Susan Carroll (15 page)

Only moments ago he had caught her studying
him, but in a softer fashion, far different from her usual
suspicious gaze. In her, he read traces of his own loneliness, a
longing so keen, she flooded him with regret that he could not
suppress the memory of what had happened to Anne, and set aside his
dire purpose in coming to London, enjoy at least one sweet night
with Phaedra in his arms.

It had been most fortunate for his composure
that the footman had come up and spoken to Phaedra. Better still
for his peace of mind when the lady abruptly left the room.

For the first time that evening, Armande felt
some of his tension ease. Without Phaedra to distract him, he could
focus his attention upon his fellow guests. There were others in
this room that bore watching far more than Lady Grantham. Without
seeming to do so, Armande flicked a glance toward the gold brocade
sofa. He froze in the act of drawing a card.

When last he'd checked, Danby had been sagged
against the cushions. But now the fop was gone. Had his carriage
been summoned, or was the fool still lurking about somewhere?

Forcing himself to behave as though he had no
thought but for his cards, Armande inwardly swore at his own
carelessness in losing sight of Danby. He needed to know that the
drunk was safely on his way home and no longer sharing any more
reminiscences about Oxford. That was exactly the sort of thing to
excite Phaedra's suspicions all over again.

Armande's mind was suddenly filled with a
vision of Phaedra as she had quit the room. Had she left a shade
too abruptly? Was her manner a trifle furtive? He drew in his
breath with a sharp hiss.

"Is anything amiss, my lord?" Charles
asked.

"Non. Nothing, except that it waxes too warm
in here." To himself, he murmured Phaedra's name, deploring the
reckless obstinacy that made her ignore his warnings, yet at the
same he admired her courage. His heart wrenched with anger and
bitter sorrow, but most of all regret for what might have been.

With a most deadly calm, Armande folded his
cards upon the table and rose to his feet.

Phaedra hastened up the sweeping stair to the
second floor. Once on the upper landing, she paused, considering
which way to turn next. Blackheath Hall was a veritable maze of
spare bedchambers, a fact which made it all the more perverse of
her grandfather to lodge Armande in Ewan's room.

She saw no sign of Danby stumbling about the
halls. Directing her footsteps toward the wing of the mansion that
housed Weylin's prized picture gallery, she caught a glimpse of
Mrs. Searle conducting her nightly inspection, making sure all the
windows were locked. Phaedra ducked into the shadows until the
housekeeper passed. She was not about to stop that sly old witch to
inquire after Danby's whereabouts.

When she was certain Hester had gone, Phaedra
resumed her search. She had reached the last bedchamber before she
met with any success. The door to the Gold Room stood ajar. Phaedra
was certain the vulture-eyed Searle would never have left it
so.

Tiptoeing forward, she eased the door open.
Barely inching her toe over the threshold, she called softly, "Lord
Danby?"

She was greeted by a silence in which she
could have heard the dust settling. The white bedhangings shifted
slightly from the draft of the open door, the gossamer fabric
stirring ghostlike against the lumbering shadow of the bed
frame.

Phaedra retreated. But just as she began to
close the door, she spotted what looked like a dark bundle of cloth
dumped on the carpet before the window.

"Lord Danby?" Phaedra repeated uncertainly.
She crept farther into the room. She lowered her hand, guiding the
candle's unsteady light toward the floor.

The figure slumped by the window was indeed
Arthur Danby. His arms sprawled out, his head lolling at an awkward
angle, he looked so still, the man might well have been-

Dead.

The thought jolted Phaedra. She tipped the
candle, splashing hot wax upon her hand. As she steadied the
candlestick, she tried to steady her nerves, as well. Rubbing the
congealing wax from her hand, she massaged her sore skin.

She crept nearer to Danby. His mouth lolled
upon, his eyes closed, his face as waxen as her candle. She leaned
over him, stretching out one tentative finger and poked him.

He was dead all right-dead drunk. She might
have guessed as much. Phaedra drew back, disgusted by the sour
smell reeking from Danby. She straightened, glowered down at Danby.
Useless creature, unless she could find some way of reviving
him.

