The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  A gasp. “No! Phoebe, go on back inside! Do not come—!”

  But already she had found him, and she halted, frozen with shock.

  He was kneeling, his neat wig dishevelled and untidy about his thin, sensitive face. But her full attention was on the sprawled figure of the man he supported, a man whose clothes hung in tattered shreds, whose bearded face was a mask of dirt and blood, and whose weak attempts to drag himself up as she approached ended in a groan and a helpless collapse into Sinclair’s arms again.

  “My heavens!” gasped Phoebe. And suddenly, many things fell into place. Her brother’s frequent unexplained absences these past few months; the several occasions on which she had gone late to his bedchamber to chat, as they had done since childhood, only to find him not yet home, and his haggard look the following day, which he had excused to their parents as being the result of “studying too late.” She had said nothing, suspecting with some amusement that Sinclair, handsome in his intense fashion, had entered early into the petticoat line. Now, her heart failed her as she cried, “A rebel! Oh, Sin! How could you? If he is found here, we—”

  “Lord, d’you think I do not know it! I had no choice! He is far spent, and they were close on our heels when I managed to give them the slip.”

  It was typical of him that he made no attempt to deny his Jacobite involvement or to mitigate the danger. The thought of the brutal punishment that would be inflicted on him—on them all—if they were found to be shielding a fugitive made her blood run cold. She said, “What do you mean to do? If you hide him in the house—”

  “No!” groaned the injured man feebly. “Ramsay—I’ll not … bring death to—to your family!”

  Phoebe’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, and she saw that, under the dirt and blood, his straggling hair was fair. His eyes, a fine grey now clouded with pain, met hers in anguished remorse. “How came you to be so badly hurt, sir?” she asked gently. “You are a mass of cuts.”

  “Took a ball through my leg…” he gasped. “And—had to jump through a window. No—do not come too close, ma’am. I’d—I’d not sully your—lovely gown.”

  She felt suddenly ashamed of her ‘lovely gown’ and of her own fears. “You are not Scotch, I think. Are you a Catholic gentleman?”

  He shook his head. “Just … admired Prince Ch-Charlie.”

  Phoebe looked at her brother. “Well, I suppose what’s done is done. Those wounds must be treated. I realize we dare not call a physician, but perhaps we could hide him somewhere about the estate and if he is found, deny all knowledge. My father is known to be condemning of the Jacobite Cause, and—”

  Sinclair intervened, “He must be brought to Salisbury as soon as may be.”

  “Salisbury! Are you mad? In his condition? How do you mean to convey him, pray? The troopers are searching all vehicles ’twixt here and the sea!”

  A sudden flurry of nearby voices caused her to shrink. The fugitive struggled to sit up. “I—I must hasten,” he muttered, but his face twisted with pain and he sagged weakly.

  Phoebe thought, ‘He is a human being, whatever his political persuasions, and is suffering horribly. How can I not help the poor soul?’

  Reading her expression correctly, Sinclair said, “He is in no case to crawl tonight, much less hasten! I doubt he’s eaten for days, and besides being exhausted, he’s lost a deal of blood. It might serve if I could just get him down to the old basement. The troopers searched it last week, so he should be safe there for a day or so, until I can get some help to transport him to Salisbury.”

  “Yes,” said Phoebe slowly, “and there is likely no one on that side of the house, for everybody is working at the ball! Can you lift him?”

  He made a wry face. “No, blast it all! I tried, but he’s too heavy.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  “No, no! Your gown must not be marked when you go back to the party! There is one chance, Phoebe. A risky one. Is a gentleman named Carruthers here?”

  She frowned. “I—do not think so.”

  “Lascelles says he saw his team coming up the drivepath a short while ago, and—Oh, I’d forgot. Phoebe, this gentleman is Lieutenant Lance Lascelles. Lance, my elder sister, Phoebe.”

  A faint twinkle came into the strained eyes, “I’d say ‘your servant, ma’am,’ save that I—I fear I am more like to being your burden.”

  “Never mind that,” she said kindly. “The important thing is to help you. Do you cry friends with this Mr. Carruthers?”

  “Yes. He is a very old friend.”

  “A Jacobite, sir?”

