The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  “Oh, no, really. Mr. Carruthers did not—”

  “What the blazes d’you imply, Ramsay? And whatever I’ve done is no concern of yours!”

  “Damn you, you have caused her to cry!”

  “No, sir. Truly, he was trying instead to comfort me. Pray tell me what is the book you have brought, Mr. Ramsay.”

  Jeffery interposed scornfully, “It is the book I was telling you of, Miss Rosalie. There was no cause for you to bring it, Ramsay. I’ve already told her about it.”

  Ignoring him, Sinclair stepped closer to the girl and opened the book. “See here, ma’am. It tells of some very large bats who are—”

  “Every bit as big as your grandpapa was talking about, Rosalie,” put in Jeffery, also moving closer and fixing Sinclair with a grim look of warning.

  “Indeed?” Rosalie’s eyes began to twinkle, as a girl’s will when two young men quarrel over her. “Thank you for bringing the book to show me, Mr. Ramsay.” She took the volume and looked curiously at the page he had marked.

  “They are, in fact—” began Sinclair, taking another pace, his eyes flashing.

  “Carnivorous,” Jeffery snarled, looking extremely carnivorous himself as he edged closer to Sinclair, his chin jutting.

  “And,” went on Sinclair with stubborn determination, “they are from—”

  “South America—damn your eyes!”

  Rosalie looked up. Her two swains had quite forgotten her and stood only inches apart, their impassioned faces thrusting at one another. She shook her head, took up her basket and, leaving the book, went on gathering her herbs. She left also angry voices that grew in volume until Sinclair gave a crow of triumph and roared, “The flying fox bat! And you did not know, so don’t pretend you did!”

  “It was my subject to share with her. Who asked you to come sticking your long nose in? You knew no more than I, at all events!”

  “To the contrary, I have known about bats since I was in leading strings!”

  “Probably used to ride on one!” Jeffery’s chortle was interrupted as Sinclair planted a flush hit on his nose.

  “Oh, dear!” Rosalie sighed.

  * * *

  Carruthers rode into the yard and dismounted stiffly. Bobby was first to reach him, and pocketed the groat with a whoop of triumph as he led Spring away.

  Boles, who had been waiting, scolded, “You spoil the boys, Mr. Meredith. Ain’t no need of your giving ’em a tip for doing what they’re paid for.” And eyeing the drawn face anxiously, he added, “You been looking like you wasn’t getting your sleep o’ late, Mr. Meredith. Did you find anything?”

  “Only that there were two of the bastards. One mounted, one afoot. And they went off together, seemingly in the direction of the Cut, where the tracks are lost, of course.” Absently flexing a bruised shoulder, he saw his steward’s concerned frown, and stopped at once. “Now do not maudle over me, Fred. I feel perfectly fit.”

  “Aye. You look fit. Fit for your bed! Now, Mr. Meredith, you’ve been in the saddle for hours. Wouldn’t do you a speck of harm to have a bit of a kip before dinner.”

  With a sigh for the bullying of old retainers, Carruthers said he’d likely do that very thing, and added, “Do you know how Miss Ramsay goes on?”

  They started to walk to the house together. Stifling a grin, Boles replied, “I hear she’s been asleep since you last asked after her, sir, but her woman said she’ll come downstairs for dinner. A right spunky lady, if I may say so. Sir—I was thinking, we could send the men out to search along the Cut as far as the village. We might come up with something.”

  “Some more bruises and scrapes for the horses, not much else, I doubt. Whoever it was is well away by this time.”

  Boles grunted. “And you still think it was poachers, sir?”

  “Yes. Which is likely why they ran.”

  Boles scowled but said no more, and they parted at the back door, the steward going off towards his own cottage and Carruthers walking into the house, only to check, turn about, and leave again by the front doors. The prospect of a rest in his room held small allure. He was in no mood to have Howell fussing over him as that devoted fellow would undoubtedly feel obliged to do. He started off to his sure haven, but stopped as Lambert strode around the corner of the house, the handsome features reflecting a thwarted fury. Glancing up, Lambert halted and said bitterly, “I properly failed her, didn’t I? You won that round.”

