Twenty-Two
P haedra shivered, drawing up the ends of a ragged blanket to ward off the chill. Such intense cold could spring only from the regions of death itself. She feared to open her eyes, knowing she would confront the darkness of her grave. Yet they fluttered open of their own accord.
She was confronted not with the blackness she had dreaded, but hazy gray. The mist settled, becoming solid, stone walls that were narrow and confining. She longed to sink back into the peace of oblivion, but her mind fought her, already striving to regain its bearings.
She must have been dreaming-how long, she could not say. Dreaming of the summer she had spent with James, that season of fire that had blazed far too bright, leading her astray like a will-o’-the-wisp until she was lost in ...
Phaedra frowned. Exactly where was she? Her eyes roved over the room, which was little better than a cell. Her gaze finally came to rest upon the iron grate that barred the window of her door. Reality slammed upon her as though the door itself had just banged closed.
Bedlam. She was a prisoner in Bedlam.
With a groan, Phaedra rolled over, then flinched. Every muscle in her body was raw and aching, and most of the soreness settled in her midsection. She tried to sit up, bracing herself with her hand. She stared at that hand, scarce recognizing it as hers; the skin was nigh transparent, stretched taut over her fingers.
Her effort to rise left her so dizzy that she had to lie still, both trying to forget and trying to remember. She had been here in Bedlam since the night she had plunged into the pond. How long ago had that been? Two weeks? Three? A month? She was not sure.
She knew she had been rescued, miraculously, by one of the grooms at the Heath—-or so she had been told. But her behavior had been wild. She had been brought to Bedlam by order of the local magistrate and confined amongst the mad for attempting suicide. No one, not even Jonathan, had believed her tale of being pushed. But it was all most strange. She had always thought that one could not be admitted to the hospital without the recommendation of one of the patrons.
Each day she had paced the floor, waiting for someone to help her, to obtain her release. That much she recalled quite clearly. It was the day that she had collapsed in her cell that was fuzzy in her mind.
She tensed with the effort to remember. Visitors. That disgusting old hag, her gaoler Belda had been displaying her to visitors again- the foolish Lord Arthur Danby and his simpering mistress, Charmelle. Then Jonathan had come with the dire news he could not have her released. When he had gone, she had tried for the sake of her babe to eat-
The stew! Poisoned! Phaedra drew in her breath with a sharp gasp. How could she have forgotten the pain that had wracked her, ripping her apart. Her stomach yet burned with the reminder.
She opened her eyes, and this time she managed to sit up, clutching her abdomen. She felt so weak, as if her very life had been drained. Her fingers froze, the realization creeping over her. She ran her hands over the region of her womb, slowly at first, then more urgently, praying for just one butterfly whispering of life there. But she felt nothing except an aching emptiness. Her lips parted, a shriek of denial echoing off the indifferent walls of her cell.
Belda’s bewhiskered chin appeared at the grating. “Stop that infernal racket. What ails yer?
“My babe,” Phaedra wailed, desperately seeking some assurance that it could not be true.
But Belda’s smug smile confirmed her fears. “Aborted,” she said, “And a good thing, too. There are enough bastards to fill the world.”
An inhuman scream tore past Phaedra’s throat, a sound she hardly recognized as her own. She tried to lunge to her feet, wanting to fling herself at the bars and claw out the old woman’s hateful eyes. But she tottered and fell back upon the bed, a prisoner of her own weakness.
Belda shrank back from the window, muttering, “And the wench would have us believe she isn’t mad.” But Phaedra barely noticed the woman’s retreat as she buried her face in the pillow and wept.
The sobs that wracked her frame seemed as if they would never end. But when her tears ceased at last, she felt nothing. Her heart was as empty as her womb. With the miscarriage of her child, she seemed to have lost her indomitable spirit as well. She ceased to count the hours. Limp as a cloth doll, she swallowed the food that Belda periodically forced down her throat. But as the days passed, she somehow regained strength; it was as though her body had turned traitor, surviving in spite of her will to die.
One morning as Phaedra stared listlessly at the walls, Belda came in and flung a gown at her. “Put this on.”
Phaedra allowed the garment to drop to the floor.
