Hours later, Phaedra still could not get Armande’s words out of her mind. Shut away in her garret, she sat at her desk, failing to notice the ink dripping from her quill pen onto the page until it was too late. She made a halfhearted attempt to blot the stain, Armande’s grim prophecy echoing in her mind. You won’t ever want to see me again.
What could he intend to do that was so dreadful? The man talked as though he meant to commit a monstrous crime, as though he were thinking of murdering someone.
Despite the warmth of the late-morning sun streaming through the garret window, Phaedra shivered. She tried to tell herself she was being absurd. Yet although she might wish to deny it, she feared Armande would be capable of anything. For all his tenderness, she had seen the chilling light in his eyes too often. When she had left him, he had already taken refuge behind the icy facade she had learned to dread.
Phaedra’s hand tightened upon the pen, nearly snapping the delicate quill in half as she fought against the despair and fear that beset her. Flinging the pen down upon the desk, she tried to whip up her anger as a defense.
Blast Armande and all his cursed secrets! She shoved back from the desk, getting to her feet. The violence of the movement caused her chair to tip over backwards and clatter to the floor.
She left it where it had fallen, stalking over to the window. Both segments of glass, like two small latticed doors, were tightly closed. No wonder it was so stuffy in here. Phaedra struggled with the casement, trying to force one side open. The wood resisted her efforts until her face flushed damp with perspiration.
Swearing, she shoved with all her might, venting her temper upon the frame. When the window finally gave, swinging wide with a mighty slam, she lost her balance, her head and shoulders thrusting out into nothingness.
For a moment Phaedra had a dizzying view of the Heath’s stone gates and the cobbled drive below. Quickly drawing herself back in, she mopped at her brow with the heel of her hand.
Her heart pounded with fright, but she adjured herself not to be a fool. After all, it was not as though she had actually been in danger of falling the three stories to the ground below. She would have to squeeze her entire body through the window to be in peril of that.
Phaedra lingered by the window, resentful of the pale blue sky, so indifferent to her misery, and the sun, glinting with appalling cheerfulness off the cobblestones wet from last night’s rain. She wished there was some way she could spring from the window ledge and fly like some silver-winged bird, far from the Heath, fleeing these gray stone walls that had never harbored anything for her but unhappiness.
But what made her longing to escape so keen this particular morning?, Perhaps it was the memory of a night that would never come again, of blue eyes whose longing and despair tore at her heart, then froze her with the menace of secrets she was not permitted to understand. Perhaps it was merely a wish to avoid the pain of watching Armande ride away.
“I’m glad he’s going. Glad!” she whispered fiercely.
But her heart condemned her for a liar. She blinked hard, staring out at the summer-blue sky dotted with fleecy clouds. No, she would not weep again. For the truth was, no matter how much Armande desired or needed her, it made no difference. Nothing could change the fact he was a man caught up in some dangerous intrigue. She would not make the mistake of being ensnared in those silken bindings, of once more becoming enamored of a man whose life held no place for her.
She had a life of her own to live, and it was time to get on with it. Her resolve taken, Phaedra squared her shoulders, determined to think no more of Armande, at least not this day. Stalking away from the window, she uprighted the chair and resumed her place at the desk. Reaching for her quill pen, she dipped the tip in the ink, forcing herself to concentrate on finishing her composition.
... and how can a nation which declares itself to be enlightened continue to cower behind the ancient cry of “No Popery,” like children howling in terror of bugbears in the night? Too long have Catholics been denied their rights to vote and hold office simply because of the bigoted fears of king and parliament.
She continued in the same strain for a few more terse paragraphs before signing the name of Robin Goodfellow with a large flourish. There. Although the writing was done in haste, her message was clear. Freedom! Freedom from English rule and emancipation for the Catholics who made up the suppressed majority in Ireland. Honest folk martyred for the sake of their religion, like her own cousin. At this thought, a reluctant smile curved Phaedra’s lips. Truthfully, she could not picture a less likely candidate for sainthood than Gilly. But for all his nonchalance, she knew there was a serious side to his nature, one that had often been angered by the persecution of his countrymen. Perhaps this essay of hers would merit more of Gilly’s approval than her ill-conceived piece about Armande had done.
And perhaps Gilly would be more inclined to forgive her for the fact that he had gone on a fool’s errand. She suffered a pang of conscience when she thought of her cousin wasting time and money in France to discover what she already knew, that Armande was not the Marquis de Varnais. It didn’t matter, anyway. After today she would likely never see Armande again.
