The Tyrant by Patricia Veryan

call the Quarry, and leading from it for several miles is a fissure known as the Cut. Providentially, there is a small cave in the wall that will provide temporary shelter, at least.”
    â€œI’d think it would be the first place the army would search,” said Sinclair worriedly. “Poor Lascelles was in a bad way when I got him out of the hamper. I had to all but carry him to the little hollow he told me of, and could not have managed that had you not distracted the coachman, sir.”
    â€œA hollow, merely?” Phoebe put in, dismayed. “But Mr. Carruthers, he cannot be left there for long. Did you notice those big clouds? If we have rain, it will likely—”
    â€œMadam,” he interrupted, with an impatient toss of the head, “I can but do as I see fit.”
    â€œFit! What is fit about a hollow, and a clammy cave for a man who is half dead already? What about that great crumbly Keep of yours? There surely must be a secret room, or a priest’s hole? Almost all old houses have—”
    Lucille Carruthers called, “Do come along, Meredith. Poor Miss Ramsay must be sadly in need of a quiet rest before dinner.” They hurried to catch up with her, and she went on in gentle chiding, “Why ever did you bring them by the north road? It really was rather thoughtless.”
    Carruthers said, “Miss Ramsay is much taken with our Armour Hall, Mama. And speaking of thoughtlessness—where is my brother?”
    All the animation left Lucille’s lovely face. She clasped her hands, regarding her tall son anxiously. “He was tired of waiting, so took Justice for a walk. I—I am sure he will return directly.”
    â€œOne can but hope,” he muttered.
    His mother bit her lip, then hurried off with Lady Eloise.
    Phoebe thought in astonishment, ‘Brooks was right. The poor little creature is terrified of her own son! How disgraceful!’
    They reached the end of the Armour Hall at last, and a liveried footman swept open a connecting door. This, thought Phoebe, must be the Lancastrian wing.
    They entered an interminable hall, the occasional double doors on either side suggesting that the rooms were extremely large. Occasional side halls with recessed windows provided the only light, and it was a dim place, having an air of disuse. When they were safely alone, Carruthers said in a low and implacable voice, “I’ll not have a Jacobite traitor under my roof, Miss Ramsay, however good a friend he may be. Not unless there is no possible alternative.”
    Phoebe halted. “We had him in our house, and he was not even our friend.”
    He looked down at her coldly. “That was your decision. It is not mine.”
    Sinclair said, “I am most grateful to Carruthers for what he has done, Phoebe. Only look at the pickle I have run him into.”
    â€œHim!” she flared with righteous indignation and, sticking her pretty nose into the air, she stalked into the vast Great Hall of the new wing, from the centre of which rose the majestic sweep of a mahogany staircase.
    â€œThank the Lord,” muttered Carruthers, “for the carefree life of a bachelor!”
    He was, Phoebe told herself, gritting her teeth, an innocent victim. But it was all she could do not to retaliate with a fervent ‘Long may you enjoy it!’
    *   *   *
    Ada was waiting in the overpowering suite assigned them, and lost no time in informing her employer that she ‘could feel the ghostes!’ her manner implying that Meredith Hall fairly thronged with such apparitions. Phoebe laughed at her. She washed, changed into a wrapper, and enjoyed the tea and biscuits that were sent up. Her efforts to rest were useless, however, and she rang for Ada only half an hour after her handmaiden had departed, and was dressed for the evening, her hair restyled and powdered. She had chosen a new green taffeta gown with the flattened panniers now