“I said put it on, you fool.” Beida snatched up the dress and shook it at her. “Don’t you understand? Yer gettin out today.”
Phaedra turned her face to the wall. “Leave me alone.”
But Belda seized her and rent the shift from her back. “I’ve stood enough of your nonsense. I’ll be mighty pleased to see the last of you, my fine lady, and that’s the truth.”
Belda roughly dragged the gown over Phaedra’s head. Phaedra experienced enough annoyance at the feel of the woman’s hands upon her to thrust Belda’s fingers away and straighten the garment herself.
“Why they are letting you go beats all fire out of me,” Belda said. “As if one inmate escaping wasn’t bad enough, they have to go setting another one loose.”
Although Phaedra evinced not the slighted interest, Belda continued to rant, “That lunatic who thought she was Marie Antoinette vanished only days ago. I don’t know how she managed it. One of the visitors must have helped her. Sometimes I’m not certain where the maddest ones are-locked in here or out there on the streets.”
Still shaking her head and grumbling to herself, Belda went out of the cell. It occurred to Phaedra that she had not even bothered to ask who was coming for her. It could not be her grandfather. He might even be dead by now, for all she knew.
A hope stirred inside her, the first genuine feeling to penetrate the numbness she had wrapped herself in. James. Could it be possible that he had returned and somehow-
The hope was immediately dashed when the cell door opened to admit Jonathan. His sallow features were suffused with color, the flush in his cheeks appearing to be more than merely the result of the brisk autumn air. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
He clasped Phaedra’s hands between his own. “I have come to take you home, my dearest one.”
She regarded him dully, but Jonathan did not seem to notice her lack of response. He produced a cloak, which he wrapped about her shoulders, his fingers clumsy and trembling. “Come. Let me take you out of this dreadful place.”
Although she was not quite steady on her feet, Phaedra resisted his offers to carry her. When he escorted her through Bedlam’s main gallery, the scene that had once so horrified her no longer seemed real. All the slack mouths, the blank stares, the emaciated arms straining against chains, gesturing toward the visitors like performing monkeys-it was like gazing upon one of Hogarth’s disturbing sketches of London’s dark side. Phaedra remembered what Beida had said about Marie and experienced a brief surge of satisfaction. She was glad that Marie had escaped. Wherever the poor creature had gone, it would have to be better than remaining here.
Phaedra felt exhausted by the time they emerged into the street, and she permitted Jonathan to lift her into his waiting carriage. She sank back against the squabs. In the early days of her confinement at Bedlam, she had longed for nothing so much as the sight of the sky, the feel of the sun upon her face. Now she shrank from the light like a wounded animal.
As they rumbled away from Bedlam’s walls, Phaedra felt grateful for Jonathan’s silence. He had made no mention of the loss of her babe. But then, he had ever been a man of great sensitivity and consideration. He appeared content to sit opposite her, gazing at her with a feverish glow of happiness in his eyes. She wished she could demonstrate more thankfulness for his rescue, feel something besides this leaden despair that weighted her soul.
The progress of the carriage seemed painfully slow. After some time, Phaedra roused herself enough to glance out the window. Frowning, she realized the coach’s dilatory movement was owing to the fact they were heading into the city’s crush of traffic, not away from it.
“Jonathan, this is not the way to the Heath.”
“I know that. I am taking you to my home instead.” He could not quite meet her eyes. Phaedra thought she understood why.
“My grandfather died while I was in Bedlam. Didn’t he?” she asked.
“No.But there is nothing.more that can be done for him. It is you that need taking care of now, and I mean to do it-as I have always done.”
Phaedra started to voice a weary protest, but hesitated. The way Jonathan looked at her made her uneasy. Such a strange stare. And yet, the expression was somehow not unfamiliar to her.
He reached across to pat her hand. “You were never happy at the Heath. Sawyer was so wretchedly careless of you. So much evil in the world, and he never protected you. First Lord Ewan, then that Searle woman and-and worst of all, that cursed marquis.”
It disturbed Phaedra to hear Jonathan couple James with those other two, although she did not know what caused the shiver to course up her spine. Then the thought struck her. Ewan and Hester were dead. But James-
Somewhere in the numbness of her heart she felt the first knife stroke of fear. “Jonathan, have you heard some tidings of the marquis?”
