The Tyrant (2 page)

If the moonlight enhanced her fragile beauty, that same light on the Captain's aquiline features played havoc with her heart. Lambert was a handsome man, but in the glory of full dress Regimentals he was devastating. She reached up to touch his cheek and murmured, “You know I do.” And as he took her hand and pressed kisses into the palm, she went on regretfully, “But since I left the Seminary, I have refused three wealthy and eligible suitors.”

His head lifted. He said angrily, “Each one old enough to father you!”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But if someone else
should
offer, Papa has every right to accept. And if it should be a younger man this time—and wealthy…”

“I'll blow the miserable swine's head clean off his shoulders!” snarled her fierce suitor.

*   *   *

The country seat of Sir George Ramsay was called Pineridge Park, although it could not really boast a park. Nor, in point of fact, could it claim pine trees; not, at least, in this year of 1746. Nonetheless, it was a charming estate, having elaborate pleasure gardens, a nice shrubbery, and a large wilderness area. The house, of red brick, was squarely conventional and had been built in 1589 as the Dower House of a much larger estate, now broken into parcels. The main pile, three storeys in height, was of no distinct architectural period, a fact that caused Lady Eloise Ramsay much distress. Her wistful pleas for the addition of Ionic columns having met with a seething “By Beelzebub—no!” from her life's companion, the house remained uncluttered by such impedimenta, the most recent addition, an adequately sized ballroom, having been built at the turn of the century to form the single-storey wing at the rear of the house.

Tonight, that wing was a blaze of light, for the Ramsay Summer Ball was a yearly tradition Sir George had been unable to bring himself to cancel. Not only were the Ramsay parties renowned for the quality of refreshments, but Sir George was well liked and admired as a bruising rider to hounds, his daughter had emerged from Seminary and a year of mourning to become an acknowledged Fair, and his wife was a charming lady whose occasional gaffes were thoroughly enjoyed by all, wherefore the County had turned out full force.

Phoebe and her captain re-entered the ballroom as a minuet was called. Lambert, who was obliged to return to duty, said his reluctant farewells, bowed over Phoebe's hand, and went off to say good night to his host and hostess.

At the far end of the large room several sofas and comfortable chairs were clustered about long windows that stood open to admit the cool outer air. Two ladies shared one of the sofas, and being unable to find Sir George, it was to them that the dashing Captain made his way. The older of the pair was a formidable dowager wearing a crimson brocade gown that drew the eye like a beacon. The Dowager Lady Ramsay was not a fleshy woman, but she had the square solidity of build that characterized her son, in addition to which she was unusually tall. She had been a statuesque beauty in her youth, and if her blue eyes were a little faded by age, they were as keen as ever and missed very little of what went on about her. The lady seated next to her was her opposite in every way. Small of stature and dainty of manner, Lady Eloise Ramsay at three and forty was distinguished only by her amiability, a tendency to speak her thoughts aloud, and a fine pair of green eyes. Those eyes were wistful as she watched Captain Lambert's approach. “Poor boy,” she sighed. “Such a beautiful young man to lose his love.”

The Dowager said nothing, and then Lambert was bowing before them, expressing his sorrow at leaving a party “so blessed with dazzling beauties.”

“Rascal!” said Lady Eloise. “Are you off so soon?”

“Alas, a cruel fate compels me, ma'am!”

She smiled up into his laughing eyes and went to the door with him, for he was one of her favourites. When she came back, Lady Martha said, “He seems cheerful enough. I fancy he's not given up hope yet.”

Sitting down again, Lady Eloise said, “Do you think, Mama, that they will never marry?”

“I think George would likely give his consent, if Phoebe truly loved him.”

Lady Eloise sighed. “I only pray that Phoebe is not denying him because she feels obliged. I could not bear to think of her going through life with a broken heart.”

“She's much too sensible to be such a goose. If she has really given her heart, she will not become a burnt offering, even for her brother.”

“Oh, Mama, how awful if Sinclair should do as he says! India! For a boy who is miserable in
England
in hot weather! 'Twould kill him! And only to try and bring us about!”

“Tcha! A fine high flight, and if you think George would let him go, you're witless! Sinclair is restive, merely; all nerves and youth and heroic imaginings, besides which he's frustrated because he yearns to be at University and is too mannerly to let us guess how much the waiting galls him. Had I the funds, he would have been off to Oxford a year since. I ain't—more's the pity!”

Eloise placed a consoling hand on the old lady's arm. “Do not blame yourself, dear Mama. We know you cannot help it.”

“Thank you,” snarled my lady.

*   *   *

Sinclair Ramsay was two years younger than his eldest sister, but he was not the kind to resent having to stand up with her for a dance. He was fond of all the members of his family, but between him and Phoebe was a rather special bond, deepened by the closeness of their ages and a quiet and mutual admiration. It was not flouted and never allowed to impinge upon or lessen their other filial relationships; still, it was there, and thus Phoebe was rather surprised that her brother was not waiting to scold her for being late for their minuet.

The cluster of admirers, who had been disconsolate when she smilingly told them of her prior commitment, was beginning to re-form and, seeing from the corner of her eye an elderly and rather pompous pest bearing down on her, she directed her steps to the garden once more.

There was no sign of Sinclair, but as she wandered to the drivepath, a voice called with playful scolding, “Miss Phoebe…? I saw you slip out here, you fascinating creature! Do not tease me, lovely goddess. Come out, come out, wherever you are…!”

Lord Olderwood had followed. She lifted her panniers to protect her skirt from dust, and retreated hastily into the shadow of the trees. And still the pest came! ‘Drat the man!' she said under her breath, and ran farther into the elms that edged the east drivepath.

Peeping out, she saw Lord Olderwood search about hopefully, and at length return in a grumbling way to the house. It was unkind, she thought repentantly, but he would start on about his houses and his yacht, and his beloved sister (a waspish female at best) who would be so
very
glad would dear Miss Phoebe only consider his suit. And his corset would creak and his wrinkled hand pat hers (if she gave him the chance!) and tonight she simply was not able to—

“Oh … God…!”

The smothered moan came from close by. And the voice was that of her brother. Her heart gave a little jump of fright. Hurrying towards the sound, she called, “Sin…? Is something wrong?”

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.