The Tyrant (11 page)

“Were I being imperdent, sir?” Baker slapped a saddle on the grey. “Now fancy that. And I didn't think as I'd said a word on Rosalie Smith.”

“No, you rascal,” Jeffery responded, colouring up. “And you'd best not, or
I
might mention a bright-eyed little lass by name of—er, Ada something-or-other.”

It was Baker's turn to redden. Jeffery grinned at him. “You great clunch, I saw you staring at her last evening when you was helping unload the coach. You'd best be careful, Baker. She's got a saucy way with her eyes, that one.”

“Aye, sir,” mumbled the big man shyly. “But they do be awful pretty eyes. And what am I to say if Mr. Meredith asks for ye?”

“Only the truth, my lad,” said Jeffery, swinging easily to the saddle. “You've no least notion where I went.”

Watching him ride out, Baker shook his curly head worriedly. “I got a
very
good notion where ye be going, Master Jeff,” he muttered. “And if ye ride round
that
paddock, Mr. Meredith'll have your ears, so he will!”

Had Jeffery been aware of this sombre prediction, he would have shrugged it off and gone on his way, but perhaps with a shadow thrown over his plans. As it was, he proceeded blithe and untroubled through the brilliant morning, and was rewarded on approaching the village by a sight of the very maiden he had hoped to find. His pulse quickening, he leapt from the saddle, and called, “Good morning, Miss Rosalie.”

She turned, a pleased sparkle dawning in her wide hazel eyes.

Perhaps because he himself was fair, he had never much cared for fair girls, but he was dazzled now by the gleam of the sunshine on her golden curls and the perfection of her dainty features. “What a glorious morning,” he went on, “especially with you to brighten it.”

“What a nice thing to say.” The soft, cultured tones were a legacy from her mother, who had been well, if not nobly, born, and was said to have married beneath her station in life. If that was so, Grace Smith had never appeared to regret her decision. She had educated her daughter with the encouragement and support of Lucille Carruthers, whom she had once served as companion. As a result, Rosalie was accustomed to speaking with those her tempestuous grandfather said were her ‘betters,' and she betrayed no timidity now, as Jeffery appropriated the basket she carried. “You are early about,” she teased. “You have changed, Jeff. I remember when we were children how Merry used to fret because he and Lance had to wait for you to be dragged out of bed.”

“I am a reformed man,” he grinned. “My tutor holds out great hopes of my making him famous someday.”

“Only listen to the humility of it! Pray tell in which subject you mean to excel. Politics? Or perhaps”—she dimpled mischievously—“the study of the female of the species?”

He laughed. “The latter, certainly. Would that one might make a decent living at it.”

They began to walk on together, and she asked in sudden anxiety, “You're not in financial distress, I hope?”

“Lord, no,” he said, touched by her solicitude. “The dibs are more or less in tune. I'll own it will be grand when I come into my inheritance at the end of the year, and don't have to go grovelling to my brother for every farthing.”

She frowned a little. “Is he very hard on you? I'd always thought you were good friends.”

“We are, really. But—well, you know how Merry is at times. He can be so curst cutting.” His handsome face darkened. He said broodingly, “He's furious because I was rusticated again, and has warned that—” He broke off. “What a fellow I am to be prosing on about such dull matters. Let me see now, you had asked…? Oh, yes. Well, I think I mean to be a great ornithologist. What d'you say to that?”

She chuckled. “Any particular species, Learned Professor? Or do you only say it to please me?”

“No such thing! Why should I wish to—” The words trailed off. She was smiling up at him, and he felt a quite unfamiliar depth of affection for the pretty creature. With a great effort he reminded himself that she was one of their own people. Merry was very fond of her grandfather besides, and would really be in a rage if the old fellow was upset. ‘Slow and easy, my lad,' he told himself, and finished, “—wish to please such a
lovely
expert on the feathered little varmints? Speaking of which, Rosalie, how came you to have so deep an interest in 'em?”