“Aye, he is back in London,” came Jonathan’s indifferent reply.
Back! The knife stroke became a piercing stab. James had been in London, while she lay trapped in Bedlam, near death, losing their child.
“And he made no effort to come for me?” she faltered.”
“There is nothing to fear my dear. I am the only one who knows where you are.”
Jonathan’s calm statement raised inexplicable prickles of alarm along the back of her neck.
“Jonathan!” Her voice was sharp as she said his name. She tried to assure herself that as always he was just attempting in his muddled way to help. “I have to see Jam- I mean the marquis.”
“Eventually.” Jonathan caressed her fingers. “I will have him out to the house.”
Phaedra found nothing in Jonathan’s words or touch that was reassuring. Her fear grew steadily inside her, although she tried to quell it. Nothing was wrong. This was Jonathan, her quiet, solemn friend. He had been part of the background of her life forever, as solid and unthreatening as her desk or books.
And yet when he kissed her hand, the feel of his lips lingering upon her flesh caused her to shrink away from him. When the carriage was forced to halt because of the press of traffic, she inched toward the door.
“It is kind of you to want to care for me, Jonathan. But I need some time alone. I will take a hackney back to the Heath.”
She reached for the handle, but he was too quick for her. He caught her, pinning her back against the seat. Although weakened by her recent ordeal, Phaedra yet had no notion that Jonathan could be so strong. Her lips parted to cry out, but he pressed one hand over her mouth, fairly suffocating her.
“You must be quiet, my dear,” he soothed. “Too much excitement is bad for you and I will never let anything bad happen to you again.
Phaedra’s heart thudded as she felt the coach lurch into movement once more. Feeling too stunned to move or struggle, she stared up at Jonathan, past the tension of his fingers crushed against her face. How could she ever have been so blind? After all her weeks amongst the inmates of Bedlam, she should have recognized at once that look of madness roiling in her friend’s dark eyes.
Phaedra strove to maintain an outward semblance of calm as she was led through the silent house, guided by the inexorable pressure of Jonathan’s hand upon her elbow. Where was everyone? She saw no sign of any servants whom she had hoped would help her subdue Jonathan. She regretted not having appealed to the coachman or anyone in the street. But it was too late to correct that error in judgment now.
Jonathan gave her a nudge and forced her into a room of his house she had never seen before. Here the oil lamps were aglow even in the daytime, revealing a chamber far different from the austere decor of the rest of the house. In the center was a bed with a canopy and gauzy, delicate curtains. It looked like a fairy queen’s bower, all pristine white lace and ribbons with a pale blush of pink. A gilt dressing table was laid out with all that a feminine heart could desire-perfumes, ivory-handled fans, and a jewel box so laden with sparkling gems the lid did not quite close. Wardrobe doors had been left flung open to draw attention to a rainbow array of gowns.
Jonathan’s eyes were pathetically eager, like a child offering a bouquet of wildflowers. Phaedra rubbed her arms, averting her gaze so that he should not see how sick at heart she was. She noted the initials engraved on the silver handle of a brush with a flourishing scroll. P B.
The significance hit her with a jolt. P B Phaedra Burnell- what her monogram would be, if she were Jonathan’s bride. She gazed at the elaborate room, the work of many months of planning and dreams spun out in Jonathan’s mind, until the thread must have worn so thin it snapped.
She stared at her old friend with pitying eyes and fought the urge to sink down upon the bed and weep for him. She would be no use to either of them if she succumbed to hysterics.
He hovered far too close to her. “Do you like it?”
“It is beautiful,” she managed to choke.
“I have been arranging it all for over a year now.”
“But Jonathan,” she protested, “over a year ago, I was still wed to Ewan.”
His soft smile filled her with apprehension. “There was no difficulty about that. Ewan was ever reckless when he rode, cruel to his horses, cruel to everyone. After you told me what he had done to your books, I couldn’t let him torment you any longer. I had to do something.”
“But his death was an accident,” she said hoarsely.
“Not precisely, my dear. Oh, his death was his own fault. But I met him out upon his estate and suggested the direction in which we should ride. When we got to the stone wall, I simply had to rein in. He was so careless the way he took his jumps. The plow was ready and waiting. It was all his own doing.”
