The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  “A morning caller, for Lady Martha,” the lackey notified the chandelier.

  “So it has started,” she said, reaching for the card. “My personal friends know perfectly well I seldom rise before noon, and none but a gabble-monger would come so soon after—” The cup in her hand jolted, sending coffee splashing. “Ah…” she whispered, turning the card over and reading the brief message while her son and Lady Eloise watched curiously.

  “Well?” demanded George. “Which of your tabby friends wants to hear all the grisly details?”

  To the lackey, Lady Martha said, “You may show the gentleman to my parlour, Dennis, and tell him I shall join him in ten minutes.”

  “Gentleman?” echoed Sir George. “What gentleman?”

  Sailing to the door like a frigate in a fine breeze, his mother threw over her shoulder, “My new lover!” and was gone, leaving him to splutter and glare at the departing and grinning lackey.

  * * *

  Captain Roland Otton, strikingly handsome in dark brown velvet and gold brocade, bowed low as my lady entered her private parlour. “My felicitations, ma’am,” he murmured.

  “For what?” she barked, surveying him with distaste.

  “Why, for having found me.” He ushered her to a chair as though she were a guest in his house, rather than he in hers. “How did you manage it, pray? I had fancied my flat well hidden.”

  She shrugged impatiently. “The never-failing source.”

  “The servants? Ah. Even so, it was unwise for me to come here. Reputations must be considered.”

  Her lip curled. “Thank you, but I believe my good name will survive.”

  “’Tis my own I worry about,” he declared demurely. “I am a dedicated villain, my lady. I do not help people.”

  She stared at him. “Well, if ever I heard such rubbish! I collect that is your grandfather’s verdict. I like Muffin, but he holds himself too up, which causes him at times to be a heartless old curmudgeon.”

  Otton’s dark countenance had become very still. “No, ma’am,” he said gently. “I really cannot permit that you speak of him so. I had supposed very few people knew of my—er, former identity, but my grandfather was—is—perfectly correct in his assessment of my character. Have I your leave to sit down?”

  She gestured to the nearest chair, which he occupied, managing to do so gracefully, although it was a straight-backed and uncomfortable article.

  “I am disgusted with you, Mathieson,” said my lady unequivocally. “Because of your ‘character,’ as you call it, at least one and possibly two men are dead.”

  “Forgive,” he corrected again, “if I beg that you call me by the name I now use. And as for your accusation, I will accept responsibility for one, although Ben Hessell is an evil animal and may yet live. Still, they both were, as am I, greedy for gold. They knew, as do I, the risks involved.”

  She leaned forward, her fierce eyes piercing him. “To steal Phoebe was a cruel and wicked thing to do, which you know very well.”

  “But of course. What would you expect of so depraved a character?” He smiled on her, the fine black eyes twinkling, one chiselled white hand lazily swinging the silver chain of his quizzing glass.

  “Lud!” uttered my lady, baffled. “What a dreadful waste.”

  “Well, it was,” he agreed, deliberately misinterpreting. “However, to cry over spilt milk pays no toll, I’ve learned, so let us to business. How much are you prepared to pay?”

  “Pay?” she said, blinking. “I had hoped to enlist your aid out of your friendship for Meredith Carruthers.”

  “Dear old Merry.” He touched a slight discolouration still visible under his chin. “I bear him no ill will because he near broke my jaw after I had spared his life. Now, tell me of your nefarious plot, but keep in mind, dear Lady Martha, that I am a poor soldier. My services run high.”

  Despite herself, a twitch of amusement disturbed the set of my lady’s stern mouth. “What makes you think I enlist your aid in a ‘nefarious plot’?”

  He spread his hands. “Why else would you come to me, ma’am?”

  * * *

  The Dowager smuggled her morning caller out of the house through a side door, but when he came around to Clarges Street, Otton could see no sign of the link boy he had hired to walk Rumpelstiltskin. He frowned a little. Surely, the wretched urchin would not dare … But then he saw Rump some distance off, a man bending over his hoof, another man watching closely, and the link boy nowhere to be seen. Scowling, Otton began to run. Coming up with the pair, he cried angrily, “What the devil are you doing to my horse?”

