The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  “Shared a kindness for each other?” he interrupted. “Why, so we do, ma’am. I admire Miss Phoebe greatly. Only—as I told her from the start, I do not want her for—my wife.”

  Lucille uttered a shriek and burst into tears. Sinclair jumped up, scowling.

  Phoebe said, “It is perfectly true, Grandmama. And Mr. Carruthers was aware from the start that I—loved Brooks.”

  Lady Martha glared at her. “Yet from what your mama told me, and certainly since I came, for ten days you have been looking at him as if he was some young god; and he’s been looking at you as if you wore a halo and wings. Now you say you do not care for each other! All well and good, but—how d’you mean to get out of it without scandal is what I’d like to know!”

  Meredith gripped his arm. He looked very tired and haggard. “I expect we cannot,” he said. “I’m afraid I shall have to be jilted.”

  Lucille succumbed to screaming hysterics.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock next morning, the valises and portmanteaux had been packed and the horses poled up. A pale but composed Miss Phoebe Ramsay, a tight-lipped Mr. Sinclair Ramsay, and a flushed and furious Lady Martha Ramsay had entered the first carriage. Ada Banham had said her farewells to a stricken Henry Baker and gone, scattering tears, into the second carriage. Now, with a cracking of whips and rumbling of wheels, they departed, leaving behind a Meredith Hall that seemed echoingly quiet, and servants who trod softly and looked solemn, knowing that very soon the newspapers would carry news of the broken betrothal and that once again they would be obliged to defend the honour of their house against the jeering staffs of all the neighbours.

  Jeffery’s attempt to speak with his brother met a level stare that froze him to the marrow. He faltered into silence and went off defiantly in search of Rosalie Smith.

  Emerging from her suite an hour later, her eyes red from weeping, but with rage strengthening her, Lucille found no sign of her quarry. She knew where to look, however, and made her way up the hill girded for war.

  She found him leaning against the crumbling Gothic wall, his back to her as he gazed down at the whispering stream. Alone, silent, hostile, antisocial; his father all over again. The sense of her own ill usage brought stinging tears to her eyes and she ran up behind him, saying on a sob, “How could you, Meredith? How could you? You knew what it meant to me, and now … Oh! We will be laughingstocks! Shunned! And just when I had so hoped we might at last…”

  She did not finish her denunciation for, wearily, he turned to her and she saw his eyes. The years rolled back. She was young again, kneeling beside the grave of her slain lover, knowing her heart had been buried with him.

  She reached out. “Oh—my dear,” she said tenderly. “My very dear…”

  For an instant, Meredith stared blindly at her. Then, with a muffled sound that was neither groan nor sob, yet something of each, he walked into her arms.

  XIX

  “Is unnatural,” stormed Sir George Ramsay, glaring across the breakfast table of his London house, and slamming down his copy of The Gazette.

  “Oh, dear,” his wife sighed. “Is it Mr. Pitt? Or are they slandering poor Walpole? Or has the Prince of Wales done something outrageous again?”

  “For pity’s sake, don’t be such a thimble-wit, Eloise,” he snapped. “It is our daughter I refer to. There’s no pleasing the gal, I vow! She yearns, she sighs, she wilts”—he gave an exaggerated impersonation of a lady wilting—“for Brooks Lambert, but gets herself compromised by Meredith Carruthers. We manage to rescue her from that stew, only to have her quarrel with Carruthers. Though, mind you, Eloise,” he interrupted himself, eyebrows bristling, “I consider his conduct thoroughly reprehensible, and have no doubt he is now beyond the pale, socially, at least.”

  Phoebe kept her lack-lustre eyes on her plate and said nothing.

  “You have got egg on your cravat,” said Lady Eloise, glancing at her mulish-looking son, and her just as mulish-looking mother-in-law.

  “Being a generous, fair-minded father,” Sir George went on, ignoring his wife’s irritating observation, “I have told her she may wed Brooks Lambert, and does she brighten? Is she grateful?” Silence following this pained enquiry, he snarled, “It would be gratifying was the head of this house to be informed exactly why this betrothal was terminated, and whether it is my bounden duty to call that cad out!”

  “Fiddle-faddle!” exploded his formidable parent. “If any calling out was needed, young Lambert would have—” She closed her lips as a footman trod discreetly into the room and proffered an ivory-and-gold salver to her granddaughter. “Callers? At this hour?” she snorted.