Her gaze roved about the darkened room until
she caught the gleam of the ewer and basin. She hurried over to the
washstand and set the candle down. The possibility of some of the
guests lingering overnight must have occurred to her grandfather
for the room had obviously been readied. The pitcher was filled
with water, some thick towels draped nearby.

Phaedra’s fingers crooked about the pitcher’s
white porcelain handle. She hesitated, recalling Armande asking her
if she would continue to mistrust him and pry into his past. She
had not exactly promised him she would not.

Why, then, did she feel as though she were
about to betray him? Simply because he had defended her from
ridicule when she had dared to voice her opinions, something no one
had ever done? Or because he had saved her grandfather's life?

She thought of the gentle kiss he had pressed
against her forehead, the look of sadness shading his eyes. Maybe
she was playing the role of Pandora; maybe her curiosity would let
loose all manner of evil. Yet if Armande did harbor a dangerous
secret, surely she had a duty to discover it.

She carried the pitcher across the room and
stood gazing down at Danby. She thought briefly of wetting one of
the towels and dabbing the cool water over his face. Then she
shrugged and poured the entire jugful over his head.

Danby spluttered, and floundered about like a
fish dragged up into the air. After much blinking, he raised
himself up onto one elbow. "Stap me," he groaned. Then he rolled
over and muttered, "Bargeman, bargeman. Thish boat has a leak."

His head thunked down as though he were
fading back into another stupor.

"No, you shan't," Phaedra cried. She seized
him by the collar and after much struggle, managed to flop him on
his back. Shaking him, she called, “Wake up, my lord.”

His lids fluttered open and he regarded her
fuzzily. "Ish time to go to Dushess's rid-riditto?"

"No. It is time to sober up so we may have a
little talk." "Never good time be shober." He squinted toward the
window. "Very dark. Time for bed."

To Phaedra's horror, Danby fumbled with the
buttons of his breeches. He apparently had acquired much skill in
the art of undressing himself while roaring drunk, for he managed
to undo several of them.

"Stop that!" She grabbed his hands.

He peered up at her, a sickening leer
crossing his foolish countenance. "Charmelle, that you, m'pet?
C'mere."

Danby tugged Phaedra down, his mouth trailing
a line of sloppy kisses along her neck, his hands tangling with her
hair. With an oath of disgust, Phaedra wrenched herself free. But
at the same moment, Danby's fingers hooked around the neckline of
her gown, tearing it down one shoulder.

Phaedra shoved Danby away with such force,
his head bounced against the floor. In his current state, she
doubted he even felt the jolt. He smiled at her beatifically and
passed out again.

Phaedra struggled to her feet, making a
futile attempt to pull the silk fabric up over her bare shoulder.
She glared at Danby in frustration, resisting the urge to give him
a swift kick. What,if anything, the idiot knew about Armande, the
secret was safe from her this night. She would have to sink Arthur
Danby in the Thames before rousing him to his senses-if the man had
any, which she had begun to doubt.

But there was little use railing at an
unconscious man. She would have to wait until tomorrow. Retrieving
her candle, she prepared to seek out her own bedchamber and have
Lucy repair the damage to her gown.

When she crossed to the other side of the
room, she was surprised to find the door closed. She had no memory
of having shut it. Reaching for the handle, she turned it. But
nothing happened.

Phaedra tried again. It seemed to be stuck.
She set down the candle and rattled the knob with both hands. She
tried twisting and pulling with both feet braced at the same
time.

Not stuck- locked. Phaedra bit her lip in
vexation. Somehow she had managed to lock herself in with Arthur
Danby. She had little choice but to hammer on the door and shout
until one of the servants heard her.

She started to raise her fist when the full
force of her predicament struck her. She would have some pretty
explanations to offer when the door was unlocked. Herself with her
hair all disheveled, her gown falling off her shoulder, Danby lying
there with his breeches half undone. No one would be certain as to
who had been attacking whom. There was only one certainty. Her
grandfather would be sure to believe whatever put her in the worst
possible light.

