The Tyrant (46 page)

They crossed the neat yard of the little tavern, and Otton halted. “I wish you'd not brought the girl here. If she sees me, she's liable to set up a screech.”

“She'll do what she's told, never you fear. And by this time tomorrow, she'll be Mrs. Brooks Lambert, and couldn't testify against me if she wanted to.”

“She could testify against
me,
friend, so I'd as soon be on my way. I'll call on you when you return to Town.”

They made some preliminary arrangements and then parted on the step, Otton heading to the stableyard, and Lambert running lightly upstairs to the room where he had left his bride-to-be.

XX

Lambert entered the private parlour without benefit of a knock. Phoebe was sitting at the window, and she turned the sad and faintly contemptuous face that he had privately promised himself to change. He put off his cloak, unbuckled his sword-belt and tossed it aside, then pulled her to her feet. “Well, lovely one, my business is concluded. Almost. We are going to be richer than I'd dreamed. That will not grieve you, eh?”

She said nothing, but turned her face when he tried to kiss her, so that his salute landed upon her ear, instead of her lips.

Smiling, he took her chin between his fingers. They bit deep, and she winced despite herself as he forced her head around. “You must behave nicely, my love, or I might tell your admired ex-fiancé to have that black devil of a horse shot. Or something equally delicious. He is quite helpless, you know, and must do whatever I command. And my commands … may very well depend upon your cooperation.”

And so she let him kiss her and submitted to his hungry mauling, although shame brought the tears streaking silently down her cheeks, and she wondered dully how long she must endure life with him before she was allowed to die.

Lambert drew back. “Alas, but you've much to learn, sweeting. Now, I've a charming peculiar in London might teach you…” He chuckled. “
That
would be a novel set-to. My mistress advising my wife in matters of the bedchamber.”

“What a slimy slug you are, Brooks.”

Phoebe's grieving heart gave a great leap at the sound of that deep voice.

Lambert whirled around, enraged.

Carruthers leaned just inside the closed door, watching him with disgust.

“Now
damn
your eyes,” growled Lambert. “You'll regret this, I promise!”

“Oh, Merry…” whispered Phoebe. “
Why
did you come?”

Recovering somewhat, Lambert jeered, “He came to our wedding. There's a notion! Come with us, dear Meredith. Watch me take your beloved to wife.” He laughed tauntingly, “Jove, but I'd like that!”

Carruthers did not glance his way, his full attention on Phoebe's tears, her agonized eyes and wringing hands. “Why did you agree to wed him?” he asked. “Don't you know what kind of rubbishy thing he is?”

Lambert's gaze narrowed. “It is going to be a great pleasure to school you, Carruthers. You had everything—except the thing you most want. But your love wants me—don't you, dear one? She
always
has wanted me.”

Phoebe gave him a swift look of loathing. Returning her eyes to Meredith, she answered brokenly, “I—have no choice, my heart.”

Despite what he already knew of Lambert, that anyone naming himself a gentleman should blackmail a lady was beyond belief. Astounded, Carruthers whispered, “Lord … God…!”

“If your prayers are done,” grinned Lambert, “you can get out.”

Carruthers stared at him blankly.

Stepping closer, Lambert said, “You're going to pay dear for all those years when you lorded it over me.”

“I was—” began Carruthers.

The words were cut off as Lambert flailed a back-handed blow that slammed across his mouth and sent him reeling. Phoebe gave a little whimpering cry and closed her eyes for a second. Lambert glanced at her. “Do you want to see him kneel? He will if I tell him, won't you, dear Meredith? Prove me right. On your knees, you cur!”

Carruthers's head came up slowly. His mouth was cut and a narrow line of crimson streaked down to his chin. But he was smiling. It was such a smile as froze the blood in Phoebe's veins, and caused Lambert to step back a pace, instinctively.

“You unspeakable vermin,” said Carruthers softly. “I'll see you in hell first!”

Lambert sprang at him, fist clenched.

Carruthers waited calmly until that whizzing blow was well launched, then swayed lightly aside. Lambert's knuckles rammed into the wall, and he howled. Carruthers laughed with unholy joy, and leapt in. A flashing jab, a blazing uppercut, and Lambert measured his length on the floor. Carruthers bent, grabbed him by the collar of his splendid uniform, and hauled. “Up,
canaille,
” he panted. “I've scarce begun.”

