Seven
P haedra pressed her hand to her mouth. Her stomach gave a lurch as the click of the hammer being pulled back. She caught her breath, anticipating the loud report of the pistol. But endless seconds ticked by and the only sound was the strange man’s ragged breathing as he continued to hold her grandfather at gun point. Phaedra was aware that Mrs. Shelton had crumpled to the floor in a dead faint; but the other guests sat frozen, their faces presenting a tableau of shock and horror. The only two in the room whose composure appeared unaffected were her grandfather and the marquis. Sawyer glowered up at the man who threatened him.”I told you before, Wilkins. I don’t receive workmen in my home.”
“I only come for what’s rightfully owed me.” Wilkins jerked the pistol closer to her grandfather’s face.
Phaedra could endure no more. She took a half-step forward, not quite clear even in her own mind what she meant to do. Armande seized her arm in an iron grip.
“Be still, you little fool,” he said in low, level tones. “Can you not see how that fellow’s hands are shaking?”
She halted, noting that Armande was correct. Wilkin’s hands trembled as though he were afflicted with palsy. The jerking movement could set off the pistol at any moment.
Yet her grandfather calmly reached for his wineglass. “I don’t owe you anything,” he said.
“My wages, damn you!” Wilkins cried.
“Your wages, villain, went to pay what was owing at the tavern-as was agreed.”
“Not by me. I am not a slave, to be thus bought and sold.” Weylin sloshed his wine about the bottom of his glass. “Any man is a slave who cannot control his drinking habits.”
Phaedra gripped the back of one of the chairs. Was her grandfather mad to bandy words so? Could he not see that this man was nigh-crazed? Her heart hammering, she noticed Armande inching closer to Wilkins.
The man dashed the back of one torn sleeve across his eyes. “I made a mistake once, but I have not touched a drop since. I am begging you. At least, let me keep half the money. My-my babe died today, and I’m like to lose my wife as well. She’s dying of hunger, starving while you?—”
His wild-eyed gaze flicked to the linen tablecloth littered with cake crumbs and the remnants of the rich desserts.
Her grandfather shrugged his beefy shoulders. He snapped his fingers at the footman. “John, clear away the rest of these scraps. Whatever is left give them to this beggar.”
The sound that erupted from Wilkin’s throat sounded like nothing human. Phaedra read her grandfather’s death in the man’s eyes.
“No!” Her outcry was lost in what happened next. She was never sure how Armande had moved so fast. He struck Wilkin’s hand upward. The pistol erupted with a deafening roar and a flash of blue fire.
As the acrid haze of smoke cleared, Phaedra cried out with relief to see her grandfather unharmed.John shoved past Phaedra, the burly footman diving for Wilkins and wrestling him to the ground. Amidst the screams of the women and the chaos of chairs overturning, Sir Norris leaped in eagerly to help. Although Wilkins struggled with the strength of a madman, he was quickly overwhelmed.
He collapsed, blood streaming from his nose. Sir Norris drew back his fist to hit the unconscious man again, but Armande seized Byram’s wrist.
“Enough,” the marquis commanded. Byram’s face darkened, and Phaedra thought he meant to turn his fists upon Armande. But he thought better of it, pulling away from the marquis. Armande’s breath came a little more rapidly than normal, but it was the only sign that he had been in any way affected by the violence.
Now that the danger was past, Phaedra’s knees shook, ready to give out beneath her. Somehow she managed to get herself to the opposite side of the dining room. In a gesture that surprised her as much as it did Weylin, she flung her arms about his neck.
“Grandpapa! Are you truly unharmed?”
“‘Course I am. Don’t be an idiot, girl,” Weylin said gruffly. He pushed her away, leaving her feeling foolish. Her concern vanished, replaced with anger.
“Me an idiot! You who all but begged that madman to shoot you. How could you taunt him so!”
Weylin struggled to his feet and regarded the powder-blackened hole in the wallpaper just beyond his head. Then he stumped round to gaze down at the inert Wilkins.
“I doubted the cowardly knave even had the pistol loaded.” His voice was a mixture of grudging admiration and contempt. “Well, cart the villain out of here.”
John and the other footmen moved to obey, all attempting to make excuses for allowing Wilkins to gain entry. But her grandfather cut short their efforts to blame each other. “Just tie the blackguard up, and see him delivered to Newgate. I will lodge my complaint in the morning.”
