The Tyrant (32 page)

Meredith stared at him, then, comprehending, said with droll humour, “My God! Here I'd thought you were trying to protect me, instead of which you were arranging a duel for me!”

“In the course of which,” said Phoebe, “we had to tell Sir Malcolm the whole story.”

“The devil!” He jerked forward in his chair, the involuntary movement playing such havoc with his arm that whatever else he had meant to say was cut off.

Aching with sympathy, Phoebe reached out to clasp the hand that clutched the arm of his chair. He eased himself back, breathing hard, and turned to her with a quivering smile.

“The thing is,” she said gently, “shall you be able to hold a pistol? Or fire it? Sir Malcolm was overjoyed to hear our news and is proud of, rather than provoked with, his son. But we stressed the need for speed.”

Jeffery struck in, “His seconds will call on you at any minute. Lockwood will demand the meeting take place at once. We thought it best.”

Carruthers looked dubious.

“You must name me and Ramsay as your seconds,” Jeffery went on, “so that we can get your coat off fast afterwards. And we'll have old Linden for surgeon, of course.”

“I'll not have him roped into this,” said Carruthers sharply. “Even are we able to convince the rest of 'em that it's a—a legitimate duel, how do we explain away the pre-existence of bandages?”

Jeffery and Phoebe looked at one another. Phoebe said, “By having the duel very close by. And there—there must be no bandages.”

Meredith regarded her thoughtfully.

She said, anguished, “Poor Merry! I am so sorry, but—do you think you will be able to manage?”

Voices and several sets of footsteps could be heard in the hall. Low-voiced, Carruthers said, “Of course I will, clever girl. With the aid of that decanter. Sin—quick, if you please.”

Sinclair sprinted for the sideboard, poured a goodly portion from the decanter into Carruthers's half-empty coffee cup, and darted back again.

Meredith took a healthy swallow and coughed. “Gad!” he gasped. “I'll be a proper lushy one by the time all this is done with!”

The door opened and Conditt announced resonantly, “Sir Francis Hills. Major Coolley.”

The two gentlemen who came into the room were indelibly stamped County. Both wore riding dress and both had the ruddy complexions that spoke of the outdoor life. Major Coolley, a man of late middle age, bore himself with the upright carriage and ineffable air of authority of a soldier. Sir Francis Hills, some years younger, had earnest, rather prominent hazel eyes, a round face, and the beginnings of a paunch.

Standing, Carruthers performed the introductions and invited his guests to partake of breakfast, but drew back when Sir Francis advanced, hand outstretched. “Better not,” he said, coughing convincingly. “Beastly cold.”

“Thought you looked rather puny,” said the Major. “I say puny, eh, Hills?”

“Haw,” said Sir Francis, eyeing Carruthers uneasily.

Conditt and a maidservant came in unobtrusively, and two more covers were set. When the servants withdrew and Sir Francis was busied with an egg, the Major lowered his cup and boomed, “Like a private word before we leave, Carruthers. Eh, Hills?”

“Aha,” said Sir Francis.

They all stood as Phoebe came to her feet, Jeffery moving swiftly to pull back her chair. “I have things I must do,” she said, smiling her sunny smile at them, “and shall leave you in peace, gentlemen.”

They variously bowed, ‘haw-ed,' and mumbled apologies, and she went out, drawing the eyes of both newcomers, so that Carruthers was enabled to lower himself cautiously into his chair.

“Dashed fine-looking gel, that,” murmured Coolley, still gazing at the closing door. “Dashed fine, I say. Eh, Hills?”

“Yo,” said his friend, having returned his attention to his breakfast.

Amused, despite his personal misery, Carruthers prompted, “How may I be of service, Major?”

“Eh?” said Coolley. “Oh. Yes. Frightfully sorry, Carruthers. I say, frightfully sorry. But Lockwood's raving. Wants to fight immedjit, don'tcha know. This afternoon. I say, this afternoon, in fact.”

Sir Francis shook his neatly bewigged head. “Bad form,” he remarked with rare volubility.

“Today is agreeable with me,” said Carruthers. “Sooner the better.”

“May we know your friends, sir?” asked the Major.

“I'll second him, of course.” The deep, pleasant voice, sounding from the door that none of them had seen opening, caused Jeffery and Sinclair to jerk around in dismay.