  He gave a faint croak of a laugh. “Lord, no! Merry despises the Stuart Cause. But—he’s a loyal fellow, and … in the name of friendship might at least get me to … to Salisbury. He lives near there.”

  At least the name Merry was hopeful; he must be a good-natured person to rate such a nickname. Still, the risk was frightful.

  Sinclair met her troubled gaze and said with a helpless shrug, “I fancy it our best hope. If he is a friend of Lascelles’s, chances are he won’t betray us, even if he refuses his help.”

  “Very well, I’ll go and find him. How shall I know him, Lieutenant?”

  “He’s tall; a well-built chap. Nine and twenty, and—and you’ll likely spot him easily enough. He’s very dark and … will not powder his hair.”

  “Lud! He should stand out like a sore thumb. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  She started off at once, Lascelles’s stammered thanks echoing in her ears. It was very possible that Lord Olderwood still lurked about the rear terrace, and she had no wish to spend long moments in polite evasion, besides which she was anxious to inspect her gown, for she had bent close to Lieutenant Lascelles, and the poor wretch was all blood. Sorry as she was for him, however, she was most fearful for her brother. If Sinclair was deeply involved with aiding the rebels, he stood in deadly peril. What a dreadful worry! And only moments ago her greatest concern had been whether she loved Brooks Lambert deeply enough to abandon her sense of family duty and tell Papa she wished to marry him!

  She entered the house through the French doors to the darkened book room. Occasional wall sconces were lit in the hall, and she hurried along that deserted area, pausing before the elaborate gilt-framed mirror that hung over the Chinese chest. Peering anxiously at her reflection, she removed some leaves from her hair, then inspected her skirts. There was dirt on the hem of her gown, and leaves and twigs had adhered to her train, but having brushed away the former and detached the latter, she felt quite presentable, save that she was pale with nervousness. She pinched some colour into her cheeks and hurried to the ballroom.

  Immediately, she was the centre of attention, and she laughed and flirted while her eyes sought desperately through the throng. She had not far to search. The gentleman was turned from her, presenting a view of a pair of broad shoulders encased in a beautifully tailored coat of grey velvet lavishly trimmed with silver embroidery. There could be no doubt who he was, for in a room where every head was either bewigged or powdered, he had bowed to neither affectation, his thick dark hair being tied neatly back with a silver riband.

  Phoebe responded gaily to the pleas whispered in her ear by a dashing distant cousin, and wondered how to attract the attention of her quarry.

  Her problem was solved. “There you are, puss!” exclaimed her father’s resonant voice. “Come now, let her be, Monty. There’s a gentleman fairly frantic to make her acquaintance.”

  Phoebe left her cousin groaning, and was led forward.

  “Carruthers,” called Sir George. “Here is my daughter!”

  The dark head turned, and Phoebe all but gasped with shock. It was The Tyrant! She had first laid eyes on him at the Wyndhams’ breakfast party in the spring. Since he’d been seated across the table from her, they had not spoken, and for some time he had not paid the least attention to her. She had peeped at him, fascinated by the scars that, like twin white lines, marred the left side of his face from ha
irline to chin, drawing up his eyebrow into a mocking slant that lent a devilish touch to his expression. A cold glance had been levelled at her from strange eyes that gleamed like pools of pale blue ice in the lean, tanned face. She had lowered her own eyes at once, and later had pointed out the gentleman to Cousin Wandsworth. That mincing dandy had said with a smirk, “Oh, that’s old Meredith. Proper gruff and grim, ain’t he? His brother calls him The Tyrant. Apt, what?” Noting again the heavy dark brows, the strong, thin nose, jutting chin, and uncompromising line of the mouth, she thought a dismayed ‘Merry, is it? Of all people! Why did that stupid Wandsworth not tell me his name was Meredith Carruthers?’

  She was vaguely aware that her father had completed the introductions and that a particularly unpleasant sneer twisted The Tyrant’s thin lips. She was staring again, as she had when first they met. He must judge her a very ill-mannered girl. She sank quickly into a curtsy. He bowed over her hand, and said drily, “Enchanted, ma’am,” in a deep voice, the tone of which also said, ‘you silly creature.’

  Phoebe thought, ‘Much help we shall get from this cold fish,’ but she turned her most dazzling smile on him and said coquettishly, “My dear papa says you have been fairly frantic to make my acquaintance, Mr. Carruthers.”

