The Tyrant (36 page)

“None, sir. Miss Phoebe was troubled and told my Henery—I mean, told Mr. Baker that she meant to ride alone.” Wringing her hands, she sobbed, “If you was to ask me, some wicked man has seen how lovely she is, and she's … she's been took off to the desert, and sold to a wicked—”

Conditt interrupted this dramatic scenario, rushing in, crying urgently, “Sir! Come quick! It's Captain Lambert!”

To the best of his ability, Carruthers ran.

Jeffery and a sturdy lackey were aiding Brooks Lambert into the Great Hall. His tricorne was gone, his powdered head, spattered with crimson on one side, hung low, and his steps were dragging and unsure.

“The blue saloon—quickly!” called Meredith, gesturing to a hovering parlourmaid to open the door.

Lambert was conveyed inside, and lowered onto a faded sofa. He lay back against the cushions looking very much the worse for wear.

Bending over him, Meredith asked, “Brooks, was Miss Ramsay with you?”

The long, curling lashes fluttered and Lambert looked up dazedly. “Phoebe?” And then, starting up in horror: “Phoebe! My God! I—” But he winced, clutched his head, and sank down again. “They took her!” he moaned, looking at Carruthers in helpless misery. “Those dirty bastards … took her!”

*   *   *

Phoebe awoke to cold and dampness. She was lying on a pile of leaves and bracken in a small, dirty room. The door looked solidly sturdy and the only window was set too high in the wall for her to be able to see anything but the leaden sky and one tree branch. A bucket stood in one corner, and a very rickety table held a chipped enamel bowl.

For a while she lay there, so bemused she could not seem to think coherently, but at length she began to wonder why she was here. The only answer that made any sense was that she had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. She sat up, got to her feet, and went over to lean one ear against the door. She could hear snoring, but no conversation. She pressed on the door latch with nerve-stretching caution, and pushed. The door gave not an inch, and her heart sank to the awareness that it must be strongly barred on the far side.

Fighting panic, she bit her knuckle and turned to the window. She up-ended the bucket and stood on it, but she was not tall enough even then to see out. Perhaps, if she screamed … but the window was fastened at the top. She thought, ‘What would Meredith do?' She picked up the bucket. Standing well back, she threw it with all her strength. It struck the window with a great crash, then bounced down inches from where she quailed with both arms over her face. Glass showered to the floor. She heard a throaty cursing and ran to the shattered window, screaming for help at the top of her lungs.

The door burst open. Screaming even more lustily, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a big man run in. Her vocal chords seemed to freeze as he came at her with terrifying menace, his shoulders hunched, and with the same hideous mask over his face that she'd seen just before Lambert was struck down.

“So yer awake, me fine Lady Mighty Muck,” he leered. “Lovely voice yer got. An' if yer think it worries me—it don't. Scream yer bloody head orf, mate—ain't no one'll hear yer. All yer done is let the rain in, which serves yer right.”

“What,” Phoebe managed, finding her voice, “do you want with me?”

A grin twisted his thick lips, and his eyes travelled her lustfully. “How's about a little slap and tickle…?”

She lifted her small chin another inch higher and, inwardly quaking, eyed him with what was, she hoped, regal scorn.

Another man entered, similarly masked, but of much smaller stature and almost skeletal thinness. He carried a tray on which was a thick earthenware plate containing some dark bread, cheese, a slice of beef, and an apple. The big man took the tray and offered it to Phoebe. “Not like what yer 'customed to, I 'spect, but it'll have to do, since our butler gone an' run orf wi' the washerwoman.”

The second man gave a neighing shriek of laughter. Phoebe ignored them both and turned her head away.

“Look at her, me cove,” leered the big man. “All pride and pomp—like the rest o' the nose-in-the-air Quality. Eat yer din-dins, Madam Queen, an' if yer a good gal, we'll bring some water, 'cause we knows as Quality folks likes ter be clean.” He jerked a thumb at the bucket, and said with a sneering laugh, “I reckon yer knows what that's fer. We ain't got no fancy commode, but I reckon ye can fit yer little—”

“Animal! Take your filthy mind and your filthy mouth, and begone from my sight!”