  Carruthers said coolly, “I’m sorry if you are embarrassed, but her life is too valuable to risk.”

  “Dammitall! Do you think I don’t know that?” His face twisting, Lambert turned away, then, apparently regaining control, faced about again. “I’m behaving like a proper fool. I should be thanking you from the bottom of my heart. Had you not followed … Lord, it don’t bear thinking about!”

  “No. It doesn’t. And you took a nasty fall. How are you feeling?”

  Lambert’s smile was rueful. “As if my Company had rid over me.”

  “Lucky you didn’t break your neck. Is your mare—”

  Lambert swore. “Curst stupid hack! I’d as soon shoot her!”

  Carruthers stared at him. “It’s deuced rough country. I scarce think—”

  “Oh, pay me no heed! I’m just so damned furious that I let Phoebe down! Sorry, old fellow. Just at this moment I’m devilish poor company.”

  He stalked off towards the stables and Carruthers went on his way, deep in gloomy thought.

  * * *

  Jeffery Carruthers eased the back door open, stuck in his battered head, and peered up and down the Armour Hall. “Clear, thank the Lord,” he whispered. “Come on, Sin.”

  His bruised face apprehensive, Sinclair crept in. “Can we get upstairs without being seen? I must discover how my poor sister goes on.”

  “We’ll try the back way. I fancy Miss Phoebe is laid down upon her bed, and likely to remain so today. At all events, you cannot let her see you in your condition. Hurry now.”

  The two tattered warriors trod softly along the lengthy halls, ducking into empty rooms when they heard servants approaching, and managing somehow to reach Jeffery’s bedchamber without detection. “Safe!” he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief.

  “Welcome home,” said Meredith drily, from the armchair.

  “Oh … Egad!” groaned Sinclair.

  Meredith stood. He looked slightly haggard, but, scanning the cuts and bruises of the combatants, smothered an understanding smile and asked mildly, “Might one enquire how large a mob attacked you?”

  Recovering his wits, Jeffery said, “If you are not the most complete hand, Merry! From what Ramsay’s been telling me, you’ve been rescuing damsels in distress. Are you all right?”

  “Perfectly all right, thank you. And never look so anxious, Ramsay. Your sister is, I am told, sleeping peacefully and will likely be none the worse for her fall by tomorrow. As for being a hand, Jeff, I must admit I think it rather ill-mannered in you to give a guest the back of yours.”

  “It wasn’t his fault, sir,” Sinclair put in earnestly. “Well, that is to say, it was, but—”

  “He gave as good as I sent,” interrupted Jeffery.

  “So I see. And what of your search, Ramsay? Have you discovered the source of my quotation as yet?”

  “At long last, sir. Henry the Fifth. But, dashitall, too late to win the wager.”

  “Well, you found it, at all events. You’d best hasten now. We have already delayed dinner by half an hour.”

  Groaning, Sinclair departed.

  Carruthers turned to his brother. Guessing that now they were alone he was in for a scold, Jeffery tensed. “I suppose you want to know what we were fighting about.”

  Meredith strolled to the mantel and looked up at the portrait of his mother that hung there. He had a very good idea of what had provoked the fisticuffs, and was, if anything, relieved that their verbal sniping had resolved itself into a scuffle. It had cleared the air, and there was already a marked difference in their attitud
e to one another. He said slowly, “I suspect it was for a different reason than the dispute which caused you to be rusticated.”

  Taking off his muddied coat and starting for the wash-stand, Jeffery checked and stared at his brother in astonishment. “You—knew it was for fighting?”

  “I have had a letter brought from Lady Martha, confirming that she will arrive tomorrow. She also mentioned you had broke young Price-Wintersby’s jaw, but he would not tell the reason. I know the Price-Wintersbys, and I can guess the reason.”

  Jeffery felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He said with a shy smile, “I couldn’t tell you. I wanted to, but—I know how you feel about Mama, and I—well, I thought you might…”

  “Rush up to Town and call his father to account? No. It’s rather late in the day, but it finally dawned on me that my duelling but added fuel to the fire.”

  Jeffery had started to pour water into the bowl, but he set the pitcher down with a clatter and spun around. “My God! You never mean that was the reason for all your duels? Then—is it … truth?”

