The Tyrant (21 page)

*   *   *

“I rose early, especially to discover how you went on, dear Miss Ramsay,” said Lucille Carruthers, looking anxiously across the breakfast table at Phoebe.

“If every lady looked as well as does Miss Ramsay after being half drowned in a storm,” said Carruthers, walking in booted and spurred, with Sinclair beside him, “storms would bring crowds out by the hundreds.”

Phoebe watched him without delight.

“Oh, prettily said, Meredith,” said his mother, blinking at him in mild astonishment.

“Very skilful,” agreed Phoebe drily. She was aware he would have every right (in his mama's eyes at least) to drop a kiss on her brow, and when he rested one hand lightly on her shoulder as he passed behind her chair, she jerked quickly away from that contaminating touch.

Mrs. Carruthers saw the movement, and anxiety came into her big blue eyes. Meredith kissed her and told her she looked charmingly in the negligee of royal blue and the dainty matching cap heavily trimmed with ecru lace. She thanked him absently, her troubled gaze on his affianced.

Meredith glanced at Phoebe and pulled out a chair. “I think
you
must have slept well, ma'am.”

She answered a short, “Passably, thank you,” and turned a brilliant smile on Sinclair as he sat beside her. “Good morning, dear,” she said.

“A very good morning,” he said, his eyes holding a reproof. “Carruthers took me through the Keep. It's a most interesting old place.”

They must have gone to check on poor Lieutenant Lascelles. Phoebe stared at her plate. How horrid it was that she must continue to feel indebted to the Lecher. But, on the other hand, why should she care how low he was, or worry for that village trollop? The silly chit had brought it on herself, goodness knows. And how funny that Sinclair was angry because she'd put Carruthers in his place, not dreaming of the cause of her vexation. He'd have a different notion of the man did he know how Carruthers had seduced and betrayed the girl he himself so admired. With an effort, she managed to sound less glacial. “You must show me this famous Keep, Mr. Carruthers.”

Lucille said, “Oh, you must be careful over there. It is very, very old, you know, and quite falling down in places.”

“I suppose it sounds silly,” said Phoebe, “but when I look at it, I think it is grieving. Poor old place. What a pity it has been allowed to fall to rack and ruin.”

Carruthers's lips tightened, and Sinclair said hurriedly, “Mr. Carruthers says he may restore it.”

“To an extent, at least,” qualified Carruthers, watching Phoebe thoughtfully.

“How nice,” she said.

“Should you care to have another try at seeing Dewbury Minor, ma'am?” he enquired.

“I am invited to ride with you,” Sinclair put in. “But I do not mean to play pest-in-residence, so if you'd prefer to be alone, please say so.”

She laughed at him. “Don't be so silly.”

“One of the reasons I chose your sister,” drawled Carruthers, his colour a little heightened, “is that she is so sensible and does not indulge the silly romantical notions that clog the brains of most females.”

Sinclair grinned at this hit, but Lucille looked at Phoebe uncertainly. “I suppose you modern misses
are
more practical-minded than my generation.”

“Perhaps we are, ma'am,” said Phoebe sweetly. “It is, after all, better to face reality than to indulge silly romantical notions and later be disillusioned.”

Carruthers met her eyes steadily for a moment, then asked his mother what were her plans for the day. She was, she said, taking Lady Eloise to meet the curate and visit the dear old church in Dewbury Prime. “She is so interested in antiquities.”

Phoebe said with a warm smile, “You and my mama are enjoying each other, I think, ma'am?”

“Oh, yes, my dear. It is lovely to find a friend with whom one can discuss all one's concerns. Such a delightful creature. How fortunate I am, for I have gained both a daughter
and
a new friend.”

Phoebe's heart sank, and she dared not look at Meredith.

He said briskly, “Fortunate, indeed, Mama. Where is Jeffery, by the bye?”

With the assurance that her news would please, Lucille replied, “He is off with the military, dear. He volunteered to help search for this dreadful rebel.”

*   *   *

“Surely, sir,” said Sinclair, as they rode side by side through the bright morning, “you will now be obliged to tell your brother?”

“Only as a very last resort,” said Carruthers.

Astonished, Phoebe expostulated, “But Jeffery
must
know about your hidden room in the Keep. What if he comes upon the Lieutenant?”

