“Yes, but the ladies have withdrawn, and I excused myself and slipped up here. We entertain only the Merritts and old Commodore Purcell tonight, at all events. The other guests sent regrets because of all the patrols lurking about. Merry—the most devilish thing! Large numbers of reinforcements have come into the district! The village fairly swarms with dragoons, and ’tis rumoured that by tomorrow, troopers will be posted along all roads and byways in a fifty-mile radius!”
“Lord, but they’re hot after poor Lance! How do you know this?”
“Goodall came in from the village with that cloth his wife has woven for Mama. He was in a rare state; said it had taken him three hours to reach here, because he’d been refused the right to pass until the soldiers had searched his cart, and he had to wait an hour while they all but stripped some passengers from the Portsmouth Machine.” He paused, then added, “Did you know they’re beginning to call them ‘stage-coaches’ now? In London— Oh, what rubbish I talk! Merry, it looks as though, if we’re to get that cipher through, it must be tonight!”
Meredith swore. “Jeff, get over to the Keep if you can, and bring back the cipher. I returned it to Lascelles after I failed with the dratted thing. Hurry, old lad. If what you heard is truth, we may have dragoons here again at any minute!”
Jeffery left at once, and Carruthers settled down to wait. Ten minutes crawled past. Twenty. At the end of half an hour, he decided that Jeff must have been obliged to return to the dining room. He dare not send down a request for him to come upstairs, and he waited in ever-growing impatience. At ten o’clock he judged the tea-tray would have been carried in. He sent Howell down to the withdrawing room with instructions to peep in and see if Mr. Jeffery was present. When the valet returned with word that Jeffery had apparently not returned, and that Mrs. Carruthers was “most put out,” Carruthers knew that something was wrong. He told Howell he would not require him for the rest of the evening. The faithful man hesitated, but Carruthers said he had a personal matter to discuss with his brother, who would likely come up soon, and could help him, if necessary, and the valet reluctantly went away.
Carruthers waited for a short interval, then managed, with a little difficulty, to throw a cloak around his shoulders. He slipped into the hall. A footman stood at his mother’s parlour door, chatting idly with her abigail, but no other servants were in sight. He walked quickly and quietly along the hall and went down the side stairs and along to the back door.
Outside, the air was clean and cold. The cobblestones of the courtyard gleamed in the faint reflection of candlelight from the windows of the house, but the rain had stopped. The wind had come up, putting a deeper chill on the air. He thought, ‘One might suppose it to be October rather than August,’ and stood unmoving, eyes narrowed and searching. There was no sign of anyone, and he strode across the courtyard to the proud vault of the drawbridge. He crouched, his left hand grabbing for the pistol in his belt as he detected a shifting in the denser shadows by the moat.
Jeffery whispered, “Merry? Gad, but I thought you would never come!”
He sat with his back against the wall, accompanied by Satan, who uttered a friendly trill as Meredith put up the pistol and hurried forward.
“What is it? Are you all right?”
“The most nonsensical thing,” groaned Jeffery. “I was running, and it was dark, you know, and—this damned cat jumped down on me from the drawbridge and fairly scared the wits out of me! I turned my stupid ankle on a slippery cobblestone, and be dashed if I can walk on it!”
Meredith at once knelt beside him. Satan, all innocent ingratiation, immediately began to twine around him, and Jeffery gave him a light swat and told him he was a blasted pest, and to be gone. The big cat shot off with an irked yowl. Meredith groped in the dark for his brother’s ankle and ran his left hand over it gently. “Lord, it’s swollen! What a fool I am, to have waited about, doing nothing. I thought you’d been obliged to go back to the guests.”
“Not your fault. Is it—broken?”
“Jupiter, does it feel that miserable? I’d guess it was sprained, but I suppose one of the smaller bones could be broken. If I give you a hoist, can you stand?”
With his aid, Jeffery managed to get up and balance himself against the wall. He leaned on his brother’s good arm and hopped along painfully. “I wasn’t able to get the cipher for you,” he said. “Lance was properly miffed when I asked for it. He insisted he’d never given it to you, and that he would not do such a thing. He says it is his responsibility, and that he’d given his word never to let any other take it. He became so agitated I finally just left the silly fellow.”
