The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  “Damme, I’ve not!” Sir Malcolm flourished his cane angrily. “What I should have done, and would have done had I known I’d find you, was to bring my horsewhip! Any man who would take his revenge on another man’s dogs, sir, is—”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about my best pack, sir! Damn near wiped out, sir! Poisoned, sir! That’s what I’m talking about!”

  “Good God!” Not looking at Phoebe, Carruthers thrust his reins at her. “Hold him, if you please.” He strode closer to Lockwood’s fury. “Do you say they all are killed?”

  “Not yet! Thanks only to my kennelman. I tell you, sir, ’twas the most dastardly—”

  Hands on hips, Carruthers voiced a soft but deadly interruption. “And you accuse me of having done this? Take care how you answer, I warn you!”

  “Warn me? Why, damn your eyes—of course you did it!” The baronet groped stabbingly in his pocket and drew forth a gauntlet of black leather, the letters ‘MBC’ picked out in gold on the deep cuff. “Deny that is yours,” he snarled.

  Carruthers took the glove and frowned down at it. “No. I’ll not deny it. This was found near your kennels, I take it?”

  “It was. And within the hour my dogs were near death! Now tell me why I should not call you out for such unmitigated savagery.”

  Still scowling at the gauntlet he held, Carruthers said slowly, “I can think of no reason why you should not call me out, Lockwood. Indeed, few things would please me more than to meet you at any place, at any time. But not for this.”

  Thrusting his impassioned face at the younger man, Lockwood grated, “Will you give me your solemn oath you did not interfere with my hounds?”

  Carruthers’s dark head came up. His eyes met and held the baronet’s black glare. “I pledge you my word of honour I did not, nor ever will, interfere with your hounds.” And he added, “If truth be told, I am the one should call you out for having the confounded gall to suspect me of such a damnable act!”

  “If you ever find my glove in your kennels, in like circumstances,” fumed Lockwood, “you’ll likely think yourself well justified.”

  They glared at each other, for all the world, thought Phoebe, like two dogs bristling to attack. She said, “What a perfectly dreadful thing, Sir Malcolm.”

  Neither man would have admitted it, but both were relieved by the interruption her gentle voice provided. The baronet returned to look up into her beautiful and concerned face. Removing his tricorne, he said, “It was touch and go, Miss Ramsay, I can tell you that.”

  “My papa hunts a fine pack, and I can guess how he would feel. Is your huntsman hopeful of complete recovery, sir?”

  “He is, I thank you, ma’am.”

  Carruthers said with cool courtesy, “If we can be of any assistance, Lockwood…”

  Sir Malcolm grunted, “Perhaps I was too hasty. But—that glove of yours did make it look as if…”

  “Yes,” said Carruthers, thoughtfully. “I’d give a deal to know how it came there.”

  “I must accept your word as a gentleman. Good day to you. Happy to have made your acquaintance, ma’am. You’re to be congratulated, Carruthers.”

  “Good gracious,” murmured Phoebe, watching the baronet stalk back through the break in the hedge. “Why ever should he suspect you of such infamy?”

  “Because he’s aware of my ‘manifold sins and wickedness,’ of course,” he sneered. Phoebe looked at him levelly. His mocking gaze fell away. He said with an impatient shrug, “Gad, madam, I’d think you might guess that had he really believed it, he would have come with a blunderbuss and not stopped to argue.” He took the reins from her. “He has no love for me, I’ll grant you. Partly because I cry friends with his son.”

  She watched his lithe swing into the saddle and asked, “Why should he object to that? You grew up together, I expect.”

  He reined around and walked Rogue along beside her. “The Squire and my father did not see eye to eye. They quarrelled violently, in fact.”

  “But your papa has been dead for some years—no?”

  “Four, to be precise. The Squire has a long memory. He has never forgiven us. But his son is as gentle and kindly a fellow as the old boy is fierce.”

  By mutual consent they urged the horses to a trot.

  Phoebe asked, “Does Mr. Lockwood reside with his father?”

  He seemed lost in thought, then answered, “He went to Town about six months ago after a—er, family squabble and seldom comes down any more. The Squire holds that against me, too. Thinks I influenced his son away from him—though, Lord knows, I was in the army at the time.”

