The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  “Good morning, old sportsman,” said Lambert amiably. “I’ve been given back my leave, or a portion of it at least, so hurried here to accompany you to church and also discuss a way to put our plan into action.”

  “Did you?”

  “How?” asked Phoebe, inwardly amused by Carruthers’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “Well,” said Lambert, “it’s not a brilliant scheme, perhaps, but—suppose when your grandmama arrives tomorrow, Phoebe, we were all to go for a jaunt. And suppose…”

  * * *

  Phoebe’s hope to tell Sinclair of Otton’s duplicity was thwarted when he was late in joining the group assembling to journey to Dewbury Prime, and then rode, rather than travelling in the carriage. The village was serene and picturesque; the ancient church with its lovely old windows and mellow woodwork was a delight, and the curate’s sermon delivered with a blessedly light hand. Phoebe and her family were made much of after the service, and Lucille said happily that her prospective daughter-in-law was a credit to them all.

  They returned to the Hall for a late luncheon, after which they were to make one more attempt to see Dewbury Minor. Both Lady Eloise and Lucille were to join the party, although they meant to occupy a carriage. My lady was not pleased to find that Lambert was again present. The handsome young soldier betrayed no resentment of her daughter’s betrothal, however, and was so solicitous for her own well-being that she could not for long remain out of temper with him. He settled her into the carriage, brought an extra cushion for her back, and asked anxiously if she was comfortable. She was unhappily aware that she had caught a cold, but assured him she was feeling quite well enough to enjoy an afternoon drive, and was especially eager to see the smaller village which Sinclair had said was so very charming.

  Carruthers rode up, Justice limping at his stirrup. “This old fool wants to go along,” he said. “Would you ladies object was he to ride with you?”

  Both dog lovers, the ladies said they would not at all object, and Sinclair nobly volunteered to ride inside with them and control the hound if he became rambunctious. Justice, looking more a judge than a criminal, was duly ensconced, having been sped upon his way by a swipe from Satan, who had lurked under the coach. Brooks tossed Phoebe into the saddle, then mounted up himself, and they were off.

  It was a pleasant afternoon, the wind preventing the temperature from becoming too warm. The three riders led the way, Phoebe in the middle, Carruthers to her left, Brooks to her right. For a while they chatted of commonplace matters, then the conversation turned to the hunt for the fugitive Jacobite, which was being pursued with much vigour and enthusiasm by soldiers and citizenry, said Lambert, but without appreciable results. “It sounds to me,” he remarked, “as though you’ve had more excitement here, Merry. What’s all this about old Lockwood holding you to blame for poisoning his hounds?”

  Carruthers directed an irked look at Phoebe.

  “Yes, I’m the one who blabbed,” she admitted.

  “I wish you will not mention it to anyone else, Brooks,” he muttered. “You know the Squire’s disposition. All show and no go.”

  “That doesn’t explain your gauntlet having been found at the scene.”

  “No, and I cannot explain it, either. Possibly one of the hounds simply came upon it and appropriated it. Who knows? Now, ma’am, as to this daring rescue Lambert has suggested for tomorrow’s entertainment, the more I think on it, the less I like the scheme. What if your mount should really panic and bolt, could you control her?”

  “Her? Which of your mounts do you mean to put me up on, sir?”

  “Not the one you ride today, I do assure you. Showers is too full of spirit. Did he ever decide to run away, you’d have a tussle to control him, and I’ll not take any unnecessary risks.”

  “My papa taught me to ride, sir,” she defended indignantly, “I am accounted a very fine horsewoman, moreover. Besides, if you put me up on a slug, it will scarcely look as if the animal is bolting without I lash it for ten minutes, which might lack conviction.”

  “There are no slugs in my stables, madam,” Carruthers informed her.

  “Besides, Merry is quite right,” said Lambert. “How ever I may hope to please your grandmother, your life is much too precious for us to take any undue risks.”

  “Oh, fiddle! You are a magnificent rider, Lamb, and will be able to ‘rescue’ me so deedily that my grandmama cannot fail to be impressed. Where are we to stage this gallant deed, Mr. Carruthers? Hereabouts?”

