The Tyrant (15 page)

“To leave the field clear for
you
—is that it?”

Meredith's jaw set ominously. “You forget, I think, that I am betrothed. As you conveniently forget other things.”

Before the lash of tone and look, Jeffery felt suddenly very small and stupid, which did not help his temper. “For instance?”

“I have just learned that you were rusticated at the beginning of
May
! One collects you enjoyed a jolly sojourn in Town.”

Jeffery paled, but said with defiance, “You may think whatsoever you please. Be damned if I'll allow you to dictate—”

Meredith flung his coat aside. “I shall dictate to you for so long as you are under my guardianship. You young fool, d'you think I do not know what you were about? You were with Glendenning again.”

“What if I was? I—I suppose you'll not dare to say that
he's
beneath my touch? Tio is—”

“Horatio Glendenning is a fine fellow. He's also a
man
who has been on the Town several years, and—”

“And
I,
” interposed Jeffery, smarting at the implication, “am a silly stripling, is that it? Well, you may as well know that I
was
with Tio. I like him, and I like his brother, and be damned if I can see why you object.”

“I object not to him, or Michael, but to the company they keep, and the beliefs Tio holds. You know he runs with de Villars and that crew.”

“And from that you deduce that Glendenning is a Jacobite? Stuff! I've heard nothing to substantiate it. Besides,
you
sold out because of Cunningham, so you must—”

“To have sold out because I was revolted by needless brutality is one thing. To bring down a military surveillance on this house is quite another! And apart from that indiscretion, I should like to be apprised of the reason you were rusticated—this time.”

“Some snivelling sneak wrote to you, I gather.”

“It would appear to be a courtesy that my friends write me, since
you
choose not to be above-board.”

Jeffery's eyes fell. Very red in the face, he muttered, “It is only until next term, for Lord's sake.”

“I did not ask till when. I asked why.” A pause, then Carruthers said in a kinder voice, “What the devil ails you, Jeff? If you hate Cambridge, only say so and I'll haul you out and buy you a pair of colours, or—”

“I don't hate it.” Jeffery stole a glance at him and said with a sheepish smile, “But thank you for the escape route.” The frown returned to his brother's eyes, seeing which he frowned also and, with a typically swift change of mood, added irritably, “Deuce take it, were
you
never rusticated? No, I suppose not. You're so damned sober and industrious! One might think that since
you
take after Papa, whereas—”

In sudden white-faced fury, Meredith gritted, “Do not
ever
say so, or by God—” He shut off the savage words, then added harshly, “For Lord's sake, do not push me into an action I've no wish to take. Tell me why you were rusticated.”

Jeffery hesitated, started to speak, tightened his lips, and turned away. “No. It was a personal matter.”

“A petticoat, I suppose. Dammit, Jeff, you offer me little choice but to—”

“To do what?” flared Jeffery. “Have me flogged and thrown into the oubliette? I am a
man
now! For the love of heaven, leave me be!”

Meredith caught his wrist as he started away. “I'll not leave you be while you ruin yourself and bring danger on this house!”

Striving in vain to free himself, Jeffery shouted, “I'll not endanger your precious estate, blast it all!”

“There are
people
dwelling on this ‘precious estate' you turn up your silly nose at. Or does Mama's well-being matter a jot to you?”

It was the last straw. Torn between remorse and a secret sense of valiant justification, Jeffery's temper burst its bounds. He wrenched free, thus also tearing the shoulder of his new coat. With a cry of rage, he lashed out.

Meredith dodged the blow and retaliated as hotly. It was not the first time they had engaged in fisticuffs in the heat of a quarrel, and for a few minutes the action was fast and furious. Jeffery was eight years younger, and although slenderly built, was fast and well-taught. Meredith, however, was solidly powerful and in perfect condition from long days spent in the saddle or toiling with his men on the land. His own wrath soon evaporating, he contented himself with blocking Jeffery's furious attacks but making no attempt to strike back. Unable to break through that strong defence, Jeffery's rage was fanned to the boiling point. Meredith evaded a flying fist by the simple expedient of a supple sway to the side, and said with a grin, “Oh, enough, bantling.” He lowered his fists and stepped clear.