  Phoebe stared down at the card, losing all her colour. Lady Eloise, deeply worried about this quiet stranger who had replaced her sunny-natured daughter, asked “Dearest? Is it someone you do not wish to see?”

  “Oh, no, Mama,” said Phoebe breathlessly. “P-pray excuse me.”

  Lucille Carruthers, a vision in gold silk, waited in the morning room, and came to her feet as Phoebe hurried to greet her.

  “Good day, ma’am. I did not know you was in Town. How very kind in you to call. May I offer you a cup of tea, or—”

  “Nothing, I thank you.” Lucille resumed her seat on the blue velvet sofa. “I was afraid,” she said timidly, “that you might refuse to receive me. Under the—the circumstances. But I brought Rosalie to Town to shop for her bride clothes, and—”

  Phoebe gave a gasp, and blanched.

  “Oh, good gracious,” said Lucille. “I had thought you knew. We met your brother in the Strand—did he not mention it?”

  Forcing her numb lips to move, Phoebe said that Sinclair must have forgot. Somehow, she managed a smile. “I am to be wed soon myself, so I can guess how happy Miss—Miss Smith must be.”

  “Oh, she is in alt, sweet child, despite the difficulties. She has loved him all her life, you see, but never dreamed they would be able to wed.”

  “How lovely,” said Phoebe, a ghastly smile distorting her lips while a claymore transfixed her heart. “I had heard M-Meredith was ill. I trust he is recovered.”

  Watching her from under her lashes, Lucille murmured, “My son will never pamper himself, you see. Infection set in, and he was very ill for a few days.” She saw terror in that white, lovely face, and her heart was wrung. Looking up, she said quietly, “He is much better, my dear. Physically, at least. But I did not come here to speak of Meredith, but of myself.”

  Phoebe watched her wonderingly. Lucille gripped her reticule hard, and said, staring at it, “You see, I did not quite finish my—my story, when I was telling you about my husband. You will remember I said that Paul found out about Edvard?”

  “Yes. But—oh, ma’am, I know how painful it is for you to speak of it. Pray do not—”

  “But, you see, I must tell you the—the whole. I neglected to tell you that … there is a joke about the Hoagland family. It is said that—none of the wives can for long escape the … the Hoagland Double.” Her cheeks very pink, she said, “I prayed I might be spared, but—within a year of meeting Edvard I—I was in the family way.” She heard Phoebe’s shocked little gasp, and not daring to meet her eyes, rushed on, “I gave birth to twins. I knew that my husband would guess at once, if he saw the babes, so I swore my maid and the midwife to secrecy, and put one of my dear children out for adoption. Paul did not suspect, and as time passed, his visits became infrequent. If he did come, his servants came first so as to prepare for him, and I had time to send Jeffery to visit friends. Only … on the day he scarred Meredith, he arrived unexpectedly. He entered the Great Hall just as Jeff was running down the stairs. My son was almost six years old. Paul had not seen him for two years, and instead of a babe, he saw a very fair child. He took one look, and knew. Luckily, Nurse saw Paul’s face, and she hurried Jeffery into a carriage and took him off for a drive.” She paused, and after a small, tension-charged silence, finished in a very small voice, “That was—was why Paul was so enraged, you see.
”

  “Oh … my!” whispered Phoebe. “How very dreadful for you. Did you ever see your other twin again, ma’am?”

  Lucille smiled shakily. “How kind and understanding you are. Yes. I thought I was being so clever, you see. The family with whom I placed my little one were not happily situated in Town. Grace, although only five years my senior, had been my companion, and her husband, John, was born on the Carruthers estate. He had charge of Paul’s horses and was often brought to Town when Paul was courting me. His marriage was—ideal, save that they were not blessed with children. I knew they would be good to my babe, and they were indeed. Eventually, I persuaded them to return to the village, and I gave them funds to start a little business.” Meeting Phoebe’s look of disbelief, she continued, “They are dead now, but always kept my secret. Even their families believed the child was their own. My—my daughter is grown, of course, and—”

  “Oh! My dear God! Rosalie? Poor Meredith is so deep in love and does not know the girl is—”

  Lucille said gently, “But—he does know, my dear. He has known for years, which is why he has always taken a great interest in her. A sadly misinterpreted interest, which is my fault. I straitly forbade Meredith to reveal the truth to a living soul. I so—so dreaded more scandal. I knew if the facts came out, people would censure me even more, for allowing my daughter to be brought up a commoner. And that all the terrible stories about Paul would be revived again. I”—she wrung her hands—“I just could not bear it! Merry begged me to let him tell Jeff, but I refused and so he—dear loyal soul, kept my secret.”

