The Tyrant (28 page)

“It wasn't his fault, sir,” Sinclair put in earnestly. “Well, that is to say, it was, but—”

“He gave as good as I sent,” interrupted Jeffery.

“So I see. And what of your search, Ramsay? Have you discovered the source of my quotation as yet?”

“At long last, sir. Henry the Fifth. But, dashitall, too late to win the wager.”

“Well, you found it, at all events. You'd best hasten now. We have already delayed dinner by half an hour.”

Groaning, Sinclair departed.

Carruthers turned to his brother. Guessing that now they were alone he was in for a scold, Jeffery tensed. “I suppose you want to know what we were fighting about.”

Meredith strolled to the mantel and looked up at the portrait of his mother that hung there. He had a very good idea of what had provoked the fisticuffs, and was, if anything, relieved that their verbal sniping had resolved itself into a scuffle. It had cleared the air, and there was already a marked difference in their attitude to one another. He said slowly, “I suspect it was for a different reason than the dispute which caused you to be rusticated.”

Taking off his muddied coat and starting for the wash-stand, Jeffery checked and stared at his brother in astonishment. “You—
knew
it was for fighting?”

“I have had a letter brought from Lady Martha, confirming that she will arrive tomorrow. She also mentioned you had broke young Price-Wintersby's jaw, but he would not tell the reason. I know the Price-Wintersbys, and I can guess the reason.”

Jeffery felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He said with a shy smile, “I couldn't tell you. I wanted to, but—I know how you feel about Mama, and I—well, I thought you might…”

“Rush up to Town and call his father to account? No. It's rather late in the day, but it finally dawned on me that my duelling but added fuel to the fire.”

Jeffery had started to pour water into the bowl, but he set the pitcher down with a clatter and spun around. “My God! You never mean
that
was the reason for all your duels? Then—is it …
truth
?”

Meredith ran a finger down the line of his jaw. “Perhaps you should tell me what he said.”

“Lord—he was ugly drunk, and he—he said my mother had—er, taken a fellow named Hoagland for her lover, and that Papa killed him.” He read confirmation in his brother's steady gaze, and exploded wrathfully, “Well, if that is not damned detestable! To keep it from me all these years, I mean! And now I've gone and broke Price-Wintersby's jaw for nothing! I hope you may be satisfied. For the love of God—
when
will you give me credit for having reached an age when I may be trusted?”

Meredith glanced again at the portrait. “Mama asked that I not tell you. I think—she dreaded you might … condemn her.”

“
Condemn
her! Dear little soul! When I think of the life Papa led her!”

“Just so. Besides, Price-Wintersby was most unchivalrous to speak of the matter. You likely taught him a well-deserved lesson.”

Stripping off his shirt, Jeffery grinned. “By Jove, perhaps you're in the right of it. Now, since we're talking man-to-man, as it were—what's all this that Ramsay was telling me? You cannot
really
think a poacher shot at you?”

“I might,” said Meredith, reluctantly complying with the dictates of a certain young lady. “Save that there have been a couple of other instances.”

Jeffery lost all his colour and, with the towel thrown over his shoulder, strode to face his brother. “What—the devil? You never mean…”

“'Fraid I do, old lad. Someone seems to think the world would go on better without Meredith Carruthers.”

“Oh … now—now deuce take me…!” gasped Jeffery.

*   *   *

Phoebe awoke, stretched, and uttered a small shriek.

Bending above her, bathed in the brightness of the morning sunlight, Ada said sympathetically, “My poor dearie! My sweet lamb! So stiff as any board you be. Didn't I tell ye as this was a evil house?”

“Non—sense,” gasped Phoebe, gritting her teeth and contriving to sit up. “Had it not been for Mr. Carruthers, you'd likely be laying me in—my coffin! Now, Ada, pray do not weep all over me. What o'clock is it? Lud, but I never meant to sleep so long. You must help me get up at once.”

Ada sniffed and turned to fetch the breakfast tray she had carried upstairs. “It's ten minutes past ten, Miss Phoebe, and the family already ate, so there's no need for you to be fretting yourself. Here you go. Now, let me make your pillows more comfy.”