Phaedra briskly sanded the parchment to dry the ink, trying to keep her mind busy with matters other than Armande’s departure. She thought of the considerable sum of money Jessym had promised for her next essay. The difficulty would be, with Gilly away, in finding a way to get the writing to her publisher. She trusted no one else, with the exception of Jonathan, to act as courier for her. But she could not bring herself to take advantage of her old friend’s devotion, knowing full well how such an errand would distress the nervous man. She might well be forced to await Gilly’s return-but who knew when that might be?
Her reflections were interrupted by the sound of the ormolu clock chiming the hour of eleven. Her gaze traveled to where the timepiece sat. It was the only ornament on the shelves that had remained empty since the day Ewan had destroyed her books. She supposed Armande would be packed, preparing to leave.
Phaedra folded the essay and locked it inside the desk drawer. She suddenly knew she could not endure being in the house when Armande left. Her grandfather was sure to rage at her for not exerting enough charm to make Armande wish to stay. Her lips twisted into a bitter expression when she thought of exactly how much charm she had exerted. But it had not been enough.
She could not face Sawyer Weylin’s wrath just now, could not endure bidding farewell to Armande as though he were but the merest acquaintance passing through her life. Her only hope of maintaining her composure lay in losing herself on the grounds until she was certain Armande had gone.
Fearful of encountering him, she did not even risk returning to her room to fetch her bonnet. She crept down the backstairs, drawing a sharp-eyed glance from Hester Searle as she skirted through the kitchens. Ignoring the woman, Phaedra let herself out the kitchen door, making her way through the rose garden at the back of the house, and headed for the gravel walks beyond.
But she had not gotten as far as the dense shrubbery when a voice, barely audible, pronounced her name. “Phaedra?”
She bit down upon her lip, despising herself for the hope that flared in her heart, but she could not suppress it all the same. She held her breath as she turned around. Her heart sank.
It was not Armande rising from the stone bench, the morning breeze riffling the dark strands of his hair. Phaedra watched as Jonathan crossed the garden to her side, wondering what on earth he was doing at the Heath so early. She had no desire for the comfort of Jonathan’s solemn smiles this morning, and regretted she hadn’t walked on, pretending not to have heard him. But she felt immediately ashamed of her impulse to avoid her old friend, who had always been so kind to her. Concealing her impatience, she managed to greet him in cheerful tones. “Why, Jonathan. What a surprise. What brings you out to the Heath at such an hour?”
He blinked at her, his smile fading in confusion. “Don’t you remember? I spent the night at the Heath because of the storm. I told you I meant to do so.”
“Oh.” She bore but vague recollection of parting from Jonathan. She had thought he’d summoned his carriage to return to the city-but then she had been absorbed in her card game with Armande.
Quickly she attempted to recover her error lest she hurt Jonathan’s feelings. “Aye, of course. What I meant was, it is such a surprise to see you sitting alone in the garden. Why are you not breakfasting with Grandfather?”
“I never eat much in the mornings.” He regarded her eagerly. “Were you going out walking, my dear? I should be only too pleased to accompany you.”
Phaedra heard his suggestion with dismay. She needed solitude now, needed it like a drowning man needs air. But how could she spurn his offer without wounding him? Only one reason occurred to her.
“To own the truth, it is already so warm and sticky I was not planning on a walk.” She fingered the high neckline of her saffron morning gown in what she hoped was a convincing manner. “I should rather pay a visit to the pond instead.”
“The pond! You are not thinking of going swimming again.” Jonathan looked as horrified, as though she had proposed leaping from London Bridge into the treacherous depths of the Thames.
“I have been swimming since I was a wee girl,” she said. “My cousin taught me. I could likely swim the channel if I chose.”
“I know that well, but ... “ Jonathon faltered, his pockmarked cheeks flushing beet-red with embarrassment.
Phaedra guessed he must be recalling the day he had come upon her enjoying the waters of the pond in quite her natural state. The incident had occasioned poor priggish Jonathan far more distress than it had herself. Although he could not meet her eye, he continued, “But I always worry so about currents or intruders.”
“Pooh, what could happen to me on my grandfather’s own land? And as for a current, that would be an astonishing thing to find in any pond, let alone a man-made one.” Her unhappiness caused her to add with a shrug. “So if I did drown, it would be entirely my own fault. Not that my death would be of any great loss.”
“Don’t ever say that!” Jonathan seized her hands. “You cannot imagine what it would mean to me if I lost you. I would as soon be dead myself.”
“I only spoke in jest, a poor one, I admit. I am sorry.”
Recovering from her surprise at his outburst, she tried to withdraw her hands, but he clung to her.
“You simply do not realize how I worry about you. All I have ever wanted is to see you protected.”
“I know that, Jonathan and I thank you. I do not know what I would have done without your friendship.” Phaedra had always been touched by his devotion but his earnest avowals made her feel uncomfortable. Smiling at him, she managed to disengage her hands.
