The Tyrant by Patricia Veryan Page B

next morning, nor did he mean to endure a jeremiad from his brother, and thus was up and out at an hour that astonished his valet almost as much as it would have astonished Carruthers.
    The rain of the previous night had stopped. The sky was a clear blue, the air pure and cool. Jeffery found the head groom in the stables and ordered up his favourite horse.
    Leading out the rangy grey, the groom, a large young man with pleasant features and light curly hair, said slyly, “Poor Mouser is properly betwattled, sir. Bean’t used to waking at this hour.”
    â€œNever mind your impudence, Henry Baker,” said Jeffery, straightening the frill of his jabot, and wondering if he should have worn the blue riding coat instead of the bottle-green.
    â€œWere I being imperdent, sir?” Baker slapped a saddle on the grey. “Now fancy that. And I didn’t think as I’d said a word on Rosalie Smith.”
    â€œNo, you rascal,” Jeffery responded, colouring up. “And you’d best not, or I might mention a bright-eyed little lass by name of—er, Ada something-or-other.”
    It was Baker’s turn to redden. Jeffery grinned at him. “You great clunch, I saw you staring at her last evening when you was helping unload the coach. You’d best be careful, Baker. She’s got a saucy way with her eyes, that one.”
    â€œAye, sir,” mumbled the big man shyly. “But they do be awful pretty eyes. And what am I to say if Mr. Meredith asks for ye?”
    â€œOnly the truth, my lad,” said Jeffery, swinging easily to the saddle. “You’ve no least notion where I went.”
    Watching him ride out, Baker shook his curly head worriedly. “I got a very good notion where ye be going, Master Jeff,” he muttered. “And if ye ride round that paddock, Mr. Meredith’ll have your ears, so he will!”
    Had Jeffery been aware of this sombre prediction, he would have shrugged it off and gone on his way, but perhaps with a shadow thrown over his plans. As it was, he proceeded blithe and untroubled through the brilliant morning, and was rewarded on approaching the village by a sight of the very maiden he had hoped to find. His pulse quickening, he leapt from the saddle, and called, “Good morning, Miss Rosalie.”
    She turned, a pleased sparkle dawning in her wide hazel eyes.
    Perhaps because he himself was fair, he had never much cared for fair girls, but he was dazzled now by the gleam of the sunshine on her golden curls and the perfection of her dainty features. “What a glorious morning,” he went on, “especially with you to brighten it.”
    â€œWhat a nice thing to say.” The soft, cultured tones were a legacy from her mother, who had been well, if not nobly, born, and was said to have married beneath her station in life. If that was so, Grace Smith had never appeared to regret her decision. She had educated her daughter with the encouragement and support of Lucille Carruthers, whom she had once served as companion. As a result, Rosalie was accustomed to speaking with those her tempestuous grandfather said were her ‘betters,’ and she betrayed no timidity now, as Jeffery appropriated the basket she carried. “You are early about,” she teased. “You have changed, Jeff. I remember when we were children how Merry used to fret because he and Lance had to wait for you to be dragged out of bed.”
    â€œI am a reformed man,” he grinned. “My tutor holds out great hopes of my making him famous someday.”
    â€œOnly listen to the humility of it! Pray tell in which subject you mean to excel. Politics? Or perhaps”—she dimpled mischievously—“the study of the female of the species?”
    He laughed. “The latter, certainly. Would that one might make a decent living at it.”
    They began to walk on together, and she asked in sudden anxiety, “You’re not in financial