John hefted Wilkins over his shoulder. The man’s limbs hung down limp as a bundle of rags, his face smeared with blood. The man had just attempted to murder her grandfather, and yet Phaedra could not restrain a murmur of pity. “Maybe we should summon a doctor.”
Her grandfather shot her a look of scorn. “Waste of effort, m’dear, for someone already marked for the hangman’s noose.”
The other guests nodded approval as John carried Wilkins from the room. He was obliged to edge his way through the crowd of frightened servants who had gathered just beyond the door.
“Here now, you lot. Back to your work,” John growled, full of self-importance as he struggled to balance his grim burden. “Nothing happening here that’s of any concern to you.”
In the disorder that followed, Phaedra wondered if it was only she who noticed Armande slip out quietly after John. But she had little time to speculate on where he was going.
Mrs. Shelton claimed all of her attention. The woman had recovered enough to be propped up in a chair, but she moaned while Mrs. Byng fanned her. Phaedra moved to fetch Mrs. Shelton a glass of water, but her grandfather snorted.
“You’ll be wanting something stronger than that, m’girl.” He rang for a decanter of brandy, all the while giving the gentlemen present a broad wink. “We men don’t fret ourselves over such trifles, but the ladies might fancy a small drop.”
The laughter that this produced seemed to relieve much of the tension. Few of the guests resumed their seats, instead mingling in small groups discussing the incident. Many of the men were loud in their protestations, describing exactly what they had been about to do with Wilkins before the marquis interfered.
Phaedra’s lip curled with scorn. The fools all had plenty to say, but no one thought to voice the question that most needed asking. She rounded upon her grandfather and demanded, “And who exactly is this Mr. Wilkins, Grandfather? Why did he want to kill you?”
Weylin sloshed down a mouthful of brandy, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed. “A carpenter, hired to do work at the properties I own at the east end. My mistake. The sort of rascal one can expect to deal with when buying carcasses.”
There was a chorus of solemn assent from most of the others. Even Arthur Danby seemed to know what her grandfather meant.
“Buying carcasses? I don’t understand,” Phaedra said, frowning from one face to another, waiting for an explanation.
“It refers to the practice of hiring labor from taverns, my lady,” Armande answered her.
Phaedra whipped around. She had not even heard the marquis return to the dining room. He stood just inside the door, neatening the lace at his wrists. “The proprietor of a tavern sells the service of a customer to cover the cost of his drinking debts. All money earned for the work goes straight to the tavern until the reckoning is paid.”
Phaedra turned reproachful eyes upon Weylin. “But Grandfather! Wilkins said he and his family were starving. What did you expect them to live on?”
“It is not my problem, missy. I never forced the man to go swilling himself that deep into debt.”
“ Oui , the poorer classes are such weak-willed wretches,” Armande said. “They only have to enter the taverns to collect their wages-nobody is forcing them to drink. The tapsters are ready to ply them with a glass-the credit is so easy to obtain, and they have not the strength to resist.”
Armande’s ironic tone was entirely lost upon her grandfather.
Weylin nodded his head in vigorous agreement. “Weak-willed indeed. Why, I once both distilled gin and ran a brewery. Yet I never had any problem remaining temperate. “
Arthur Danby hiccuped. “I’m a four bottle man, m’self.”
On this absurd note, the discussion of the unfortunate Wilkins ended. Though the others seemed able to forget the man, Phaedra could not. She feared her sleep tonight would be haunted by the memory of Wilkins’s wild-eyed despair. There was no doubt in her mind of what fate awaited him. Her grandfather would see to it that Wilkins suffered the full penalty of the law for this night’s work. There was little enough she could do to help him, but she might be able to do something for Wilkins’s poor wife if she could find the woman. Phaedra thought wistfully of parting with her small hoard of golden guineas, then shrugged. So Robin Goodfellow might be obliged to waste a bit more ink before Phaedra Grantham could declare her independence from tyranny. It had taken the Americans years to do so. Surely she could endure a bit longer. In any case, she had no choice. Her grandfather would never think of helping the woman.
There was another action that Phaedra felt obliged to perform- because Weylin never would. She sought out Armande drawing him a little aside from the others.
“My lord,” she said. “I fear my grandfather has forgotten to thank you. You saved his life tonight.”