He responded with a grin that he “allus did like a mort wi' spirit,” then accompanied his cohort from the room.

Phoebe's seething disgust changed to despair as the sound of heavy bars being replaced came to her ears. She bowed her head into her hands, fighting tears. To weep seemed, in some remote fashion, to betray Meredith, and she sniffed, picked up the tray and, sitting on the inverted bucket, ate her simple meal. Surprisingly, the bread was not stale, the cheese of an excellent quality, and the beef tender. She was finishing the apple when the door opened again. The second man placed a tankard on the floor and, without a word, backed out.

The tankard contained ale. Phoebe was very thirsty and she sipped cautiously. It tasted foul, but she was sufficiently desperate to drink some. It was getting dark and the rising wind blew with chill dampness through the broken window. The ale warmed her, however, so that she did not shiver quite so badly. It also made her drowsy. Yawning, and surprisingly carefree, she went to her improvised couch and curled up.

A long time afterwards, it seemed, she was vaguely aware of voices. She could not distinguish the words, and was so sunk in sleep that she was unable to rouse sufficiently to force her heavy eyelids open. She was lifted by strong but gentle hands and caught a whiff of pleasant masculine fragrance. As through a thick veil she glimpsed a snowy cravat. A gentleman, evidently. A distant corner of her mind thought, ‘They are moving me,' and then she slept again.

XVI

Carruthers sat his horse unmoving, so tired that the thought of climbing from the saddle was daunting.

“'Ere we go, sir. Easy does it.”

He blinked down into the crinkle-eyed smile of his head groom. “Hello, Baker. Any news?”

“Message come fer ye, sir,” answered the groom in his soft Sussex voice.

Carruthers leaned gratefully on his strong arm, and Baker asked, “Did ye find any trace 'tall, sir?”

“Not a whisper, blast it! The others are still searching, but I'm pretty useless, so I came home. I'll have to call in the military now. No choice.”

Baker shook his head. He was all too aware of how slow was the master's usually brisk stride, how drawn the strong face, and he walked with him all the way to the back door of the new wing.

At the steps, Carruthers took a deep breath and pulled back his shoulders. He clapped one hand on the groom's broad shoulder, and went into the house.

Distantly, a woman called excitedly, “The master's come!”

Conditt appeared and hurried to scan him. “Sir—you look—”

“Like the devil, I suppose.” Carruthers nodded ruefully. “Feel like it, too. Where's the message that came?”

“We left it on the hall table for you, sir. I'll bring it up, if you will go to your chamber.”

“Hell, no. How does Captain Lambert go on? Was Linden here?”

“The Captain has been sleeping, sir, but I believe his man is dressing him now. Dr. Linden was here and said the Captain does not appear to have suffered a concussion. He was—er, not pleased to find you gone out.”

“What would he suggest I do?” said Carruthers irritably. “Sit back and wait for Miss Ramsay to be shipped off as a … a slave? What have the ladies been doing?”

Conditt had dreaded this moment. “I'm afraid Lady Martha has been rather unwell, sir. The shock, you know.”

Carruthers stared at him aghast, then turned about and went quickly up the stairs.

His scratch at the door of the Dowager's bedchamber was answered by her abigail, the big, raw-boned Swedish woman, a little bowed now with years, but still having rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Her face was worried, but she greeted Carruthers eagerly.

“Is that Mr. Meredith?” came a fretful cry.

He called, “Yes, ma'am. You permit that I come to you?”

“Yes, yes. Please.”

He trod around the fine Chinese screen and took the gnarled hand tremblingly stretched out to him. The old lady scrutinized him with desperate anxiety. She was very pale and looked ill and older. He experienced a surge of rage that she must suffer, and said in his gentlest voice, “Alas, I have no news, my lady. I am sorrier than I can say.”

Her eyes glittered with sudden tears, but she was a thoroughbred and said staunchly, “Not your fault. You must rest, lad. No use in all of us being laid low when—when … She
will
be found, won't she, Meredith? She
will
be all right?”

He stepped closer, bent, and kissed her on the forehead. “She will be found, ma'am. As God is my judge, I swear it!”

He felt less confident when he was sprawled in the armchair beside the glowing hearth of his bedchamber, a generous portion of brandy in his glass, and Howell pulling off his dusty riding boots.

