Five
P rudence dictated that Phaedra not intrude upon her grandfather but wait for the old tyrant to summon her. He was undoubtedly in the midst of his levee, that morning ritual where toadeaters and place-seekers gathered to dance attendance upon a great man while he dressed, to admire his taste, to discuss business, to beg for favors. Sawyer Weylin would not be pleased if she burst in upon him while he entertained his sycophants, especially if she came demanding explanations regarding the Marquis de Varnais.
But prudence had never governed Phaedra’s relationship with Sawyer Weylin. She had been at loggerheads with her grandfather ever since she had set foot off the packet from Ireland. She sensed that Varnais’s presence in the house would do little to change that. Very likely the marquis would make matters worse.
Consequently, she resolved to see her grandfather at once. She had Lucy help her into a pink silk gown, then she seated herself before her dressing table, while her maid drew part of Phaedra’s thick hair into an old-fashioned topknot.
The surface of Phaedra’s dressing table was cluttered with all the feminine accoutrements any woman could desire. Sawyer Weylin had grudged no expense to make his granddaughter appear quite the grand lady. But to her, the silver-handled brushes, the perfumed pastilles, and the gilt-edged mirror were all impersonal ostentation. Phaedra’s own touches were mixed in-a cup of wilting violets, a copy of The Rights of Man open to the last page she had read and a porcelain statue.
As Lucy applied the crimping iron, coaxing Phaedra’s hair into loose-flowing curls, Phaedra picked up the figurine-a diminutive shepherdess with rose-flushed cheeks and wistful blue eyes. She had found the statue long ago, buried behind the ancient bookcase in the garret. Obviously of no value to anyone else, the shepherdess had enchanted Phaedra. Somehow the sculptor had managed to make the porcelain come alive. Phaedra almost expected the dainty bare feet to step forward, the small white hand curving round the shepherd’s crook to move, the waist-length cascade of golden hair to stir with the wind.
Lost in contemplation of this small treasure, it took Phaedra several seconds to realize Lucy had finished with her hair. Sighing, Phaedra restored the figurine to its place on the table. Taking one last glance at herself in the mirror, she set off to do battle with her grandfather.
Her petticoats rustling in time to her militant step, Phaedra stalked toward the second-story landing. Twin staircases of polished marble curved down to the floor below. Running her hand along the delicately wrought gilt railing, Phaedra descended into what she termed her grandfather’s chamber of horrors.
The towering walls of the entrance hall were of a deliberate bleakness, rough stone fancifully designed to imitate the interior of an ancient castle. Shields splashed with heraldic devices hung willy-nilly amidst a collection of medieval weaponry. Broadswords, poleaxes, cinquedea daggers, and halberds with wicked sharp-curving hooks now cheerfully jumbled together, bore mute testimony to centuries of mayhem.
If nothing else, however, the gloom-ridden hall provided an excellent setting for Hester Searle. Phaedra saw that the housekeeper had cornered the cook’s two small children by one of the suits of armor. Phaedra paused at the foot of the stairs, clenching her jaw. Blast the woman. She was at it again, indulging in another of her favorite malicious pastimes, terrorizing poor Matthew and Jeannie. The little ones cowered in the shadow of what must have seemed like a great metal giant in their eyes. But surely no more terrifying than Madam Hester herself, who crooked one finger gleefully toward the morning-star mace suspended in the armored figure’s iron-gauntleted fist.
“And that was the very weapon, my dears, that old Lethe used to dash out the brains of Lord Ewan’s father.”
Jeannie squeaked, clutching her brother and burying her face against his chubby arm. Although Matthew tried to pretend he was not afraid, his eyes were as round as those of his small sister.
Phaedra stormed down the length of the hall to put a stop to the gruesome tale, but Hester had already reached her climax. Raising up both arms so that she resembled some black-winged bird of prey, she said, “But they caught that wicked murderer and hung him until his face turned blue with choking. So take care, young’uns. They still say old Lethe rises from his grave at midnight to carry off all bad children.”
“Hold your tongue, you wretched woman!” Phaedra cried, but her intervention came too late. With a frightened squeal, Matthew and Jeannie plunged past her skirts, sobbing as they ran to seek their mamma. They would have nightmares for a week, thought Phaedra as she fought down a strong urge to slap the housekeeper.
“Curse you! I told you I will not tolerate your frightening the children with your horrid tales.”
Hester folded her hands demurely in front of her. “But milady, the murder is part of the history of this house. The little ‘uns find it fascinating-as ye would yerself if ye would ever permit me tell you all about it.” Hester smiled, lowering her voice to a soft purr. “The foul deed took place the year before ye came here to be Lord Grantham’s bride. Arranging the details of your marriage contract, they was, Mr. Weylin, and Master Ewan’s papa, Lord Carleton?—”
“I am not interested.”