  “I suppose you were. What was your rank, sir?”

  “Lieutenant. And never likely to go higher, I pray. I sold out after Culloden.”

  “Then you have not been long home.”

  “Nor long gone. It was an exercise in futility.”

  “Cumberland?” And when he looked at her measuringly, she set him a small test, wondering how his score would compare to that of Brooks—not that it mattered at all. “I have heard other officers say they could not tolerate his reprisals, and my dear grandmama is quite militant on the subject. Was it truly as dreadful as we hear?”

  He was briefly silent, a bleakness creeping into his eyes that she had not seen before, even when he had been so angry with her earlier. He said in a low, bitter voice, “A thousand times more dreadful than you could ever imagine, I hope. Cumberland sought to pacify our panicked government, but—” He was silent for a moment, then, in a strained fashion, he said, “Miss Phoebe, I know we neither of us wish this silly betrothal, but—so long as we’ve to play-act— Oh, I don’t mean that! Lord, I’m a clumsy fellow! Ma’am—will you forgive? I—should have known you’d not make such a—a—”

  “Horrid, cruel, and improper insinuation,” she finished for him.

  His head bowed. He said with uncharacteristic humility, “Yes.”

  “I think I shall not let you off that easily, sir. What do you offer by way of inducement?”

  He looked at her from under his lashes and suddenly his eyes held a blue sparkle. “Name it.”

  “That you will go and see about our fugitive.”

  He ran a finger along the line of his jaw in the way she had noted before. “Done.”

  “Then I forgive you,” she said with a smile.

  “Good. I’ll give you a handicap and perhaps you can beat me back to the Hall. You can see it yonder, so should not get lost.”

  “How much of a handicap?” she asked, eyeing the restive stallion dubiously.

  “Halfway across the meadow.”

  She considered, shot him a laughing glance, and was away. She looked back when she passed the marker they had set and saw Rogue swoop down the slope after her. Her heartbeat quickening, she bent lower in the saddle, joying in this contest. The trees seemed to fly to meet her, then she was in them, following the winding drivepath, the roan racing at blinding speed. She could hear Rogue’s hoofbeats now, and gave a squeak of excitement to see him coming up at incredible speed with Carruthers crouched low over the pommel. Phoebe urged the roan to greater effort, but starting across the park she could see from the corner of her eye that he was almost level. He passed her well before they came to the house, his grin a white flash in his bronzed face, and was waiting to lift her down when she came up, a stable-boy grinning beside him.

  She leaned to him, laughing and breathless. “Wretch! Even then, I think you held him back!”

  “It grieves me to mortify a lady.”

  The boy chuckled and led the horses around to the back of the house.

  Phoebe asked, low-voiced, “And—you will go to see the Lieutenant, soon?”

  “No. I think not.”

  She stiffened. “But—you promised!”

  He threw up one hand, cowering in exaggerated terror, “Do not strike me again, I beg!”

  She bit her lip, already ashamed of that angry blow.

 
Carruthers murmured, “I saw Lance before you were awake, ma’am. He’s going along quite well, and has plenty of water and food.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Wicked creature! Why did you so deceive me?”

  His mouth took on the cynical twist. He drawled, “Because, sweet shrew, you are so captivated by my tyranny.”

  Yearning to give him the set-down he deserved, Phoebe could think of nothing to say, and thus proceeded as regally as possible into the house.

  VI

  “Only look at your hands,” exclaimed Rosalie Smith, shaking her head over the mud on Sinclair’s well-manicured fingers. “It was indeed kind in you to help me gather herbs, Mr. Ramsay, but I do hope those marks will come out of your cuffs.”

  It was, he thought, a small price to pay for having spent an hour with this enchanting little creature. He had found her with her basket in the copse, and one glimpse of her fair, trusting face had set his vulnerable heart pounding like a hammer. He had taken his time at first, content to watch her graceful movements and listen to the quaint old folksong she had sung as she gathered her herbs. His quietly uttered request for directions to Meredith Hall had served as an introduction, and within five minutes he had been gathering whatever she pointed out, while she held the basket and chattered unaffectedly, delightfully, with him.

