The Tyrant (3 page)

Immediately, she was the centre of attention, and she laughed and flirted while her eyes sought desperately through the throng. She had not far to search. The gentleman was turned from her, presenting a view of a pair of broad shoulders encased in a beautifully tailored coat of grey velvet lavishly trimmed with silver embroidery. There could be no doubt who he was, for in a room where every head was either bewigged or powdered, he had bowed to neither affectation, his thick dark hair being tied neatly back with a silver riband.

Phoebe responded gaily to the pleas whispered in her ear by a dashing distant cousin, and wondered how to attract the attention of her quarry.

Her problem was solved. “There you are, puss!” exclaimed her father's resonant voice. “Come now, let her be, Monty. There's a gentleman fairly frantic to make her acquaintance.”

Phoebe left her cousin groaning, and was led forward.

“Carruthers,” called Sir George. “Here is my daughter!”

The dark head turned, and Phoebe all but gasped with shock. It was The Tyrant! She had first laid eyes on him at the Wyndhams' breakfast party in the spring. Since he'd been seated across the table from her, they had not spoken, and for some time he had not paid the least attention to her. She had peeped at him, fascinated by the scars that, like twin white lines, marred the left side of his face from hairline to chin, drawing up his eyebrow into a mocking slant that lent a devilish touch to his expression. A cold glance had been levelled at her from strange eyes that gleamed like pools of pale blue ice in the lean, tanned face. She had lowered her own eyes at once, and later had pointed out the gentleman to Cousin Wandsworth. That mincing dandy had said with a smirk, “Oh, that's old Meredith. Proper gruff and grim, ain't he? His brother calls him The Tyrant. Apt, what?” Noting again the heavy dark brows, the strong, thin nose, jutting chin, and uncompromising line of the mouth, she thought a dismayed
‘Merry,
is it? Of all people! Why did that stupid Wandsworth not tell me his name was Meredith
Carruthers
?'

She was vaguely aware that her father had completed the introductions and that a particularly unpleasant sneer twisted The Tyrant's thin lips. She was staring again, as she had when first they met. He must judge her a very ill-mannered girl. She sank quickly into a curtsy. He bowed over her hand, and said drily, “Enchanted, ma'am,” in a deep voice, the tone of which also said, ‘you silly creature.'

Phoebe thought, ‘Much help we shall get from this cold fish,' but she turned her most dazzling smile on him and said coquettishly, “My dear papa says you have been fairly frantic to make my acquaintance, Mr. Carruthers.”

Sir George looked mildly discomfited.

Carruthers replied with slightly bored courtesy, “Who would not be, ma'am?”

“Flatterer.” She retreated behind her fan. “Oh, dear! Here comes my lord Olderwood, and I am much too tired to dance again. Perhaps you will be so kind as to take me out onto the terrace, dear sir, so that we may chat in the cool air. It is so very excessive warm in here.”

Carruthers looked stunned, but extended his arm dutifully, and she took it and pulled him gently towards the outer hall.

He said, “I had thought you wished to go onto the terrace, Miss Ramsay.”

“Yes. But not that one. We shall be stopped by everybody, and I am—er, very weary of it all.”

She knew that her father was positively goggling at her, for not only did she love a party, but she was renowned for her ability to dance the whole night away and never show a sign of weariness. She smiled warmly at Sir George, and started off.

Complying with her request, Carruthers led her into the main hall. She glanced up and saw that his lips were tight, and was not surprised when he observed with rather tactless bluntness, “If it is Lord Olderwood's dance, ma'am, you should grant it him. I had no intent to monopolize you.”

“Perhaps not,” she murmured, “but I mean to monopolize
you,
Mr. Carruthers.”

She felt him start, and the pale blue eyes slanted down at her, a wary light dawning.

“I think I do not follow you, Miss Ramsay,” he said, his steps slowing.

“No, but you must,” she said, pulling at his arm without compunction and saying with low urgency, “I am desperately in need of your help. No, never look so aghast, I have no designs upon you, I promise. Only come. A friend of yours has arrived and wishes to see you. Now do not stand like a block! The servants are staring. Walk, sir! Left—right, left—right!”

