Susan Carroll (21 page)

Her grandfather might find that amusing, but
Phaedra was wracked with a vision of Armande tossing upon a filthy
cot, caught in the grip of a raging fever. In the midst of his
agony, would he curse her? Dear God, she had never meant to kill
the man. She wished her grandfather would be quiet.

But his voice droned on without mercy,
talking about executions now, recounting every one he had ever
witnessed. "Now I've seen it take a good hour for some of 'em to
die. They struggle so hard, fair dancing at the end of the rope.”
And then others snap!" Her grandfather gestured as though breaking
a twig. "Just like chicken bones popping."

Phaedra's fingers flew involuntarily to her
own throat. No! They would never hang Armande. They never
would.

"They hung this one rogue, see, for pilfering
a snuffbox, chunked his body into a coffin. Well, the guards given
the task of his burial stopped off for a pint of bitter." Weylin
shook with chuckles. Phaedra pressed her hand to her mouth lest she
shriek at her grandfather to hold his tongue.

Oblivious to her distress, the old man went
on, "The guards had been followed by a pair of rascally
resurrection men, with an eye to swiping the body, to sell it to a
surgeon for his ghoulish studies. While those guards were swilling
at the inn, the resurrection men snatched the coffin and-"

"Truly, Sawyer." Jonathan made a mild attempt
to intervene, casting a pained glance at Phaedra. "I think you are
about to make Phaedra ill with all this talk."

"Here's the best part of it." Weylin wheezed
with suppressed laughter, scarcely able to speak. "The lid of the
coffin was not properly nailed down. They'd not gone far, when the
lid burst open and the corpse sat up."

Weylin doubled over, slapping his knees. "The
man wasn't dead. They said those resurrection men took off running,
all the way to Yorkshire. Hah! And by the time the guards caught up
to the cart, they were so fearful of losing their posts because of
their bungling, they quick found a tree and hanged the poor wretch
all over again. "

Weylin clouted Jonathan on the back and
roared with laughter. Jonathan summoned a thin smile in response.
Phaedra bolted to her feet. She could not endure a moment more of
this.

"Grandfather, about the marquis-" she
began.

Weylin wiped his moist eyes with the back of
his hand. "Aye, what about him, girl?"

She glanced down at the carpet, her voice
rife with guilt and misery. "I don't imagine that Armande will be
here."

"Do you not, milady?"

She spun around with a tiny cry. Armande
stood framed just inside the door. Dressed for dinner, his garb
appeared as elegant as though he had but returned from an assembly.
But he had not taken the time to powder his hair, and the dark
strands were pulled back into a severe queue.

"Armande." Phaedra could have fallen upon him
with a sob of relief. She was only halted by his expression. His
eyes blazed at her like a fire ready to rage out of control and
consume her. She had oft wondered how the icy marquis might look
when angered. Now she knew. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"Astonishing," he said."One might almost
fancy you were glad to see me, milady."

He stalked into the room, but Phaedra's
courage deserted her. She did not wait to see what he meant to say
or do next. Regardless of her grandfather's startled expostulation
and Jonathan's look of surprise, she bolted from the salon.

She ran blindly, seeking by instinct the one
place she felt safe. Her feet just touched the stairs leading to
her garret when her heart leaped into her throat. Dear God, he was
coming after her.

She shot forward and almost hurled herself
through the door to her garret room, but she was not fast enough.
She tried to slam the door closed behind her, but Armande's hand
thrust through the opening, blocking her attempt. She let go,
retreating further into the room. Armande stepped inside, slamming
the door behind him.

The last rays of the dying sun cast shadows
over his haughty profile, accenting the high arch of his
cheekbones, his lean face hollowed by anger. His eyes glinted like
points of steel.

Phaedra glanced wildly behind her, but there
was nowhere to retreat. Where were her grandfather and
Jonathan?

As Armande crossed the room with slow,
deliberate steps, she held up one hand in a weak effort to ward him
off. "You make one move to touch me, and I'll scream."

