The Tyrant (23 page)

Stunned, Phoebe stared at her, then, with a little cry of pity, ran to gather her into her arms. “You poor little thing! How ghastly!”

Clinging to Phoebe, shaking, Lucille went on, “I screamed. And—Meredith came.”

Phoebe was very still. “Ah…” she breathed.

Lucille nodded. “He was home for the Long Vacation, and he heard me. The servants were too afraid, but he got between us, somehow. He was only fourteen, but he was strong and he managed to force Paul's hand from my hair. I ran, terrified. And then—” She buried her face in her hands. “My husband was
mad
 … quite out of his mind! He—turned on the boy! Oh, my God! I shall never forget. Never! Poor Meredith's face…!”

Her own eyes blurred with tears, Phoebe said huskily, “It was not your fault. How horribly lonely you must have been. And it would be a—a poor son who did not try to prevent so frightful a thing! I am very sure that Meredith has never blamed you.”

“No. Never. The servants came then, and Paul stormed out of the house. He went straight to Town and challenged Edvard.” She looked haggard, suddenly, her eyes turned into the past with a grief so deep that Phoebe dared not say a word.

“He killed him,” said Lucille. “That gentle, kind, wonderful human being. He destroyed that dear life. When I heard … I thought I would die, too. I wanted to be dead.”

Phoebe hugged her tight and gently dried her tears. “There,” she said, her smile quivering, “it is all said and we can forget about it. Only … I am so very sorry.”

Shyly, Lucille kissed her cheek. “How kind you are. But—the dreadful thing—the
most
dreadful thing, Miss Ramsay, is that—in spite of what he did, in spite of the fact that I know how very much he loves me … sometimes, I can scarcely endure to look at Meredith.”

A pang pierced Phoebe's heart. “Because of those scars? I suppose they must remind you of it all.”

“Yes. But more than that … I feared and hated Paul. I despise his—his very memory. And—it makes me so ashamed, but you see, Meredith is—is so very like him. The eyes, you know. The way they have of seeming grey when he is angered, and blue when he is happy. He is not like Paul, of course. He is strong, but kind too, and honourable. And, underneath that fierce way of his, he is very shy and tender. I
know
all that. Yet … oh, how dreadful it is!”

Phoebe was silent. So much had fallen into place. She thought, ‘He knows how he repels her, so he has built a wall of coldness to protect himself. I suppose that is why he meant never to wed, for fear of having someone else turn from him in fear and revulsion. Poor soul. How dreadful…'

Lucille was watching her anxiously. “My dear, if you despise me, I shall quite understand. But—if anything has occurred here to—to lessen your regard—Miss Ramsay … you
do
care for him, still?”

How pleading the blue eyes. Phoebe could hear Carruthers saying ‘My mama has known a deal of grief. I'd prefer she not suffer any more on my account.' She felt the trap closing around her, but—surely this was not the moment to break free? And so, she said gently, “I do care, ma'am. Your son is a very fine gentleman.”

*   *   *

“You are a very fine idiot!” Having delivered himself of this encomium, Roland Otton leaned back in his favourite chair of the pleasant library and regarded his scowling friend with amusement. “You know the chit for ten minutes and
offer
?” He sat straight again and wagged a censorious finger. “I'll tell you what it is. You've chose her because—”

“She is a beautiful girl,” said Carruthers hastily. “And my mama—”

“—Because she has red hair,” Otton overrode ruthlessly. “She fits your hallowed legend.”

“Nonsense!” Carruthers carried his tankard over to the window and stared at Satan, who lay atop the terrace wall with his legs hanging down each side. “As if I'd do such a bird-brained thing. What a romantic you are, Roly.”

Otton laughed softly. He was a man of few friends, for he had learned very early in life that to offer either love or trust was to invite pain and disappointment. Carruthers had dealt out neither commodity, and was one of the less than half dozen men for whom he held a deep respect. Resting his chin on one long-fingered hand, he murmured, “Yet yours is the scarlet phiz.”

When he felt the heat of his countenance subsiding, Carruthers moved to occupy a chair. “If it is,” he said coolly, “it's because I offered before—”

“Offered! You were manoeuvred into it, I'll warrant! Oh, never glare, old fellow. When I saw you in May, you'd no more intent to become a benedick than a tailor. Less, by Jove!”