He frowned, but a gleam of amusement crept into the pale eyes and he did as she asked. “I wonder why I have the unhappy premonition that I am about to be involved in something outrageous,” he murmured. But when they came to the deserted east hall and Phoebe started down it, he halted, the smile in his eyes that she had thought oddly attractive dying away. “No, really, ma'am. This is insupportable. With all due respect, I must remind you of the construction that will be placed upon my taking you off like this.”

“Oh, pox on what people will say!” She tugged at his arm. “
Do
come along!”

His hand closed over her own. He stood quite still, his face stern and unyielding. “Madam, I am not one for convention, but I think I will refuse to compromise a lady I have never before met. Not another step until you at least tell me the name of this—er, ‘friend.'”

She could have shaken him, but, knowing he was justified, glanced around, then hissed, “It is—Lance.”

“Good God!” he gasped, clearly astonished. “But why the secrecy, ma'am? Why does he not come—”

“He is—in trouble. Oh,
now
will you come?”

He made no response but accompanied her so briskly that she almost had to run to keep up with him. In only a few minutes they had escaped the house and were entering the trees.

Carruthers groaned, “If we were seen, you are properly in disgrace! And I also. This had best not be some poor joke, or—”

The words died away as they came out of the deeper darkness of the trees and into a little clearing. Lascelles now lay with his back propped against a tree, and Sinclair crouched beside him, holding a decanter of wine he had evidently appropriated from the house. Carruthers checked, and stood rigidly still.

With a twitching smile, Lascelles said weakly, “Now see … what I've done.”

Two strides, and Carruthers was kneeling. Taking the trembling outstretched hand, he growled, “You blasted bentbrain! I might have known you'd get yourself into that miserable fiasco! Out with Charlie, were you?”

“Yes.” A glitter of slow and painful tears came into Lascelles's eyes. “Until Culloden. Merry … if you'd
seen
that hell…!”

“I
did
see it! I was there. Only through the grace of God we did not face each other over our sabres! Damn you, Lance! I could break your stupid neck!”

“Well!” exclaimed Phoebe, indignant. “A fine way to talk to your friend! Can you not see the case he is in, sir? I'd think—”

He interpolated savagely, “Then I suggest you do so, madam! Do you look forward to seeing your father's head on a spike atop Temple Bar? Do you fancy they'd balk at meting out the same treatment to you? Or this young gallant who is, I take it, your brother?”

Bristling, Sinclair said, “I am Sinclair Ramsay, Mr. Carruthers. And I think there is not the need to take that tone to my sister. If anyone is to be blamed, it is me. I am now and always have been for the Stuart Cause, and—”

“Aye. You've a Scots name and Scottish forbears, I fancy. Catholic?”

“No. Many of the Englishmen who supported Charles were Protestants, and are—”

“Are dead, dying, racked, tortured, starving, hounded! Only look at
this
idiot!”

Lascelles muttered, “You need not—feel obliged to … to help, Merry.” But in spite of his brave effort, despair showed in the ravaged face.

Phoebe's lip curled. “My brother and I will help you, Lieutenant Lascelles.
We
are not afraid!”

“Lascelles?” snapped Carruthers, shooting a disgusted look at her.

The fugitive nodded wearily. “My fighting name.”

“It is vital he get to Salisbury, Mr. Carruthers,” Sinclair put in. “He said you live near there, so we thought—”

“Did you, indeed? Paint me the scenario if you please, young Quixote. Am I to carry this silly clod on my back, perhaps? Haul him off in my carriage, to be discovered by the first troop of dragoons we encounter? And they are thick on the highways, I do assure you. Is the reason I came late to your party! Shall I tell my coachman to kindly look the other way while we carry off a traitor whose presence would ensure the lifting of his head—if we were lucky enough to be spared questioning, first? Damme, what folly!”

“Yes,” gritted Phoebe, yearning to claw him. “And folly you perpetuate! If you will not help your good friend as far as Salisbury, will you at least carry the Lieutenant to our basement so that I may tend his hurts? If it has escaped your notice while you worried for your coachman, he bleeds!”