Jonathan spoke as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. Phaedra ran a hand over her eyes. This was a nightmare, and she couldn’t seem to wake.
“Everything would have been all right then.” Jonathan sighed and regarded her with mild reproach. “Except by that time, you had started that Robin Goodfellow business. I hated it. I knew it be only a matter of time before that old woman found you out.”
“Old woman? What old woman?” she asked.
“That Searle woman, of course. She was always prying. Dreadful creature. I told Sawyer never to employ her.”
But her grandfather had paid no heed. No one had ever paid heed to Jonathan, least of all herself. Perhaps, Phaedra thought sadly, that was what had reduced him to this. Feeling her legs ready to give out, she sank down upon the chair at the dressing table. Dreading what he might say next, she felt it far safer to keep him talking, clinging to the desperate hope that someone- perhaps one of Jonathan’s servants-might return to the house to help her.
“So Hester knew about my writing?” Phaedra was astonished that her voice could sound so calm. They might have been conversing over the tea table, as they had so many times before.
“Aye, Hester found your drafts, and she wanted money to keep silent. She knew better than to approach Sawyer, but being aware of my fondness for you, she came to me instead.”
Memory rushed back to Phaedra of Hester’s conversation in the garden that night, the unseen man. It had been Jonathan, and not James. Phaedra played with the ivory handle of a fan; the gesture, she hoped, would conceal how unnerved she was. “So then you planned to kill her, too?”
Jonathan looked hurt. “I didn’t plan it, Phaedra. I was very reasonable and paid her what she asked. But the wretch was too greedy. Even as I placed the money in her hands, she was already sniggering, saying this would do for a start. I knew I never would be able to trust her or rest easy again.
“We were alone in the kitchen the day of Sawyer’s fete. When she turned away from me, I had to do something to stop the greedy witch. There were logs stacked by the hearth. I snatched up one and struck her over the head.
“She was only unconscious. I knew I had to act quickly before anyone else returned to the house. I realized I had to make her death appear more like suicide or an accident. So I carried her up to the garret and thrust her body out the window.”
Phaedra tried not to tremble when Jonathan rested his hand upon her shoulder. “I felt so relieved when you gave up your writing. The worst part of it all was when those riots began and I overheard Jessym at the coffeehouse, threatening how he would expose Robin Goodfellow if he had to-to save his own miserable hide.”
The grim thought crossed Phaedra’s mind that Jessym was lucky to find himself still alive. It was a wonder that Jonathan hadn’t- Suddenly another realization clicked in place with painful clarity.
She stared up at Jonathan. “You! It was you who took my papers, forged grandfather’s seal, and gave them to Jessym.”
Her accusation agitated him. “Short of killing Jessym, there was nothing else I could do. I hated to shift the blame to Sawyer, but he is nothing next to your happiness. I would destroy anyone who threatened your safety.”
Phaedra leapt out of the chair and backed away from him. The vehemence in his words frightened her. She paced toward the window and shifted the curtain aside, hoping to find help in the streets below. But as she drew back the material, she found the glass boarded over, the wood covered with a landscape scene painted in pastels. She was as much a prisoner here as she had been in Bedlam—only now she had a madman for her gaoler. Phaedra clutched her hands together resisting the urge to beat futilely against the boards.
Jonathan stalked toward her, pleading, “Don’t turn away from me, Phaedra. You must see that I have done all this for your good. I never meant to hurt you. The most difficult thing of all was helping to rid you of that babe. “
Phaedra felt her face drain of all color. Jonathan!”
She cried out in protest, wanting an end to these horrible confessions, wanting this all to be a bad dream and Jonathan to transform back into her calm, dependable friend again.
“I thought the cold water of the pond would be enough. The shock should have made you miscarry. I knew you swam far too well to drown, and of course I was right there, to protect you.” He shook his head mournfully. “But it didn’t work. And then I was afraid that when you recovered, you would go back to Ireland, just as you had threatened to do. It was then that I thought it might be best to have you looked after, until this room was ready for you.”
