The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  “I should hope so! He is foolish past permission! ’Twill serve him right if infection sets in!” Sinclair gave her a rather surprised look, and she blushed and enquired belatedly as to the condition of Lieutenant Lascelles.

  “Oh, he runs a fever, poor fellow, and is fairly beside himself with anxiety for the cipher. Meredith promised that between us we will get it through, but I’ll own I cannot think how he means to go about it.”

  Phoebe exclaimed, “He cannot go about it at all! Good heavens, does no one realize he is a mere mortal man? You saw that arm. He should lie in his bed for a week at the very least, much less be worrying—”

  Sinclair interpolated solemnly, “It is all our heads at stake, old lady, and even were Meredith not greatly concerned with your own—which I begin to suspect he is—he’ll move heaven and earth sooner than see any harm come to his family.”

  Phoebe fell asleep worrying about those ominous words. She did not sleep well and awoke to a dreary, overcast morning and the drearier prospect of breaking Lambert’s loving heart.

  When she went down to the stables, a chill wind carried the smell of rain and the clouds were darkening. Almost, she sent back upstairs for the cloak she had refused, but she did not intend to ride with Brooks, and it should not take long to tell him of her decision and return to the Hall.

  Henry Baker had been warned of her plans and already had a frisky little chestnut mare saddled for her. He was troubled because of her insistence against an accompanying groom. Already taut with dread of the coming interview, Phoebe had no intention of allowing any other to witness it, and since Ada had hinted at the nature of the ride, Baker did not persist with his plea to escort her, but watched glumly as she rode out.

  There were few travellers about on this grey morning. Phoebe passed a farm cart, the driver touching his brow respectfully to her; and some moments later she caught a glimpse of two dragoons riding on an early patrol. She reined up and kept out of sight until they had gone, then urged the mare to a canter. An occasional drop of rain had left its cold touch upon her cheeks by the time she reached the copse Lambert had designated. She slowed the mare again and entered the trees at a walk, her eyes searching. He was waiting in a small clearing, his bay tethered close by, and he came quickly to meet and lift her down from the saddle.

  As usual, he looked the answer to every girl’s prayer and he kept his arms about her, smiling down into her grave face as he exclaimed fervently, “At last! At last! How long it seems since we were alone and I was able to kiss my beloved without fear of—”

  He bent lower. Striving to escape and to avoid his lips, Phoebe saw that even now they were not alone. An unexpected figure crept up behind Lambert; a tall, husky man, his features concealed by a raggedly cut mask, and one upraised arm holding a sturdy cudgel. There could be no doubt of his intent. Phoebe’s scream of warning brought Lambert spinning round, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. He was much too late. The cudgel caught him above the ear with a solid thud and he went down without so much as a cry.

  Before Phoebe could run, another man had grasped her. Her terrified struggles were brutally restrained. Her call for help was stifled by a rolled strip of cloth that was bound tightly over her mouth. Neither of her abductors said a word as she was tied hand and foot, then dumped unceremoniously into the back of a donkey-cart and a piece of oilcloth drawn over her. Dazed, terrified, half-smothered, she was tossed helplessly against the side as the donkey plodded over the uneven ground. Consciousness reeling, she clung to one thought—‘Meredith…’

  * * *

  “I despise and abominate duelling,” growled Dr. George Linden, tightening his grip on his cringing patient and taking up another instrument of torture, “and yet I do my humble best to mend the wounds of its thimble-witted adherents. Even when—be still!—even when they lie to me. In their teeth!”

  Managing to snatch a breath, Meredith gasped, “Damned inquisitor! And—you know I’d not have … fought Lockwood had it not been—vital.”

  “Vital!” snorted the doctor. “You are healthy as any carthorse, else you’d be in a raving fever and this arm would be badly infected. This bone splinter should have come out yesterday, are you aware? But you’d already delayed and worn yourself down to the point I thought it best to allow you a day of rest before I poked about at you. And instead of resting, you cavort at a damnable tea-party! Do not move now, or you’ll be sorry! Might a lowly … country practitioner enquire as to when you did take this wound, Carruthers?”

  Carruthers flushed, lay as still as he could while enduring some more of the doctor’s artistry, and at last said unevenly, “I’ll pretend you did not—ask that, George.”

