The Tyrant (39 page)

“Well, Mama was anxious, you know.”

She said nothing, and the little meeting broke up after various plans were put forth only to be rejected because of some flaw.

Returning to her chamber to change for dinner, she thought worriedly, ‘He could see his brother and his mama, but he was too ill and too tired to see me.…'

*   *   *

Unperturbed by the drizzle, Colonel Fotheringay stood beside the village pond, watching in amusement the gnarled old hands that caressed his rangy mare, and listening to Joseph Smith's pipingly knowledgeable assessment of the animal.

“Foine deep barrel, allus likes t'see that, Oi does. And good straight legs. Jes' right in the back, too. Ye got y'sel' a nice little lady here, General. Nice.”

“Colonel. You sound as if you know your horses, Mr. Smith.”

“Ar. Well, Oi were part owner o' the smithy at one time, Oi were. Smith's Smithy, they useter call it.” Joseph dug a frail elbow in the Colonel's side and cackled, and Fotheringay laughed dutifully. “Been doing a powerful lot o' riding these days, aintcha?” the old man continued with a sly twinkle. “Up an' down all England, Oi do hear. Does ye ever catch any o' they Jakey-bite fellas?”

“Oh, many,” declared Fotheringay, a steely look coming into the dark eyes. “To their sorrow.”

“An' yer pleasure, eh?”

Fotheringay's colour deepened, and he shot a sharp look at the frail old villager. “You feel an empathy for these traitors, do you?”

Joseph took off his sagging hat, scratched his head cautiously, since his hair was not quite so thick as it used to be, and said craftily, “Maybe yes—maybe no.” He giggled. “Seein' as Oi dunno what ye means.”

“I mean that you feel sorry for the men who would have seized the throne.”

“Whaffor?” asked Smith, more puzzled than before.

“Your pardon?”

“What they want with the throne? Not much ye can do wi' a throne, now, be there? Take me, f'r instance. Was Oi to sneak a throne inter me cottage, it'd stick out like a sheep draggin' home a wolf by the throat. Not nacheral. Why,” he went on, warming to his theme, “Oi do doubt as even Mr. Meredith up to the Hall could—”

Eyes glinting with irritation, the Colonel interrupted, “Mr. Smith, I am searching for an escaped rebel. A very special rebel. With a large reward on his hea—” Sensing a possible pitfall, he rephrased hurriedly, “With a large reward offered to whomsoever helps us find him.”

“Be that so?” Joseph blinked respectfully at this impressive symbol of military might. “Why then, Oi reckon as ye'll catch him quick-like. Them rewards allus helps ye chaps bring home the bacon—'specially if ye cannot catch him yerselves. Oi heered as he was all smashed-up like. One would think it wouldn't be too hard fer a gert powerful chap like ye be, to—”

Controlling himself with difficulty, Fotheringay snapped, “It is your duty, sir, as a patriotic citizen of—”

“Good evening, Colonel,” said a soft pretty voice.

The Colonel jerked around and lifted his riding crop in a polite salute to the little village beauty who approached, a basket of herbs on one softly rounded arm, and the hood of her cloak framing her gentle face. “Out in the rain, Miss Smith? I was attempting to persuade your grandfather to cooperate with us.”

“I heard you, sir, but Grandfather knows nothing of such matters, and could not—”

“Well, that just shows how wrong ye be, Rosalie Smith,” interposed the old man irritably. “Oi knows everything what goes on in Dewbury Prime, Oi does.
And
in Dewbury Minor,” he added, drawing himself up to his full fifty-five inches.

“Now, Granddad—”

“Hush, girl! And let yer elders speak! Oi'll tell'ee summat, Colonel Foggerinhay,” offered Joseph, his eyes suddenly cunning.

Dimples flashed beside Rosalie's ruddy lips. The Colonel, his own mouth a thin line, almost corrected that hideous mispronunciation, but decided he'd best not disturb the old fool's train of thought or it might never be restored, and one could not tell what he might have seen.

“
Oi
doan't know nought,” Joseph went on, sidling closer to the officer. “But Oi knows a chap as knows more'n what he oughter, an' was ye t'keep a close watch on
him,
ye'd have that there bacon o' yourn in jig time!”