She was not deceived, and knew very well how close she had come to being kissed. She had always been fond of this tall boy, but she remembered him more as a harum-scarum playmate than as the handsome aristocrat he had become. A little disconcerted, she replied, “My father loved to watch them, and the books your dear mama allows me to read have helped me to learn a good deal, though I've not as much time for reading since Papa died and I have to help in the bakery. Not that I mind that, of course. Mrs. Johnson comes in at ten and all day Tuesdays, but Grandfather is much too old to be working. I am very glad to be of use to him.”

Jeffery thought it a crime that so delicious a girl should have to slave over dough and hot ovens, but he said, “Yes, of course. But I'm glad you have some time left for reading, and that you are able to use our books. If—” Struck by a sudden thought, he interrupted himself. “I say, do you know anything about bats?”

“A little. Why?”

“Have they paws? Or—well, some sort of feet?”

She laughed hilariously. “Of course they have … whatever did you think?”

“Never really thought about 'em at all,” he admitted. “I know they hang by their tails, though—”

Again, that ripple of laughter rang out. “They hang by their
feet
and their thumbs.”

He stared at her. “You're bamming me. What bird ever had thumbs?”

“Ah, but they are not birds, Professor Carruthers.”

He chuckled. “Very well, you've teased me properly, little rascal. I knew you were bamming.”

“Indeed I am not,” she protested, still half-laughing at him. “They are mammals, you see. And the most fascinating little creatures. I'm sure Merry has some books that will tell you more about them if you are
really
interested.”

He assured her that he was, and received a warning that the next time they met she would quiz him to see how much he had learned of the subject.

He escorted her as far as the village green, and watched her go on her way, her walk as graceful and unaffected as her manner. ‘What a little darling of a girl,' he thought. And, turning for home, was so lost in reverie that he failed to see the malevolent glare that was levelled at him by the large villager who leaned from a cottage window. Nor did he see Ben Hessell spit contemptuously into the weedy garden as he passed.

“Mammals, by Jove,” he murmured, and hastened his stride. He must find the books Rosalie had spoken of and learn as much as he might so that he could present himself without delay for the quiz.

*   *   *

Despite the early hour and her interrupted night, Phoebe went downstairs humming softly. The morning was bright, and she knew the brown habit with the big gold buttons became her. In the hall, a maid with dust mop in hand bobbed a curtsy. Phoebe bade her good morning, wandered to an elaborate gilt mirror, and took one last careful glance. Her broad-brimmed straw hat with the great orange feather curling down could be set, she decided, just a trifle more to one side, and she adjusted it carefully. The mirror reflected another face crowned by a flowing periwig. She turned and crossed to the far wall and the portrait that hung there, somewhat overshadowed by the tall armoire chest beside it.

The gentleman wore a magnificent blue velvet coat with snowy lace at his throat and wrists. His mouth was shapely but disdainful, his features lean, and a half-moon patch on one cheekbone enhanced the beauty of a pair of thickly lashed grey eyes. Phoebe stared, fascinated by that arrestingly handsome face. The chin was sharper than Meredith's, there was a difference about the mouth, also, and his son had not inherited such a perfectly chiselled nose, yet the likeness between the two, especially about the eyes, was marked. She was so intent that she failed to hear a step behind her, and gave a little shriek as the hat she had so carefully arranged was knocked forward over her eye.

Spinning around, she found Carruthers behind her, looking amused. “What a miserable trick!” she exclaimed. “You've an odd sense of humour, sir.”

The quirkish grin dawned and he reached upward. “You give me credit for a deal more courage than I possess, ma'am. Wretched beast, will you never mend your manners?”

The last remark was addressed to the large black cat that he lifted down from the top of the chest.

“So this is Satan,” Phoebe said admiringly. “What a beautiful creature.”

“And, like most beautiful creatures, spoiled, vain, and ill-mannered.” He met her level stare and drawled mockingly, “Dear me! Did you fancy I referred to you, Miss Ramsay?”

Fuming, she stroked the cat, which had draped itself lazily over his arm. “Not unless you judge me beautiful.”

“I am hoist by my own petard,” he sighed. “Horns of a dilemma! Allow me to escape by presenting another of my—encumbrances. Wicked hat-whacker, pay your respects.”