  “Heaven forbid! The Quarry is less than a mile to the northeast. If anything went amiss and your mount ran in that direction, Brooks would have his work cut out to reach you in time.” He glanced to the carriage and Justice, who was baying at something on the wooded slope to their left. Rogue danced about nervously.

  Carruthers frowned and reined sharply in the direction of the slope. In the same instant, the vicious roar of a flintlock shattered the morning stillness. Birds soared, squawking, into the air. Meredith felt a sharp tug at his left cuff even as Rogue shied, screaming his fright. Phoebe’s plunging mount, seared across the back as though by a hot iron, leapt forward with a shrill neigh of pain and terror, and was off like the wind. Shocked and bewildered, Phoebe flung a terrified glance at Carruthers. Showers jumped a gorse bush, then reared in added panic as a large hare fled in a tan streak for safety. Almost thrown, Phoebe lost her grip on the reins and made an instinctive grab for the grey’s mane. He took the bit between his teeth and bolted in earnest. Straight to the northeast.

  “Go on, Brooks!” shouted Carruthers.

  Lambert was battling his beautiful bay mare who, no less startled by these events, had apparently decided to travel backwards on her tail.

  Carruthers crouched, tightening his grip on the reins.

  Lambert fought his mare down, despite the unhelpful shrieks from the carriage, drove home his spurs, and was after the runaway.

  Carruthers followed. Showers was heading straight for the Quarry and he dared not take the chance that Lambert might fail. At the back of his mind was rage at whoever had shot at them, but that matter must wait until Phoebe was safe.

  “Spring ’em!” howled Sinclair, as the coachman sat gawking in astonishment after the three rapidly disappearing riders. “Dammitall! Spring ’em, you great gaby!”

  Reassured by this familiar form of address, the coachman whipped up his horses, and the carriage swayed and rattled in pursuit of the riders, the frightened ladies clinging desperately to the straps, Justice baying deafeningly, and Sinclair hanging half out of the window.

  Screened by the trees, another and quite unsuspected rider had wheeled his tall chestnut horse and was riding at reckless speed through the copse in the direction whence had come the shot. Checking his mount, he could hear the crashing sounds of someone rushing frenziedly through the undergrowth, and he spurred forward. It was an uneven chase. In only a moment the horseman had raced ahead of the would-be assassin. Sobbing for breath and desperate with fear, Ben Hessell burst through the trees and into a clearing, only to meet Nemesis in the form of a dashing gentleman who aimed a long-barreled pistol with a hand steady as a rock.

  Petrified and reeling, Hessell dropped to his knees. “Don’t shoot, guv,” he gasped out. “Accident! Poaching I was … I’ll be honest, but—”

  “Verminous animal,” said Roland Otton, his voice soft, his smile most unpleasant, “your lie is as rank as your odour. If you wish to live—just a little while longer—you will do exactly as I say.”

  Whining, Hessell shrank lower.

  Just as frightened, though for a different cause, Phoebe clung to Showers’s mane. Carruthers had warned against riding northeast, and she was horribly sure that was exactly the direction in which this miserable horse was going. All her efforts to break his pounding stride were in vain. Maddened with fear, he fled with the blind stubbornness of his kind, and nothing would stop him until he ran out of wind, or crashed into some obstruction. All she could do was fight to keep from being
thrown.

  She managed to look behind and saw with a gasp of relief that Brooks was coming up fast, Carruthers close behind him, riding like a centaur. Vastly comforted, she turned back again and gave a squeal of terror.

  The lush turf was thinning, with slabs of rock and slate thrusting up through the pebbly soil, and ahead, boulders and loose shale. No country to gallop in. And then she saw the ultimate horror and her blood seemed to freeze. Distantly, stark rocky walls thrust upward, but before them was an emptiness that widened with every flying hoofbeat. She was hurtling at the Quarry—and certain death.

  She risked another backward glance. Lambert was very close, looking grim and competent. She would not have to resort to flinging herself from the saddle which, at this rate and with the ground littered with boulders, might result in as sure death as if she went over the edge. And then her strained eyes dilated. Lambert’s bay stumbled and went down, Lambert thrown clear, but rolling helplessly.