“He was half delirious when he let me take it. Perhaps he has no recollection of having done so. I fancy we’ll have a fine time prying it out of him now.” They struggled on, and Meredith gave a breathless laugh. “A fine pair of rescuers! I ride into an ambush, and you trip over your feet.”
Jeffery chuckled, but after a minute said awkwardly, “Merry, I’m sorry about—what I said this morning. I chose the deuce of a time to—”
“Oh, stubble it! I must get used to the notion that you’re a man now, and—”
Satan shot past, Justice in hot pursuit, baying furiously.
“Curst animals,” grunted Meredith. “That uproar will bring someone! Here we are, Jeff. Now when we get inside, I—”
Phoebe, still wearing her evening gown, swung the door open. She held a lighted candle but set it down as she ran to help Jeffery on the other side. “I thought it was Sinclair,” she said. “He came to my room in search of Jeff, and when we couldn’t find either of you, he started over to the Keep. Where shall we take him, Merry?”
He nodded to a closed door. “In here. It was the butler’s study when this wing was in full use, but is seldom opened nowadays.”
The room was panelled and neat and smelled of beeswax polish. Meredith guided Jeffery to a chair. “Look after him for a minute, will you? I’ll find Sinclair.”
“I’ll go,” said Phoebe.
“No. It’s raining. I can—”
She said with fond exasperation, “Will you stop taking everything on your shoulders, love!” and, appropriating his cloak, swung it about her and ran into the night.
For a moment he stared rather blankly at the closed door, then he drew the curtains and lit another candle. “Now let’s have a look at that ankle.”
They had scarcely begun to examine the injury than Phoebe and Sinclair came in, supporting the fugitive between them.
“Another cripple,” remarked Sinclair ironically.
Lascelles sank weakly into a chair.
Meredith exclaimed, “Lord! Where was he?”
Sinclair answered, “Halfway across the courtyard, looking properly drunk.”
“Lance, you idiot,” said Meredith, peering into his friend’s thin face. “What did you think you were about?”
“Thought I was stronger … dammit!” Lascelles gave a wry smile. “Still, I am—am going along better now.”
Sinclair gave a derisive snort.
Phoebe, who, much to Jeffery’s embarrassment, had been inspecting his ankle, said, “I think nothing is broken, but it is a nasty sprain, and should be bound.”
“We’ll haul him upstairs in a minute,” said Meredith. “Lance, things are getting too sticky. You must let me—” He jerked around as, again, the door was flung open.
“So here you are,” said Lucille fretfully, holding Justice’s collar. “Did you hear all the barking? I—” She stopped, her bewildered gaze travelling the four young men who, with varying degrees of difficulty, had stood at her coming. Behind her, Lady Martha whispered, “My … dear God!”
“L-Lancelot…?” quavered Lucille uncertainly. “But—you are hurt, and, poor boy, how very ill you look. Wh-why do you wear Meredith’s new coat? Why are you all … in here, so quietly? I—I do not— Aah!” A hand flew to her throat and the colour drained from her face, leaving the twin spots of rouge in bright relief against her pall
or. “Merry! Lance was always wild, but— He cannot be— You would not allow him here, if…”
Carruthers said softly, “I’m afraid he is. And I would. He is my friend.”
“And I am your mother! And—oh! You have involved Jeffery! And—and our guests in this ghastly business! Are you run quite mad?”
He did not reply but moved quickly to grasp Lascelles’s arm as that unhappy individual made for the door. “Sit down and behave yourself,” he ordered gruffly, thrusting him back into the chair.
Sinclair said in a clear, firm voice, “You mistake it, Mrs. Carruthers. I involved Meredith. He did not involve me.”
Lucille stared at him miserably.
Lady Martha fixed her grandson with a cool stare. “Are you in sympathy with the Stuarts, Sinclair?”