“My! How- maudlin we have become. And on such a beautiful day, too. If I mean to have my swim, I’d best be going. Pray excuse me, Jonathan.”
Feeling somewhat guilty for thus abandoning him, Phaedra slipped past the hedge, affording him no opportunity to speak again. She was aware of how his eyes followed her: He reminded her of a faithful hound being forbidden to accompany his mistress.
“Forgive me, dear friend,” she murmured. Since he was still watching her, she had no choice but to continue on toward the pond as she had stated. In truth, as the sun rose higher, becoming a fierce blaze in the sky, swimming began to seem not a bad notion. It had been a long time since she had done so.
Next to the garret, the pond was the only other refuge she had ever found at the Heath, a place of delicious solitude. Her grandfather and his friends preferred the comfort and order of the gardens by the kitchen to the wilderness which had been created for him at great expense. The pond was situated well past the manicured lawns and the intriguing gravel walkways considered de rigueur for any gentleman’s estate these days.
Sawyer Weylin’s landscaper, Bullock, had leveled all the towering oaks and diverted the course of the brook that had once flowed naturally over the Heath’s lands. In their stead, he had erected a woodland cluster of flowering trees and shrubbery, an artist’s conceit, attempting to improve upon nature.
Phaedra pressed through the thicket of carefully arranged bushes toward the pond. The symmetrical shape of the clear silvery water would have fooled no one into thinking this bucolic scene had been crafted by the hand of God. The red deer imported to lend it credence had fled long ago, seeming to vanish into thin air. Although Phaedra had never informed her grandfather, she thought she had once detected the aroma of roast venison wafting from one of the crofter’s huts down the lane.
As she swept off her sash, she regarded Bullock’s creation with affectionate contempt. She supposed it was no more tasteless than the fake Greek temple or hermitages that adorned other estates. At least her grandfather had never gone so far as to hire a hermit to stalk about his lands. And the pond did serve a most useful function-at least for her.
Phaedra struggled to undo the lacings of her gown and stripped it off over her head. Her petticoats and stockings followed. Here she felt none of the shyness that had made her so awkward in Armande’s bedchamber. This was her element, reminding her of her childhood in Ireland, when she and Gilly had paraded in the buff, learning to swim in a God-created pond with all its familiar discomforts of reeds and rocks. In those days she had basked in complete innocence of the nudity of her own body, an attitude most of the Irish shared. It had taken years as an Englishwoman to teach her to be a prude.
Phaedra paced to the edge of the pond. Despite the warmth of the sunlight, she regarded the glassy surface of the pond with momentary trepidation. The waters were never anything but chilly. But she had been taught long ago there was only one way to approach it. Drawing in a deep breath, she plunged into the pond feet first, allowing the water to close over her head.
The shock of the cold water enveloping her was at first terrible, then delightful, as though every pore in her body had been jarred awake. Striking the surface of the water, she swam about with vigorous strokes until her blood felt warmed by the exercise.
Pausing to catch her breath, she tread water, before stretching out, trailing her arms in a floating posture. She basked in the feeling of her own numbing exhaustion, the soothing way the cool waters buoyed her up and lapped against her.
But it was not long before the sheer quiet of the place began to oppress her. Even the larks and the chattering squirrels seemed to shun the little copse, as though they detected the artificiality of it. Yet she continued floating, determined to keep her mind from straying back to thoughts of Armande.
She had no use in her life for any man. Had she not just escaped her bondage to Ewan? What was Armande de LeCroix but a distraction? He diverted her from her real goal-to earn enough money to become independent of her grandfather and all his schemes. She set her mind to the task of finding a way to deliver her material to Jessym. She could not afford to wait for Gilly’s return, even if this meant she had to run the risk of going to the printer herself. Londoners were notoriously fickle. Robin Goodfellow could easily become last week’s sensation, if she did not stir up some new controversy with her pen.
A breeze scudded across the surface of the pond, rippling the waters, and raising gooseflesh upon her bare skin. Phaedra shivered, then kicked her feet beneath her and dog-paddled for the bank.
Hauling herself out, Phaedra flopped into the cool grass, waiting for the moisture on her skin to dry before dressing again. She plucked a blade of grass and stroked it across her cheek, peering at her reflection in the water. With her hair sprayed across her bare shoulders in fiery rivelets, her wide green eyes haunting her pale face, she looked like some lonely sprite trapped beneath the surface of the water.
She stirred the blade through the reflection, dispelling her image into a myriad of shimmering ripples.
Very well, then. Maybe she would admit it. She was lonely. Why else would she have responded so eagerly to Armande’s caresses, gone so willingly to his bed? At times she felt starved for affection-and there was so much about Armande that was perfect.