Phaedra drew in a sharp breath as the final piece of this nightmare fell into place. Jonathan had often spoken about his patronage of various charities, and Sawyer Weylin had chaffed him about throwing away good money.
“Bedlam,” she murmured. “You are one of the patrons of Bedlam.”
“Indeed I am. I have always been most generous, so that it was not difficult to arrange your stay there. I kept praying that somehow you would yet miscarry by natural means. But in the end, to protect you from that sinful child, I had no choice but to put the tansy root into your stew.”
Phaedra bit down hard upon her knuckle, drawing blood. She ought to hate him, this madman who had destroyed her child. Yet she could fell nothing but horror at his twisted logic, his mind diseased past all healing.
She cowered back when he advanced upon her, but he only stroked her cheek. It was like a caress from the grave. Her friend Jonathan was dead, and now some demented stranger was using his gentle voice and soft eyes to terrify her.
“You must put everything behind you now, Phaedra. You are safe. No one will find you here.”
No, that couldn’t be true. James. Hadn’t Jonathan said earlier that James was looking for her? Her lashes swept down to conceal that hope, but with the cunning of madness, Jonathan seemed to read her mind.
“No one,” he repeated. “Not even the Marquis de Varnais. I will see to that.”
Phaedra could hardly speak for the fear strangling her. “What are you going to do?”
“You must not worry.” He brushed a kiss against her mouth, and she fought the urge to scrub her hand across her lips. “You must rest now, my dear. You are looking quite fatigued.”
As Jonathan turned to go, Phaedra had a wild impulse to dart past him, but she knew she would never make it to the door. She must remain calm. James’s life could depend upon it. Jonathan was clearly planning something, and James would not be on his guard against the gentle-seeming man-any more than Hester or Ewan had been.
She raced after Jonathan and caught his arm. “Jonathan. Let me help you to destroy the marquis.”
He patted her hand with an indulgent smile. “I could not do that. It would be far too distressful for you.”
“No, I hate him!” The shrillness of fear in her voice made her words sound genuine. “He seduced and abandoned me. I will never be happy unless you grant me this.”
Jonathan’s brow furrowed. Her heart plummeted in despair. She would never fool him. Then he nodded gravely and said, “Very well, my dear. I will come for you when it is time.”
“Jonathan,” she pleaded, but he was already leaving, locking the door behind him.
Phaedra could no longer keep her frenzy at bay. She rattled the handle, but quickly realized the futility of it. Racing over to the window, she pounded against the wood, then attempted to pry free the boards. Hopeless. Jonathan had obviously taken care to leave nothing in the chamber-not even fire irons-that she could use to smash her way to freedom.
Phaedra spun away from the boarded-up window and began rummaging through the drawers of the dressing table. Surely she could at least find a hairpin and attempt to pick the lock on the door. But it seemed Jonathan had even considered that possibility, for her search turned up nothing.
He had done a most thorough job of sealing her off from the world. There was no way out, no one to hear her. Her only choice was to wait-if she could keep from going mad herself before Jonathan returned. What if he changed his mind and simply went ahead and- She refused to consider that grim possibility.
Instead she spent her time in the useless pursuit of examining the past, entertaining guilt-ridden thoughts of how much she had had to do with Jonathan’s broken mind. Had she given him the wrong impression when she had risked her life to nurse him through the pox? Had she been too kind to him over the years, or not kind enough? Would it have made it better or worse if she had-
Phaedra sank her head between her hands. She did not see how it could possibly be any worse. The time dragged by until she wanted to scream. She had no notion of how many hours passed before the click of the lock announced Jonathan’s return.
As Phaedra raised her head to look at him, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face was ghostly pale, her hair wildly disheveled. Jonathan, by comparison, looked perfectly ordinary, his neckcloth arranged somberly, his demeanor calm. Anyone might be forgiven for supposing that she was the mad one.
“It is time, my dear,” Jonathan said solemnly. He extended his arm in a courtly gesture to escort her downstairs. Phaedra wanted to shrink from him, but her recent terrors had left her so light-headed that she was obliged to accept Jonathan’s support.
He led her to the small parlor below. The rest of the house was dark and silent, but here a small fire glowed on the hearth. The candles were ordered in such grim array that the room had a funereal look.