  The big fellow, who’d been inspecting the hoof, straightened. “Lucky for you I spotted him, sir.”

  “Baker!” exclaimed Otton. “The deuce! I left Rump in the charge of a link boy. What happened?”

  “Your horse picked up a stone, sir. I got it out, never fret, but the boy tried it first, and Rump savaged him. He’s in the coach.”

  With a dismayed curse, Otton swung open the door and started up the step into the dim interior. Without warning, the roof fell in, and for a while he forgot his troubles.

  * * *

  Carruthers wrung out the rag with his left hand and thrust it at Otton, who sprawled, moaning, on the shabby sofa in the small, dismal parlour. “Lady Martha was willing to help me, no questions asked,” he said, seating himself in a droopy armchair. “She found you, and hired you, which was a ruse to get you here.”

  Indignant, Otton exclaimed, “That evil old lady! How could she have looked me in the eye, knowing I was to be brutally attacked? You could have called on me without breaking my head, Merry!”

  “No. You’d not have come.”

  Otton eyed him thoughtfully. In the nine days that had elapsed since their last disastrous encounter, Carruthers had become thinner. He looked hunted, his eyes dark-rimmed pools of ice, grim and without a gleam of the humour that had formerly lurked there. “I think you are right,” murmured Otton. “I wonder if I should charge you with assault and battery…” He listened to Carruthers’s profane response with amusement, then raised a languid hand. “Softly, Merry. Softly. My poor head. Have you any wine in this ghastly place? Where is this ghastly place, by the bye?”

  Baker, who had been standing quietly beside the door, responded to Carruthers’s gesture by crossing to a small table containing a bottle of wine and some chipped mugs. He poured a generous portion of Madeira into two of these, and carried them over.

  Carruthers said, “Pour one for yourself, Henry. I am much beholden to you.”

  “Not so am I,” muttered Otton, accepting the mug. “Where is Rump?”

  “At the corner stables. I’ve rented a small flat near Ludgate Hill. Roly … I need you. For old times’ sake—will you help me?”

  Otton had never known this proud man to plead. He found himself unable to meet the desperation in the grey eyes and looked away, saying lightly, “Seems to me, my lad, as if you’re past helping. Why did you provoke the luscious Miss R. into jilting you?”

  Carruthers gazed into his mug and answered slowly, “I had no choice. You knew that we were hiding Lance.…”

  Otton sighed. “Would I had known where. Some little cubby-hole in your great Keep, I fancy?”

  “Yes. It seems that years ago, when my papa was in his cups, he took my charming nephew to the secret room. While I was searching for Phoebe, Lambert was also searching. He remembered the room, and he found Lance, sleeping.”

  Otton groaned. “Then—damn him!—he has the cipher!”

  “He was not interested in one verse of a four-verse poem. What he has—is me.”

  “Not our noble Lambkin?” Otton lifted his brows. “Blackmail? Dear me!”

  Carruthers said tonelessly, “He came to me when I awoke. I was given three minutes to make a choice. If I gave my sworn oath to terminate my betrothal to Phoebe, he would say nothing about Lance. If I refused, he would feel duty-bound to arrest Lance. And Jeff … Sinclair … and me.”

&n
bsp; “Good God! You makebait! You should’ve shot the bastard out of hand.”

  “I’ll admit I attempted to take him on.” Carruthers gave a mirthless snort. “He levelled me sans difficulté. I doubt I was up to the heft of a pistol at that moment, even had I kept one under my pillow. Besides, it was quite useless. Beautiful Brooks had the Keep surrounded by his troopers. Lance would have been taken, beyond doubting.”

  Otton shook his head, marvelling. “To think he actually threatened the brother of his beloved! I’d never have given him credit for such ruthlessness. Certainly, he knew you would all have been executed.”

  “Certainly. And the estates confiscated, which would have left Mama destitute—if she survived her grief, which I doubt. To say nothing of the tragedy to the Ramsays.”

  Otton was silent for a moment, staring at him. “By God, but he had you in a vise! But—did he not cut off the hand that feeds him?”