Armande’s brows drew together, his expression far from encouraging. She placed one hand upon his sleeve.
“Well, allow me to thank you. I will always be grateful for?—”
“I don’t want your gratitude.” His voice was harsh and then he added in a milder tone, “It was the most trifling service, my lady. I beg you will say no more about it.”
He grasped her hand and raised it to his lips brusquely before turning away. Armande could be one of those men who found it embarrassing to have someone in their debt and hated being thanked. Yet she had difficulty imagining the self-possessed marquis ever being embarrassed by anything.
A troubled frown creased her brow. It was more like having saving her grandfather’s life, the marquis regretted having done so.
Phaedra hoped that the Wilkins incident would bring about an early end to the supper party, but she was disappointed. With the exception of the Sheltons, who called for their carriage at once, the other guests refused to allow their evening to be spoiled by such trivial incidents as attempted murder or a man being beaten unconscious and dispatched to prison.
If she could not be rid of these people, Phaedra determined to pour out coffee in the green salon rather than the music room. She dreaded being pressed into playing the spinet. An indifferent musician at best, she was in no humor to plod through Rule Britannia, the only composition her grandfather appreciated.
She felt relieved when the card tables were brought out, easing any further demands upon her to play hostess. Disinclined to play herself, she paced before the salon’s long windows. The moon had come out at last to war with the clouds, making a feeble effort to spill pools of light into what was a sea of blackness. Not that the salon’s windows presented a breathtaking vista for they only looked out on a broad expanse of lawn.
Her grandfather’s gardener Bullock had tried to imitate Capability Brown; but alas, although he absorbed some of the great landscaper’s precepts, he had not acquired his taste. Bullock had leveled every tree and flower about the mansion, leaving the Heath standing in the midst of an uninspired green prairie of neatly trimmed grass.
Phaedra drummed her fingers restlessly against one of the panes of glass. Sir Norris Byram glanced up from his cards to glare at her, and she stopped, hugging her hands beneath her arms. The evening’s events had put a greater strain upon her nerves than she had realized. How she longed for the solitude of her garret, where she could curl up on the daybed, her chin upon her knees, and be alone with her thoughts- thoughts that centered upon one man. Ever since she had stood up with Armande dueling wits with him to the strains of a minuet, the marquis seemed to have taken possession of her every waking moment.
Her gaze strayed back to the salon. Most of the guests were grouped in foursomes, but Armande sat with one of the younger men, engaged in a hand of piquet. The candle’s glow cast a soft illumination over Armande’s face, somehow easing the lines of those haughty, patrician features; his eyes looked hazy and preoccupied. Phaedra could only wonder what mysterious roads his mind traveled, what secrets lay sealed beneath the curve of those sensual lips.
Her longing to discover those secrets burned as strongly as ever, but the desire had taken a subtle turn she hardly comprehended. She no longer wished to expose the man as much as she wanted to understand him. Armande had done something this night that filled her with wonder whenever she recalled it, something even more wondrous then the saving of her grandfather’s life.
Armande had defended her. Not her honor. That would have occasioned no gratitude in her. She supposed there were gallant fools enough who would have done that. Armande had defended her mind, her right to have opinions on matters other than the cut of a gown or the latest dance step. He had made her feel that it was not so unfeminine for a woman to think, that the intelligence she cloaked beneath the guise of Robin Goodfellow was not so shameful. Any man who held such views would have attracted her interest, but that it was the enigmatic Armande who had done so intrigued her almost beyond bearing.
She could nearly hear Gilly’s voice cautioning her. If you spied a will-o’-the-wisp, Fae, I vow you’d follow it until you were hopelessly lost.
“Perhaps I already am, Gil,” she murmured. Without making it obvious what she did, she glided closer to Armande. Fanning herself, she affected a casual interest in his game.
There was no change in his negligent posture. His broad shoulders remained relaxed, one leg crooked back, the other lazily extended, displaying the outline of his muscular calf sheathed in silken hose. All the same, Phaedra felt that he was very much aware of her presence. Still waters, both of them, with not a ripple in one that the other couldn’t sense.
Phaedra immediately dismissed the peculiar notion. She tried to concentrate on the game, noting uneasily the large amount of money strewn on the table between the two men. Frowning, she studied Armande’s partner, striving to recollect his name from the introductions. Mrs. Byng’s eldest son; Charles, she believed he was. Deeply flattered by the marquis’s attention, the young man was playing too deep in an effort to impress him.
