Susan Carroll (10 page)

"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.

Phaedra pasted on a smile for the benefit of
the guests who were crowded into the green salon that adjoined the
dining room. Nearly a week had passed since she had cajoled Gilly
into making inquiries about the marquis. Now she had seen the sun
set on another day without a word from her cousin.

There seemed little hope he might yet turn up
tonight, Phaedra thought with despair as she stole a glance toward
the tall windows. Beyond the festoons of the velvet draperies,
shadows had long ago lengthened across the lawn. The starless night
enveloped the mansion's grounds, the brightly lit salon like a
single lamp glowing amidst a world of darkness.

"Damnation, Weylin. Are we to be starved to
death?" The growling complaint of one of the guests recalled
Phaedra's attention to the approaching ordeal of the supper party.
She fixed her gaze with intense dislike upon Sir Norris Byram, one
of her late husband's gaming cronies. The stocky baronet thrust an
ivory-handled scratcher beneath his wig, chastising the lice so
vigorously he nearly knocked the false hair askew.

"We don't keep city hours here at Blackheath
House, Byram," her grandfather huffed. All the same, he dug his
hand into the pocket of the orange and pink striped waistcoat
straining across his middle, and consulted his watch.

"City hours were good enough for you once,"
Byram sneered. "I could do well without the sight of this marquis
of yours if it means going without my supper half the night."

But Byram's grumbles went unheeded. Phaedra
noted with cynical amusement that the rest of the guests were all
agog to meet Armande. She suspected they would encamp in the green
salon until dawn if need be, these honest, hard-working merchants
and their wives, who needed their sleep to put in a full day's work
on the morrow. Most of those present were acquaintances from the
days before Sawyer Weylin had sold his brewery and bought his way
into parliament. But mingled amongst the lot were a few
impoverished noblemen such as Sir Norris and Lord Arthur Danby, not
too proud to cadge a meal at the table of a rich city man.

Everyone except Byram kept peering toward the
salon's door as though expecting as grand a show as any performed
at Covent Garden. Just when Phaedra had begun to think the marquis
meant to disappoint them, the door was flung open. John the footman
announced in impressive accents, "Armande de LeCroix, the most
noble Marquis de Varnais."

Armande stepped into the salon with his usual
effortless grace. Garbed in knee breeches and frock coat of ivory
trimmed with gold, his white-powdered hair bound back into a queue,
he looked like a crown prince carved from ice and snow.

A hush seemed to fall over the room. Or was
it only herself, Phaedra wondered, who had caught her breath at the
sight of those cool blue eyes with their distant expression, the
handsome, arrogant features hewn into a mask of granite?

Her grandfather's friends made no effort to
stop gawking. Phaedra, although she despised herself, could not do
so, either. As she followed Armande's every movement, from the
stiff bow to her grandfather to the way he unbent enough to be
introduced to the company, she thought she now understood the charm
Armande exercised upon Sawyer Weylin. The marquis was not
condescending. That would have affronted her grandfather. No, he
remained tantalizingly aloof, so that any mark of his attention
conferred a tremor of delight. There was success in attracting the
interest of this man, who seemed so far beyond everyone's
touch.

The crude Sir Norris was the only one present
who seemed unimpressed by the marquis. With a sneer, Byram had
extended only his small finger by way of greeting. Armande ignored
him, flicking open his snuffbox, allowing just a hint of boredom to
settle over his features. Byram flushed beet-red.

Phaedra smothered a laugh, restraining an
urge to applaud a most magnificent performance. But her smile
faded. Why did she have the feeling that was exactly what it was to
Armande-a most deadly clever performance?

With an uncanny awareness, almost as though
he had heard her thoughts, Armande turned. From across the salon,
his gaze locked with hers. The meeting of their eyes gave her a
jolt Phaedra felt all the way to her toes. He raised a pinch of
snuff to his nose, but she realized with surprise that he only
affected to take it. He replaced the snuffbox in his pocket, all
the while holding her captive with his stare, his eyes both mocking
and challenging. A half-smile tipped his lips, as though he
acknowledged the fact that he was not fooling her, yet daring her
to destroy the illusion he wove.