He halted but a sword's breadth from where
she shrank against the wall. He didn't have to touch her. She could
feel the fury crashing from him like invisible waves.

"Whatever is amiss, Phaedra? You look so
pale. Has my return astonished you that much?" He abandoned the
mocking tone, a quiver of suppressed rage rippling along his jaw.
"You damned little fool. Did you really think they would hold me
once they knew who I was, once I had paid the cost of that cursed
ring?"

Phaedra only pressed herself back further
against the wall, unable to meet his angry, accusing gaze.

"Answer me, Phaedra! What did you think they
were going to do to Armande de LeCroix, the most noble Marquis de
Varnais?" There was self-mockery in the way he pronounced his name,
the bark of laughter that accompanied it striking cold to her
heart.

She found her voice at last. "I don't know. I
only thought to-to-"

"To have me hanged?" He loomed so close, if
she but breathed she would brush up against him. His harsh voice
grated against her ear. "They don't hang aristocrats,
ma
chere
, or fling them into rat-infested cells. With a few bribes
I could be lodged in an apartment fit for a king, no matter what
I'd done. Even if I were to snap your deceitful little neck."

"Why don't you do it, then?" she choked. "You
threatened to destroy me once, didn't you? Go on and finish what
you tried to do last night."

She was mad to goad him thus, sensing he
teetered on a dangerous brink the self-contained marquis seldom
reached. Yet wracked by guilt and fear, Phaedra hovered too near
her own snapping point to care.

The fury still burned in Armande's eyes, but
she detected a flicker of uncertainty, as well. "Last night?" he
repeated.

She looked up at him, incredulous that he
could keep up his pose of innocence even now. "Stop it. I am not a
fool. I know it was you who locked me in with Danby. So you can
just stop pretending."

Long moments passed as he stared at her. She
saw the light of anger slowly die, to be replaced by the
inscrutable expression she so hated. It was as though his abandoned
fury coursed into her, the overwrought emotions of many endless
hours breaking forth in a furious flood of tears.

"Damn you! I said stop pretending." His image
blurred before her eyes as she slammed her fist against his chest,
again and again. As immutable as a wall of stone, he made no effort
to stop her, merely waiting until her arm dropped weakly to her
side.

"Damn you to hell," she repeated in a
whisper. He caught her as she swayed and collapsed weeping against
him, then lowered her onto the Jacobean daybed. Phaedra struggled
out of his arms, muffling her sobs into a silk pillow giving full
rein to the storm that had been brewing inside her all
afternoon.

It seemed an eternity before she could halt
the flow of her tears and regain a semblance of composure. At last,
she sat up, drawing in deep breaths. She almost believed Armande
had gone.

He hadn't. He sat poised near her on the edge
of the daybed. He extended his lace handkerchief to her, all traces
of his anger vanished, like a tempest that had never been.

After a moment's hesitation, she accepted the
handkerchief and applied the linen to her eyes.

"And now, milady," Armande said. "If you will
not again attempt to thrash me for asking, what about last night?
Let us imagine that I know nothing, and explain to me your remark
about Arthur Danby."

"You locked me in the Gold Room with him."
She glared at Armande through swollen eyes, hating him for so
easily having regained his composure when she was sure she must
look like the very devil. Her voice sounded tinny, almost childish
with accusation as she continued. "Then you fetched my grandfather
by pretending you wanted to see the paintings upstairs, hoping he'd
catch me with Danby. You knew full well what he'd do if he thought
I was-was engaged in some illicit conduct." She sniffed. "What a
perfect scheme to be rid of me and my troublesome curiosity."

"The Gold Room. But when I entered there,
Danby was passed out cold and there was no sign of you-" Armande
broke off, his gaze flying to her scratched hands. "The open
window! You little idiot! You could have broken your neck." He
flushed with anger again, but of a far different kind than she had
seen upon his face before. She did not feel threatened, although
Armande looked ready to shake her.

"I thought that was the idea," she said,
although she was no longer so certain herself. Could the most
brilliant actor in the world possibly appear as shaken and
surprised as Armande did at this moment? She continued stubbornly,
"I suppose that if you couldn't manage to ruin me, my death would
serve as well."