Rosalie stepped forward, uneasy, but the old man thrust out a claw-like hand to keep her away. “A big reward, he says, Rosie. New shoes fer ye, lass, and a new pipe fer me, maybe! Right, General?”

“Most assuredly. Who is this man, Smith?”

“No, no. He bean't a smith.” Joseph peered around the drowsing village street as though Charles Stuart himself and two hundred Highland Scots lurked behind the cottages. “He be a—
parson,
” he hissed.

*   *   *

To have been confined to his bedchamber for two days was galling to Carruthers, especially in view of the extreme danger hanging over his friend and his loved ones. That he had very little time to get the cipher through, and Lance safely out of England, chafed at his nerves. Hour after hour, he racked his brains trying to come up with a workable plan, but between the throbbing of his arm and the crushing weight of his own troubles he achieved nothing but a heightened sense of frustration. Towards evening he insisted that Howell help him get dressed, and he was sitting before a small fire feeling rather more like a functional human being when a sharp knock at the door was followed by the appearance of a grim-faced Jeffery. Howell left them, and Carruthers asked urgently, “Are you not at dinner?”

“Yes, but the ladies have withdrawn, and I excused myself and slipped up here. We entertain only the Merritts and old Commodore Purcell tonight, at all events. The other guests sent regrets because of all the patrols lurking about. Merry—the most devilish thing! Large numbers of reinforcements have come into the district! The village fairly swarms with dragoons, and 'tis rumoured that by tomorrow, troopers will be posted along all roads and byways in a fifty-mile radius!”

“Lord, but they're hot after poor Lance! How do you know this?”

“Goodall came in from the village with that cloth his wife has woven for Mama. He was in a rare state; said it had taken him three hours to reach here, because he'd been refused the right to pass until the soldiers had searched his cart, and he had to wait an hour while they all but stripped some passengers from the Portsmouth Machine.” He paused, then added, “Did you know they're beginning to call them ‘stage-coaches' now? In London— Oh, what rubbish I talk! Merry, it looks as though, if we're to get that cipher through, it must be tonight!”

Meredith swore. “Jeff, get over to the Keep if you can, and bring back the cipher. I returned it to Lascelles after I failed with the dratted thing. Hurry, old lad. If what you heard is truth, we may have dragoons here again at any minute!”

Jeffery left at once, and Carruthers settled down to wait. Ten minutes crawled past. Twenty. At the end of half an hour, he decided that Jeff must have been obliged to return to the dining room. He dare not send down a request for him to come upstairs, and he waited in ever-growing impatience. At ten o'clock he judged the tea-tray would have been carried in. He sent Howell down to the withdrawing room with instructions to peep in and see if Mr. Jeffery was present. When the valet returned with word that Jeffery had apparently not returned, and that Mrs. Carruthers was “most put out,” Carruthers knew that something was wrong. He told Howell he would not require him for the rest of the evening. The faithful man hesitated, but Carruthers said he had a personal matter to discuss with his brother, who would likely come up soon, and could help him, if necessary, and the valet reluctantly went away.

Carruthers waited for a short interval, then managed, with a little difficulty, to throw a cloak around his shoulders. He slipped into the hall. A footman stood at his mother's parlour door, chatting idly with her abigail, but no other servants were in sight. He walked quickly and quietly along the hall and went down the side stairs and along to the back door.

Outside, the air was clean and cold. The cobblestones of the courtyard gleamed in the faint reflection of candlelight from the windows of the house, but the rain had stopped. The wind had come up, putting a deeper chill on the air. He thought, ‘One might suppose it to be October rather than August,' and stood unmoving, eyes narrowed and searching. There was no sign of anyone, and he strode across the courtyard to the proud vault of the drawbridge. He crouched, his left hand grabbing for the pistol in his belt as he detected a shifting in the denser shadows by the moat.

Jeffery whispered, “Merry? Gad, but I thought you would never come!”

He sat with his back against the wall, accompanied by Satan, who uttered a friendly trill as Meredith put up the pistol and hurried forward.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

“The most nonsensical thing,” groaned Jeffery. “I was running, and it was dark, you know, and—this damned cat jumped down on me from the drawbridge and fairly scared the wits out of me! I turned my stupid ankle on a slippery cobblestone, and be dashed if I can walk on it!”