It pained Phaedra to think that Armande might be taking advantage of the man’s inexperience. Once more than willing to believe the worst about Armande, she regarded with dismay the notion that the marquis might be nothing more than a common cardsharp.
Much to her relief, the marquis was a most indifferent card player, taking no time over his discards. Charles Byng easily took the next hand. He emitted a crow of triumph as he scooped in his winnings. “Your luck is certainly out tonight, my lord.”
Armande displayed no more concern over his losses than if he had been tossing pennies to urchins.
“One cannot expect always to be attended by good fortune,” he drawled. “A bitter fact you may have to learn one day, my young friend.”
“Pooh! If you mean to start preaching like one of my maiden aunts, I’ll have done with you.” Charles proceeded to reshuffle the deck and gave Phaedra an audacious wink. “Your game might improve if you paid more attention to the cards and spent less time stealing glances at Lady Phaedra.”
Had Armande been looking at her? Phaedra wondered. In any case, he did so now, the glint in his blue eyes bringing the heat to her cheeks. “Indeed,” he murmured. “I begin to despair of ever winning the game. Her ladyship does present a danger of breaking my concentration.”
Although his words were light, Phaedra sensed an edge of steel in his voice, another meaning hidden like a dagger beneath a cloaking of velvet. Did he truly perceive her as dangerous? She was stunned to realize she did not want him to do so. She wished he could begin to trust her.
Dipping into a curtsy, she smiled and said, “My apologies, sir.”
As she glided away from him, he offered her that smile of his which was all too fleeting. Lost in her thoughts of Armande it took her several moments to realize someone was tugging at her sleeve. She glanced around to find John, looking distressed.
“My lady,” the footman whispered, “about that Danby fellow. He wants?—”
“More wine?” Phaedra interrupted, grimacing at the bottle of Madeira John balanced upon a silver tray. It seemed the last thing Danby needed, but she shrugged. “I suppose you’d best give it to him. He’s over—” She started to indicate the French gilt sofa where she had last seen Danby sprawled. The cushion still bore the imprint of his head, but the sofa was empty.
“That’s just it, my lady,” John said. “His lordship’s gone upstairs. I think he’s fancying he’s in his own house and is trying to find his bedchamber.”
“Well and have you informed my grandfather?”
“Aye, but all master said was to let him pass out wherever he liked.”
Phaedra rolled her eyes. Always the perfect host, her grandfather! With her luck, it would likely be her own bedchamber that Danby selected. She sighed. “Thank you, John. I shall take care of the matter.”
John looked relieved. “If you would be requiring my help, my lady?—”
“No, you are needed here.” She rustled away from him, intending to summon another of the servants. It would serve Hester right if Phaedra sent her to deal with Danby. She smiled at the notion, remembering all of Danby’s drunken buffoonery at the dinner table, climaxing in his absurd declaration that he knew Armande from Oxford.
Yet exactly how absurd was that statement? She hesitated, temptation beckoning to her. She had no desire to confront Danby herself in his idiotic state, yet might she not be losing a perfect opportunity? If she could find him alone, perhaps she could sober him up enough to find out if he really did remember something about Armande.
A guilty flush spread across her cheeks. She had just been thinking that she wanted Armande to trust her. This was not the way to begin, by continuing to question and pry. She glanced toward Armande, half-fearful of his uncanny knack for guessing her thoughts. But Charles appeared to be keeping him fully occupied.
How much harm could she do by having just a few words with Danby? Obviously the marquis was not concerned about Lord Arthur for he had made no move to seek out the man. Certainly if Danby posed any real threat, Armande would- Phadera shivered. She harbored little doubt as to what Armande would do. With her customary impulsiveness, she snatched up a candle and darted out of the salon.
The marquis continued to sprawl in his chair, his cards held languidly before him. It would have taken someone far more observant than Charles Byng to notice the tension coiled within Armande-although the young man had discerned the manner in which Armande kept stealing glances at Phaedra.
I must have been all too ridiculously obvious, Armande thought, but he was finding it increasingly difficult not to be, harder not to devour Phaedra with his gaze. Never had he been so achingly aware of any woman, the fresh, feminine scent of her skin, the animated lilt of her voice, those candid green eyes that were such mirrors to her thoughts.
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.
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.