  Phoebe gave a horrified sob. She was doomed, then. That terrifying chasm was less than a quarter mile distant. Her only hope was to jump. She kicked her boot from the stirrup.

  “Hold on! Phoebe! Hold on!”

  She jerked her head around again. Carruthers had come up with incredible swiftness. She watched the distance shorten as the great black horse thundered close and closer. But the chasm was coming closer also. The straining nostrils of the stallion were level with the grey’s tail … with the stirrup. Carruthers’s face was set and pale, his dark hair blowing wildly. Showers’s reins hung straight down between his pounding forelegs. Leaning perilously from the saddle, Carruthers grabbed for the flying mane, caught a handful and hauled back desperately. Showers swerved, but pounded on madly. The gorge was too close, thought Phoebe, despairing. They would both go over unless Meredith drew back.

  At the brink of the gorge was a wide strip of clear grass. Gauging the distance, Carruthers forced Rogue into the grey; riding a little ahead now. With Rogue’s hoofs practically treading the edge, he crowded Showers into a wide right turn. And just as Phoebe felt that frantic stride break, the big grey’s plunging head collided violently with that of Rogue, and they were down in a crazy tumble of flying hoofs, shrill neighing, and shock that drove the breath from Phoebe’s lungs. She had seen Meredith hurtle towards the edge and, sure he had fallen to his death, a terrible desolation crushed her.

  She lay unmoving, uncaring. And then someone was gasping out her name. Through down-drooping, tear-drenched lashes, she saw boots stagger up, then Meredith had fallen to his knees beside her.

  “Phoebe! My God! Phoebe! Do not be hurt … please do not!”

  She felt bathed in joy and relief, but her foolish lips would not speak. His hands were running over her; taking the most awful liberties. Oh—he was looking for broken bones, of course. In a detached and shocking way, she hoped he would be very thorough before abandoning his efforts. She did not hurt in one particular place, really. She just could not seem to catch her breath, and was powerless to move. Meredith was whispering in a frantic way that was very touching; she really must try to ease his anxiety. She opened her eyes. At once, hands and words were stilled. His gaze searched her face with anguished desperation. He asked hoarsely, “Are you hurt? Can you move?”

  She blinked up at him. “Oh dear … you have cut your head.”

  He brushed an impatient hand at the graze across his temple. “Never mind about that. Is anything broken, do you think?”

  She experimented by moving cautiously. How white he was. “No, I don’t think so, thank you. Are you all right?”

  With a muffled groan, he snatched her up and crushed her to him. She really had no objection except that it seemed only sensible to retain one or two ribs. She murmured, “Nothing was broken…”

  He put her from him. His eyes were suspiciously bright, but he said roughly, “Now do you see what might have happened had we attempted Brooks’s stupid scenario?”

  “I see,” she contradicted, “that—that someone wants your death, sir.”

  He laid her down again very gently. “Stay there,” he commanded. “I’d best find out how my nephew goes on.”

  “My heavens!” said Phoebe, and was at a loss to understand how Brooks could have slipped from her mind.

  XII

  Having sought Carruthers out in the stables, Otton walked back across the yard with him, arguing frowningly, “Young Ramsay said you fell almost at the brink, Merry, and that your arm, in fact, went over the edge.”

  “It was a trifle close, I’ll admit. I would have told her to jump, but the ground was too rough, and when it was safer”—he shrugged—“there was no time left.”

  “Hmmmn. It would seem, my tulip, that you’ve a determined enemy.”

  After an introspective moment, Carruthers said slowly, “Every man has enemies, Roly. Unless he’s a jelly-backed mealy-mouth.”

  “Not every man has enemies who resort to murder. Would to heaven I’d been with you. I’d have tracked the dirty blackguard.”

  Carruthers cuffed his shoulder. “And perchance got that pretty head blown off your shoulders, had the fellow an extra gun to hand.”

  Otton shrugged. “Quick and clean. There are worse ways. What d’you intend to do?”

  “Do? What the devil can I do?”

  They had reached the back door to the new wing and, exasperated, Otton drew his friend to a halt. “You know damned well it was one of Lockwood’s people.”