  “Never give it a thought,” he said. “My man is a magician with stains.”

  “And will likely spend hours labouring because I neglected to warn you to roll up your ruffles.”

  “If he does, ’twill be the first time he’s laboured at such length in my behalf. No, really—he’s a dreadful fellow, and so strict with me, one would think him my tutor rather than my valet.”

  She laughed at him and, having taken note of his fine-boned, intelligent face, the white tie-wig that became him very well, the rather too sensitive mouth, stubborn chin, and intense blue eyes, she decided that in his own way he was almost as attractive as Jeffery. She pointed to some wild mint and said rather wistfully, “Your sister is betrothed to Meredith, I hear. They say she is very beautiful.”

  Avoiding some nettles while he cautiously gathered the mint, he verified this. “Do you live nearby, Miss Smith?”

  “In the village.” And responding to his swift look, she added with a smile, “My grandfather owns the bakery next to The Meredyth Arms.”

  He thought, ‘Good Lord!’ and said easily, “I shall have to pay it a visit.”

  “You are surprised because of the way I speak,” she said with grave dignity. “My mama was well-born, you see, but I am not of the Quality, Mr. Ramsay.”

  Embarrassed by this forthright speech, he gave no hint of it. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said brightly. “Do your parents live in the village, then?”

  “Alas, no. Mama died three years ago, and my papa followed her six months later. They were very happy together; certainly, she never repented having married beneath her—which everyone insisted she had done.”

  “She must have been a wonderful lady.” He noticed that she was staring at his hand and glanced down to discover he was pulling the leaves from the mint, one at a time. Scarlet, he stammered, “What I mean is—you would have to have grown up in a happy home. It is writ in your face.”

  He was obviously much embarrassed. With a relaxing of the faint apprehension that had begun to be instinctive of late, Rosalie thought, ‘He has not been much around girls. How nice he is.’ She said, “Thank you. Good gracious, but your hands are in a state. There is a stream just over here, if you would like to wash.”

  They went, side by side, through the trees, and while Sinclair strove to repair some of the damage, they chatted with ever increasing ease about the villages and the Carruthers estate, emerging at last, laughing, because of Rosalie’s description of the atrocities perpetrated upon Justice by Meredith’s cat.

  “So there you are.”

  Jeffery Carruthers, astride his fine grey Thoroughbred, Mouser, scowled at them.

  Rosalie called blithely, “Good morning, Jeffery. Mr. Ramsay was helping me gather my herbs.”

  His chin very high and his eyelids drooping disdainfully, Jeffery’s gaze flickered to Sinclair. “Really?” he drawled.

  For the first time, Sinclair thought that this man did, after all, bear a marked resemblance to his brother.

  * * *

  “Why, Meredith,” said Lucille, looking up from the letter she was reading as the two young people came into the breakfast parlour, “how very light-hearted you look this morning. Had you a nice ride?”

  “Very nice, thank you.” He pulled out a chair for Phoebe and then went to drop a kiss on his mother’s upturned cheek. “Miss Ramsay has a splendid seat, and hands light as a feather.”

  “’Tis seldom one hears such an endorsement from him, my dear,” exclaimed Lucille. “You really have made an impression!”

  Glancing at her betrothed, Phoebe found a smile in his eyes that was rather appealing. “Thank you, ma’am,” she replied. “Do you like to ride?”

  “In a nicely sprung coach,” said Meredith, quizzing his mother. “Preferably on a journey of no longer than thirty minutes’ duration, and one enlivened by a companion with whom she can enjoy a comfortable cose; which is to say a—er, critique of all their dearest friends.”

  “Villain!” Lucille tossed several letters to him. “Here is your correspondence, sir, and ’twill serve you right are they all duns! Now—we will pay him no heed, my dear. You must be fairly famished after your ride. Conditt, be very sure to offer Miss Ramsay some of those mushrooms, they are really superior this morning.” She prattled on and Phoebe responded politely, Meredith saying little until his mother asked, “Did you meet anyone on your long ride?”

  “Oh, I saw Ben Hessell,” he replied idly. “And had a word with old Joseph Smith.”