  Hopelessly confused, Phoebe stammered, “But—if he knows, he could not have been—I mean, she cannot be his—Well, then, they cannot— Oh! I do not understand! You just said Rosalie is to be wed—and that she has loved him all her days.”

  “And so she has, my dear. It was because of his son’s devotion to a village girl that Malcolm Lockwood forbade their marriage and he and Lancelot parted in anger.”

  “Lascelles…?” said Phoebe, still bemused. “But—but if Rosalie loved him, why did she not show it? I’d have thought—Oh!” She clutched Lucille’s hand. “Did she remain silent for fear Sin and Jeffery would not help Lance?”

  Lucille nodded. “The little minx was afraid that if they guessed she and Lance were long promised, they might not continue to take such risks for his sake. She was wrong, and it was naughty of her to lead those two poor boys on, but—when the life of the one you love is at stake…”

  “Yes. Who could blame her? But—she knows the truth about herself now? Jeffery knows?”

  “I could not remain silent after I realized how Meredith—Well, I went to see Malcolm Lockwood. The soldiers tried to keep me out, but Lambert was there, dear boy, and I told him I meant to tell the Squire what I thought of him for hurting Meredith. He let me pass, and when we were alone, I confessed the whole to Sir Malcolm. He was—very kind, and at once gave his consent. Lancelot and Rosalie will be wed as soon as they are safely on French soil.”

  “Oh, I am so glad!” cried Phoebe. “Only…” Her brow puckered again. “Why did Meredith let me believe he loved her?”

  Lucille said helplessly, “My dear, I do not know. All I can tell you is that when my dear Edvard died, life became to me an intolerable burden. Each morning, I woke to despair, and the future loomed cold and dark and empty. Meredith says little and keeps very busy with our tenants and our properties. But sometimes I see a look in his eyes, and—oh, dear Miss Ramsay, I fear he lives in that same terrible despair that I knew!”

  * * *

  Brooks Lambert stood very still in the green saloon, staring incredulously at Phoebe’s beautiful, troubled face. After a long moment, he echoed, “Not marry me…? But—why? I thought your papa had withdrawn his objections? The termination of your betrothal to Carruthers has been published. I—I do not understand.”

  Miserable because she was hurting him so, she said, “Brooks, dear, I am indeed sorry. But—but … I cannot wed you. You see—”

  He seized her arms and said in a voice she scarcely recognized, “Has that sneaking swine come around begging you to take him back? Has he dared to—”

  Irked, she pulled free. “Do you mean Meredith Carruthers?”

  “Yes, by God! If I thought he’d dare—”

  “I have not seen him since we left the Hall. But it makes no difference. I wish I could say this without hurting you, but—you see, I—I love him. I shall never marry anyone else.”

  He stared down at her, his face unreadable. Almost whispering, he said, “You … love … Carruthers?” He laughed harshly. “Lord alive, but this is rich! You—beautiful, kind, graciousness personified; and that—that scarred, brusque, unpolished dog? My poor darling—you are ill!”

  There was a twist to the fine mouth that she had never seen; a sneer in the voice, and, in those deep blue eyes, a little flame that appalled her. She stepped back. “I think you must forget, Brooks, that the man you just spoke of in so disgraceful a way is your kinsman, who has supported you these—”

  “He is rich,” he grated, advancing on her so that she drew farther back, a little frightened. “That’s the truth of it, eh? It’s his money you want!” He grasped her arms in a pounce that brought a shocked cry from her. “Well, I’ll not hold that against you, love. We shall be rich, I promise you. Richer than your wildest dreams! You’ve no need to throw yourself away on that cur, for—”

  “Let me go!” she stormed, angry now. “I would love Meredith Carruthers had he not a penny! He is the bravest, most caring, truly honourable man I ever knew! I love him! And he loves me. And I think you had better leave, Brooks.”