“Well,” sighed Carruthers wearily, “are you going to ring a peal over me?”

“Under any other circumstances, sir—yes. As it is…”

“Quite so. I fancy Mrs. Carruthers stayed by her ladyship?”

“She did, sir. She is resting now. Would you wish I send word?”

Carruthers passed a hand across his eyes. “Had I any good words to send. I do not, more's the pity. Ah—there you are, Conditt.” He accepted the letter the butler offered. The hand was neat, but unfamiliar, his name misspelled, and the seal looking to have been compressed with a coin. Breaking it, he said, “My brother and Ramsay should return soon. If they've not found some trace, we—” He checked, his gaze fixed on the message.

You and Otton thought he was all tucked away so you could get the gold. Well, we got a better hand than what you thought. Fact is, we got 2 hands and 2 feet and all the rest of Miss Ramsey. We don't want to hurt her. What we want is Lasels
WITH
the poem. We know you got him.

You got till noon tomorrow. Then the lady will be sold for our expenses. She won't bring as much as what we'd have got from the reb. Still, it's better than nowt.

If you tell about this letter you won't never see her, and we'll tell all about her naughty little brother. When your ready to make the trade, run the royal banner up your flagpole and we'll send word where to fetch Lasels. The sooner the better for the lady. She's a pretty mort.

The hand Carruthers put over his eyes shook as violently as had Lady Martha's. “Lord … God…!” he whispered.

Lambert came in without benefit of a knock, his uniform cleaned and pressed, his face pale, and a bandage taped to the side of his head. “Is he awake?” he demanded of the alarmed Howell.

Carruthers lowered his hand and leaned back in the chair. Struggling for composure, he said, “I'm awake. How are you, Brooks?”

“I'm off for my troopers.”

Carruthers stood, thanked his man and the butler, and dismissed them.

They bowed and departed, each man slanting a glance of intense resentment at the Captain as they passed.

As soon as the door closed, Carruthers said urgently, “We
cannot
have the military in this. Miss Ramsay is being held for ransom.”

“The … devil you say!” And then, suspicion coming into his eyes, Lambert demanded, “How d'ye know?”

“A message came. It said in part that if we call in the military, Phoebe will be sold.”

“I don't believe you! Where is this message? Let me see it.”

Carruthers crumpled the letter in his left hand, strolled to the fire, and dropped it into the flames. He said coolly, “I burnt it.”

Lambert's gaze flashed from the grave countenance to the curling letter amid the coals. Starting forward, cursing, he was restrained by a strong grip. “No, Brooks.”

“What else did it say that you don't want me to see? Was it from Otton? When I get my hands on that—”

Carruthers's hand on his arm became a fist that seized Lambert's cravat and hauled him closer to a face so transformed by rage that he scarcely recognized it. “What,” demanded Carruthers between his teeth, “has Roland Otton to do with this?”

Lambert tore free so savagely that Carruthers was staggered. “It was all a plot we contrived between us. He said he was trying to help me.”

His eyes wide and staring, Carruthers whispered a hissing “Otton…!”

“Yes, my dear fellow?”

They both spun around at the sound of that drawling, insouciant voice.

Roland Otton, garbed in a deep-purple velvet evening coat, a great amethyst gleaming in his cravat and another on his right hand, his waistcoat a masterpiece and his knee breeches and lilac stockings devoid of the suggestion of a wrinkle, leaned in the doorway, swinging his quizzing glass on a silver chain. “I hear rumours you have made a mull of things, Lambert.”

With an inarticulate growl, Lambert made a lunge for him, but Carruthers stepped between them. “Where is she?” he demanded.

Otton frowned a little. “You ask the wrong abductor, dear boy. I could not but pity Lambert's predicament, so I suggested he stage a kidnapping and a subsequent heroic rescue. I did not dream he would be so clumsy as to—”

“Clumsy, is it?” Lambert grabbed for his sabre. “By God, if I thought you had—”

“Be still!”
thundered Carruthers, in a voice that startled both his hearers and would have purely terrified his mother. “Whom did you hire, Lambert?”

Flushing darkly, Lambert muttered, “One was a clod named Hessell, and—”