  “One of our local oddities, Miss Ramsay,” observed Lucille. “But a very dear old man.”

  “Indeed, he seemed so,” Phoebe agreed. “Though very bloodthirsty. He was fairly beside himself with joy because Mr. Carruthers was cross with Hessell.” She was amused by the recollection of the quaint little dance Joseph had essayed, but glancing to her betrothed, met a flashing look of irritation.

  Lucille sighed. “You are very hard on the Hessells, Meredith. I really think you might be more lenient; poor Mary does her best, and Hessell has always been most respectful.”

  “Of course, for he’s a toad-eater,” he said in his gruff way. “And is a lazy rascal—to say the least of the matter.”

  Lucille looked flustered, and Phoebe intervened hurriedly, “And I also met your neighbour, the Squire, ma’am.”

  Carruthers’s hand tightened on the napkin he had just laid beside his plate.

  Lucille’s anxious gaze flew to him. “Were you on Sir Malcolm’s preserves, then?”

  “No. He was on ours.” He leaned over to cover her little white hand with his long tanned one, and said in a gentle voice that was new to Phoebe, “Now never look so troubled, love. We parted most amicably.” He slanted a meaningful glance at Phoebe. “Is that not so, Miss Ramsay?”

  It was very obvious he did not want anything said about the poisoning of the dogs, and Phoebe at once confirmed his remark.

  Lucille gave her a tragic look and clung to Meredith’s hand. “But—why was he on our land?” she asked, her voice trembling. “He did not call at the house, or— Oh, my! What a nasty welt! How ever did you come by it?”

  He whipped his hand away, but not before Phoebe had seen the lurid swelling that was already darkening to a bruise. She looked at him repentantly.

  “Miss Ramsay did it,” he said easily. “Only because I will not wear a silly wig.”

  Phoebe, who had opened her mouth to protest, closed it again.

  Lucille said with a tremulous smile, “I’d not blame her a bit. Now, Meredith, do be truthful. Did you come to blows with Sir Malcolm?”

  “Lord, no. I promise you it was only a foolish— Oh, hello, Jeff.”

  His
brother hurried in and went at once to kiss his mother and wish everyone a good morning. He had gone for an early ride, he said, this drawing an incredulous stare from his brother. He asked Phoebe what she had thought of the estate, warned that she must take a strong hand with Meredith from the start, and made Lucille laugh by telling her a vignette about the vicar’s wife. He was cheerful and light-hearted, and Phoebe began to realize that Sinclair was right; he was the apple of his mother’s eye. In no time Lucille was chattering happily with him, her previous anxieties quite forgotten. Phoebe was swept along by their conversation, but Meredith fell silent and surreptitiously broke the seal on a letter and began to read it.

  “Now, Mama,” said Jeffery, taking his third piece of toast, “what have you planned for today?”

  “I shall ask you to show Mr. Ramsay about the district,” she answered, and turned to Phoebe, thus missing the dismay that came into his eyes. “And as soon as she is ready, I mean to take Miss Ramsay through the gardens. After lunch—”

  “After lunch,” Meredith interposed, not looking up, “I am driving her over to Dewbury Minor.”

  His mother’s mouth drooped into the little pout Phoebe was soon to associate with the lady. “Oh. Well, I suppose it is natural enough that you would wish to do so. Then I shall take Lady Eloise for a drive.”

  “I think she will love that, ma’am,” said Phoebe. “Your lands are so very beautiful.”

  Jeffery was keeping a wary eye on his brother, but asked, “And what of your famous tea-party, Mama? Is it all arranged?”

  “Yes, dearest. It is to be on the third of August. Only five more days, Miss Ramsay, before you will be meeting all our friends and neighbours! I would have scheduled it sooner, but I knew Meredith would wish you to have a period of quiet and be more settled here before I subjected you to such a large party.”

  Phoebe thought, ‘Five more days here?’ But, after all, Lambert would soon arrive and then they could start to find the way out of this pickle, so it might not be too bad. She said with warm insincerity, “How very kind of you, ma’am. Shall you need help with the invitations?”

  “No, no. Thank you, my dear, but they are all done.”