Carruthers gave a faint smile. “If he does, the chances are he'll be as eager as are we to protect him. You must remember, ma'am, that Lance and Jeff and I grew up together.”

“And Miss Smith,” she murmured.

His eyes narrowed. “Most decidedly Miss Smith. Though she was just a little sprat of a girl then.”

“She has grown past that stage,” said Sinclair. Carruthers's gaze shifted to him, and he said with fine innocence, “Speaking of beautiful sights…”

They had come to the crest of a hill. About half a mile distant, thatched cottages clustered around a small village green with a pond in the centre. Ducks bustled about busily, chestnut trees swayed with the gentle breeze, and faintly could be heard the sound of singing.

Sinclair exclaimed, “How Mama would love to sketch…” He paused, tilting his head, listening.

They burst like a red tide over a slope, the ‘pink' coats bright against the turf, the hounds baying in excitement as they streaked after the small, terrified fox, the horses racing in pursuit.

Carruthers drove home his spurs. He had ridden Rogue today, and the big black fairly shot into a gallop and was down the hill in a flash.

“This is the jolliest place,” cried Sinclair. “Never a dull moment! Come on, Phoebe!”

She was already urging her mare forward, apprehensive because the large man in the forefront of the hunt could only be Sir Malcolm Lockwood.

They passed the village at great speed, people running out of cottages to stare as they swept past, and two dogs trying, with much frenzied barking, to keep up.

Far ahead, Carruthers's black soared over a hedge at undiminished speed. Sinclair was hard on his heels, but Phoebe detoured to a lower spot which her mare took in fine style. She saw then that a pleasant farmhouse lay ahead, well-tended fields of vegetables and young corn surrounding it. And the hunt was charging right across the first of those neat fields.

Following a narrow path through the corn, Carruthers raced towards the fence at the far side, shouting, “Shut the gate! Quick!”

A labourer, toiling near the fence, jerked up his head, saw the hunt approaching, and sprinted. The fox shot through, and Carruthers came up just after the high barred gate swung shut.

Phoebe's heart contracted. Surely he was not going to attempt that gate? But horse and rider soared into the air and disappeared on the far side. Her heart in her mouth, she kicked home her heels and the mare flew.

She heard a shout, then a shot, and wondered in anguish if Rogue had broken a leg. There was pandemonium now; an outburst of furious shouts and cursing, of horses whinnying, dogs baying, and Sinclair, who had climbed onto the gate, laughing hilariously.

Flinging herself from the saddle, Phoebe ran to the gate and peered through at a crazy confusion of milling hounds, flailing huntsmen, plunging horses. She was in time to see Carruthers standing very straight amid the chaos, a smoking pistol in one hand, and Sir Malcolm Lockwood, enraged, stamping forward to slash his riding gloves across Carruthers's face and back again.

*   *   *

“I wish you will stop laughing, Sin,” Phoebe said severely. “There is nothing funny about a duel.”

They had ridden away from the farm and were now in the hills above the rural beauty of Dewbury Minor, where much of the hunt had adjourned to rage over its spoiled sport in the tap of The Jolly Countryman.

“If you had but—seen it,” gasped Sinclair unrepentantly. “Damn near lynched you, sir!”

Phoebe whitened, her scared gaze flashing to Carruthers's grave countenance. “Dear God! What for? Oh—you never really
shot
someone?”

“By Jove, but he did,” chortled Sinclair.

“Six of the idiots with one bullet,” Carruthers jeered. “Jolly good, eh?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said crossly.

“He shot a chicken,” said Sinclair.

“A …
chicken
…?”

His mouth trembling to a grin, Carruthers murmured, “The hounds evidently decided there was—er, ‘some soul of goodness in things evil.'”

Sinclair gave a whoop. “In other words, Phoebe, they forgot about the fox and settled for the victim readily available. Old Lockwood was fairly gibbering with wrath—his hunt with him! And this gentleman standing there, laughing at 'em. Oh, what a sight! And that quotation was from
The Merchant of Venice
—no?”

“No.”

“Here you are with a duel facing you and you argue about a quotation,” cried Phoebe in exasperation. “I hope you may find it as laughable does Sir Malcolm choose pistols.”