He hesitated. “Say rather, I help where I can. And I mean to help Lascelles, or Lockwood, in any way possible, ma’am.”
She nodded, accepting that.
“As do I,” said Jeffery.
Lucille wailed and dissolved into sobs. “They are just boys, and—and have no understanding of the horror they br-bring down upon us all. But—but you know, Meredith! How could you allow it?” She turned her anger on Lascelles. “Do you see what you have done? Why must you come here, and—”
Unspeakably wretched, Lascelles shrank, and pleaded, “Merry—for the love of heaven, let me—”
“Run headlong to sure death?” Carruthers said with stern implacability. “Mama, if you ask me to deliver Lance up to be hacked to pieces in front of a yowling mob, the answer is no!” The autocratic lift of his hand quieted her remonstrance. “My apologies, but talking will pay no toll. Lance, there is no question but that you are too weak to essay a wild ride, even were there no soldiers hunting you. We’ve about run out of time. I’m afraid it’s tonight or never. Give me your blasted cipher and—”
“No!” His white face ravaged, but proud and determined still, Lance cried, “’Fore God, have I not endangered you sufficiently? And never mind that rubbish about my having given it you before, for I’d not sink so low. It is my responsibility. My risk.” He gave his friend a smile that spoke volumes. “Because you and your brother were so insanely loyal as to risk your necks for me, I am rested and clean and have eaten well. I have not the words to thank you—and the Ramsays, for what you have done. But—’tis enough. I shall do, now.”
“For about three miles—maybe,” observed Meredith.
Sinclair muttered, “Or three minutes!”
“Is that cipher as important as you believe,” said Meredith, “you’d as well destroy it now as try to deliver it yourself. You’d be taken within the hour.” He shook Lascelles’s shoulder gently. “Lance—have some sense. You know how weak you are. You’d simply not get through a countryside swarming with dragoons.”
Lockwood muttered, “So I am to stand back and allow you to risk your life for a cause you despised. I thank you! I am not such a poltroon!”
Phoebe said, “Lieutenant, I honour you for your courage, but—is there perhaps someone who could come here for the cipher?”
“No!” shrieked Lucille.
Lascelles stared at her, biting his lip in agonized indecision.
Meredith prompted coolly, “Well, Lance?”
“There is … perhaps. But—”
“I’ll go and fetch him,” said Sinclair.
For the first time looking directly at Phoebe, Carruthers saw her blanch, but she said nothing. Almost imperceptibly, the hard line of his mouth softened.
Lucille flew up and ran to grip his hand. “Meredith, you must not let him go! Don’t let him bring a Jacobite here! Do you want us all to die by the axe?”
Her fear was intense and perfectly legitimate. Appreciating that, Carruthers put his arm around her and said repentantly, “I am indeed sorry to cause you such anxiety, my dear, but we must pray that—”
She intervened with the fury of terror, “There is no need for prayers! Always you have vowed you love me, but now, when our lives are at stake, it becomes very clear that you would willingly sacrifice Jeffery and me for your traitorous friend, who has brought about his own downfall! And why you should—”
“Have done, ma’am!” Lady Martha had restrained herself for as long as she could, and now said explosively, “Your son is head of his house and has arrived at a decision. It is one that I personally applaud, for a man should stand by his friends.”
Moaning in despair, Lucille subsided into her handkerchief.
Carruthers slanted a grateful look at the old lady.
Lascelles stood and said humbly, “Ramsay—you have been so good. I—I wish to heaven I might ride in your stead. God go with you!”
Flushing, Sinclair gripped his frail hand. “Tell me to whom I must go.”
Lascelles bent to murmur in his ear.
Carruthers said, “You will wish to say your farewells to your ladies, Sin. I’ll go and see about a mount for you.”
He went outside and made his way to Baker’s quarters. The groom was still up and soon had Elbow Grease saddled. Sinclair ran into the barn booted and spurred, and Carruthers wished him luck, and asked softly, “Are you clear as to your route?”