Carruthers stared at Lascelles in silence, then said grimly, “If I take him inside your house, ma'am, I place every member of your family in jeopardy. Are you willing to bear so terrible a responsibility?”

A sick coldness clutched at Phoebe's middle. She knew that Sinclair's blue eyes were steady on her face and that he would abide by her decision. “He is a—a human being in need,” she quavered.

“Lord!” grunted Carruthers scornfully. “A female Good Samaritan, no less!” But he peeled off his elegant coat and thrust it at her. “Hold this.”

She took it, longing to wrap it around his throat, and he turned to Sinclair. “Now, give me yours.”

At once shrugging out of his coat, Sinclair demurred, “But—I lack your physique. It is too small for you, sir.”

Carruthers folded the coat inside out and tossed it across his shoulder. “You can go inside and find yourself other clothes. I cannot appear with bloodied garments, and I think it important I not simply disappear from your ball.” In a less harsh voice, he said, “My regrets, Lance, but you're too tall for me to cradle you. It's over my shoulder and bear it, old fellow. Up we go.” He helped the fugitive to his feet, looked into the drawn face searchingly for an instant, bent, and in a swift, powerful movement had thrown him across his shoulder.

Phoebe heard the faintest sound from Lascelles, then his tight clenched hands were suddenly hanging limp. She gave a sympathetic little cry.

Carruthers said, “He's not feeling anything at the moment, ma'am, but my back is, so be good enough to lead the way. The sooner this is done with, the better!”

II

The basement was cluttered, chill, and damp, but Phoebe had carried down a branch of candles from the book room, and a silver fruit bowl into which they had emptied a jug of water purloined from a table where provisions were being assembled for conveyance to the party. Sinclair had executed that tricky manoeuvre with considerable dash, waiting until a harassed footman had deposited his tray and departed, then making his raid and whipping out of sight before a heavily laden lackey came up. Phoebe ruthlessly appropriated the men's handkerchiefs, which she used as rags to wash the fugitive's face and bathe his countless cuts and abrasions.

These efforts restored Lascelles to consciousness, and Carruthers began to question him, pursuing his enquiries with ruthless persistence, even when his friend squirmed under Phoebe's ministrations. “Good gracious, sir,” she cried, as Lascelles fought back a groan, “give the poor soul a chance! He has told you how he escaped after Culloden and managed to make his way this far, starved and hunted every step of the way. What more do you want? Oh dear, I'm afraid there is a piece of glass still in this cut, Lieutenant!”

“He has so far told me nothing I do not already know, ma'am,” said Carruthers tersely. “Leave the leg wound, it is bound at least, and your brother can tend it. We've very little time, for I don't doubt but that we are missed by now. Lance, I want the truth, if I'm to help you get to Salisbury; though how in the deuce I'm to do so, the Lord only knows!”

Lascelles gasped threadily, “Sometimes, 'tis … best not to know … too much.”

“Perhaps. But if I'm to lose my head in your devil's brew, I want to know more of it. First—is your sire aware of your Jacobite involvement?”

“My God—no! 'Twould kill him, I think! Merry”—the thin hand clawed out frantically, “you'll not tell him? Swear it!”

“I'll not tell him without your permission, naturally. But I think you underrate him.”

Lascelles sighed with relief and lay back. “God bless the old fire-eater. Do you two go on any easier these days?”

“No. He hates my—er, insides. Just as he loathed my father. And do not try to change the subject. Why is it so ‘vital' that you should get to Salisbury? You might better have laid low, I'd think, instead of running around in your condition.”

At this point Phoebe succeeded in removing the glass fragment, and Lascelles closed his eyes and said nothing.

Carruthers grated, “I mean it, Lance. The truth—or no help from me.”

“You are perfectly horrid,” said Phoebe, desperately ignoring the blood on her hands and trying not to be sick. “I suppose
you
would be cool and composed with every dragoon in the country on your heels! What difference does it make if he panicked and ran?”

“It makes a deal of difference if my good friend here is the courier the soldiers hunt so eagerly.”

Sinclair, who had remained silent during the interrogation, had reached for the decanter of wine, and Phoebe saw his hand jerk. His bewigged head turned swiftly to Carruthers, his obvious alarm frightening her.