  Linden laid aside his surgical probe and frowned. He was a fine doctor who could have made a name for himself in Town, but preferred the less remunerative practice of a rural district. He both knew and liked Meredith Carruthers, and the man was no fool. Given pause, he began to bathe the wound. “I can conceive of no reason why—” His hand jerked. Carruthers swore ringingly, and Linden stared at him in consternation. “Merry! The troopers are thick as flies around Lockwood’s estate, and there are whispers that Lance— You didn’t— You wouldn’t— Oh, damme! Never mind! Never mind!”

  “You know I’d trust you with my life, but—”

  “Spare me the favour!” Linden took up his pot of black salve. “By God, I may despise duellists, but if there’s anything worse, it’s these damnable Jacobites! I’ve neither patience nor sympathy with the lot of ’em, and if I found one, I’d lose not an instant in turning him over to the nearest dragoon!”

  With a twitching grin, Carruthers said, “I wish I may see it.”

  “Do you! I served in Flanders, you may recall, and I shall never forgive the idiots who instigate such wholesale slaughter and suffering! And were any extra conviction needed, my favourite cousin bled to death in the mud of Prestonpans thanks to a Jacobite, and for want of a simple bandage such as this I now apply to your needlessly mauled arm. Speak not to me of the Jacobite Cause, Merry. I’ve not a shred of patience with it!”

  Carruthers said quietly, “George, you cannot condone what is going on in Scotland.”

  The doctor looked up at him for a moment, then his eyes fell. “You’re a fool,” he observed angrily. And wishing he were not so fond of the man, went on, “There’s not a blasted bit of use telling you to rest, I’m well aware. But I wish you will make an effort to do so until another major catastrophe looms. Which,” he went on gloomily, “in this house, will likely be five minutes from now!”

  As it turned out, he was unduly pessimistic. It was one hour after Carruthers had made his slow way to his study that he leaned back in his chair, put down the list of proposed renovations for Castle Carruthers, stared up at Sinclair Ramsay’s troubled face, and rasped, “How long ago?”

  “Three hours. She was to ride with Lambert at seven, and she did not take a cloak because she told her abigail she meant to return directly.”

  Carruthers’s eyes slipped past him to stare blankly at the rain-spattered windowpane. “With Lambert…” he breathed.

  Sinclair leaned both hands on the desk-top and said intensely, “No, Meredith! My sister is better bred than that! Even if you believe it of her, can you suppose she would run off leaving Grandmama and me to face you?”

  Carruthers hauled himself to his feet. “I can tell you, Ramsay, I’d a sight sooner think it than—”

  The door burst open unceremoniously, and Ada Banham ran in, her face streaked with tears. “Oh, sir!” she wailed, running around the desk to hurl herself upon his chest. “I am so fearful for my mistress! It’s that black cat! I knew it! A bad omen, if ever—!”

  Her voice was growing very shrill. Carruthers, who had barely jerked the sling aside in time, managed to detach her from his cravat and said gently, “I understand your fears, but you do not help by maligning my cat, you know.” She smiled tremulously, and he went on, “That’s better. Now, tell me, Ada, which groom acc
ompanied Miss Phoebe?”

  “None, sir. Miss Phoebe was troubled and told my Henery—I mean, told Mr. Baker that she meant to ride alone.” Wringing her hands, she sobbed, “If you was to ask me, some wicked man has seen how lovely she is, and she’s … she’s been took off to the desert, and sold to a wicked—”

  Conditt interrupted this dramatic scenario, rushing in, crying urgently, “Sir! Come quick! It’s Captain Lambert!”

  To the best of his ability, Carruthers ran.

  Jeffery and a sturdy lackey were aiding Brooks Lambert into the Great Hall. His tricorne was gone, his powdered head, spattered with crimson on one side, hung low, and his steps were dragging and unsure.

  “The blue saloon—quickly!” called Meredith, gesturing to a hovering parlourmaid to open the door.

  Lambert was conveyed inside, and lowered onto a faded sofa. He lay back against the cushions looking very much the worse for wear.

  Bending over him, Meredith asked, “Brooks, was Miss Ramsay with you?”