“Aye. I know where the village lies.” Sinclair mounted up, exclaiming, “Jove, but I was surprised when Lascelles spoke the name of the man I’m to bring! I’d never have suspected that one!”
“At least,” said Carruthers whimsically, “should you be intercepted, you will have no difficulty inventing reasons for fetching him here.”
XVIII
When Carruthers returned to the Tudor wing the little group was still gathered in the butler’s study. His mother sat drying her tears, Phoebe was folding a tablecloth, and Lady Martha was knotting a tight bandage she had bound about Jeffery’s ankle. He stood as his brother entered, and said with a flourish, “Voila! I am restored! We have with us a physician par excellence!”
“Yes, and you will be the better for keeping off that foot, lad,” said Lady Martha. “It’s a nasty sprain.”
Phoebe asked anxiously, “Is my brother away, Mr. Carruthers?”
“Yes, ma’am. Pray try not to be overset. He is up on one of my fastest horses, and if he keeps his wits about him will likely have little trouble.”
“What is he to say should he be stopped?”
Carruthers glanced at Lady Martha.
Rolling an unused strip of linen, she said, “Oho! So I’m the excuse, am I? What is it? Am I ill, or merely dead?”
He smiled. “Certainly not the latter, ma’am, but sufficiently ill to—”
The door clicked open. Rosalie Smith stood on the threshold, her hood fallen back, her cheeks bright from the blustering wind. Loathing the shameless hussy, Phoebe thought with a pang, ‘Has she to be so very pretty?’
Lucille said in dismay, “Whatever are you doing here at this hour, child? Oh, my heaven! Something else is wrong! And why not? The whole world has gone mad!”
The girl’s hazel eyes had flashed to the fugitive. She said an anxious “Lance!” and started towards him.
Even more swiftly, Carruthers moved to intercept her. “He’s asleep,” he said, taking her hand in a caressing way that brought a frown to Jeffery’s face. “I fancied you safe home long since. Why are you come back?”
She glanced apprehensively at the others, and Meredith said, “Never worry, m’dear. Everyone here knows about our fugitive.”
“It is only,” said Rosalie, in her shy, cultured little voice, “that there are so many troopers come. They are everywhere, and Lance is so desperate to deliver his message, I was afraid he might try something silly.”
Carruthers drew up a chair for her. “Has that confounded Fotheringay been frightening you?”
“No.” She gave a mischievous smile. “He is gone away, thank goodness.”
“He is? Do you know where?”
Dimples peeped beside her mouth. “I do, because it was my wicked grandfather’s doing.”
Fascinated
by her every movement, by every inflection of her soft voice, Jeffery asked, “What has the old gentleman been about? More of his fables?”
“Yes, indeed. He is such a rascal! Only think, he has convinced the Colonel that a pure et sans reproche gentleman is in fact a go-between for the Jacobites, and that if he is watched, he will soon or late lead the way to the fugitive and those who shelter him.” She gave a little gurgle of laughter. “Oh, Merry, I wish you might have seen the Colonel’s face as he rid out. So grimly determined! I wonder he did not withdraw all the troops and straight away go and arrest the poor creature.”
Jeffery chuckled. “What a trickster Joseph is.”
“And now a great celebrity at The Meredyth Arms, and cannot stop laughing about it, which is really very naughty of him, having directed suspicion to a man of the cloth!”
Carruthers was suddenly breathlessly still, and Lascelles, who had been lying back, watching Rosalie through half-closed eyes, jerked himself upright. “Who?” he cried, patently horrified.
She looked from one taut face to the other and said with an uncertain smile, “Don’t worry—’tis the last gentleman could ever be involved.”
“Who?” demanded Meredith.
“Why, Father Charles Albritton, the new curate who—”
Groaning, Lascelles bowed his face into his hands.
Carruthers turned pale, stood and muttered, “Well, that’s properly dished us!”
“What is it? Oh, what is it?” cried Lucille nervously.
Phoebe gasped, “N-never say it … it really is Mr. Albritton?”
Lucille let out a shriek. Lady Martha, very white, said threadily, “Then—my grandson rides to his death.…”
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