She broke the contact first, hastily looking
away, ashamed to be caught ogling him like the others. She had
scarce seen Armande since the morning she had burst into his
bedchamber. He had returned the cloak, but by way of the
maidservants, leaving Phaedra to wonder if she had only imagined
Armande's reaction to the garment. Had the marquis deliberately
kept out of her way since then? Was he avoiding her questions, or
merely heightening the effect of his appearance here this
evening?

Phaedra longed to imitate his own expression
of lofty indifference, but even with her back to him, she felt his
presence in every fiber of her being. His image danced before her
eyes, reflected a half-dozen times in the pier glasses set between
the salon's rococo panels. Which of those mocking visions, if any,
was the real Armande de LeCroix?

"Phaedra?" Jonathan Burnell's low voice
penetrated her consciousness. Phaedra turned to acknowledge the
wine merchant, her grandfather's longtime friend. She had the
uncomfortable feeling that the poor man had been trying to attract
her attention for some time now.

His dark eyes regarded her sadly. "I beg your
pardon, my dear. Have I done something this evening to offend
you?"

"Certainly not." Phaedra bit back a rueful
smile at the notion that a man as gentle as Jonathan could ever
offend anyone."It is I who should beg your pardon. I have been so
preoccupied of late."

"With your grandfather's guest, no doubt."
Jonathan's smile did nothing to relieve the gravity of his
expression. The glow from the green cut-glass lamps that
illuminated the room only served to heighten his sallow complexion,
making him appear more melancholy than ever. "I daresay you are as
overwhelmed by the marquis's magnificence as the rest of the
ladies."

"Indeed. Having him here is more enthralling
than attending a frost fair." Phaedra half-hoped Armande might hear
her sarcastic remark, but although the marquis stood not more than
a few yards away, she much doubted he could hear anything but her
grandfather's voice booming in his ear.

"I feared that something troubles you,"
Jonathan whispered. "I trust it is nothing to do with your
writings?"

Phaedra stole a cautious glance about her. No
one else was within earshot except the foppish Lord Arthur Danby,
and he had sagged down onto one of the armchairs, already in that
befuddled condition that her grandfather described as being
half-glazed.

"No, the writing is going splendidly," she
whispered back. "The next issue of the Gazetteer should be
circulating amongst the coffeehouses by tomorrow. The contents may
disconcert more than a few honorable members of parliament."

To say nothing, Phaedra added to herself, of
a certain marquis. She had a notion Armande de LeCroix would not be
pleased to find himself the object of Robin Goodfellow's
speculations, the light of public attention fixed upon him.

Jonathan captured one of her hands. "My dear,
if you knew how I worry about you. The things you write border on
treason. It could be the ruination of both you and your
grandfather. If anyone discovers you are this Robin Goodfellow, it
would be assumed that Weylin provided you with your information
about the doings of parliament.”

"And how would anyone guess?" she
interrupted. "Not even my publisher knows the identity of
Goodfellow. My cousin Gilly is the only other person I have trusted
with the truth. Unless you mean to betray me." She meant it as a
jest, but she forgot that Jonathan never jested.

His eyes darkened with reproach. "My dear,
however could you think such a thing? I owe my very life to you. Do
you think I could ever forget the risk you took for me?"

"Nonsense. What risk? You know my Irish blood
is enough to scare off almost everything-including the pox." She
averted her face to hide her feelings of embarrassment and guilt.
Five years ago she had nursed him through an attack of the
smallpox, and Jonathan had been devotedly grateful to her ever
since. But it had been no noble gesture on her part. Disillusioned
with her marriage to Ewan, she had little cared whether she lived
or died.