Carruthers, his head alarmingly woozy, had the presence of mind to reach for his handkerchief. He was too dull-witted, however, to use his left hand and, having initiated the movement, was obliged to complete it. He buried his sweating face in the handkerchief and concealed his anguish by a series of coughs and sneezes that had his companions drawing back uneasily. “Sorry,” he gasped, emerging again, having first carefully lowered his arm. He mopped his brow. “This damnable cold! Thank you, Brooks.”

“Who the deuce are you fighting this time, Merry?”

“Lockwood. Couldn't get out of it. He struck me in the face. Twice.”

Lambert took a chair and drew over a cup and saucer. “Bad show,” he observed, pouring coffee. “Still, you'd best postpone, old boy. You look positively green about the gills.”

“Lockwood wants it this afternoon,” said Major Coolley sternly.

“And I agreed,” croaked Meredith. “Cold's getting worse, I can feel it. As well get the blasted business over with. Jeff—will you oblige?”

Jeffery said he would be proud to do so. Meredith struggled to his feet and sauntered to the door, handkerchief in hand. “I'll leave you gentlemen to work out the details,” he said as stuffily as he could manage. “Pistols, Jeff.”

Sinclair stood and went over to join him. As soon as the door closed, Carruthers said a feeble “Whew!” and staggered slightly.

Sinclair took his left arm and peered at him worriedly. “What a beast of a coil that Lambert should walk in at just that minute!
Now
how are we to manage?”

Carruthers sighed wearily. “Somehow. Come with me, will you, Sin? We shall have to find the lightest pistol I own.”

Sinclair had observed the performance with the handkerchief, and had a fair idea of the price Carruthers had paid. He muttered, “How the deuce are you to lift it, much less aim and fire?”

“If the recoil knocks me down, it will look realistic, at least.” Carruthers added with a wry grin, “We'd best all pray I don't go down
before
Lockwood fires!”

*   *   *

Phoebe stood on the front steps watching the carriage until it was lost to sight on the curve of the drivepath. By using the excuse that he had personal matters to discuss with his brother, just in case things went amiss, Meredith had been able to ensure that he and Jeff had the carriage to themselves. The fact that Lambert was going to officiate, however, added to the danger.
Somehow,
Jeffery had to cut the tight bandages away at the last possible moment and get Meredith to the duel site before any telltale stains appeared on his garments.
Somehow,
Meredith had to raise the loaded pistol and fire. They had thought at first it would be easier for him to delope, but although he had striven with all his might, he had been unable to lift his arm to the customary position to fire in the air, and had said he would simply aim wide.

The skies were dark and heavy with clouds, and Phoebe drew her shawl closer about her, thinking miserably, ‘He looked so ill, yet managed to wink at me.…' She bit her lip, plagued with dread of the outcome.

A loved voice enquired, “Do you feel inclined to talk about it, dear child?”

The Dowager Lady Ramsay stood close by, her wise eyes grave.

Phoebe hugged her. “Grandmama, I pray you will not tell Mrs. Carruthers, but—Meredith has gone to fight a duel.”

Lady Martha was predictably shocked. “What, at
this
hour? These young fellows today have no sense of the proprieties!”

Phoebe gave a watery laugh, and the old lady said, “Walk with me, dearest, and tell me all about it.”

And so Phoebe tucked her hand in the Dowager's arm, and they walked through the gardens while she offered the version of the affair that had earlier been agreed on.

For a little while Lady Martha was silent. Then she said, “I think you are become rather fond of your betrothed, after all.…”

Phoebe flushed. “After all, Grandmama?”

“Never think you fooled me, child,” said the old lady, patting her hand. “I knew your heart was given to Lambert. What you and Carruthers were about, and why you agreed to wed him, I could not guess. I was only glad you
had
agreed, for I like the boy. Always have.”

“Always? Have you known him long, then?”

“Long enough to know that he took the scars intended for his mother's face. I admired him for that. I met him in May for the first time in years. He was in Town with that rascal Roland Ma—Otton. I sent Roly off and had a long chat with Carruthers, but—Oh, what a beautiful cat! Does it live here?”

Their aimless stroll had taken them to the rear drivepath, where Satan sprawled under a large shrub growing against the wall of the Tudor wing.

