Susan Carroll (16 page)

She remained flattened upon the damp grass
until Armande vanished. The light went out, returning that portion
of the house to darkness.

Phaedra sat up slowly, not so much conscious
of the scrapes and scratches stinging her flesh as she was of the
nettles that seemed to have been driven deep into her heart. Well,
at least now she understood more about Armande and that tender
kiss, that look of regret she had surprised upon his hard features
earlier. Even then, he had been but biding his time. Had he not
sworn from the beginning that he would find a way to be rid of her
if she didn't stop questioning?

Yet he had nearly lulled her into doing just
that, with all his feigned admiration, his deceitful way of
appearing gentle when she least expected it. It was almost as if he
knew how starved she felt for someone to show her even a small
modicum of kindness.

She drew her lips so tightly together it
almost hurt. He had been quick to take advantage of the opportunity
to ruin her reputation, to see her driven out from the only home
she had. But she felt more astonished at her own reaction than by
what he had done. Why should she feel pierced with this sense of
betrayal?

She had suspected all along how ruthless
Armande could be. A most clever man, the marquis, subtle and cruel.
Dear God! She had almost felt guilty for prying, actually indebted
to the man. Well, no more! Now that he had taken the tip off his
foil, she would no longer fight with a blunted weapon, either. She
also knew how to bide her time, finding the moment to strike back.
Phaedra gritted her teeth. She could be every bit as hard and cold
as Armande de LeCroix.

Morning sunlight flooded past the brocade
curtains, almost merciless in its cheerfulness, the frolicsome song
of a lark invading the heavy silence of Phaedra's bedchamber. The
only sound from within the room was the whisper of a brush as Lucy
quietly feathered the tangles from Phaedra's red curls.

Phaedra hardly noticed the bright promise of
the day or her maid's efforts. She stared deep into the mirror that
folded out from the top of her dressing table. Despite the elegance
of her yellow figured silk gown, she looked exactly like what Gilly
often called her, "Fey." Her green eyes glittered, huge in the pale
oval of her face.

How old would she have to be, she wondered
bitterly, before she lost that look of vulnerability, that wounded
little-girl expression? Phaedra slammed the mirror down with a
sudden violence that nearly toppled her porcelain shepherdess off
the dressing table's edge. Moving the figurine to a more secure
position, Phaedra said curtly to her maid, "Send down to the
stables and tell them I will want the carriage today."

"Yes, my lady." Lucy ducked into a quick
curtsy. Phaedra was aware that the girl studied the scratches and
angry red scrapes that crisscrossed Phaedra's hands and arms. But
the girl said nothing, merely handing Phaedra her bonnet and a pair
of kid gloves before hastening to carry out Phaedra's command.

When the door had closed behind Lucy, Phaedra
slowly raised herself from the cushioned stool, wincing as she did
so, her body painfully stiff from the bruises battering her hip and
side. She felt the familiar fog of depression about to creep over
her, and fought it with the only weapon she had, her anger. Her
gaze turned balefully toward the connecting door that led to
Armande's bedchamber. She burned with a desire to confront him
outright with the villainy he had practiced upon her last
night.

He must be desperate indeed to stoop to such
ignoble tricks. To think she had begun to believe she might have
been wrong about the marquis! She had nearly been gulled into
believing him different, not only from the villain of her
imagination, but also different from Ewan, and from all the petty,
narrow-minded men she had ever met. Different he certainly was, his
cruelty far more subtle, couching his betrayal in words of velvet
tenderness and feigned admiration. She had almost begun to believe
in Armande and the warm, beckoning light she had glimpsed in his
eyes. She had almost believed that maybe, just this once, she was
not about to pursue the will-o' -the-wisp.

Phaedra tried to push aside the hollow sense
of disappointment that washed through her.

Pleading illness, she had never returned to
the salon; she had thus avoided Armande, for she had been unwilling
to let him see how much his treachery had affected her.

It was unwise to reveal one's weakness to the
enemy. And that was what he was-a most dangerous foe. All the more
reason she should not burst into his bedchamber and confront him.
When next they met, she must be in control of herself, as icy and
subtle as he, if she ever hoped to beset him.