Phaedra lowered her arm. Then what was she
going to do? She started to curse herself for being so careless
when she froze, startled by a sudden recollection. She had seen no
key in the lock. She could not possibly have trapped herself. That
could only mean that someone else had. A trickle of foreboding iced
its way along Phaedra's spine.

The entire time she had bent over Arthur
Danby, she must have been watched by a pair of eyes peering out of
the darkness, an unseen presence observing her every movement,
before quietly closing the door and locking it.

So then someone must be playing a malicious
jest. Phaedra tensed and placed her ear to the door, catching the
unmistakable sound of voices coming from the hallway beyond. She
held her breath. With luck it would be Lucy or one of the servants
she could trust.

Her heart sank when she distinguished her
grandfather's booming voice. "I've got one of the best picture
collections in London, gentlemen. Most are in the gallery, but a
few of the better ones are scattered throughout the house."

Someone else growled a reply. Sir Norris
Byram, she guessed. But it required no guessing on her part to
identify the next speaker.

"
Tres bien
. I am most interested in
seeing the Titian you said lodges in the
Chambre d' Or
."

Phaedra froze in horror, at the same time,
everything clicking into place for her with bitter clarity.
Armande. She had not given the man enough credit for ingenuity.
Somehow he must have extricated himself from Charles Byng in order
to follow her. It would have been such an easy matter for him to
lock her in with Danby.

It was not a malicious jest, but a well
conceived plan to ruin her. Armande's quick mind had taken
advantage of her own recklessness. She did not attempt to fool
herself; it would be ruin if she were found thus. Her prudish
grandfather would fling her into the streets this very night.

As she heard the men drawing closer, Phaedra
looked about frantically for a place to hide. No, that would not
serve. If Armande guided her grandfather here on purpose, the
marquis would not rest until she was found and dragged out from
behind the wardrobe or from beneath the bed. It made no odds which.
She would appear all the more guilty.

Only one recourse was left to her. Phaedra
raced over to the window. Blowing out her candle, she struggled to
fling open the casement before her eyes had even time to adjust to
the dark. The moon, drifting behind the clouds provided her just
enough light to see what a deadly drop it was to the ground below.
The rough stone wall might have been as smooth as glass for all the
toeholds it looked capable of providing.

Even the ivy seemed to cling precariously,
its green tendrils but slender threads unable to support her
weight.

Phaedra's courage failed her for a moment.
Then she heard someone just outside the door. She sucked in her
breath. Better to risk breaking her neck than be caught in such
humiliating circumstances. Giving herself not another moment to
think, she plucked off her slippers and flung them out the
window.

Scooping in her skirts as best she could, she
quickly followed. Thrusting her legs out first, she eased her
stomach across the sill until she dangled by her hands. It was
still a perilous long way to the ground.

Yet she could not hang forever. Her palms
already felt slick with sweat and she could hear the bedchamber
door opening. Uttering a silent prayer, she let go, risking a grab
for the vines, trying to find even the hint of a holding for her
feet. Her legs tangled in her skirts, her silk stockings more
slippery than her shoes of velvet might have been. The vines tore
free beneath her clawing fingers, scratching her arms, scraping her
shoulder on the way down. She broke her fall by clutching at the
wooden casement of one of the lower windows, then she dropped hard,
landing upon her side.

Momentarily stunned, Phaedra lay still. Then
she rolled over, drawing in a painful breath. She barely had time
to ascertain she was still alive, her bones miraculously intact,
before a light appeared at the window above her.

Stifling a low groan, Phaedra crouched in the
grass. There was not so much as a shrub to hide behind. All she
could do was to creep backward, drawing herself into the shadows
thrown by the massive house itself.

Long, painful moments passed before Phaedra
saw the tall graceful silhouette of a man at the window. Candle
shine haloed Armande’s white-powdered hair, his features lost in
shadow so that he appeared like some pale phantom staring into the
night. Searching for something? Phaedra wagered bitterly that he
was and hoped that he was feeling most keenly disappointed.