The Tyrant (14 page)

Glancing at her betrothed, Phoebe found a smile in his eyes that was rather appealing. “Thank you, ma'am,” she replied. “Do you like to ride?”

“In a nicely sprung coach,” said Meredith, quizzing his mother. “Preferably on a journey of no longer than thirty minutes' duration, and one enlivened by a companion with whom she can enjoy a comfortable cose; which is to say a—er, critique of all their dearest friends.”

“Villain!” Lucille tossed several letters to him. “Here is your correspondence, sir, and 'twill serve you right are they all duns! Now—we will pay him no heed, my dear. You must be fairly famished after your ride. Conditt, be very sure to offer Miss Ramsay some of those mushrooms, they are really superior this morning.” She prattled on and Phoebe responded politely, Meredith saying little until his mother asked, “Did you meet anyone on your long ride?”

“Oh, I saw Ben Hessell,” he replied idly. “And had a word with old Joseph Smith.”

“One of our local oddities, Miss Ramsay,” observed Lucille. “But a very dear old man.”

“Indeed, he seemed so,” Phoebe agreed. “Though very bloodthirsty. He was fairly beside himself with joy because Mr. Carruthers was cross with Hessell.” She was amused by the recollection of the quaint little dance Joseph had essayed, but glancing to her betrothed, met a flashing look of irritation.

Lucille sighed. “You are very hard on the Hessells, Meredith. I really think you might be more lenient; poor Mary does her best, and Hessell has always been most respectful.”

“Of course, for he's a toad-eater,” he said in his gruff way. “And is a lazy rascal—to say the least of the matter.”

Lucille looked flustered, and Phoebe intervened hurriedly, “And I also met your neighbour, the Squire, ma'am.”

Carruthers's hand tightened on the napkin he had just laid beside his plate.

Lucille's anxious gaze flew to him. “Were you on Sir Malcolm's preserves, then?”

“No. He was on ours.” He leaned over to cover her little white hand with his long tanned one, and said in a gentle voice that was new to Phoebe, “Now never look so troubled, love. We parted most amicably.” He slanted a meaningful glance at Phoebe. “Is that not so, Miss Ramsay?”

It was very obvious he did not want anything said about the poisoning of the dogs, and Phoebe at once confirmed his remark.

Lucille gave her a tragic look and clung to Meredith's hand. “But—
why
was he on our land?” she asked, her voice trembling. “He did not call at the house, or— Oh, my! What a nasty welt! How ever did you come by it?”

He whipped his hand away, but not before Phoebe had seen the lurid swelling that was already darkening to a bruise. She looked at him repentantly.

“Miss Ramsay did it,” he said easily. “Only because I will not wear a silly wig.”

Phoebe, who had opened her mouth to protest, closed it again.

Lucille said with a tremulous smile, “I'd not blame her a bit. Now, Meredith, do be truthful. Did you come to blows with Sir Malcolm?”

“Lord, no. I promise you it was only a foolish— Oh, hello, Jeff.”

His brother hurried in and went at once to kiss his mother and wish everyone a good morning. He had gone for an early ride, he said, this drawing an incredulous stare from his brother. He asked Phoebe what she had thought of the estate, warned that she must take a strong hand with Meredith from the start, and made Lucille laugh by telling her a vignette about the vicar's wife. He was cheerful and light-hearted, and Phoebe began to realize that Sinclair was right; he was the apple of his mother's eye. In no time Lucille was chattering happily with him, her previous anxieties quite forgotten. Phoebe was swept along by their conversation, but Meredith fell silent and surreptitiously broke the seal on a letter and began to read it.

“Now, Mama,” said Jeffery, taking his third piece of toast, “what have you planned for today?”

“I shall ask you to show Mr. Ramsay about the district,” she answered, and turned to Phoebe, thus missing the dismay that came into his eyes. “And as soon as she is ready, I mean to take Miss Ramsay through the gardens. After lunch—”

“After lunch,” Meredith interposed, not looking up, “I am driving her over to Dewbury Minor.”

His mother's mouth drooped into the little pout Phoebe was soon to associate with the lady. “Oh. Well, I suppose it is natural enough that you would wish to do so. Then I shall take Lady Eloise for a drive.”