  Meredith ran a finger down the line of his jaw. “Perhaps you should tell me what he said.”

  “Lord—he was ugly drunk, and he—he said my mother had—er, taken a fellow named Hoagland for her lover, and that Papa killed him.” He read confirmation in his brother’s steady gaze, and exploded wrathfully, “Well, if that is not damned detestable! To keep it from me all these years, I mean! And now I’ve gone and broke Price-Wintersby’s jaw for nothing! I hope you may be satisfied. For the love of God—when will you give me credit for having reached an age when I may be trusted?”

  Meredith glanced again at the portrait. “Mama asked that I not tell you. I think—she dreaded you might … condemn her.”

  “Condemn her! Dear little soul! When I think of the life Papa led her!”

  “Just so. Besides, Price-Wintersby was most unchivalrous to speak of the matter. You likely taught him a well-deserved lesson.”

  Stripping off his shirt, Jeffery grinned. “By Jove, perhaps you’re in the right of it. Now, since we’re talking man-to-man, as it were—what’s all this that Ramsay was telling me? You cannot really think a poacher shot at you?”

  “I might,” said Meredith, reluctantly complying with the dictates of a certain young lady. “Save that there have been a couple of other instances.”

  Jeffery lost all his colour and, with the towel thrown over his shoulder, strode to face his brother. “What—the devil? You never mean…”

  “’Fraid I do, old lad. Someone seems to think the world would go on better without Meredith Carruthers.”

  “Oh … now—now deuce take me…!” gasped Jeffery.

  * * *

  Phoebe awoke, stretched, and uttered a small shriek.

  Bending above her, bathed in the brightness of the morning sunlight, Ada said sympathetically, “My poor dearie! My sweet lamb! So stiff as any board you be. Didn’t I tell ye as this was a evil house?”

  “Non—sense,” gasped Phoebe, gritting her teeth and contriving to sit up. “Had it not been for Mr. Carruthers, you’d likely be laying me in—my coffin! Now, Ada, pray do not weep all over me. What o’clock is it? Lud, but I never meant to sleep so long. You must help me get up at once.”

  Ada sniffed and turned to fetch the breakfast tray she had carried upstairs. “It’s ten minutes past ten, Miss Phoebe, and the family already ate, so there’s no need for you to be fretting yourself. Here you go. Now, let me make your pillows more comfy.”

  She arranged Phoebe’s bed with her usual solicitude and in response to an eager enquiry conveyed the information that Mr. Meredith had indeed come down to breakfast. “Though it was long before his mama,” she went on, pouring Phoebe a cup of tea. “Such a fine man. Saved your life, miss. No doubting. Best master he ever had, says Henery Baker, and—”

  “Who is Henry Baker?” asked Phoebe, accepting the cup of tea.

  “Mr. Meredith’s head groom. And mightily taken with his-self.”

  “You little hussy. I expect you’ve been driving the poor fellow distracted. Is Captain Lambert all right?”

  “Proper doom-struck he is, poor chap, but if he’s hurt he’s not making no fuss and feathers. My, but he’s a lovely gent, isn’t he? Poor Miss Phoebe! Do you think you’ll be able to wed him in spite of—”

  “And where is Mr. Carruthers?” Phoebe intervened hastily. “Has he been here?”

  “Twice, miss. So anxious. What a shame you can’t marry both of—”

  “I must find him. Take down the cream silk with the blue broidery, Ada. And I’ll not wear my hair powdered this morning. Do hurry!”

  An hour later, Phoebe limped into the shade of the trees near the abbey and was at once enfolded in the hush of this lovely place. She paused to catch her breath, for with all her aches and pains it had not been an easy climb. Continuing after a minute, she came to the little clearing and saw that her guess had been correct. Carruthers was seated in the same place as before. She watched the strong profile for a space. Boles had said he came here when he was troubled, but he did not look so much troubled as angry, and—She gave a startled cry.

  Carruthers had moved so fast that he seemed to blur before her eyes. In one instant he was sprawling lazily on the fallen slab; in the next, he was facing her, slightly crouching, a small but deadly-looking pistol glinting in his hand and aimed straight at her.

  She said threadily, “The axe … or n-nothing, sir.”