  “You forget, Phoebe is now in the way of being an heiress.”

  Otton pursed his lips. “Hmmnn. What a splendid actor he is. Loathed you for years, and hid it so well. You realize, Merry, that he was behind all the attempts on your life.”

  “I realize.”

  “It is your inheritance he’s after, my tulip. Lock, stock, and barrel. He’d have lost the lot were you chopped up for high treason. On the other hand, if his scheme had succeeded, and you’d been slain in the duel, or our devious Hessell had removed you from this sphere with his trusty musket the day—Whoops!”

  Carruthers growled, “You knew it was Hessell?”

  “Clumsy of me, but no point in denying it now. Yes. I caught him, red-handed, as it were.”

  “And failed to warn me—my good friend!”

  “Deplorable, I know. But I’d a use for him, and I did stipulate that his continued freedom depended upon his poor aim was there to be another touch at you.”

  “You are too good,” said Carruthers sardonically. “Do you chance to know if Lambert intended Jeff’s death, eventually? He’s not aware, I think, that my half-brother does not inherit.”

  “True. I fancy Jeffery was destined to survive you by only a year or two at most, before meeting with an—er, unfortunate ‘accident.’”

  Carruthers swore softly, but with a fluency that caused Otton to blink. “I agree,” he said sympathetically. “I do draw the line at some things, and I’ll admit blackmail sticks in my craw.”

  “Then—help me!”

  “How? You gave him your word—no getting out of that, old fellow! He’s got you. I’m sorrier than hell to say it, because the slimy toad don’t deserve your dainty lass, and—I think you are—ah, somewhat smitten, no?”

  Meredith balanced his mug very carefully on the arm of his chair and stared at it. The strong hand trembled, but his voice was steady. “I love her more than my life,” he answered.

  “Pity. Lady Martha seemed to think Phoebe may at one time have reciprocated your feelings.”

  The dark head jerked up. Carruthers snarled, “She does! Present tense!”

  Otton put down his mug. “I am a wounded man, and if you raise your hand to me, I shall scream for aid.” The twinkle left his eyes. He said quietly, “Merry—did you see this morning’s Spectator? Phoebe is to marry Lambert. The announcement hinted at a small private ceremony to be conducted within a very few days due to his military—”

  Carruthers sprang up, sending his mug crashing to the floor. Chalk-white, he snarled, “She would not! She would not! Dear God! Not him!” He flung away, suddenly, his voice breaking, his head bowed low, and a hand across his eyes.

  Otton exchanged aghast glances with Baker. “My dear fellow,” he cried, deeply moved by his friend’s anguish, “how can you blame the girl? You convinced her you do not love her. She has been courted by your clever nephew for some time, I believe. And—she does not know, Merry!”

  For a moment, Carruthers continued to stand with head down and shoulders hunched over. Then he turned, his eyes suspiciously bright, and asked unsteadily, “How—how much, Roly?”

  “My tulip—there’s nought to be done! Your oath—remember? Unless—do you desire me to remove Lambert from this vale of tears?”

  “He thought of that, and has left a sealed document with his solicitor to be opened in the event of his death.”

  Otton shook his head. “Clever clod. And you have broken my poor head for nothing.”

  Carruthers jerked over a straight-backed chair, straddled it and, regarding Otton steadily, said, “Roly, I have a plan, but I cannot manage it alone. You are the only man who could help me to carry it off. How much?”

  All business, Otton sat straighter. “Information.”

  “If you mean the cipher, it has already reached its destination.”

  “Hell and damnation! Very well—the name of the man to whom it was delivered.”

  Carruthers’s heart sank. He said, “I cannot.”

  “You and your damned integrity! You’re sworn to secrecy?”

  “Yes. But ’twould make no difference. I’ll fight for my happiness, Roly. But not at the cost of a good man’s life.”

  “Then you’re a fool! You worship the girl—it’s writ all over you.”

  Carruthers gripped the top of the chair until the bones of his left hand shone white, but when he spoke it was to whisper again, “I cannot!”