“You've …
finished,
” gasped Lambert, scrabbling upward. “You brainless oaf!” He jerked a finger at the white-faced Phoebe. “You just wrote her brother's death-warrant! Hit me again, and yours will go to the Tower with him!”

Phoebe bit her knuckle in terrified despair.

Carruthers took a deep breath and stepped back. “When you inform, foulness, you must be sure to tell Mariner Fotheringay what you've been about today.”

Dabbing a handkerchief at his lips, Lambert paused, his eyes fixed and wary.

“For instance,” Carruthers went on, his own eyes a blaze of steel, “will you explain why you hired a ship to transport Jacobite gold out of England?”

Lambert tensed, but said, “You would have a difficult time proving that, friend, and would be yourself answering to an inquisitor in the Tower, long before—”

“Did you know, Brooks, that Roland Otton has a cousin named … Jacob Holt? Ah—you do recognize that estimable name. He is a man as hungry for promotion as you are hungry for money. A letter was sent to his solicitor this morning, with a note that it is to be handed to Holt in the event of the arrest of any member of the Ramsay or Carruthers families. The letter it refers to is addressed to you, Lambert, and written in deep gratitude by one Captain Lancelot Lascelles. He is rather wordy, I fear, in thanking you for having enabled him to escape in exchange for a share of the treasure.”

Lambert said nothing, only his eyes were deadly, and he seemed to the breathless Phoebe to crouch a little, like a wild beast readying to spring.

Carruthers went on, “It should be simple enough for Holt to find witnesses to prove that you did, in fact, smuggle traitor and treasure out of England. Now what, noble soldier, would Mariner make of that little foray? Do you fancy your golden head would adorn Tower Bridge within one week? Or would they chastise you longer before decapitation set in? A month of … questioning, mayhap?”

Lambert said in the same hushed, guarded voice, “I did not take the treasure. Otton did.”

“But
you
provided the boat, Lambert.
You,
rightfully mistrusting Roly, hired the bullies. It was by
your personal
orders that the troopers were discouraged from searching the cargo. A cargo, my poor chap, which contained more than my family valuables, and—”

Lambert stiffened. “
Your
valuables?”

“Well, not
all.
Some of it was donated by Lockwood. But who's to know that? And in case you fear that Otton will steal it, I should tell you that half the ‘crew' are my people. Including my brother, by the way, though you'd never recognize him. Do you not see, Brooks? I paid Otton to approach you, knowing that someone of—shall we say, colourful repute, must tell you of the ‘treasure' else you'd not believe it. And do you remember those two big chests? Only a token shelf of valuables, Lambert, and below, something infinitely more valuable. In one, Lance; and in the other, his lady, Rosalie Smith. Why, how very pale you are become! Console yourself. You have, almost single-handedly, saved a rebel's life.”

White to the lips, Lambert rasped, “You lie! Damn your dirty soul to hell! You lie!”

“Oh, no. Lies seldom serve, I've found. I assure you that Lance and his lady are at this very moment en route to a new life in La Belle France. All thanks to you.” Carruthers's smile faded. He said curtly, “And we are thus at what is, I believe, called impasse. You are hoist by your own petard, you murderous bastard, and—”

Torn between hope and dread, Phoebe had been watching Lambert. She saw his face convulse into a mask of hatred so maniacal that it appalled her, and she gave a scream of warning.

Carruthers also had seen that changed expression, and he hurled himself gladly to meet the berserk charge. They met head on. Half-demented with rage and frustration, Lambert had astonishing strength. Carruthers, with bitter scores to settle, was equally inflamed, and the two tall men fought in a brutal trading of punishing blows, the petrified girl darting from their path as they plunged about the small room, sending furniture crashing. Hurled back, Carruthers evaded a following blow and sent home an uppercut. Lambert staggered, but in desperation flung a wicked swipe at the barely healed arm that sent his hated kinsman reeling and, half-blind, to stumble over a broken chair and go down.