  He had already straightened. The hammer was eased back, the weapon slipped into his pocket, and he was at her side. “My poor girl, I am so sorry.” His arm went about her in a supporting way, and he guided her to his impromptu chair as though she were fashioned of sheerest glass. She yielded to this proprietary assertiveness gratefully, but wondered also what he had been thinking when she first arrived, and whether he suspected that his friend was disloyal. “Who did you think I was?” she murmured as he lowered her gently to his rocky perch. “A one-eyed Cyclops?”

  He looked down at her unsmilingly, then sat at her feet. “I think you are a very brave lady, but you should not have walked all this way after suffering such a shock.”

  “I had to find you and thank you for saving my life. Which I should have done at once, instead of behaving in so foolish a way.”

  “Nonsense. Most ladies would have been quite in the vapours, and your mama was justified in having you put to bed. As to thanking me, you’d as well blame me! You are a guest on my estate. Under my protection.” His eyes twinkled at her in a most disconcerting way. “Temporarily, at least. And for anything to happen to you would be insupportable.”

  “Something nearly happened to you. Sir, that was a musket shot. And you came very near to being hit.” She bent forward, searching his face. “Who wants you dead, Meredith?”

  The quirkish grin flickered. “Likely dozens of people, but I fancy it was nothing more calculated than some lads poaching.”

  “Poaching? In broad daylight? I think my brother would say you’re bamming, sir.”

  “Perhaps he would. But you should not say it, you know. And, speaking of your brother—”

  “We were not. Although I’ll own you change a subject very deftly.”

  “Not deftly enough, evidently. You’re a determined woman, Miss Phoebe.”

  “And you a most evasive gentleman, Mr. Meredith.”

  He said with sudden gravity, “I’ve no least wish to be evasive with you, m’dear.”

  Phoebe’s breath began to flutter. It was this place! There was an enchantment about the old ruins—oh, but definitely, there was! Off-stride, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Your gallantry in saving me has properly won my mama’s heart.”

  He was leaning back, hands clasped about one drawn-up knee. “I am honoured. But Lambert feels very bad, poor fellow. It had as well been Rogue who went down, you know.”

  She said in light scolding, “I believe you held back, which was, I do not scruple to s
ay—”

  “Stupid!” he said, ducking his head and adding in a scourged voice, “It was damnably, unforgivably stupid! That I could have been so careless as to risk your life—in such a cause!”

  Her attempt at teasing had gone awry. Contrite, she leaned to touch the thick, unruly hair, and when he at once looked up, she shifted her touch to his forehead, driven by a need to smooth away the tormented frown. “No, no,” she said soothingly. “I spoke in jest only. You were superb, else I’d not be sitting here now.” He gazed at her speechlessly, and she drew back, alarmed, and asked, “Are the horses all right?”

  “What…? Oh—er, Rogue has a few bruises, and Showers’s knees are cut, unfortunately.”

  “Not too badly? Pray do not say he must be destroyed.”

  “No, no. My farrier’s an excellent man and assures me there is nothing worse than the—the bad shaking he received.”

  “Which is not what you were about to say.”

  He put back his head, laughing. “What an inquisition! I beg you will believe all the horses will recover, Lambert is well, and I am undamaged, so the only one we’ve to fret for is—your lovely self.”

  He looked rather incredibly attractive, sitting there, smiling up at her, and she wondered how she could ever have believed him to be harsh and unfeeling. With an effort she remembered what she had really come for, and said quietly, “No, sir. I believe we have something else to worry about.”

  “Poor Lascelles—of course. But—”

  “Hush!”

  He folded his hands and closed his lips, looking up at her from under his brows with such uncharacteristic meekness that it was all she could do not to laugh at him. She managed to keep her countenance, and said, “Tell me about your friend Captain Otton.”

  His expression changed subtly. “Roly? He’s a dashing rascal, isn’t he? You likely think it odd that he should cry friends with a dull dog like me.”

  “Do you think that you are a dull dog, sir?”

  He reddened, but answered, “Oh, naturally not. I find myself a fascinating fellow of enormous accomplishments. But Roly tells me I’m a dull dog and I fear he may view me with less bias.”