She wondered how Armande had been affected by
the failure of his vicious scheme. She hoped he had spent a night
of hell, wondering how she had escaped his trap, worrying that she
had learned something from Arthur Danby. Yet she doubted it. She
could picture him hunching those elegant shoulders in a careless
shrug, laying his plans for a more clever scheme to rid himself of
her the next time. She didn't intend to offer him any further
opportunity.

A rap sounded at her bedchamber door. Most
likely it was Jane come to fetch the breakfast tray away, Phaedra
thought, calling out a command for the housemaid to enter.

It was not Jane's apple-pink cheeks framed in
the open doorway, but the sly, dark features of Mrs. Searle. The
housekeeper hovered on the threshold like a specter.

"What do you want?" Phaedra demanded,
charging forward before the woman could set foot in her room.

"Some lad brought a message for yer ladyship.
I knew if 'twas important, ye'd be wishful of reading' it at
once."

"How excessively thoughtful of you," Phaedra
said in dry tones as she reached for the note grasped in Hester's
hand. The woman's fingertips crooked through the ends of her black
lace mittens, curling about the vellum like talons. She seemed to
be prolonging the moment, taking her time about handing the note
over. Phaedra yanked it from her clutches.

Searle's beadlike eyes glistened. "Why,
whatever's happened to yer ladyship's arms? Ye look as though ye’ve
been scrapping with the cat."

Phaedra slammed the door in her face. What a
pity for Hester that she hadn't broken her neck last night, Phaedra
thought. It would have given the woman something grisly to talk
about besides old Lethe.

She quickly forgot the housekeeper as she
examined the folded piece of vellum. Her name was inked across it
in a rushed series of blots which could only be Gilly's
handwriting. Phaedra flipped the note over to break the seal, but
the red wax came away easily. Phaedra would have wagered her last
groat that Hester had read the letter.

"Damn that woman," she muttered, unfolding
the note. She scanned the contents, fearful of what might have been
set down there for Hester to see. Fortunately, this message made no
mention of Robin Goodfellow. She would have to caution Gilly to
take care what he committed to paper. Future missives might not be
so harmless as this one, which dealt with Armande.

My dear Fae,

By the time you read this, I should be well
on my way to France. Having met your marquis, I'm thinking perhaps
there is something more to your fears than mere imagination. I'm
after making a few more inquiries to see if I can coax the Varnais
family into passing the time of day with a charming Irish lad. Not
to fret yourself over my lack of funds. I won a grinning contest at
the Boar's Tooth, myself pitted against a dour Scot, name of Dermot
MaCready with a handsome set of teeth. I out-grinned him by a full
five minutes. Hope to return in a fortnight. My tender regards to
Madame Pester.

Much love, Gilly

Despite the letter's lighthearted tone,
Phaedra felt no inclination to smile. Gilly might have been her
twin as far as impulsiveness was concerned. Why could he not have
consulted her first before undertaking this rash voyage to
France?

Perhaps it would prove a good notion, but
right now she felt abandoned, deserted by her one true friend. Much
could happen to her in a fortnight. If Armande attempted to serve
her another such turn as he had last night-

Fear and loneliness tugged at her,
threatening to swirl her down into dark eddies of depression. But
she resisted the pull. She could manage without Gilly. Let Armande
scheme as he would. The next move would be hers.

Phaedra shoved the note in a drawer. Donning
her bonnet, she scooped up her gloves and hardened her jaw with
resolution. Never had she been so nervous about descending the
stairs of her own home. She was not at all certain she could
maintain her composure when she came face to face with Armande.

When she came downstairs, she discovered that
she needn't have worried. John informed her that both her
grandfather and the marquis had gone out.

"Thank you, John," she said, the stiff set of
her shoulders easing. She could almost regret Armande's absence,
having composed in her head several greetings, all of them alike in
their acid sweetness.