She arranged Phoebe's bed with her usual solicitude and in response to an eager enquiry conveyed the information that Mr. Meredith had indeed come down to breakfast. “Though it was long before his mama,” she went on, pouring Phoebe a cup of tea. “Such a fine man. Saved your life, miss. No doubting. Best master he ever had, says Henery Baker, and—”

“Who is Henry Baker?” asked Phoebe, accepting the cup of tea.

“Mr. Meredith's head groom. And mightily taken with his-self.”

“You little hussy. I expect you've been driving the poor fellow distracted. Is Captain Lambert all right?”

“Proper doom-struck he is, poor chap, but if he's hurt he's not making no fuss and feathers. My, but he's a lovely gent, isn't he? Poor Miss Phoebe! Do you think you'll be able to wed him in spite of—”

“And where is Mr. Carruthers?” Phoebe intervened hastily. “Has he been here?”

“Twice, miss. So anxious. What a shame you can't marry both of—”

“I must find him. Take down the cream silk with the blue broidery, Ada. And I'll not wear my hair powdered this morning. Do hurry!”

An hour later, Phoebe limped into the shade of the trees near the abbey and was at once enfolded in the hush of this lovely place. She paused to catch her breath, for with all her aches and pains it had not been an easy climb. Continuing after a minute, she came to the little clearing and saw that her guess had been correct. Carruthers was seated in the same place as before. She watched the strong profile for a space. Boles had said he came here when he was troubled, but he did not look so much troubled as angry, and—She gave a startled cry.

Carruthers had moved so fast that he seemed to blur before her eyes. In one instant he was sprawling lazily on the fallen slab; in the next, he was facing her, slightly crouching, a small but deadly-looking pistol glinting in his hand and aimed straight at her.

She said threadily, “The axe … or n-nothing, sir.”

He had already straightened. The hammer was eased back, the weapon slipped into his pocket, and he was at her side. “My poor girl, I am so sorry.” His arm went about her in a supporting way, and he guided her to his impromptu chair as though she were fashioned of sheerest glass. She yielded to this proprietary assertiveness gratefully, but wondered also what he had been thinking when she first arrived, and whether he suspected that his friend was disloyal. “Who did you think I was?” she murmured as he lowered her gently to his rocky perch. “A one-eyed Cyclops?”

He looked down at her unsmilingly, then sat at her feet. “I think you are a very brave lady, but you should not have walked all this way after suffering such a shock.”

“I had to find you and thank you for saving my life. Which I should have done at once, instead of behaving in so foolish a way.”

“Nonsense. Most ladies would have been quite in the vapours, and your mama was justified in having you put to bed. As to thanking me, you'd as well blame me! You are a guest on my estate. Under my protection.” His eyes twinkled at her in a most disconcerting way. “Temporarily, at least. And for anything to happen to you would be insupportable.”

“Something nearly happened to
you.
Sir, that was a musket shot. And you came very near to being hit.” She bent forward, searching his face. “Who wants you dead, Meredith?”

The quirkish grin flickered. “Likely dozens of people, but I fancy it was nothing more calculated than some lads poaching.”

“
Poaching?
In broad daylight? I think my brother would say you're bamming, sir.”

“Perhaps he would. But
you
should not say it, you know. And, speaking of your brother—”

“We were not. Although I'll own you change a subject very deftly.”

“Not deftly enough, evidently. You're a determined woman, Miss Phoebe.”

“And you a most evasive gentleman, Mr. Meredith.”

He said with sudden gravity, “I've no least wish to be evasive with you, m'dear.”

Phoebe's breath began to flutter. It was this place! There was an enchantment about the old ruins—oh, but definitely, there was! Off-stride, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Your gallantry in saving me has properly won my mama's heart.”

He was leaning back, hands clasped about one drawn-up knee. “I am honoured. But Lambert feels very bad, poor fellow. It had as well been Rogue who went down, you know.”