Blinded with wrath, Jeffery jumped in and struck hard and true. Hurt at last, Meredith reacted instinctively. Jeffery was smashed backwards and went down to lie with arms wide tossed and crimson streaking down his chin.

*   *   *

“
Do
come, Sin,” urged Phoebe, critically viewing the pale primrose gown and the matching hat Ada had set over the dainty cap atop her curls. “It is such a lovely day, and Mrs. Lucille is eager to show me the gardens.”

Lounging on the bed, her brother grinned at her reflected image. “Much you care about the gardens unless Lambert's in 'em. When does he arrive?”

Phoebe sighed and turned to face him, pulling on her mittens. “I don't know. Oh,
what
a pickle it is! I have no wish to upset Mrs. Lucille when she has so kindly accepted me for her daughter-in-law. She's such a dear.”

“A dear widgeon,” he said without rancour. “Lord, Phoebe, did you ever see such single-mindedness? One might think Jeffery walked on water.”

“Well, he
is
a nice boy. A trifle rackety yet, perhaps, but that is only youth.”

Amused, he asked, “Is that how you think of me, dear dowager? I'm much of an age with him.”

“Yes, but you were born wise. Besides, Meredith handles him in the worst possible way.”

“Alas, poor Meredith! He's the one most truly caught in our trap, and Jove, I wish he were not, for I like the man. Only—” He shrugged. “What matter? You'd best run now. Does Mama go with you?”

“No. She is a little fatigued from the journey, I think.”

He crossed to open the door for her, but on the threshold she paused, looking up at him. “You accused me of having taken Mr. Carruthers in aversion, which is not true. But you, I think, really dislike his brother. May I ask why?”

He regarded her in his serious, unsmiling way for an instant, then gave her a broad grin. “Jealousy. I met the most choice little village lass. It appears he also is enchanted, and when he saw me with her was so enraged he—”

“So there you are, Miss Ramsay. And how charmingly you look!” Lucille came along the hall with a swish of draperies, herself so lovely in lilac cotton over a white eyelet underdress that Sinclair was moved to compliment her.

“Such a delightful boy,” murmured Lucille, accompanying Phoebe down the stairs. “'Tis easy to see why the girls so admire him.”

Phoebe slanted a sharp glance at her. “Sinclair has never been in the petticoat line, ma'am, if that is what you mean.”

“Good gracious! How forthright you young people are today!”

“Oh—your pardon. I only meant—”

“No, no. I admire loyalty. Especially between family members. It is just that—Jeffery chanced to mention your brother was much struck by one of our local beauties. And I—er…”

“A word of warning?” Phoebe smiled as they crossed the Great Hall and walked towards the back door. “Never say she is a designing woman, ma'am?”

“Indeed not! The dearest child imaginable. Only…” Mrs. Lucille murmured almost to herself, “I cannot like to see Jeffery so…”

“Infatuated? Surely, he is a handsome fellow, and will have many conquests before he meets his own lady.”

“True. If only it were not Rosalie. It would never do.… And—and Meredith, you know, is excessive protective of her.”

A lackey had followed at a discreet distance and now hurried ahead to throw open the back door for them. Lucille smiled at him, then put up her parasol as they stepped into the bright sunlight and walked toward the drive. “Do not misunderstand,” she went on. “My sons are devoted, as you have seen. Meredith is a trifle severe with Jeffery at times, but they are deeply attached, and— What on earth…?”

A small crowd of grooms and stable-boys were gathered around the open doors of the barn, watching what was, to judge by the sounds, a lively scuffle.

“How disgraceful,” said Lucille, hurrying forward. “I
do
apologize that our servants indulge in such crude behaviour.”

One of the boys glanced around, saw them, and in a flash the doorway was cleared. Determined to put a stop to the brawl, Lucille hastened into the dim interior, Phoebe close behind her. They arrived in the same instant that Meredith declared a halt to the fight. Phoebe gave a gasp of indignation as Jeffery attacked after his brother had lowered his hands. Her shock was smothered by Lucille's shrill scream as Jeffery went down.