Wheezing, mouthing obscenities, Lambert was on him, hands clamping around his throat. Carruthers, unable to breathe, a red haze swimming before his eyes, brought both fists up and, with a supreme effort, slammed them outward, breaking Lambert's hold. He threw a right to that classic jaw and crawled free, but Lambert staggered up and rammed a boot into his ribs, shatteringly. Carruthers doubled up, choking. Snatching up a leg of the smashed chair, Lambert raised it high, croaking, “You're dead, damn you! I lose—but it'll be worth it to beat your brains out!”

With a sob of terror, Phoebe ran to grip his upraised arm and cling with all her might. Lambert uttered a slobbering snarl and thrust her away, but she hung on until he tore her loose, hit her, and sent her flying.

Carruthers fought his way to his feet. The chair leg whizzed at him. He stumbled clear, then struck with the heel of his right hand in a solid chop that landed just above and behind Lambert's flying elbow. The chair leg dropped from the numbed hand, but Carruthers had paid a price also, and he swayed, sickened with pain. Lambert sent a left straight for the jaw. Carruthers partially blocked the blow, but it landed hard enough to send him to one knee. Phoebe was not getting up. Fear sent wrath searing through him. He was up even as Lambert aimed another savage and unheroic kick. Avoiding the gleaming boot, Carruthers drove a left jab to the midriff. Lambert said, “Ooosh!” bent in half, and went zooming into the door. It burst outward just as the host and a waiter ran along the hall.

“'Ere! 'Ere!” cried the host frantically, then jumped clear as Lambert sailed past, plunged into the railing, and took it with him down into the vestibule.

Carruthers charged out, sprinted along the hall and halfway down the stairs, the wails of the host and the waiter drifting after him. That miserable coward had hurt Phoebe! He'd dared to raise his hand to her! He leapt the banister and ran across the vestibule. Lambert came at him, a heavy, branched coat rack held battering-ram fashion, and murder clearly written on his bloodied face. Carruthers had to dive for his life. The coat rack grazed his back and slammed into the glass base of a tall old grandfather clock. Lambert swung his coat rack high. The grandfather clock toppled and fell, pinning Lambert and coat rack. Carruthers reeled over, clambered on top of the horizontal clock, and knelt there, laughing gaspingly, while Lambert howled profanities.

The host and the waiter ran up and grabbed Carruthers, pulling him away. He cried out and clutched his arm, but with sanity returning.

The host swung up a club, his square face red and enraged. “I could love yer, fer fightin'—and laughin' even when yer hurt. But, by Gawd, sir, I'll
brain
yer if yer makes a move,” he shouted. “'Swelp me if I don't! '
Swelp
me!”

Two housemaids crawled out from under the counter, and a farm wife peered from behind an overturned armchair, surveying the carnage in awed disbelief.

Dizzy and shaking, Carruthers staggered back to look down at Lambert. Tears of helpless rage streamed down the distorted, unhandsome countenance. “Someday!” sobbed Lambert. “As God be … my judge! I'll even … the score! You and—and that stinking … reptile, Otton!
Someday
…!

“Were I you,” gasped Carruthers, swaying drunkenly, “I'd get … back to duty. You've … many lies to invent to … account for having forbade your men to—to search that vessel.”

Lambert groaned, tried to pull the clock clear, and fainted.

The host came up, also weeping. “Oh, sir!
Whata
fighter yer is! But—lookat me
stairs
! Lookat me
clock
! Lookat—”

Carruthers fished in his pocket and drew out his purse. He could not see clearly, but his bruised fingers managed to hand it over. “Sorry,” he panted.

The host sniffed, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. “Ar. Well—”

Carruthers was already weaving to the stairs. “Send me reck-reckoning.…” he croaked, and began to toil up the steps that now seemed two miles high.

“Merry,” quavered a beloved voice.

He halted, groping blindly for the wall.

Phoebe sat at the top of the stairs, a chambermaid peeping around the corner at her. A red welt across her cheekbone was darkening to a bruise, one eye was swollen, her hair hung in a tangled mass, her gown was torn at the shoulder. And on her face was a radiance that made his heart ache with love.

“Oh, my … dearest,” she sobbed, reaching down to him, but quite unable to move. “You are so battered, and you will have an awful black eye. And—oh, heavens! you've made your arm bleed again! Are you in much pain?”