  “No, no. You’re quite out there. Lockwood is hot at hand, but he’s one of the most sporting men I know. To shoot from ambush would be utterly repugnant to him, and he’d have the liver out of any of his people who’d dare try such a thing!”

  Otton said grudgingly, “I suppose it could have been accidental. A poacher so intent on his game he didn’t notice your party coming. I give you my word if I decided to have a shot at you, I’d not miss. And there’s no one else unaccounted for, except—” He broke off suddenly, and finished with rather forced heartiness, “You’re right, it must have been a poacher.”

  Carruthers eyed him steadily. “It was not Jeff, Roly.”

  “Of course not. Didn’t mean to imply—”

  “We’ve had our differences, but he’d never wish me harm, much less attempt it.”

  * * *

  “I could scarce wait to tell you,” said Jeffery, carrying Rosalie Smith’s basket as they walked side by side through the golden afternoon. “I’d have brought the volume to show you, save that—” He paused, his lips tightening. “Well, my brother was in the library and I’d no desire to endure another lecture from him.”

  Rosalie dropped some wild thyme into the basket and slanted a glance at him. “Why? Is Merry cross with you?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenwards. “A massive understatement! I’m given my choice between Jamaica and a pair of colours!”

  She halted, staring at him. “Good heavens! Why?”

  “Two unforgivable crimes. One: I refuse to stop seeing you, and—”

  “Oh, Jeff! You should not be here, then!”

  He dropped the basket and seized her hands. “I’ll own I’d not expected to find you so close to the Hall, but I’d have come to the village to find you at all events. I shall see you as often as I please!”

  She pulled free. “What is the second reason he is so angry?”

  “Oh, it’s nonsensical! It chances that—I’ve a friend named Horatio Glendenning, and there are rumours he’s sympathetic to the Stuart Cause.”

  She whitened. “Is he a Jacobite, do you think?”

  “I very much doubt it. Tio’s the best fellow and has been kind enough to teach me—” He broke off, a flood of colour darkening his fair face.

  “Teach you—what?”

  He said shyly, “Well, you know Merry’s such a tartar, but he’s a good fellow, for all that. Only, I can never come up to what he expects of me. I—I’m not clever at Latin or Greek; I’ve no bent for debates, or interest in politics; I’ve no ambition to become
a general, or to command some great flagship. Only—I am rather keen on … on architecture.”

  “Jeff!” she cried enthusiastically. “How splendid! Only think—Merry longs to start work on renovating the Hall. Why don’t you tell him of your—”

  “Lord—no! Not yet. He’d think I was only saying it to persuade him to give me more time, or he’d put me with some horrid tutor who’d look down his nose and make fun, and tell Merry I’m a hopeless case. Anyway, Glendenning’s very clever at it, and he’s been so kind as to help.”

  “Jeff, you must tell Merry! If he knew why you’d been seeing Lord Glendenning, he—” She interrupted herself. “Is the viscount a Catholic?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, but— Oh, now you look just like Merry! He will have my friendship with Tio was the cause for a crowd of dragoons to search the Hall last evening, and—oh—Jove!” He leapt to support the girl, who swayed dizzily, her face paper-white. “Whatever is it? Are you ill? Look here! You’ve hurt yourself!”

  She looked swiftly at the stain on her sleeve. “No, it was my—my grandfather cut himself while shaving, and I helped him. Jeff—did the soldiers really go through the Hall? What did Merry say?”

  “Oh, he was mad as fire, but I still don’t think it was my—Rosalie! Now why are you weeping?”

  “Nothing. Nothing! It is only—these are such frightening times, and poor Merry has—”

  A new voice demanded irately, “What the deuce is the matter?”

  Rosalie stepped back. Relinquishing his delightful armful, Jeffery scowled to see Sinclair Ramsay, a large volume under his arm, hurrying across the woodland glade that had, until this moment, been so peaceful. “Devil take the fellow,” he muttered.

  Rosalie dried her eyes and managed a tremulous smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ramsay.”

  Sinclair had every intention to tell Jeffery of the riding accident, but the sight of Rosalie’s woebegone little face drove all rational thought from his mind. “What have you done to her?” he snarled. “How has he made you weep, ma’am?”