“The servants had been given a holiday. All alone in the house were Mr. Sawyer and Lord Carleton or so they fancied.”
“Be quiet!” Phaedra snapped. She could barely restrain a shudder as she glanced at the heavy mace’s pointed spikes. She had no need of Hester’s embellishments to imagine what such a weapon might do to a man’s skull. “Keep your ghoulish tale for those as have a taste for such things. I’d best not ever see you frightening Matthew and Jeannie.”
“Oh, aye, yer ladyship,” Hester smirked, dipping into a stiff-kneed curtsy. “You shan’t catch me at it again.”
Phaedra spun on her heel and walked away before she was tempted to use the mace to perform its second murder. When she reached the doors leading to the anteroom, Hester called out, “Go right in, yer ladyship. I’ll wager Master Weylin be powerful eager to see you.”
Phaedra ground her teeth but pretended that she had not heard the woman’s taunting words. Not waiting for one of the footmen to bow her inside, Phaedra flung open one of the doors and stepped inside the lofty chamber, all gold and cream, the rococo plasterwork of scrolls and twisting leaves as elegant as a king’s stateroom. The anteroom was sparsely furnished, with a few uninviting splat-back chairs. Sawyer Weylin did not like anyone to be too comfortable while awaiting his pleasure.
Most of the men crowded into the anteroom preferred to stand. Since her grandfather had managed to obtain a seat in parliament, his levees seemed more popular than ever. Phaedra pressed forward a few steps and was obliged to flatten herself against the wall as two footmen brushed past her, dragging a man from the room. The haggard-looking individual bore not much chance in his struggle against her grandfather’s burly servants, the young man’s limbs like thin sticks protruding from his shabby second-hand garb.
“Stop your carryings on,” one of the footmen growled. “The master does not receive slum rats like you here.”
“I have to see him,” the man sobbed. “I have to have my wages. My wife and child are ill—” The rest of his protest was lost as Weylin’s servants dragged him out of the room.
“John,” Phaedra attempted to call after the footman, to see what the trouble was, but the minute she spoke, she found herself surrounded. She could not see past the tops of white-powdered wigs bending over her. Masculine voices importuned her on all sides.
“Lady Grantham, a moment of your time. I hear your grandfather is seeking an architect after the style of Adam. I know of just such a fellow.”
“Your ladyship, your grandfather promised to get my son a post in the customs office.”
“Please, Mr. Weylin’s not receiving anyone this morning. If you could put in a word?—”
“Gentlemen, please.” Phaedra raised one hand, attempting to ward them all off, refraining from telling the last poor fool who spoke that a word from her would surely condemn his cause.
When her grandfather refused to allow anyone into his private dressing room, Phaedra knew, he was usually in a vile humor. Otherwise, a privileged few were generally permitted into that inner sanctum, to wheedle and flatter while the old man donned his wig. Phaedra elbowed her way out of the circle of anxious place-seekers and tradesmen, squaring her shoulders for the battle to come.
Slipping through the door at the end of the anteroom, she shut it firmly in the faces of the disappointed throng. Although designated as a dressing room, this inner chamber was fully as large and ostentatious as the anteroom, with gilt chairs placed as though for a performance. But the chief actor was obviously in too surly a humor to ring up the curtain today.
One gout-ridden foot propped up on a pile of feather-tic pillows, Sawyer Weylin shifted his not inconsiderable bulk upon cushions of Italian velvet, resting his large-knuckled hands along arm rails carved into the shape of snarling lions. The chair resembled a throne that might have been found in the palace of the Venetian Doges. Her grandfather could easily have passed for an Italian despot, with his impressive jowls, his heavy-lidded eyes, and a powdering jacket drawn about his bull-like neck.
He took no note of Phaedra’s entrance, his features florid with a rage directed at the barber trembling before him.
The man timidly held up a gray bagwig. “I assure you, sir, ‘tis designed in the latest fashion.”
“Bah! I can’t abide gray.” Weylin slapped his own bald pate.”Think that I shaved off the remnants of my own hair for you to trick me out like some old woman. And charge me thirty guineas into the bargain.”
“The price is more than fair, and gray is most becoming to you. Surely my lady agrees.”
The barber’s remark and his hopeful glance at Phaedra alerted her grandfather to her presence. He twisted round upon his throne as far as his size would allow him, and glared.
Phaedra curtsied. “Good morrow, Grandfather.”
“Good morrow is it?” Weylin roared. “Disobedient chit. Get over here and account for yourself at once. What d’ye mean—” He broke off to snarl at the barber. “Don’t stand there gawking. Be on your way, rascal.”
“But your wig, sir- “
Weylin snatched it from him. “Be off with you and send me the reckoning. Fifteen guineas, mind you, and not a penny more.”