  The long, curling lashes fluttered and Lambert looked up dazedly. “Phoebe?” And then, starting up in horror: “Phoebe! My God! I—” But he winced, clutched his head, and sank down again. “They took her!” he moaned, looking at Carruthers in helpless misery. “Those dirty bastards … took her!”

  * * *

  Phoebe awoke to cold and dampness. She was lying on a pile of leaves and bracken in a small, dirty room. The door looked solidly sturdy and the only window was set too high in the wall for her to be able to see anything but the leaden sky and one tree branch. A bucket stood in one corner, and a very rickety table held a chipped enamel bowl.

  For a while she lay there, so bemused she could not seem to think coherently, but at length she began to wonder why she was here. The only answer that made any sense was that she had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. She sat up, got to her feet, and went over to lean one ear against the door. She could hear snoring, but no conversation. She pressed on the door latch with nerve-stretching caution, and pushed. The door gave not an inch, and her heart sank to the awareness that it must be strongly barred on the far side.

  Fighting panic, she bit her knuckle and turned to the window. She up-ended the bucket and stood on it, but she was not tall enough even then to see out. Perhaps, if she screamed … but the window was fastened at the top. She thought, ‘What would Meredith do?’ She picked up the bucket. Standing well back, she threw it with all her strength. It struck the window with a great crash, then bounced down inches from where she quailed with both arms over her face. Glass showered to the floor. She heard a throaty cursing and ran to the shattered window, screaming for help at the top of her lungs.

  The door burst open. Screaming even more lustily, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a big man run in. Her vocal chords seemed to freeze as he came at her with terrifying menace, his shoulders hunched, and with the same hideous mask over his face that she’d seen just before Lambert was struck down.

  “So yer awake, me fine Lady Mighty Muck,” he leered. “Lovely voice yer got. An’ if yer think it worries me—it don’t. Scream yer bloody head orf, mate—ain’t no one’ll hear yer. All yer done is let the rain in, which serves yer right.”

  “What,” Phoebe managed, finding her voice, “do you want with me?”

  A grin twisted his thick lips, and his eyes travelled her lustfully. “How’s about a little slap and tickle…?”

  She lifted her small chin another inch higher and, inwardly quaking, eyed him with what was, she hoped, regal scorn.

  Another man entered, similarly masked, but of much smaller stature and almost skeletal thinness. He carried a tray on which was a thick earthenware plate containing some dark bread, cheese, a slice of beef, and an apple. The big man took the tray and offered it to Phoebe. “Not like what yer ’customed to, I ’spect, but it’ll have to do, since our butler gone an’ run orf wi’ the washerwoman.”

  The second man gave a neighing shriek of laughter. Phoebe ignored them both and turned her head away.

  “Look at her, me cove,” leered the big man. “All pride and pomp—like the rest o’ the nose-in-the-air Quality. Eat yer din-dins, Madam Queen, an’ if yer a good gal, we’ll bring some water, ’cause we knows as Quality folks likes ter be clean.” He jerked a thumb at the bucket, and said with a sneering laugh, “I reckon yer knows what that’s fer. We ain’t got no fancy commode, but I reckon ye can fit yer little—”

  “Animal! Take your filthy mind and your filthy mouth, and begone from my sight!”

  He responded with a grin that he “allus did like a mort wi’ spirit,” then accompanied his cohort from the room.

  Phoebe’s seething disgust changed to despair as the sound of heavy bars being replaced came to her ears. She bowed her head into her hands, fighting tears. To weep seemed, in some remote fashion, to betray Meredith, and she sniffed, picked up the tray and, sitting on the inverted bucket, ate her simple meal. Surprisingly, the bread was not stale, the cheese of an excellent quality, and the beef tender. She was finishing the apple when the door opened again. The second man placed a tankard on the floor and, without a word, backed out.

  The tankard contained ale. Phoebe was very thirsty and she sipped cautiously. It tasted foul, but she was sufficiently desperate to drink some. It was getting dark and the rising wind blew with chill dampness through the broken window. The ale warmed her, however, so that she did not shiver quite so badly. It also made her drowsy. Yawning, and surprisingly carefree, she went to her improvised couch and curled up.