“He belongs to Meredith, and makes poor Justice's life wretched.” Knowing her grandmother's great affection for cats, Phoebe bent and attempted to cajole the animal from its hideaway. “Come and meet Lady Martha, you unsociable creature.” Satan yawned, got up, took a step, arched his back, and sat down again. Phoebe reached for him, disturbing the branches, and sprang back with a cry of revulsion as dust showered down over her head and shoulders. Satan ran off, voicing his own outrage and stopping to shake various sections of him along the way, with equal parts of energy and indignation.

Phoebe exclaimed, “Oh! What horrid stuff!” and wiped an eye that stung unpleasantly.

“'Tis all over you, love!” said my lady. “Run inside and change your dress. No, never wait for me. I will go and see the Armour Hall.”

Phoebe entered the house by the nearest door and hurried to the first floor. Most of the servants were readying the house for tomorrow's tea-party, an event that she knew would have to go along without Meredith's presence. Ada did not respond to her call when she entered her suite, and she supposed must have been pressed into service elsewhere. The gloomy skies rendered her bedchamber dim, and she turned up the wick of her bedside lamp. Her shawl was covered with a heavy black dust. With a little “Ooo!” of revulsion, she shook it out.

A brilliant flash. A loud bang. She squeaked with fright and jumped away. The lampshade had shattered. The edge of her shawl was burning and full of splintered glass. She threw it to the floor, but before she could do anything more, she was pushed aside by a gentleman, dressed for riding, who stamped his glossy boot at the shawl.

“Water jug!” commanded Roland Otton, coughing from the smoke that billowed about them.

Phoebe ran to fetch it. He threw the contents over the shawl. Steam arose with a faint hissing. It smelled horrid, and Phoebe drew back, sneezing.

Otton strode to fling open casements and wave away the smoke. “Are you all right, ma'am? Did you drop the lamp?”

“Why, no. It is so odd. I was taking my shawl off and the lamp just seemed to explode.”

Concerned, he scanned her. “You were not cut, I hope?”

“No, thank you.” She dabbed at her stinging eyes. “But—only look at this horrid dust. 'Tis all over me! And black as pitch!”

He stepped nearer, his eyes sharpening. “So it is, by Jove! Come to the window, ma'am. Let's have a look at this.”

The thought dawned that she was alone in her bedchamber with an infamous rake, to say nothing of a most dishonourable man, but the urgency of his manner alarmed her, and she asked anxiously, “What is it?”

He brushed some of the dust from her gown and, collecting it in the palm of his hand, moved it about with one slim fingertip. Glancing up, his eyes narrowed, he asked, “Where did you come across this?”

“It is all over the bushes behind the Tudor wing.”

“Is it, by God?” Without another word, he sprinted from the room.

Phoebe ran after him. Outside, Justice, who had been pondering the merits of chasing a provocatively sauntering Satan, brightened, and trotted beside Otton, the hope of a walk dawning in his canine mind.

Otton halted when he reached the Tudor wing, and began to investigate the shrubs. “No. Over there, sir,” cried Phoebe, pointing. He went at once to shake the bush, bringing down a dark powdery rain.

“Curse and confound it,” he muttered. “I don't like this.”

“Oh,
do
tell me! What is wrong?”

“It is gunpowder, Miss Ramsay. A whole flask of the stuff, by the look of it.”

“
Gunpowder?
But—if Mr. Carruthers was loading his pistol, why would he throw the powder out of his window?”

“A gentleman's second usually loads his guns and sets the triggers—though Merry will not use a sett trigger, come to think of it.” Otton spoke absently, deep in thought. “If the powder was damp, or defective, it is logical that it should be discarded, but even Jeff would not have been so ramshackle as to fling it out the window. Unless … Ma'am, your pardon, but I've to ride at once. Jeff told me of the duel. Now, will you be so kind as to tell the grooms to saddle my horse?”

Not waiting for her reply, he ran back into the house, his manner so grimly purposeful, so foreign to his usual bored languor, that Phoebe picked up her skirts and sped to the stables.

A big, pleasant-faced young man with curly blond hair was busied at the feed bins and looked up in surprise when she ran in. He fairly leapt to do her bidding, wasting no time on questions.