  Sir George looked mildly discomfited.

  Carruthers replied with slightly bored courtesy, “Who would not be, ma’am?”

  “Flatterer.” She retreated behind her fan. “Oh, dear! Here comes my lord Olderwood, and I am much too tired to dance again. Perhaps you will be so kind as to take me out onto the terrace, dear sir, so that we may chat in the cool air. It is so very excessive warm in here.”

  Carruthers looked stunned, but extended his arm dutifully, and she took it and pulled him gently towards the outer hall.

  He said, “I had thought you wished to go onto the terrace, Miss Ramsay.”

  “Yes. But not that one. We shall be stopped by everybody, and I am—er, very weary of it all.”

  She knew that her father was positively goggling at her, for not only did she love a party, but she was renowned for her ability to dance the whole night away and never show a sign of weariness. She smiled warmly at Sir George, and started off.

  Complying with her request, Carruthers led her into the main hall. She glanced up and saw that his lips were tight, and was not surprised when he observed with rather tactless bluntness, “If it is Lord Olderwood’s dance, ma’am, you should grant it him. I had no intent to monopolize you.”

  “Perhaps not,” she murmured, “but I mean to monopolize you, Mr. Carruthers.”

  She felt him start, and the pale blue eyes slanted down at her, a wary light dawning.

  “I think I do not follow you, Miss Ramsay,” he said, his steps slowing.

  “No, but you must,” she said, pulling at his arm without compunction and saying with low urgency, “I am desperately in need of your help. No, never look so aghast, I have no designs upon you, I promise. Only come. A friend of yours has arrived and wishes to see you. Now do not stand like a block! The servants are staring. Walk, sir! Left—right, left—right!”

  He frowned, but a gleam of amusement crept into the pale eyes and he did as she asked. “I wonder why I have the unhappy premonition that I am about to be involved in something outrageous,” he murmured. But when they came to the deserted east hall and Phoebe started down it, he halted, the smile in his eyes that she had thought oddly attractive dying away. “No, really, ma’am. This is insupportable. With all due respect, I must remind you of the construction that will be placed upon my taking you off like this.”

  “Oh, pox on what people will say!” She tugged at his arm. “Do come along!”

  His hand closed over her own. He stood quite still, his face stern and unyielding. “Madam, I am not one for convention, but I think I will refuse to compromise a lady I have never before met. Not another step until you at least tell me the name of this—er, ‘friend.’”

  She could have shaken him, but, knowing he was justified, glanced around, then hissed, “It is—Lance.”

  “Good God!” he gasped, clearly astonished. “But why the secrecy, ma’am? Why does he not come—”

  “He is—in trouble. Oh, now will you come?”

  He made no response but accompanied her so briskly that she almost had to run to keep up with him. In only a few minutes they had escaped the house and were entering the trees.

  Carruthers groaned, “If we were seen, you are properly in disgrace! And I also. This had best not be some poor joke, or—”

  The words died away as they came out of the deeper darkness of the trees and into a little clearing. Lascelles now lay with his back propped against a tree, and Sinclair crouched beside him, holding a decanter of wine he had evidently appropriated from the house. Carruthers checked, and stood rigidly still.

  With a twitching smile, Lascelles said weakly, “Now see … what I’ve done.”

  Two strides, and Carruthers was kneeling. Taking the trembling outstretched hand, he growled, “You blasted bentbrain! I might have known you’d get yourself into that miserable fiasco! Out with Charlie, were you?”

  “Yes.” A glitter of slow and painful tears came into Lascelles’s eyes. “Until Culloden. Merry … if you’d seen that hell…!”

  “I did see it! I was there. Only through the grace of God we did not face each other over our sabres! Damn you, Lance! I could break your stupid neck!”

  “Well!” exclaimed Phoebe, indignant. “A fine way to talk to your friend! Can you not see the case he is in, sir? I’d think—”

  He interpolated savagely, “Then I suggest you do so, madam! Do you look forward to seeing your father’s head on a spike atop Temple Bar? Do you fancy they’d balk at meting out the same treatment to you? Or this young gallant who is, I take it, your brother?”

