The Tyrant Read Online Free Page B

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!”
    â€œHe has so far told me nothing I do not already know, ma’am,” said Carruthers tersely. “Leave the leg wound, it is bound at least, and your brother can tend it. We’ve very little time, for I don’t doubt but that we are missed by now. Lance, I want the truth, if I’m to help you get to Salisbury; though how in the deuce I’m to do so, the Lord only knows!”
    Lascelles gasped threadily, “Sometimes, ’tis … best not to know … too much.”
    â€œPerhaps. But if I’m to lose my head in your devil’s brew, I want to know more of it. First—is your sire aware of your Jacobite involvement?”
    â€œMy God—no! ’Twould kill him, I think! Merry”—the thin hand clawed out frantically, “you’ll not tell him? Swear it!”
    â€œI’ll not tell him without your permission, naturally. But I think you underrate him.”
    Lascelles sighed with relief and lay back. “God bless the old fire-eater. Do you two go on any easier these days?”
    â€œNo. He hates my—er, insides. Just as he loathed my father. And do not try to change the subject. Why is it so ‘vital’ that you should get to Salisbury? You might better have laid low, I’d think, instead of running around in your condition.”
    At this point Phoebe succeeded in removing the glass fragment, and Lascelles closed his eyes and said nothing.
    Carruthers grated, “I mean it, Lance. The truth—or no help from me.”
    â€œYou are perfectly horrid,” said Phoebe, desperately