The Tyrant by Patricia Veryan Page A

fashionable. Little lace frills were layered down the front opening of the skirt and repeated in a double line about the swooping neckline. Her only jewellery was the strand of pearls that had been her gift from Papa on the occasion of her come-out. She knew she looked well and, ignoring Ada’s horrified wails, ventured forth to explore a little before she went to find her mama and Sinclair.
    The passage stretched on and on. The glow from the lighted branches of candles or the wall sconces seemed to peter out ahead, and the air grew chill. Phoebe hesitated, but although Meredith Hall was a perfectly hideous collection of decrepitudes, she could not deny that she found it interesting, and eventually she went on again.
    After a few more minutes, however, she had to admit she was properly lost. Wherever she was now, the hallway was becoming wider, the ceiling buttressed by beautifully carved beams. She came to a railed balcony running around a squared well. Below was a huge, dimly seen apartment that must be the ballroom Carruthers had spoken of. At eye level, a gigantic inverted mushroom was suspended from the ceiling high above her. The chandelier protected by that holland cover must be vast. She could envision minstrels playing up here, and below, gentlemen in doublets and hose dancing sedate measures with ladies in huge farthingales. She smiled dreamily. Not fearsome ghosts, as Ada had sensed, but—
    She felt rather than heard a stealthy movement just behind her. Trying not to be silly, she waited for someone to speak, but the silence was heavy and undisturbed. The air seemed suddenly much colder and she was frightened! She gave a yelp of terror as something icy cold slid into the palm of her hand, and she whirled around, to be confronted by great doleful eyes and an ample sufficiency of wrinkles. She leaned against the railing for a moment, regaining her breath. The rail creaked ominously, and her hand flew instead to the head of her unexpected companion.
    The bloodhound wagged his tail shyly and uttered a tentative ‘wuff.’
    â€œHow do you do?” replied Phoebe, grateful for his presence. “You must be Justice. Perhaps you can guide me to your master, sir.” The tail continued to wag, the dog regarding her with patient friendliness. “Find Carruthers!” she ordered sternly. He sat down and repeated his previous remark. It was unchanged through every command Phoebe could think of until she hit on the lucky “Would you like a walk?” whereupon he at once sprang up and began to pad back the way she had come, glancing over his shoulder from time to time, to ensure that she did not draw back from their bargain.
    He turned to the left at the first side hall and went down some dim-seen stairs. Phoebe slowed. The hound could see more clearly than she was able to do, besides which he was in familiar territory. By the time she had groped her way to the ground floor, he was out of sight once more. The draperies were drawn across the windows, and with the approach of evening the hall was hushed and shadowy. The dog did not respond to her calls, and there was not a servant in sight. Phoebe suspected she must still be in the Lancastrian wing, and turned to the right. She entered the first room she came to, a shabby saloon bathed in the fading glow of sunset. Here the draperies had not been closed, and she hurried to the window to see if the ominous dark clouds she had noticed earlier were still coming this way.
    She had arrived at the rear of the house and looked out onto gardens and lawn with a drivepath beyond. Carruthers, rather impressively clad in evening dress, although his thick dark hair was still unpowdered, stood on a flagged path, hands on hips, in an attitude of vexation. She began to wonder if he was ever cheerful. The casement opened easily enough, and she started to call to him, only to pause when he growled “So you have deigned to appear at long last! Where the devil have