"Then that was why you placed that ring in my
pocket today? For revenge?"

"For protection! Did you think I was going to
wait to see what malicious plot you next had in store for me?"

To her astonishment, he smiled, the
expression half-rueful, half-incredulous. He covered her hand where
it rested on the bed with his own. "Phaedra," he murmured, shaking
his head.

She stiffened. “Don't touch me. And don't you
dare use my name that way."

But he made no effort to draw his hand back.
"Phaedra," he repeated. "Look at me." When she refused, he caught
her chin, gently forcing her to gaze up at him.

"Considering what our past relationship has
been, the suspicion and the mistrust, I know this will be difficult
for you to believe. It was not I who locked you in with Arthur
Danby."

"Then I suppose it was mere coincidence you
just happened along with my grandfather."

"Yes. It was his idea to see the paintings,
not mine."

Phaedra squirmed, feeling more uncertain of
her position by the minute. But she continued to argue. "You were
the one I heard suggesting that you examine the Titian in the Gold
Room."

"I like Titian," Armande said. "We share the
same failing-a weakness for tempestuous red-haired women."

He exhaled his breath in a long sigh. "You
are an impulsive woman, Phaedra Grantham, with a distressing habit
of leaping to conclusions. You sent me to hell and back today."

Phaedra studied him, still not certain if she
believed his denial about Danby. But he was not lying about what
she had put him through. She could see it in the fatigue etching
his eyes. "You couldn't have possibly been frightened when you were
arrested," she said. “You said yourself you never were in any
danger."

"No danger except for that of encountering
old ghosts that I thought to have put to rest. I knew a man once, a
friend who was imprisoned." It was the first time Armande had ever
volunteered any information about his past.

"And this friend of yours. He died?" she
asked quietly.

"
Oui
."

"At Newgate?"

He stared at her. Phaedra could almost see
the walls going up.

"
Non
. In France, in the Bastille." He
gave her a disarming smile, and Phaedra knew he was about to turn
the subject. “I suppose there is no point in my asking what you
were doing in the Gold Room with Arthur Danby."

"I was not making love to him, if that's what
you mean." She flushed, then wondered why she had said that. She
became uncomfortably aware of just how intimate it was to be
sitting with him upon this bed.

"I didn't suppose you had followed Danby out
of any amorous intent," he said. “The man is a dolt. I hope you
will be wise enough to place no credence in anything he might
say."

Armande moved closer, his fingers tracing the
curve of her jaw. "I wish the mistrust between us could end."

"If only you would not be so secretive," she
murmured, knowing she ought to draw away. How easy for her to
forget all that had passed between them, to become ensnared by that
silken voice.

He pressed soft kisses against both her
eyelids. "If only you would not be so inquisitive. If you could
trust me enough to believe that I have no desire to harm you."

He laid such peculiar stress on the last
word. Then who did he want to harm? The question was swept from her
mind as his lips found hers, the contact spreading warmth through
her veins. A voice deep inside her cautioned that this could be but
another ploy of Armande's. When all else fails, try seduction. Yet
despite the gentleness of the kiss, she could sense his longing.
For whatever reason, by design or misunderstanding, both of them
had journeyed to hell and back today. It was as though he kissed
her now to offer comfort, as well as to seek it for himself.

Phaedra ran her hands along the nape of his
neck, her fingers caressing the silken ends of his dark hair. When
she melted against him, he needed little urging to deepen the kiss,
his tongue exploring her mouth with a kind of lightning-hot
sweetness. What had been warmth became fire. He tumbled her back
onto the bed, never breaking the contact of their lips.

"Lady Phaedra."

The sound of Lucy calling her struck
Phaedra's like a dash of cold water. She felt Armande freeze. In
another moment Lucy would enter the garret and find them thus. As
Armande wrenched himself away from her, she scrambled up from the
daybed, flying over to the door. She held her weight against it as
the doorknob turned.