“I think she will love that, ma'am,” said Phoebe. “Your lands are so very beautiful.”

Jeffery was keeping a wary eye on his brother, but asked, “And what of your famous tea-party, Mama? Is it all arranged?”

“Yes, dearest. It is to be on the third of August. Only five more days, Miss Ramsay, before you will be meeting all our friends and neighbours! I would have scheduled it sooner, but I knew Meredith would wish you to have a period of quiet and be more settled here before I subjected you to such a large party.”

Phoebe thought, ‘Five more days here?' But, after all, Lambert would soon arrive and then they could start to find the way out of this pickle, so it might not be too bad. She said with warm insincerity, “How very kind of you, ma'am. Shall you need help with the invitations?”

“No, no. Thank you, my dear, but they are all done.”

Meredith said, “So soon?” He addressed his mother, but for an instant his gaze had gone to Jeffery. Phoebe intercepted both that look of steel and his brother's fading smile, and could all but feel the rising tension in the room.

“Oh, yes, am I not efficient?” trilled Lucille, pouring Jeffery another cup of tea. She gave a little-girl giggle. “I must be truthful. Rosalie came up from the village to help. She has such a fine hand and is always so willing, sweet child.”

Jeffery's preoccupation with his brother was abandoned. He said eagerly, “Rosalie Smith? Jove, how surprised I was to find her all grown up! A childhood friend, Miss Ramsay, grown into a charming girl! She tells me you have kindly loaned her some of our books, Mama. Did you know she has an interest in birds?”

Eyeing him uneasily, Lucille agreed, “Yes, a very great interest.”

“One supposes your fascination with bats will increase,” said Meredith drily. “In the meantime, I'd like a private word with you.” He stood. “You will excuse us, ladies?”

Lucille turned pale. “You may run along, Meredith,” she quavered, “but you are not to take Miss Ramsay away, and I want Jeffery to tell me about this new interest in—did you say bats, dearest?”

Meredith bowed expressionlessly, and left them. Phoebe waited a few minutes, but sensing that Lucille wished to speak to her son alone, made her excuses and started off on the long trek to her bedchamber to put off her riding habit. She encountered Meredith in the cavernous Great Hall, conversing with a pleasant-looking man whom he left when he caught her eye. Going to her, he asked, “Assistance required, ma'am?”

She hesitated, then, as they walked slowly towards the stairs, said, “I think you are angry again.”

“Not with you, Miss Ramsay. Did you really find my lands beautiful?”

It was a warning to stay clear. She accepted his right not to discuss whatever had so enraged him that he fairly vibrated with it, but ignored his question. “Mr. Carruthers, why was your glove left in Sir Malcolm's kennels? Did someone deliberately seek to throw suspicion on you?”

“Or perhaps merely throw my glove at the Squire's dogs,” he said lightly.

Halting, she said, “You must realize it is a serious matter. If you have an enemy who would do so dreadful a thing and try to implicate you—”

“If I do, I can think of no possible reason why you should be troubled by it, ma'am. I am only sorry we had to meet that old curmudgeon.”

“Perhaps he is curmudgeonly because he misses his son.”

“Are you always so kind as to make excuses for bad temper?” He smiled faintly. “If so, you may even begin to think more kindly of me.”

She laughed. “Ah, but you have no sons to vex you, sir.” She regretted the words the instant they were spoken, and he reacted just as she feared he might.

“Only a fribble of a brother,” he muttered, his brow darkening again.

In an attempt to pull his thoughts from Jeffery, she asked, “Shall you see Sir Malcolm's son? Perhaps you could help them to reconcile. What is his name, by the way?”

“Sir Malcolm Lockwood.”

Starting up the stairs, she said, “Well, I know that, foolish man. I mean his
son.
”

Again, that brief hesitation. Then he replied quietly, “Lancelot.”

Phoebe stumbled on the second step and clung to the railing. Turning back to look down at him, she gasped, “
Lancelot
? Surely— My
heavens
! He is not
Lascelles
?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am. He changed his name, as did so many, in an attempt to protect his family.”

“But … but … Oh! You must
tell
him! Poor man! To think that his son is so badly hurt and only a little distance away! You should have told him when—”

A footman passed, glancing at them curiously.

