly depths which I inhabit, I will advise you. She’s a very choice morsel, I grant. But if she loves another, cry off. Loud and fast!”

  “And ruin the girl.”

  “Would you sooner she ruin you? Have some sense, Sir Knight! You offered in all sincerity. She accepted with extreme insincerity! For Lord’s sake, what is your alternative? Wed her and leave the side door open for her lover on your wedding night?”

  Carruthers said angrily, “Of course not, but it must be handled with care. My mother i
s pleased. Her family is pleased. And Miss Ramsay is a lady. I—”

  Otton groaned and covered his eyes. “And you’re the type wants one woman for eternity—from which may the good Lord deliver me! Merry, Merry—listen to the voice of experience! They’re all ladies. Or fancy they are. I wish I’d a sovereign for every such ‘lady’ to be had for the price of a well-turned phrase, a few trinkets, a way with a kiss. And not one of ’em worth five minutes of regret! I guarantee you I could win your pretty filly from her lover in a week. Aye, and— By the way, who is her lover? Anyone we know?”

  Carruthers glared at him, but said with reluctance, “Brooks Lambert.”

  For a moment Otton’s face was a mask of astonishment, then he shouted with laughter. “Your famous nephew? Heavenly heresy! What a treacle pot! Are you not very careful, my poor clod, you’ll either wind up being jilted and as a result cut by every man in Town, or married to a chit who yearns for your nephew! Be damned if I know which would be worse. I know what I’d do in the matter, but I’m a dedicated villain.”

  Carruthers, who had been considerably less than honest with his friend, said, “I hope you’re wrong, and that we’ll somehow contrive to come through with no scandal. Besides—you’re not a villain, Roly. You only think you are.”

  For a rare moment the arrogantly handsome face was grave. Otton said slowly, “Oh, but I am, old lad. Did you know the depths to which I have sunk … some of the things I have done…” He broke off, and the twinkle returned to the velvety eyes. He finished blithely, “You would most assuredly forbid me to ever again set foot across your threshold.”

  “What rubbish you mouth. Desist, and tell me of yourself. Were you really bested in a duel?”

  “I was, but it’s too long a tale to bore you with. Nor would you admire my part in it. Suffice it to say I lost. This time.”

  “The tale is not told, then? The prize must be sizeable if you’ve bled for it.”

  “Sizeable!” Otton leaned forward, glanced to the door, and said in a voice of suppressed excitement, “It is vast! No less than the treasure the Jacobites gathered to finance their cause.”