“Sir!” The man’s wail turned into a gasp as Sawyer Weylin groped for his gold-tipped cane, poking it at the man. As the barber scrambled for the door, her grandfather managed to deliver a well-placed thrust at the man’s plump buttocks. Weylin grunted in satisfaction before turning to rail at Phaedra.
“Stap me, if I ain’t beset upon all sides by highwaymen and robbers. There’s not an honest tradesmen left in all of London.” Weylin jammed the wig upon his head.
“Now, missy, over here!” He tapped a spot near his chair with the cane. “What d’ye mean by sneaking back from Bath, filling my house with Irish papists? Searle told me you received that rascal cousin of yours. I won’t have it! Foreign villains creeping about under my roof.”
Phaedra gasped with indignation. “You’re a fine one to talk about foreign villains. What about your French friend ensconced in Ewan’s room? I daresay he is as Catholic as Gilly.”
“I’d trust a Frenchman a deal further than I would an Irish or a Scots. At least Armande is not a pauper.”
“I’ll wager you have no notion who the marquis might be, any more than anyone else does.” Phaedra advanced upon her grandfather. Ignoring the manner in which his chin quivered with anger, she proceeded to straighten his wig, which looked ridiculously askew. The old man thrust her aside.
“And so you’ve already presented yourself to the marquis, looking like a raggle-taggle gypsy, I suppose.” He jerked on one of her red curls. “Od’s lights, girl, why can’t you ever powder that carroty hair of yours? ‘Tis damned hard upon a man’s eyes this hour of the day.”
“We have more important matters to discuss than my hair.” Phaedra flicked her tresses out of his reach.
“So we have. Why the deuce you couldn’t stay put in Bath until I sent for you? You’ve likely ruined everything.”
Phaedra started to snap out her reason for returning to London, but her grandfather’s last remark brought her up short. What did he mean, she’d ruined everything? Before she could question him, the old man gasped a flood of curses as the pillows shifted out from under his leg, jarring his gouty foot.
“Damnation. God curse it!”
Phaedra bent down to rearrange the pillows beneath the limb, which was swathed in a linen bandage. “Stop thumping about like that. You are only making it worse.” She wondered when the stubborn old man had last been seen by his physician.
When she’d managed to ease the foot into a more comfortable position, Weylin sagged back in his chair, mopping at his sweating brow with a large handkerchief.
“Ah, that’s better.” He glanced down at Phaedra with a look approaching fondness. “Foolish, headstrong girl. If only you knew how I have your best interests at heart.”
The layers of flesh on his face crinkled, his lips stretching into a bland smile, revealing a row of even white teeth, remarkably unblemished for a man of his years. He was inordinately proud of them.
Her fingers still curled about a pillow, Phaedra stared up at him, her mouth hardening into a line of suspicion. It struck her that something was wrong here. She had expected her grandfather to be furious at her unannounced return from Bath. Despite his grousing, she had the feeling he was not altogether displeased to have her back. Smiling down at her, Sawyer reminded her of a fat, lazy crocodile, sunning itself on the banks of a river. But Phaedra had seen too many fools snapped up in her grandfather’s jaws to be taken in.
“What did you mean a moment ago,” she demanded, “when you said I’d ruined everything?”
“Only that I’d hoped eventually to present you to Armande in style, once I’d brought him around to the notion.”
“Notion? What notion?”
“Of marrying you, you dunderhead. D’you want to be a widow the rest of your days?”
Her grandfather’s words struck her like the blunt end of a cudgel. Phaedra scrambled to her feet. “Good Lord! You could not be possibly thinking that I and-and Armande de LeCroix?—”
“And why not? He’s a marquis, m’girl, with money. That makes him as good as a duke in my books.”
“You don’t even know this man. He’s dangerous, secretive, and ruthless.”
“Hah! So he is.” Weylin seemed pleased by her description. “A much more likely specimen than that milksop Grantham.”
Phaedra forebore to remind her grandfather that it had been he who had schemed to make Ewan her husband. Weylin’s fascination with nobility and titles bordered on madness. It had been the chief reason he had delivered her into Ewan’s bed, for her grandfather had felt nothing but contempt for her late husband. But this time Sawyer Weylin’s obsession for raising his family into the ranks of the aristocracy had taken a far more dangerous turn.
“By God,” she said, “I think you would drive me into the arms of the devil himself if he had a patent of nobility.”
“So I would,” the old man growled.
“I greatly fear this devil has other plans, Grandfather. He could be an impostor for all you know of him. I find certain aspects of his behavior most odd. Only just this morning, he?—”
Her grandfather smacked his cane against the floor, his jowls trembling with outrage. “D’you take me for an old fool, girl? I’ve been spotting sharpers since before you were born, aye, before your own father was breeched. I guess I would know whether or not this marquis is the genuine article. “
“It scarce matters if he is. Ewan was bad enough. I will not be caught up in your marriage schemes a second time.”