  Bristling, Sinclair said, “I am Sinclair Ramsay, Mr. Carruthers. And I think there is not the need to take that tone to my sister. If anyone is to be blamed, it is me. I am now and always have been for the Stuart Cause, and—”

  “Aye. You’ve a Scots name and Scottish forbears, I fancy. Catholic?”

  “No. Many of the Englishmen who supported Charles were Protestants, and are—”

  “Are dead, dying, racked, tortured, starving, hounded! Only look at this idiot!”

  Lascelles muttered, “You need not—feel obliged to … to help, Merry.” But in spite of his brave effort, despair showed in the ravaged face.

  Phoebe’s lip curled. “My brother and I will help you, Lieutenant Lascelles. We are not afraid!”

  “Lascelles?” snapped Carruthers, shooting a disgusted look at her.

  The fugitive nodded wearily. “My fighting name.”

  “It is vital he get to Salisbury, Mr. Carruthers,” Sinclair put in. “He said you live near there, so we thought—”

  “Did you, indeed? Paint me the scenario if you please, young Quixote. Am I to carry this silly clod on my back, perhaps? Haul him off in my carriage, to be discovered by the first troop of dragoons we encounter? And they are thick on the highways, I do assure you. Is the reason I came late to your party! Shall I tell my coachman to kindly look the other way while we carry off a traitor whose presence would ensure the lifting of his head—if we were lucky enough to be spared questioning, first? Damme, what folly!”

  “Yes,” gritted Phoebe, yearning to claw him. “And folly you perpetuate! If you will not help your good friend as far as Salisbury, will you at least carry the Lieutenant to our basement so that I may tend his hurts? If it has escaped your notice while you worried for your coachman, he bleeds!”

  Carruthers stared at Lascelles in silence, then said grimly, “If I take him inside your house, ma’am, I place every member of your family in jeopardy. Are you willing to bear so terrible a responsibility?”

  A sick coldness clutched at Phoebe’s middle. She knew that Sinclair’s blue eyes were steady on her face and that he would abide by her decision. “He is a—a human being in need,” sh
e quavered.

  “Lord!” grunted Carruthers scornfully. “A female Good Samaritan, no less!” But he peeled off his elegant coat and thrust it at her. “Hold this.”

  She took it, longing to wrap it around his throat, and he turned to Sinclair. “Now, give me yours.”

  At once shrugging out of his coat, Sinclair demurred, “But—I lack your physique. It is too small for you, sir.”

  Carruthers folded the coat inside out and tossed it across his shoulder. “You can go inside and find yourself other clothes. I cannot appear with bloodied garments, and I think it important I not simply disappear from your ball.” In a less harsh voice, he said, “My regrets, Lance, but you’re too tall for me to cradle you. It’s over my shoulder and bear it, old fellow. Up we go.” He helped the fugitive to his feet, looked into the drawn face searchingly for an instant, bent, and in a swift, powerful movement had thrown him across his shoulder.

  Phoebe heard the faintest sound from Lascelles, then his tight clenched hands were suddenly hanging limp. She gave a sympathetic little cry.

  Carruthers said, “He’s not feeling anything at the moment, ma’am, but my back is, so be good enough to lead the way. The sooner this is done with, the better!”

  II

  The basement was cluttered, chill, and damp, but Phoebe had carried down a branch of candles from the book room, and a silver fruit bowl into which they had emptied a jug of water purloined from a table where provisions were being assembled for conveyance to the party. Sinclair had executed that tricky manoeuvre with considerable dash, waiting until a harassed footman had deposited his tray and departed, then making his raid and whipping out of sight before a heavily laden lackey came up. Phoebe ruthlessly appropriated the men’s handkerchiefs, which she used as rags to wash the fugitive’s face and bathe his countless cuts and abrasions.

  These efforts restored Lascelles to consciousness, and Carruthers began to question him, pursuing his enquiries with ruthless persistence, even when his friend squirmed under Phoebe’s ministrations. “Good gracious, sir,” she cried, as Lascelles fought back a groan, “give the poor soul a chance! He has told you how he escaped after Culloden and managed to make his way this far, starved and hunted every step of the way. What more do you want? Oh dear, I’m afraid there is a piece of glass still in this cut, Lieutenant!”