  “You cannot! What of her? She is pining away! You should only see how pale and sad—”

  Springing up, Carruthers shouted wildly, “Damn you! D’you think I’ve not thought of that? Nigh gone mad, thinking of it?” He paced up and down the room, then repeated a tormented “No! I tell you, I cannot! Oh—never mind! Go, blast your eyes! Go! I’ll manage—somehow!”

  Otton came to his feet, clutched his head, then started to the door.

  Baker, grim and scornful, blocked his way.

  Carruthers grated, “Let him pass, Henry.”

  Baker stepped aside.

  His hand on the latch, Otton checked and turned to lean back against the door. “A bargain rate,” he proposed with a faint grin. “Only tell me the name of the town to which you delivered your cipher. Only that, Merry, and I’m your man.”

  Carruthers drew a quivering breath. “God forgive me,” he muttered. “I’ll compromise to this extent, and no further. We went over the top of Phantom Hill.”

  Exultant, Otton cried, “North! North, by God! And I was so sure it was east!”

  Watching him tensely, Carruthers asked, “You’ll do it, then?”

  “Deuce take it—no! I asked for the town! You gave me a direction only!”

  “You damned, soulless, mercenary—Hell! Five hundred guineas!”

  “A thousand!”

  Meredith bit his lip, “Done!”

  Henry Baker said, “Lor’! I’m glad you’re not my friend, Cap’n!”

  * * *

  A fitful breeze tossed the tree-tops and blew up the waves, setting the small boats to bobbing in the cove, and causing the yawl to rock uneasily and strain at its anchor chain. The air was chill in this quiet cove of the Dorsetshire coast and held the smell of rain, and although the moon was not yet up, flares were lighted on the beach so that the two men who stood watching from the bluff could see the sailors carrying the large trunks and crates to the longboat.

  Lambert said redundantly, “Wind’s coming up.”

  His cloak flying in that same wind, Otton moved closer. “You chose these bullies, my Lamb. Are you sure they are to be trusted?”

  “Very. I’m not all wool upstairs, y’know. Told ’em this was a cargo of guns for a secret force preparing to start hostilities in France. They’ll not dare risk seizing a military cargo. Besides which, I’ve a few fellows on board, in addition to your own, to make sure no one tampers with the crates.”

  The last item was loaded, the longboat was pushed into the tide, and the sailors started to row out to the yawl. Half an hour later, the sails having disappeared into the night, Otton clapped a hand on Lambert’s shoulder and sai
d triumphantly, “We’re rich men, Lambkin.”

  They walked side by side up the slope, the wind billowing their cloaks, and a few drops of rain falling on their faces as they approached the small tavern set back among the trees.

  Lambert murmured, “I can scarce believe it is done.”

  “And well done. Which is why I needed you. Only a soldier could have brought that cargo to the coast and aboard the vessel without it was searched.”

  “Lord God! If they had searched!” Lambert laughed shortly. “A far cry from weapons, eh? When you first told me you’d got your hands on a shipment of that Jacobite gold, I’ll own I did not believe you.”

  “But—when you saw it, that was sufficient proof, no?”

  “Jove, but it was! Did you ever see such a haul? All those encrusted golden bowls and silver plates! The gems! The jade! The gold coins! Bags and bags of the lovely things!”

  “Enough and to spare for us both.”

  There was enough, but Lambert had already decided that it would be much nicer not to have to share with this adventurer. Otton didn’t deserve it. He was truly a nasty fellow to so treat his friend, for there was no doubt but that Otton had got his hands on the treasure by betraying Carruthers. Just to guard against trickery, Lambert had given his men secret instructions, as a result of which, instead of the yawl sailing for the secluded beach near Boulogne that Otton had designated, she would put in to land some ten miles to the north. And quite unknown to this dandy beside him, he had booked passage for himself and Phoebe on a private and very expensive yacht that would sail at midnight. A fast vessel that would reach France’s coast before the yawl, and with a crew able and willing to off-load the yawl’s priceless cargo. He and Phoebe would be married on board, and with luck he’d get back before his special leave was up—a wealthy man. Two birds with one stone, by Jupiter! Otton was peering at him. “Oh—more than enough,” he agreed, realizing that he had failed to answer.