Too perfect, she thought uneasily. Beyond his skill as a lover, and the enticement of his lean, dangerous profile, he knew how to be kind and gentle. Her longing for that was as keen as her longing to be loved. Armande seemed to understand so much of what she felt. Add to that the fact that he didn’t want her to be a simpering fool, that he respected the power of her mind and admired her for it-as long as she didn’t ask too many questions. Phaedra was glad she remembered that. It might save her from regret.
She rolled over on her side, peering upward to where the sun peeked through the leaves. It must be past noon, she thought dully. By now he must be gone. She suddenly hated the whispery shadows of the leaves, stealing away the sunshine.
Sitting up, she hugged her bare knees. She wondered if it were really so important to her what Armande called himself. Did it truly matter what his real name or what secrets he kept? She was struck by an unexpected memory of Eliza Wilkins, the woman’s willingness to risk her life, her security, all to follow her husband Tom wherever he went. “Because I love him,” Eliza had said in her quiet way. Phaedra had not understood then, but maybe now, she did, just a little.
If she ever did see Armande again-
Phaedra was startled by the snap of a twig. She tensed, glancing about her, but the copse was silent, the only movement the rustle of a leaf. All the same, she had the uncomfortable sensation of being spied upon.
Without making obvious her nervousness, Phaedra reached for her clothes. She scrambled into her petticoats and was lacing the corset across her bosom when she heard another snap, followed by the crunch of boots. Someone was there.
Phaedra whirled around, clasping her gown in front of her breasts, preparing to scream for help if necessary. She tensed at the sight of the tall man stalking past the bushes. Her lips rounded into a weak oh.
She gaped at Armande, attired for riding in a plain brown frock coat and tan breeches protected by spatterdashes. His silky dark hair was back in a neat queue. Her heart set up such a hammering, she could do little more than stare at him. “I-I thought you’d gone.”
He dug the toe of one boot into the ground, avoiding her eyes. Never had he looked less the picture of a polished marquis. Fingering the brim of his cocked hat, he said “How could I-after we parted so abruptly? We never truly said farewell.”
She thought they had said nigh everything there was to say. He swore he didn’t want to hurt her, yet he seemed determined to prolong this parting and make it as painful as possible.
He moved to the edge of the pond, staring moodily down at his own image, the reflection as mysterious and elusive as Armande himself. Phaedra turned her back on him. With unsteady jerks, she strove to finish lacing the front of her bodice.
“How long have you been watching me?” she blurted out.
“Too long for my peace of mind,” came his strained reply.
“Damnation!” She had tangled one of the lacings, snarling it into a hopeless knot. She yanked on the ribbon, tearing the delicate silk. Whipping around, she said, “Why did you have to come looking for me? Why didn’t you just go!”
He glanced up at her, his eyes rife with misery. “I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I think I am falling in love with you.”
He spoke with such quiet simplicity she could not doubt he meant it. The words seemed wrung from the depths of his heart. Something he had said the first night they had met echoed through her mind. She replied a shaky laugh, “How amusing. I was thinking the exact same about you.”
Phaedra never knew how her trembling legs carried her across the clearing, but suddenly she was flinging herself into Armande’s arms with a force that nearly tumbled them both into the pond.
“Phaedra,” he groaned, burying his face against her neck. “What a selfish bastard I am. I tried to tear myself away. I swear, somehow I will manage to make sure you never have cause to hate me.”
“Hush, love.” Her fingers tangled in his hair. “Everything will be all right.”
It was a rash pledge to make when she had no idea what everything was. But nothing mattered to her except that he would not vanish from her life. At this moment, she could imagine no greater pain than that.
His mouth burned against hers as they sank down and tumbled into the grass. There was no hint of the accomplished lover in the way Armande fumbled with her clothes. He nearly tore her petticoats in his haste to disrobe her, she nearly doing the same to his cravat and coat. Their bodies bared, they came together, flesh to flesh, in a kind of fierce desperation. It was as though they were both aware of how close they would always be to losing each other, forever hovering on the brink of some dark calamity. They had to seize what precious moments the begrudging fates would allow.
Their passion rose and swelled in a heated rush, leaving them spent with exhaustion. Even then, Phaedra held Armande inside her for as long as she could, as if drawing back would allow all the shadows of secrecy to creep between them.
“Phaedra,” he murmured. “How have I ever managed to live without you? I feel like a man who has been lost in an endless winter. And you are the blazing sun.”
He rolled onto his side, still holding her against him. She gazed up at him “I have never been anyone’s blazing sun before.” She laughed. “Although Grandfather complains most fiercely about the color of my hair.”
“He’s a fool!” She was startled by the harshness of his voice when speaking of Sawyer. But he smiled, softening his tone as he slipped back into his French accent, “Your hair is glorious, ma belle . You would have driven Titian mad with the longing to paint?—”