She forgot every single one of them as her
gaze focused on the man meandering aimlessly about the front hall,
in flashy clothes that looked much the worse for having been slept
in. Armande might be gone, but Lord Arthur Danby was not.

His lordship strutted toward the front door
as though coming from the king's levee. He paused by one of the
suits of armor, stopping long enough to level his quizzing glass at
the pointed spikes of the infamous mace.

He appeared on the point of making his
departure when Phaedra rushed after him. "Lord Danby?" she
called.

The quizzing glass swiveled in her direction.
Phaedra skidded to a halt in-front of him. "Good morrow, Lord
Danby. I trust you slept well."

"'Deed I did. Most kind of you to ask." He
brushed back the straggling ends of his disheveled gray wig and
offered her a vacuous smile. Except for a certain puffiness about
the eyes, he appeared not much the worse for last evening's revels.
Even sober, he still bore the expression of a besotted sheep.
Phaedra sought for a way to introduce the subject of Armande
without seeming too abrupt, when Danby disconcerted her by saying,
"Forgive me, my beauty. But I have not the honor of knowing your
name."

"Why, I'm Lady Phaedra Grantham,"

He dipped into an awkward bow. "Charmed to be
making your acquaintance. Simply charmed."

"You made my acquaintance last night,"
Phaedra said, biting her tongue lest she add, "You silly
clunch."

"Alas, I'm a poor hand at names. I never
forget faces, though." "So you said last night. How much I enjoyed
it when you entertained us with your anecdotes about Oxford." She
laid special stress on the word, trying to jar his memory.

"Did I? Well, I dare say I was quite witty."
Danby turned back to his inspection of the suit of armor.

Patience, Phaedra counseled herself, patience
if you expect to learn anything from this fool.

"You mentioned that you knew Armande de
LeCroix."

"Who?"

"The Marquis de Varnais." You said that you
attended Oxford together. Except that you thought his name was-"
She paused, waiting expectantly.

Danby lifted the visor of the armor
cautiously as though he feared to find a face peering back at
him.

"No Frenchies at Oxford that I recall.
'Course, there could have been for all I know. I never went
there."

"Never went there!"

"Cambridge man, myself." He let the visor
clang shut. "Well, good day to you, Lady Grantley. Thanks ever so
for your hospitality. Must all meet again sometime."

Somehow he gained possession of one of her
hands and planted a moist kiss above her knuckles. He didn't even
notice that her fingers were clenched into a fist.

Phaedra stood there fuming. The one weapon
she had most counted on in her battle against the marquis sauntered
away from her. The footman let Danby out before she swore. Of all
the incredible dolts. The man was a worse fool sober than drunk.
She stalked from the hall, resigning all hope of ever learning
anything from Arthur Danby.

Soon Lucy brought her news that only
increased her frustration. Her grandfather's elderly coachman,
Ridley, had refused to hitch up the carriage until he knew where
she meant to go.

"Anywhere." Phaedra's gaze traveled up the
hall's gray stonework. She had no intention of spending her day
imprisoned here, awaiting Armande's return with a mixture of dread
and longing, anticipating his next attempt to drag her to the
devil.

"Anywhere," she repeated, "away from this
accursed house." Yet she realized such an answer would not suffice
for Ridley. The elderly coachman was obliged to render a strict
accounting to Sawyer Weylin. Anyone might have thought her
grandfather took her for a prospective horse thief.

Where was she going? There was only one
reasonable answer she could think of to give. "Tell the old
martinet I wish to go to Oxford Street."

Her grandfather would never succeed in making
a
cit
of her, Phaedra thought, as the carriage lumbered
along the cobbled pavement. Only one part of London had ever
succeeded in capturing her heart and imagination- Oxford Street,
choked with its hackney cabs, sedan chairs, dirt and noise, a
seemingly endless row of bowfront shop windows displaying tempting
wares behind latticed panes.

All the raucous music, the riotous poetry
that was London sang out here in the rumble of iron coach wheels,
the bells tinkling from the collector for the penny post. Milkwomen
yodeled, and the ballad singers bellowed, all striving to be heard
above the litany of the street hawkers.