“A lot can happen in two months.”

Otton touched his chest and said ruefully, “I'll own that! I suppose you'd have me believe you took one look at each other and tumbled deep into love! The Ramsays are short of the ready, I heard. Not under the hatches precisely, but—the jolly old Carruthers fortune would not be viewed with disdain.”

Carruthers growled, “Which would explain why she wants to cry off.”

Otton's amused grin faded. “Does she now. Why?”

“As I started to say before I was given the benefit of your ignorance, the poor girl was as trapped—well, what I mean is, I was unaware that she had already plighted her troth.”

“Without the knowledge of her family? Naughty girl! Then why publish the notice? Ah—did her eager papa wait on the flagway until
The Gazette
opened its doors in the dawn so as to get the announcement in print before you could draw back…?”

“Do try not to be so vulgar, Mathieson.”

“Otton.”

Carruthers fixed him with a scornful look.

Otton grinned. “Your icy shards are wasted on me, dear boy. I've no shame. But speaking from the loathly depths which I inhabit, I will advise you. She's a very choice morsel, I grant. But if she loves another, cry off. Loud and fast!”

“And ruin the girl.”

“Would you sooner she ruin
you
? Have some sense, Sir Knight! You offered in all sincerity. She accepted with extreme
in
sincerity! For Lord's sake, what is your alternative? Wed her and leave the side door open for her lover on your wedding night?”

Carruthers said angrily, “Of course not, but it must be handled with care. My mother is pleased. Her family is pleased. And Miss Ramsay is a lady. I—”

Otton groaned and covered his eyes. “And you're the type wants one woman for eternity—from which may the good Lord deliver me! Merry, Merry—listen to the voice of experience! They're
all
ladies. Or fancy they are. I wish I'd a sovereign for every such ‘lady' to be had for the price of a well-turned phrase, a few trinkets, a way with a kiss. And not one of 'em worth five minutes of regret! I guarantee you I could win your pretty filly from her lover in a week. Aye, and— By the way, who
is
her lover? Anyone we know?”

Carruthers glared at him, but said with reluctance, “Brooks Lambert.”

For a moment Otton's face was a mask of astonishment, then he shouted with laughter. “Your famous
nephew
? Heavenly heresy! What a treacle pot! Are you not very careful, my poor clod, you'll either wind up being jilted and as a result cut by every man in Town, or married to a chit who yearns for your nephew! Be damned if I know which would be worse. I know what
I'd
do in the matter, but I'm a dedicated villain.”

Carruthers, who had been considerably less than honest with his friend, said, “I hope you're wrong, and that we'll somehow contrive to come through with no scandal. Besides—you're not a villain, Roly. You only think you are.”

For a rare moment the arrogantly handsome face was grave. Otton said slowly, “Oh, but I am, old lad. Did you know the depths to which I have sunk … some of the things I have done…” He broke off, and the twinkle returned to the velvety eyes. He finished blithely, “You would most assuredly forbid me to ever again set foot across your threshold.”

“What rubbish you mouth. Desist, and tell me of yourself. Were you really bested in a duel?”

“I was, but it's too long a tale to bore you with. Nor would you admire my part in it. Suffice it to say I lost. This time.”

“The tale is not told, then? The prize must be sizeable if you've bled for it.”

“Sizeable!” Otton leaned forward, glanced to the door, and said in a voice of suppressed excitement, “It is
vast
! No less than the treasure the Jacobites gathered to finance their cause.”

For a moment, Carruthers's stare was fixed, then he drained his tankard and set it down. “I've heard rumours. There are ciphers, one gathers, and every scoundrel in the three kingdoms after the poor devils who carry them.”

“Speak not harshly of me and my brethren.”

“Lord, Roly,” said Carruthers, shaking his head at him. “Is it worth it? The price you pay in your lusting for ill-gotten gains.”

“Not ill-gotten if
I
gain 'em. And blood has been shed for gold since time immemorial.”

“Why not achieve something of your own efforts and abilities? I'd think 'twould be more gratifying than the dangerous pursuit of quick riches.”

“But riches are so delightfully—
rich,
my Meredith. And as for my own efforts and abilities—huh! Much they won me! I soldiered for a pittance and spent three months on my back in a verminous Flanders hovel for a bonus! I was a bully for hire, an assassin—”

Carruthers frowned. “Not that last, surely?”