“Not his choice, ma'am. And of course I don't mean to shoot the half-wit. Can't very well”—his crooked grin slanted at her—“his son is my closest friend.”

Sinclair stared at him. “How can you get out of it, sir? They all saw him strike you.”

“And they all know I'll not accept his challenge—and why. Never fear, I'll not be ostracized as a craven. I've been out sufficient times, heaven knows.”

Her nerves still quivering, Phoebe said irritably, “What heaven has to do with two grown men ready to shoot one another only because a silly hunt was upset is beyond my ken.”

“Do not let Papa hear you say that,” cautioned Sinclair. “Dashed unsporting would be his verdict, I'm afraid. Although, come to think on it, our huntsman would likely faint were he instructed to prepare for sport during the growing season. Why the deuce does the Squire do such a thing? I wonder any respond to his invitation.”

“He's sporting-mad,” said Carruthers. “And I've a notion he is pretty much crippled from rheumatism during the cold weather. It's unorthodox, I grant you, but since most of the land hereabouts is owned either by him or by me, he usually has only me to deal with. This was one thing that was not a bone of contention between the Squire and my father. He did not object. I do.”

“I have it!” exclaimed Sinclair.
Richard the Second!

“Wrong again.”

“Deuce take it! What, then?”

“I think I will not tell you. You shall have to wade through all Mr. Shakespeare's works. Wager you a guinea you do not have it by dinner-time!”

“Done!” Sinclair wheeled his mount. “I'll have it by the time you reach the Hall!” And he was away at a canter, soon disappearing from sight.

They were alone again. Carruthers rode in silence. Phoebe's earlier fury had been tempered by time, and she persuaded herself that how this man conducted his
affaires de coeur
held not the slightest interest for her. She was genuinely interested in Meredith Hall, however, and when the buildings came into view across the valley and Carruthers suggested they allow the horses to rest for a few minutes, she let him lift her down, then strolled to gaze out at the distant buildings.

Joining her, he said, “Is it possible that my home, at least, no longer disgusts you?”

There was a note to the deep voice that warned her. She did not look at him, nor rise to the bait, but answered, “It does not. But it is an unfortunate jumble, isn't it?”

“‘Truth, where is thy sting?'” he sighed.

“That should be ‘death,'” she pointed out.

“My own version. At all events, I'm not ready to die merely because you find my home unfortunate.”

She did look at him then, and the gleam of laughter in his eyes prompted a reluctant smile. At once he said, “Will you tell me why you were so angry?”

She lowered her lashes. “No. I—really, it was not my right, and—”

He took her hand. “Phoebe, I would prefer that we be honest with each other.”

Honest! As he was being honest with Rosalie Smith? Rage blazed through her again, and she had to fight to remind herself that it was none of her business. She touched the heavy gold ring on his tanned hand. “I saw that device over the mantel in the withdrawing room. A sword and a rose.”

“Yes. I fancy you've seen it in many places beside. It is probably reproduced somewhere in every room of the house.”

“I apologize for my lack of observance, Mr. Carruthers.”

He sighed. “Which means I've been clumsy again. I warned you I've not a silver tongue. I suppose I should rather have complimented you upon your perspicacity.”

“Do you fancy I cannot live without empty compliments?”

“Yes. I mean—no! I mean— Oh, God, I don't know. D'you want to hear about it or not?”

She could not hold back a laugh. “If you please, kind historian. I take it the design is part of your coat of arms.”

“The best part, I think. Although you will also find griffins and eagles lurking about here and there, especially around the exterior of the new wing.”

“Ah, yes. I have seen them. Tell me about the sword and the rose—unless it is sad, in which case I don't want to hear it.”

He led her to some nearby boulders, dusted one, and when she was settled more or less comfortably, he sat on the grass at her feet and began, “It's a rather lovely old legend. It began when one of my ancestors, Peter, fought in the Third Crusade with Richard Coeur de Lion. He met a beautiful Saracen lady who had inherited the colouring of her English mother, who had been stolen and sold as a slave, poor creature. But her daughter was a real beauty with—” He checked. Phoebe glanced at him sharply, but his gaze was fixed on the loom of the great house, his eyes remote and dreaming.