Meredith spun around. In his shirt-sleeves, his hair disordered, his lean body poised for action, he looked like some young buccaneer, Phoebe thought, and had a brief image of him clinging to the rigging of his great galleon, a cutlass brandished in one hand as he prepared to board an enemy vessel.

Lucille experienced no such delusions. She flew to sink to her knees beside Jeffery. “My darling boy,” she sobbed, dabbing a dainty square of lace-edged cambric at his split lip. “Oh, my dearest child!” Tears spilled over. She glared up at Meredith and demanded brokenly, “Why?
Why
must you be forever so—so churlish and harsh? I know you cannot help it, but—is there
none
of the Bainbridge gentleness in your blood?”

He said nothing, standing motionless, watching her.

Dazed, but hearing her angry denunciation, Jeffery said feebly, “No, no, Mama. My … fault. Not—Merry's.”

“Not Merry's!” she exclaimed, wiping his mouth tenderly. “As if I had not seen him strike you down so brutally!”

Meredith picked up his coat and stalked out, not so much as casting a glance at Phoebe.

Seized by the belated awareness that she might have spoiled the match she had so eagerly welcomed, Lucille turned a dismayed glance to the silent girl. She encountered a shocked look and said falteringly, “My—my apologies, Miss Ramsay. My sons … a small disagreement only, you understand.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Phoebe quietly. “I have a brother myself. Will you pray excuse me?” And without waiting for a response, she hurried into the yard.

She was seething with indignation when she entered the house. It seemed imperative that she come up with Meredith at once, but there was no sign of him in the rear hall. She went outside again and hurried around to the front. The man she met was not her quarry, but the perspiring steward, who had been mopping his close-cropped head, and now clapped on his wig in embarrassment.

“You are Mr. Boles, I believe,” said Phoebe. “Did Mr. Meredith come this way?”

“No, miss.” He eyed her curiously. “Nothing wrong, I trust?”

She hesitated, but his broad countenance radiated kindliness. “I'm afraid he and his brother had a—er, slight disagreement,” she told him.

“Turn-up, eh? Well, if I may be so bold, miss, it's nought to be in a pucker over. They come to cuffs from time to time, being two very different articles, as you might say. But—Lord help any outsider as dares cause trouble with either one. The other's after him like a shot!”

“I guessed as much. Only—well, Mrs. Carruthers chanced to see Meredith level his brother rather neatly.”

“Lordy, Lord! Then the fox is in with the chicks, and no mistake. The missus gave Mr. Meredith a raking down, I'll warrant.”

“Yes. Do you know where he went?”

He ran a thoughtful gaze over her. A lovely little creature and no denying, he thought. But she'd a mind of her own, and unless he mistook the matter, that mind wasn't exactly soppy with love for her future husband.

Aware that she was being summed up, Phoebe turned her dimpling smile on the steward and, with a sigh, he capitulated. “He's likely gone to the old abbey, miss.” He indicated a wooded hilltop. “If you follow the track there, going up the side of the hill, you'll come to it.”

VII

The path was fairly steep and seemed even steeper in the heat of the day, and it was some minutes before Phoebe reached the pleasant shade of the trees. She could see no sign of a building, but walked on. After a while, the woods grew oddly hushed. The sun still slanted in a delicate tracery through the branches, the breeze moved the upper leaves idly, but lower down the air was very still, even the bird-songs seeming muted. She saw a structure ahead and hurried forward. There was not much left of the abbey to which Mr. Boles had referred: one soaring, crumbling wall, part of the aperture wherein had been a high Gothic window, and a tumbled heap of large stone slabs. The light wavered, the sunlight dancing through the leaves to draw sparkles from a little stream that chattered busily past the ruins.

Carruthers was sitting on a massive slab, head and shoulders resting against the wall, one knee drawn up and his arm propped across it. She walked slowly towards him. He looked up, frowned in irritation, but came to his feet.

Stopping before him, Phoebe found herself talking very softly, almost as though it were required here. “How lovely this place is. Like a chapel.”

He drawled a cynical “Have you come to pray for my depraved and despotic soul?”