She said in light scolding, “I believe you held back, which was, I do not scruple to say—”

“Stupid!”
he said, ducking his head and adding in a scourged voice, “It was damnably,
unforgivably
stupid! That I could have been so
careless
as to risk your life—in such a cause!”

Her attempt at teasing had gone awry. Contrite, she leaned to touch the thick, unruly hair, and when he at once looked up, she shifted her touch to his forehead, driven by a need to smooth away the tormented frown. “No, no,” she said soothingly. “I spoke in jest only. You were superb, else I'd not be sitting here now.” He gazed at her speechlessly, and she drew back, alarmed, and asked, “Are the horses all right?”

“What…? Oh—er, Rogue has a few bruises, and Showers's knees are cut, unfortunately.”

“Not too badly?
Pray
do not say he must be destroyed.”

“No, no. My farrier's an excellent man and assures me there is nothing worse than the—the bad shaking he received.”

“Which is not what you were about to say.”

He put back his head, laughing. “
What
an inquisition! I beg you will believe all the horses will recover, Lambert is well, and I am undamaged, so the only one we've to fret for is—your lovely self.”

He looked rather incredibly attractive, sitting there, smiling up at her, and she wondered how she could ever have believed him to be harsh and unfeeling. With an effort she remembered what she had really come for, and said quietly, “No, sir. I believe we have something else to worry about.”

“Poor Lascelles—of course. But—”

“Hush!”

He folded his hands and closed his lips, looking up at her from under his brows with such uncharacteristic meekness that it was all she could do not to laugh at him. She managed to keep her countenance, and said, “Tell me about your friend Captain Otton.”

His expression changed subtly. “Roly? He's a dashing rascal, isn't he? You likely think it odd that he should cry friends with a dull dog like me.”

“Do
you
think that you are a dull dog, sir?”

He reddened, but answered, “Oh, naturally not. I find myself a fascinating fellow of enormous accomplishments. But Roly tells me I'm a dull dog and I fear he may view me with less bias.”

At this, she did laugh. “Out upon him! He has all the privilege of a bosom bow, I see. How long have you known him?”

“We were at school together.”

“I see. Long-standing. So he should be—loyal to you.”

He glanced at her sharply. The morning sun slanted a sly ray through the branches, bathing her in a golden light, and causing her unpowdered hair to glow about the perfection of her features, like a halo. He became aware that he was staring and replied hastily, “Oh, yes. I would trust Roland with my life.” She looked disturbed, and he moved to sit beside her. “What is it, ma'am? Never say that rascal has dared offend you?”

She bit her lip. “You have so much on your shoulders, I dread to add to it.”

He took her hand, and held it. “Tell me.”

And so she did, omitting nothing from the drab little recital of betrayal, nor removing her hand from his warm clasp.

Carruthers listened in silence. When she finished, he muttered, “Roly does not always say what is in his heart. Indeed, I think he seldom does. He
is
a mercenary, however, and if it was our well-being or his confounded lusting after that Jacobite gold…” He thought of Lance, weak and helpless, and his jaw hardened.

Phoebe said, “I have brought you ill news, I'm afraid. I am so sorry.”

“And I, most grateful. But don't be worrying unduly. Roly thinks himself a very bad man, but if it came to a test, he would never betray me.”

Anger blazed through her. She thought, ‘Trusting fool! You judge him by your own high standards!' She jerked her hand away and stood.

He at once followed suit. “I'll talk to him, but I will not tell him that you were the one overheard. Ma'am, I wish you will not be so concerned. I—”

“Then your wishes will go ungranted, Mr. Meredith,” she interposed crossly, “for I
am
concerned.” She knew at once that she should not have said it, for the tall shape of him became tense and he was gazing down at her with that dreadful blue light in his eyes. Her knees started to dissolve again. She gasped, “Now, I must … go.…” But she made no move to leave.

Carruthers stepped very close. She concentrated on a dandelion, but despite all her resolution not to do so, she peeped up at him. He was so near, so manly-looking and strong. And his eyes…! His arm had managed to slip unnoticed about her waist and was drawing her to him. His heartbeat was speaking to hers, and hers, wretched thing, was answering.