“Faith, but I must not shatter your illusions. You've sufficient to plague you, poor fellow. Even so”—the dark eyes glinted—“I'll get my hands on that treasure or die trying, I assure you!”

Regretfully, Carruthers believed him.

*   *   *

They had planned to play
paille-maille
on the lawn that afternoon, but although the weather continued bright and sunny, the grass was still very wet from yesterday's storm. As an alternative, Carruthers conducted his guests on a tour of the various wings. Otton, who knew the Hall well, accompanied the little party. He was a great favourite with Mrs. Carruthers, and his dry wit added much to their enjoyment of the tour. His main target, however, was Phoebe, and before they had progressed through the first floor of the Lancastrian structure, he had managed in a deft and casual fashion to detach her from the side of her betrothed.

“Have you noted the fine quality of the woodworms in here, ma'am?” he asked. “Most hardy type.”

Carruthers called warningly, “Roly, behave yourself!”

Otton laughed and manoeuvred Phoebe around the small group as they paused to gaze from the railed balcony into the great ballroom below. “The gallery is far more interesting. Come.”

Phoebe threw a startled glance to Carruthers. That this charming man was dangerous she had no doubt, and she was not sure she cared to be alone with him. Her mama, however, was asking with a great deal of interest about the emblem of the sword and the rose. Otton's mouth trembled on a smile, his hand attempted nothing more wicked than to support her arm, and somehow, she was being shepherded along the corridor towards the convex central wing. “I expect,” said Otton, “that Merry told you some fustian about each of these ridiculous buildings, but did you know why the Tudor wing was built on the far side of the courtyard? It was because the head of the house at that time took his son's wife in such aversion, he built their dwelling as far from his own as was possible and warned them never to darken his door again.”

She laughed. “I believe you made that up.”

“No, dear lady. It's perfectly true. And now, allow me to conduct you through the gallery of the infamous.”

The graceful curve of the hall was hung with the portraits of endless Carrutherses, the dark faces seeming to eye her with either curiosity or disdain as she passed. They were, she thought, a singularly comely lot who, if their apparel and jewels were any indication, had all enjoyed great prosperity. She saw traces of Meredith in several of the paintings and came to a halt before one of obvious antiquity. The frame was magnificently carven, the canvas lovingly preserved, and the portrait retaining a richness and depth remarkable in view of its age. She gazed up at an unsmiling face: a young man clad in a dark blue tunic emblazoned with richly embroidered heraldry. He wore a small, neatly trimmed beard, but aside from that and the absence of the disfiguring scars, the fine face above her might have been that of her betrothed. There was the same faint hauteur in the set of the mouth, the same proud tilt to the dark head. She looked at the eyes and was enthralled; they were wide, darkly lashed, and of a rich blue, and in them she saw a lurking smile—the smile of a happy man.

“Miss Ramsay?”

Phoebe started. “Oh—your pardon. You said…?”

“That he is said to resemble Merry. Much better-looking, though, don't you agree?”

“No!” she said, indignant. “As a matter of fact, I—” She broke off, blushing and confused, and horribly aware of Otton's broad grin. “He is—very impressive,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “What a lovely frame.” And, idly, “Who was he?”

“His name was Anthony, and he is connected with the legend that is continued”—he led her towards the centre of this fine sweeping hall—“in the
pièce de résistance.
”

The room broadened into a deep bay that jutted out into the courtyard. The walls here were bare, with only some old chests on which were crystal bowls holding tastefully arranged sprays of white blossoms and fern. In the middle of the bay was a single large painting. Phoebe drifted towards it almost fearfully. The girl depicted in the life-size portrait was about eighteen. She wore a fitted white gown, the broad square neck edged with a band of pink embroidery, the same band repeated across the line of the hips, from which the skirt fell in a rich fullness. She stood leaning forward slightly, as though looking from the frame, her lips parted and an expression of eager enquiry upon her face. Her features were pleasant, but not remarkable, and yet there was an inner glow to the heart-shaped face, a purity in the gaze, a warmth in the expectant half-smile that created a rare appeal. Her eyes were blue, and her crowning glory was her hair, which the artist had shown as falling in a shining red-gold cloud, past her shoulders and continuing to hip level. And in her right hand she held a great red rose.