Meredith at once knelt beside him. Satan, all innocent ingratiation, immediately began to twine around him, and Jeffery gave him a light swat and told him he was a blasted pest, and to be gone. The big cat shot off with an irked yowl. Meredith groped in the dark for his brother's ankle and ran his left hand over it gently. “Lord, it's swollen! What a fool I am, to have waited about, doing nothing. I thought you'd been obliged to go back to the guests.”

“Not your fault. Is it—broken?”

“Jupiter, does it feel that miserable? I'd guess it was sprained, but I suppose one of the smaller bones could be broken. If I give you a hoist, can you stand?”

With his aid, Jeffery managed to get up and balance himself against the wall. He leaned on his brother's good arm and hopped along painfully. “I wasn't able to get the cipher for you,” he said. “Lance was properly miffed when I asked for it. He insisted he'd
never
given it to you, and that he would not do such a thing. He says it is
his
responsibility, and that he'd given his word never to let any other take it. He became so agitated I finally just left the silly fellow.”

“He was half delirious when he let me take it. Perhaps he has no recollection of having done so. I fancy we'll have a fine time prying it out of him now.” They struggled on, and Meredith gave a breathless laugh. “A fine pair of rescuers! I ride into an ambush, and you trip over your feet.”

Jeffery chuckled, but after a minute said awkwardly, “Merry, I'm sorry about—what I said this morning. I chose the deuce of a time to—”

“Oh, stubble it! I must get used to the notion that you're a man now, and—”

Satan shot past, Justice in hot pursuit, baying furiously.

“Curst animals,” grunted Meredith. “That uproar will bring someone! Here we are, Jeff. Now when we get inside, I—”

Phoebe, still wearing her evening gown, swung the door open. She held a lighted candle but set it down as she ran to help Jeffery on the other side. “I thought it was Sinclair,” she said. “He came to my room in search of Jeff, and when we couldn't find either of you, he started over to the Keep. Where shall we take him, Merry?”

He nodded to a closed door. “In here. It was the butler's study when this wing was in full use, but is seldom opened nowadays.”

The room was panelled and neat and smelled of beeswax polish. Meredith guided Jeffery to a chair. “Look after him for a minute, will you? I'll find Sinclair.”

“I'll go,” said Phoebe.

“No. It's raining. I can—”

She said with fond exasperation, “
Will
you stop taking everything on your shoulders, love!” and, appropriating his cloak, swung it about her and ran into the night.

For a moment he stared rather blankly at the closed door, then he drew the curtains and lit another candle. “Now let's have a look at that ankle.”

They had scarcely begun to examine the injury than Phoebe and Sinclair came in, supporting the fugitive between them.

“Another cripple,” remarked Sinclair ironically.

Lascelles sank weakly into a chair.

Meredith exclaimed, “Lord! Where was he?”

Sinclair answered, “Halfway across the courtyard, looking properly drunk.”

“Lance, you idiot,” said Meredith, peering into his friend's thin face. “What did you think you were about?”

“Thought I was stronger … dammit!” Lascelles gave a wry smile. “Still, I am—am going along better now.”

Sinclair gave a derisive snort.

Phoebe, who, much to Jeffery's embarrassment, had been inspecting his ankle, said, “I think nothing is broken, but it is a nasty sprain, and should be bound.”

“We'll haul him upstairs in a minute,” said Meredith. “Lance, things are getting too sticky. You must let me—” He jerked around as, again, the door was flung open.

“So here you are,” said Lucille fretfully, holding Justice's collar. “Did you hear all the barking? I—” She stopped, her bewildered gaze travelling the four young men who, with varying degrees of difficulty, had stood at her coming. Behind her, Lady Martha whispered, “My … dear God!”

“L-Lancelot…?” quavered Lucille uncertainly. “But—you are hurt, and, poor boy, how very ill you look. Wh-why do you wear Meredith's new coat? Why are you all … in here, so quietly? I—I do not— Aah!” A hand flew to her throat and the colour drained from her face, leaving the twin spots of rouge in bright relief against her pallor. “Merry! Lance was always wild, but— He
cannot
be— You would not
allow
him here, if…”

Carruthers said softly, “I'm afraid he is. And I would. He is my friend.”