  A long time afterwards, it seemed, she was vaguely aware of voices. She could not distinguish the words, and was so sunk in sleep that she was unable to rouse sufficiently to force her heavy eyelids open. She was lifted by strong but gentle hands and caught a whiff of pleasant masculine fragrance. As through a thick veil she glimpsed a snowy cravat. A gentleman, evidently. A distant corner of her mind thought, ‘They are moving me,’ and then she slept again.

  XVI

  Carruthers sat his horse unmoving, so tired that the thought of climbing from the saddle was daunting.

  “’Ere we go, sir. Easy does it.”

  He blinked down into the crinkle-eyed smile of his head groom. “Hello, Baker. Any news?”

  “Message come fer ye, sir,” answered the groom in his soft Sussex voice.

  Carruthers leaned gratefully on his strong arm, and Baker asked, “Did ye find any trace ’tall, sir?”

  “Not a whisper, blast it! The others are still searching, but I’m pretty useless, so I came home. I’ll have to call in the military now. No choice.”

  Baker shook his head. He was all too aware of how slow was the master’s usually brisk stride, how drawn the strong face, and he walked with him all the way to the back door of the new wing.

  At the steps, Carruthers took a deep breath and pulled back his shoulders. He clapped one hand on the groom’s broad shoulder, and went into the house.

  Distantly, a woman called excitedly, “The master’s come!”

  Conditt appeared and hurried to scan him. “Sir—you look—”

  “Like the devil, I suppose.” Carruthers nodded ruefully. “Feel like it, too. Where’s the message that came?”

  “We left it on the hall table for you, sir. I’ll bring it up, if you will go to your chamber.”

  “Hell, no. How does Captain Lambert go on? Was Linden here?”

  “The Captain has been sleeping, sir, but I believe his man is dressing him now. Dr. Linden was here and said the Captain does not appear to have suffered a concussion. He was—er, not pleased to find you gone out.”

  “What would he suggest I do?” said Carruthers irritably. “Sit back and wait for Miss Ramsay to be shipped off as a … a slave? What have the ladies been doing?”

  Conditt had dreaded this moment. “I’m afraid Lady Martha has been rather unwell, sir. The shock, you know.”

  Carruthers stared at him aghast, then turned about and went quickly up the stairs.

&nbs
p; His scratch at the door of the Dowager’s bedchamber was answered by her abigail, the big, raw-boned Swedish woman, a little bowed now with years, but still having rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Her face was worried, but she greeted Carruthers eagerly.

  “Is that Mr. Meredith?” came a fretful cry.

  He called, “Yes, ma’am. You permit that I come to you?”

  “Yes, yes. Please.”

  He trod around the fine Chinese screen and took the gnarled hand tremblingly stretched out to him. The old lady scrutinized him with desperate anxiety. She was very pale and looked ill and older. He experienced a surge of rage that she must suffer, and said in his gentlest voice, “Alas, I have no news, my lady. I am sorrier than I can say.”

  Her eyes glittered with sudden tears, but she was a thoroughbred and said staunchly, “Not your fault. You must rest, lad. No use in all of us being laid low when—when … She will be found, won’t she, Meredith? She will be all right?”

  He stepped closer, bent, and kissed her on the forehead. “She will be found, ma’am. As God is my judge, I swear it!”

  He felt less confident when he was sprawled in the armchair beside the glowing hearth of his bedchamber, a generous portion of brandy in his glass, and Howell pulling off his dusty riding boots.

  “Well,” sighed Carruthers wearily, “are you going to ring a peal over me?”

  “Under any other circumstances, sir—yes. As it is…”

  “Quite so. I fancy Mrs. Carruthers stayed by her ladyship?”

  “She did, sir. She is resting now. Would you wish I send word?”

  Carruthers passed a hand across his eyes. “Had I any good words to send. I do not, more’s the pity. Ah—there you are, Conditt.” He accepted the letter the butler offered. The hand was neat, but unfamiliar, his name misspelled, and the seal looking to have been compressed with a coin. Breaking it, he said, “My brother and Ramsay should return soon. If they’ve not found some trace, we—” He checked, his gaze fixed on the message.

  You and Otton thought he was all tucked away so you could get the gold. Well, we got a better hand than what you thought. Fact is, we got 2 hands and 2 feet and all the rest of Miss Ramsey. We don’t want to hurt her. What we want is Lasels WITH the poem. We know you got him.