“The marquis will be here soon,” Jonathan said. “I told him I had tidings of you.”
Phaedra concealed her alarm. She could not formulate her own plans until she knew what Jonathan meant to do. He drew her over to the sideboard and indicated a large crystal pitcher, filled with what appeared to be water.
“Pure vitriolic acid,” he said. “I have diluted a small portion and added it to this.”
Jonathan held aloft a full wine decanter for her inspection. “Rascally merchants do it all the time to improve the body and color of inferior products. I have added far more than is safe. His lordship will seem to have perished from drinking badly adulterated wine.”
Phaedra’s gaze flicked with horror to the crystal decanter. The burgundy liquid sparkled a rich red. Never had death been put in a more inviting form.
Jonathan arranged the decanter and the glasses neatly upon the tea table, then tugged her by the hand. “You will wait in the next room behind the door. You can see everything from there. You shall have your vengeance soon. Phaedra.”
His eyes glazed over as he said, “It will be a most hideous painful death, but no more than the marquis deserves. Then nothing will stand between us, my love.”
As Jonathan bent to kiss her cheek, Phaedra could no longer conceal her revulsion. She felt relieved when he permitted her to slip past him into the dining room. She hoped he would close the door; then she might be able to escape through one of the long windows and warn James before he reached the house. But whether Jonathan simply reveled in gazing upon her or he did not yet completely trust her, Phaedra was unsure. Whatever his reason, he kept her within sight during the strained half-hour of waiting that followed.
She started when finally there came a thundering summons at the front door. Jonathan’s features suffused with an expression of suppressed excitement as he held one finger to his lips. Warning Phaedra to remain silent, he closed her in the dining room. She could hear his footfalls fade as he stalked toward the front door.
Phaedra whirled about frantically, but she knew it was already too late. By the time she escaped through one of the windows and raced around to the front, James would be inside the house. Indeed she could already hear Jonathan returning. Cautiously, Phaedra inched open the door and peered into the parlor.
Jonathan addressed a shadowy figure beyond his shoulder. “Come and warm yourself at the fire. I will fetch you a glass of wine.”
James swept in, impatiently stripping off his gloves. Phaedra’s heart constricted with a mingling of joy and fear at the sight of the familiar hard angles of his face, the waves of dark hair, the cool blue eyes that were so blessedly sane.
With a choked cry, she flung open the salon door and ran to him. She had but a glimpse of his astonishment as she hurled herself into his arms.
“Phaedra, thank God,” he said. “I have been going out of my mind searching for you.”
She sagged against him, gasping out words that were barely comprehensible. “James, take care. Jonathan, he’s mad. He?—”
But James was given no chance to make sense of her words before Jonathan’s mournful tones broke in. “You shouldn’t have done that, Phaedra. You have made it all so much more difficult.”
Without releasing her, James turned and she felt him tense. Phaedra looked around in time to see Jonathan unsheathe a sword, the tip as lethal as the fanatical light in Jonathan’s eyes.
With incredible calm, James eased Phaedra away from him. He reasoned gently, “You’d best put that down, Mr. Burnell.”
Jonathan advanced, his eyes blazing. Phaedra knew he would try to run James through where he stood. She flung her body protectively in front of James.
James hurled her aside, growling in her ear, “Run!”
A split-second later, Jonathan thrust at him, but James was too quick. He sidestepped the blow, recovered and backed toward the mantel. Phaedra watched, terrified. Why didn’t James draw his own weapon? Her gaze flicked to where his sword should have been, the sickening realization sweeping over her. He was unarmed.
She leapt at Jonathan, catching at his arm. He shoved her roughly and knocked her into the tea table. She fell,.bringing the table down with her. The glasses shattered and the poisoned wine stained the carpet blood-red.
James was forced farther back as Jonathan came at him, brandishing the sword. “Villain!” Jonathan shrieked. “You hurt Phaedra once, but you’ll never touch her again. I will protect her as I always have done.”
He lunged wildly, but James again eluded him. As Phaedra struggled to her feet, she saw that James had managed to move away from the fireplace into the center of the room.
“Easy, Jonathan,” he soothed. “I have no intention of hurting Phaedra.”