He lifted the cat until it looked directly into Phoebe's face, and it blinked great amber eyes at her, purring. She ruffled up the dense fur about its neck and it emitted an amiable trill and began to knead the air with big paws.

Justice padded up and sniffed enquiringly. Satan became a hissing porcupine, jumped down, and streaked away; the hound in hot, if rather ungainly, pursuit.

“Will Justice catch him?” asked Phoebe anxiously.

“For his sake, I sincerely hope not. Satan would make mincemeat out of him.”

She said, smiling, “I did not mean to be ill-mannered. I apologize for assuming you had knocked off my hat.”

He bowed gravely. “I have no need to remove it. At present.”

There seemed to be some hidden meaning to the words. She could not guess what, and deemed it safer not to enquire, so returned her attention to the portrait.

“I see you have discovered my father,” he said.

“Yes. A splendid gentleman.” He made no comment and, watching him from under her lashes, she added, “It seems rather an odd place for him.”

His eyes were fixed on a point below the level of the frame. “Does it? I'll admit I can think of a better one.”

“You are very like him,” she persisted.

The cool stare lifted to her. “I presume you intend that as a compliment.” His mouth curved into that twisted smile, but his eyes were bleak. “At least, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt.”

She was unutterably shocked that a man could speak thus of his father, and asked with a lift of the brows, “Where would you prefer to hang his picture? In your portrait gallery?”

“Oh, no. I had thought rather the place of honour atop a large bonfire.” The ice in his eyes melted, and laughter crept into them. “Poor Miss Ramsay. How I do destroy your faith in human nature. Never mind, your fine handsome lover—ah, friend, will soon be able to reclaim you. Meanwhile, pray forgive, but some of my people are waiting to consult with me. Your brother is already out at the stables, and if you would not mind riding slowly, I'll contrive to come up with you just as soon as I can.” He bowed and strode off.

Phoebe stared after him, then turned to gaze up again at the likeness of Paul Carruthers. One might suppose that any family would have been proud to hang the portrait of so splendid a gentleman where it must instantly impress any visitor to their home. Yet here it was, hidden away in a corner, as though displayed more from a reluctant sense of obligation than from affection or pride. ‘What an odd lot they are,' she thought, and walked slowly to the stableyard, puzzling at it.

*   *   *

“You have to admit it is beautiful country,” said Sinclair, as he and his sister walked their horses slowly to the top of the broad hilltop.

Scanning sunlit, rolling woodland, verdant meadows dotted with fat cattle, and the distant charm of Dewbury Prime, Phoebe agreed. “And the Hall, so inspiring.” She had spoken in jest and was taken aback when her brother endorsed the remark with enthusiasm.

Sinclair was less enthusiastic as the minutes lengthened into a quarter of an hour. Percent was fidgeting with impatience, and Sinclair said at last that he could wait no longer, but would explore the estate alone. “As well to leave you two love-birds together,” he added, and galloped off, laughing at the indignant comment Phoebe sent after him.

She watched him out of sight, her eyes fond, very aware that, despite his teasing, he blamed himself bitterly for having pulled her into such a fiasco. That it
was
a fiasco, she could not deny, but she would have endured many such fiascos rather than have him changed by one iota. Besides, she had no real fear that she and Carruthers would be forced into matrimony, since he wanted it no more than did she.

Rapid hoofbeats announced the approach of Carruthers, and she turned about to see him coming full tilt across the meadow, mounted on a tall black horse. The meandering stream with the low wall just beyond it was a treacherous jump, but horse and man cleared it in a style that drew an admiring exclamation from Phoebe. ‘My goodness,' she thought, ‘but he can ride! Small wonder he was a cavalryman,' and her smile was genuine as he cantered to join her. “I'd say he was a beautiful creature,” she said, twinkling at him, “save that I've found it to be a dangerous remark.”

He had expected recriminations and, pleased by both the lack of them and her admiration of his mount, he patted the arched neck of the black and responded, “I'd have to agree with you, but alas, part of my qualification still applies. He is excessive vain and inclined to be ill-mannered.”