“You’ll do as I bid you.” Weylin expelled his breath in a snort. “You can scarce afford to be particular, my fine lady. Thanks to your witless father.” Her grandfather’s face darkened with that bitter expression he always wore when speaking of his only son. He launched into what to Phaedra was an all-too-familiar and hated refrain.
“Never knew how I came to sire such a cursed ungrateful dolt. Good for nothing but poking his nose in a parcel of Greek books, dying too young with nothing to show for his life but a pert daughter with red hair and a heathen name. But that’s what comes of running off to a godforsaken land like Ireland to wed some slut.”
“You will not speak of my mother like that!” Phaedra warned.
“A poor papist slut,” Weylin repeated with an ugly sneer. She winced as he dug the tip of his cane into her ribs for emphasis. “The witling couldn’t even find one with money.”
Phaedra rubbed her side, eyeing him with loathing. At times like this, she hated her grandfather. “My mother was a lady born. Of far better breeding than a coarse old man who smells of gin.” Weylin’s features suffused with an alarming purple. He raised up his cane and for one moment Phaedra thought he meant to strike her with it. She glared back, defying him.
He abruptly yanked his gout-ridden foot off the cushions. As his face contorted with pain, he managed to lean upon the cane and struggle to his feet.
“It was gin and small beer that put this fancy roof over your head, missy,” he panted when he could get his breath. “And you’d best learn more respect if you wish to remain here.”
“I don’t,” she cried. “I’ll take passage on the next boat crossing the Irish Sea.”
“And good riddance to you, you baggage.” Shoving her aside with one thick hand, he huffed past her. “Go back amongst your savage Irish relations and rot there.”
“It might interest you to know, Grandfather, that most of those savage Irish relations despise me as much as you do, now that my mother is dead. Only they hate me for being English.”
“Then hold your tongue, girl, if you don’t want me to toss you out.” Weylin paused long enough to shake his cane at her. “Cease your nonsense about Armande. You dress like a grand lady and do the pretty by him. If you let him slip between your fingers, I’ll send you packing for good this time. Back to Ireland, or to hell, it’ll make no odds to me.”
The door reverberated upon its hinges as he flung it open. Phaedra caught a brief glimpse of the bewigged men in the next chamber scattering before him like a flock of frightened sheep.
“Where’s that damned barber? Does the dolt think I can powder this wig myself?” The roar faded as the door slammed behind him, leaving Phaedra alone in the dressing room.
“I hope he powders you until you choke, you old fool,” Phaedra muttered. She might have known it was useless to try talking reasonably with Sawyer Weylin. Both of them were quick-tempered and opinionated; and Phaedra had realized long ago that they took a perverse pleasure in vexing one another. But this latest notion of Weylin’s went far beyond mere vexation.
Don’t let the marquis slip through your fingers, he had warned.
“That’s rich, upon my word,” Phaedra said, an angry laugh escaping her. What an amusing command regarding a man who was as elusive as a puff of mist.
Her grandfather’s ambitions had rendered him blind. It was obvious he gave no credence to her fears regarding Armande, not with such absurd marriage schemes forming in his head. She had to tip her hat to the marquis. In an amazingly short time, he had managed to overcome Weylin’s prejudice against foreigners and wangle his way into the shrewd old man’s confidence and regard. These were things that she, his flesh and blood, had not managed in six years.
Phaedra sank down upon Weylin’s empty chair. What was she going to do now? Simply wait and see what happened? Wait to find out whose instincts regarding the marquis were correct, hers or her grandfather’s? She had little patience for waiting, especially if it would involve long, hot nights, knowing she was separated from a most dangerous man by only a locked door.
Phaedra touched one fingertip to her lips, recalling how perilously close she had come to responding to her enemy’s kiss. She was beset by a sudden fear that one night it might be she who unlocked that door, a fragile white moth fluttering toward the flame.
No, she would be no man’s victim again. Maybe her wisest course would be to flee back to Bath as Armande had bade her. But she had never fled from any man, neither Ewan and his cruelties nor her grandfather and all his bullying ways. If anyone was driven off, it would not be she. Her only choice was to remain and solve the enigma that was Armande de LeCroix.
She would begin by coaxing Gilly into helping her, setting her cousin to spy upon the marquis, perhaps find out what he kept locked in that small chest. And then there was the matter of Armande’s strange reaction to the cloak. If Gilly could but make a few discreet inquiries into his background. They must be very discreet inquiries, for if Armande ever guessed what she was doing ...
Her mind clouded with the memory of his ice-blue eyes, the well-formed mouth that could be warm and enticing, or cruel when twisted into a menacing smile as he warned her not to cross swords with him. She shivered.
It was dangerous, what she meant to ask Gilly to do, but more dangerous still to go on fencing in the dark.