  His face was flushed and suddenly far from handsome. “Do you really think that, Miss Phoebe?” he jeered. “Then allow me to tell you something. I’ll not go. And you shall not marry that worthless clod. By an accident of birth, he inherited a fortune, and I was doomed to the life of a poor relation! He threw the poor dog a bone … a pittance!”

  Horrified, scarcely able to credit this transformation from his usual gallant charm, she struggled to be free. “You are despicable! Merry had no need to give you a penny! You never have known squalor or want, but many men born to those conditions have fought their way to success, and many men born to wealth have squandered their way to poverty. Merry fights always to improve the lot of his people! To cherish his mama and guide his brother, when it would be so much easier to shrug and turn away! Oh! You are hurting me, Brooks! If you do not let me go, I shall scream for help.”

  He released her, but watched her with such brooding disgust that she wondered she could ever have imagined she would marry this bitter, vengeful man. Walking to the door, shaken as much by the realization of what she had so narrowly escaped as by this terrible confrontation, she said, “Please do not call here again.”

  In his normal, pleasant voice, he said, “Phoebe, he will not marry you.”

  With her hand on the latch she replied, “If that is so, then I shall never marry. Goodbye, sir.”

  He moved very fast, to throw one arm across the doorway. Smiling down at her, he said silkily, “Then Carruthers’s head will be on a spike on Temple Bar within the month.”

  She stood utterly still, staring up at him, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks.

  “And—your so dear brother’s,” he purred. “And his so dear brother’s.” He laughed softly. “That would break the heart of his stupid flibbertigibbet of a mother. I fancy your family is made of—er, stronger stuff, eh, my love?”

  Stunned, her mind seeking numbly to comprehend, she allowed him to pull her back and close the door. “You—you went to him…?” she whispered. “That day after I was k-kidnapped … My God! Did you arrange that, too?”

  “Not as it went. Otton and I staged it so that I could ‘rescue’ you and win over your beloved grandmama. But Otton wants the Jacobite treasure, and he suspected Meredith was hiding the courier. He kidnapped you in an attempt to force Carruthers to give up the cipher.�
� He shrugged. “Oh, well. Many a slip. I was luckier. You see, I knew about the secret room. I went there, looking for you, and found Lockwood, fast asleep.”

  “And so—you blackmailed Meredith.”

  His eyes gloating at the memory, he said, “I brought my troop into the courtyard—do you recall? And I went up and told the dear fellow he had three minutes to choose between life without you—or death for just about the lot of you!” He chuckled. “Lord, shall I ever forget the look on his face! He was so maddened he actually tried to attack me, would you believe it? I had to be a little rough with the fool, which delayed me a trifle. But he really had no choice. I had him”—he put out one long, well-shaped hand and, slowly, closed it—“where I had wanted him for years. Life has its moments, my love. Life has its moments!”

  “Why?” she whispered. “You don’t love me. I doubt you have ever loved anyone but yourself!”

  He frowned aggrievedly. “I did love you, m’dear. But—more to the point, my Aunt Ophelia admires you tremendously. She’s extreme wealthy, you know. You will recollect my telling you I was her heir. I did fail to mention one little qualification—I inherit only if you become my wife. My dearest girl, you do not look happy.” He bent over her as she sank into a chair. “I promise to be generous and attentive. I have other—er, playmates, I’ll be honest. But—you shall always come first with me.”

  Sick, aching with grief, she thought, ‘Merry … my poor darling…’

  Lambert chucked her under the chin and when she jerked her head away in revulsion, he said softly, “Meanwhile, I shall offer you the same choice I gave Meredith. The decision, my love … is yours.…”

  * * *

  It was rare that Lady Martha joined her son and his wife for breakfast, but the following morning was bright and the sun crept under her eyelashes early. She lay in bed, troubled, and at length rang for her abigail. An hour later, she went downstairs in search of company. Her decision was not altogether salubrious; Sir George was in a quarrelsome mood as a result of the good offices of a ‘close friend’ who had whispered to him of the rumours that were abroad regarding his daughter’s broken engagement. “They’ll have more to titillate ’em when they read today’s Spectator,” he snarled. “And considering this is supposed to be a time of joy, to look at the inhabitants of this house would convince any—” He glanced irritably at the lackey who crept in and went around the table to offer the tray and the card it held. “What the deuce d’you want?” demanded Sir George.