“Liar! You have come to snatch her away from me.” Jonathan lunged again, this time catching the end of James’s cloak with the sword. James dove toward the sideboard. In desperation, he snatched up the thick crystal pitcher and dashed its contents over Jonathan’s face.
Letting out an inhuman scream, Jonathan dropped the sword. He clutched madly at his eyes and fell to his knees, writhing in torment.
“Wh-What?” James glanced toward Phaedra, his eyes clouded with confusion.
“Acid,” Phaedra cried, pointing to the pitcher James still held in his hand. “It was acid.”
With a savage oath, James flung the pitcher aside. He leaped at Jonathan and pinned him to the ground, trying to restrain the older man from tearing at his own flesh.
“Water! Fetch water!” James commanded. When Phaedra stood frozen in horror, he bellowed, “Move!”
She bolted from the room.
Hours later the parlor yet bore signs of the struggle. The poisoned wine had left a large red stain on the rug, and no one had bothered to upright the tea table. James perched upon the edge of the settee. He buried his face in his hands as they waited for some word from the bedchamber upstairs, where the doctor was attending Jonathan.
Phaedra crowded close to James, curling one arm about his rigid shoulders. The room was silent, except for the fire crackling upon the hearth.
“Blind,” James muttered at last. “He’s going to be God-cursed blind.”
Phaedra stroked back the dark strands of hair that fell across his brow. “It was not your fault. You had no way of knowing. It was Jonathan himself who placed the acid in that pitcher. He meant to kill you.”
“The poor bastard was mad. I only wanted to stop him, not maim him in such horrible fashion. He’d be better off dead.”
James pulled away from her. He rose to his feet, rejecting her efforts at consolation.
A lump formed in Phaedra’s throat as she stared at him. This was the man she had once thought of as cold-blooded. But a lack of feeling had never been James’s problem. The man felt far too much.
When a sound came from the hall beyond, both she and James tensed, anticipating the return of the doctor.
“Jamey-boy?” someone called, in a lilting Irish accent. The parlor door opened, and a tousled head of dark curls poked inside the room. “Lethington? Where the deuce have you been, man? I’ve been waiting forever.”
Gilly halted abruptly as his gaze fell upon Phaedra. “Fae!” He bounded into the room with a joy-filled cry and swept her up into his arms. His roguish green eyes moistened as he choked, “Damn it, Fae. I thought you’d been carried off by the banshee this time for sure.”
She started to assure him she was very much alive when he gave her an angry shake. “What the devil do you mean vanishing that way, frightening the life out of everyone? Where have you been?”
Phaedra drew back, wiping away her own tears. “It is a long story,” she said. And she wasn’t sure she would ever have the heart to tell it all.
Gilly’s eyes darted shrewdly from her to James’s haggard face. Her cousin uprighted the overturned tea table. “What in blazes has been happening here? Where’s Jonathan?”
But he didn’t wait for an answer, shrugging. “I suppose it will keep for a few more minutes. I have to fetch Julianna in from the carriage.”
“Julianna!” Phaedra exclaimed. Still shaken by the terrible events of the past few hours, she had forgotten to inquire about James’s mission to find his sister. But before she could say anything more, James glowered at Gilly.
“Why the devil did you bring her here?”
“I could not be after leaving her alone, could I? What with you haring off and not sending me a blessed word.”
James silenced his complaint with an impatient gesture. “I suppose you’d best bring her in,”
As Gilly left the room, Phaedra turned to James. “So you did find her. How was ... I mean, how is Julianna?”
“You will see for yourself in a moment.”
The anguish in his voice told Phaedra all she needed to know. Dread clutched at her as she awaited Gilly’s return.
When he stepped back into the parlor, a timid wraith of a girl clung to his arm, her blond hair and wan face all but swallowed up by the hood of her cape.
Phaedra’s greeting died upon her lips. She blinked and stared as though seeing a ghost.
“Fae,” Gilly said solemnly, “may I present Miss Julianna Lethington.”
But Phaedra swept past her startled cousin to ease back the hood to peer closer at young woman. She regarded Phaedra with vacant blue eyes, an uncertain smile trembling upon her lips.
“Dear God,” Phaedra breathed. “Marie.”