Carruthers interposed a curt and low-voiced “Pray moderate your tone, Miss Ramsay. And I should have done nothing of the sort.”

Indignant, she cried, “I cannot
credit
that you could be so—so unfeeling! The Squire is not a casual acquaintance—he is the Lieutenant's
father
!”

His lip curled. “Do your powers of recollection cease at that point? Certainly, you heard Lance beg me to say nothing. I gave my word I would not. A gentleman don't break his word and, despite my many failings, I hope I am still a gentleman!”

He turned on his heel and left her, his spurs jingling as he returned to the man who still waited at the far side of the hall.

Phoebe went upstairs, vexed by his ill manners and stupid stubbornness, and dismayed by the awareness that her little chat with him had done nothing to improve his dark mood.

Ada greeted her with a glowing look. “What a lovely day, miss.”

“It would be, were we away from this horrid place,” said Phoebe crossly.

“Oh, I dunno. It's got a lot to—er, recommend it.”

Allowing her blouse to be removed, Phoebe glared at her. “I suppose that coy look means you have captivated some poor helpless male.”

“Has Mr. Carruthers upset you, miss?” evaded Ada demurely. “A bit of a tartar, ain't he? But his people think the world of him. And I must say as I likes them devilish eyes. They make me come over all jellyfish-like.”

“Vulgar baggage!” snapped Phoebe, turning on her in a flame. “He is a stubborn, arrogant, foul-tempered—”

Ada's mouth hung open. “But—
miss
! If you hate Mr. Carruthers, why ever did you agree to wed him?”

Close to tears, which was as infuriating as it was inexplicable, Phoebe cried, “
Wed
him? La, I'd sooner wed a coal scuttle! If ever there was a—” Ada's stupefied expression restored her to reality and the perils of her situation. She drew a deep breath and turned away. “Oh, pay me no heed,” she muttered.

“Dear Miss Phoebe.” Ada patted her shoulder consolingly. “A lover's quarrel, right enough. 'Tis what adds spice to the pudding, so me ma used to say.”

It was, thought Phoebe broodingly, a singularly revolting expression. But she wondered, as Ada hummed happily while removing her riding habit, why she felt so very miserable.

*   *   *

Meredith Carruthers's temper, sorely tried by the obtuseness of Miss Phoebe Ramsay, was not improved by the subsequent interview with his steward, nor by the long wait for his brother. It was another half-hour before Jeffery was able to leave the breakfast table. He arrived in the stable area to find Meredith in the large barn looking like a thunder-cloud and the steward obviously relieved by the interruption. Boles, a man of middle years, ample girth, and excellent humour, had been in the service of the family since boyhood. He was that rare commodity, a contented man, enjoying his cheerful wife, his six lively children, and, now that Mr. Paul was gone, his work. He beamed at Jeffery, whom he considered a right slap-up young gentleman and, in response to a jerk of the head from his employer, made his excuses and slipped away, taking with him the groom who had been currying a fine bay mare.

It was warm in the fragrant barn, and Meredith's coat was slung over his shoulder. Noting his expression, Jeffery attempted to head off disaster and attacked first. “This fellow Ramsay,” he said. “I take it you're aware he is annoying Rosalie Smith?”

Meredith frowned. “I was not aware they'd met. Do you say he has behaved towards her in an ungentlemanly way?”

“Well, not—er, that, perhaps. But there's not much doubt what he intends. It is not always necessary that a man see a lovely girl more than once to—er, that is—well, I saw him—”

“Indeed? You were present during this—ah, orgy?”

Clenching his fists, Jeffery growled, “I chanced to see him pawing her.”

Stiffening, Meredith said sharply, “Did you, by God! I'll own myself surprised, for I'd not have thought him the type to take advantage of one of our people whilst he was a guest in my house. I'll put a stop to it, you may be sure.” He added slowly, “As I would did
any
man maul her.”

“Deuce take it,” exclaimed Jeffery, burdened with the guilty awareness that he'd not only carried tales, a trait he despised, but that he'd actually had very little justification. “If you mean me!”

“Should I? It will not do, Jeff.”

“I should like to know just what you mean by that!”

“Nonsense. You know perfectly well what I mean by it. If you plan to enter the petticoat line, my lad, you must look farther afield.”