Susan Carroll (35 page)

A strangled sound escaped Phaedra, and she
lost her grip on the book. Frozen with horror, she watched the book
fall as though time itself had slowed. The volume spun end over end
until it landed with a dull thud, only yards from where Hester
Searle's lifeless form lay crushed upon the cobblestones.

Phaedra watched the footman drawing the heavy
curtains across the Green Salon's windows as Sawyer Weylin had
commanded. It was as though her grandfather thought by shutting out
the darkness of night, he could shut out the specter of death as
well, although the broken form of Hester Searle had been laid out
in the housekeeper's room only hours ago.

Phaedra huddled against the sofa cushions and
shivered.It seemed all she would ever remember about this day-the
crumpled black silk, Hester lying twisted like a marionette whose
strings had been cut, the blood staining the cobblestones. The rest
would be a montage of faces-the hysterical housemaids, the ghoulish
curiosity of the apprentice boys, Jonathan turning away to be sick,
Gilly's grim shock, her grandfather's angry disbelief. And
Armande-the only one who had not answered her cries, the only one
not there.

She glanced across the room to where Armande
now stood, pouring a small quantity of brandy into a crystal
goblet. Except for the fact that he had discarded his frock coat
and was garbed in only his breeches, ruffled shirt, and waistcoat,
he appeared the image of the elegant nobleman. But the lines of his
face were grave, etched with a weariness no gentleman of leisure
had ever known. Phaedra studied him, trying to recall exactly when
Armande had slipped up to join the rest of them. Had it been when
Jonathan had left, bearing the last of the apprentice boys away in
his carriage? Or later than that, just before she, Gilly, and her
grandfather had retired to the Green Salon?

She didn't know. She supposed she should
simply be grateful he was here now. Armande crossed the room to her
side, the glass of brandy cupped in his hand. He carefully avoided
Gilly, who paced before the empty hearth like a caged beast,
sidestepping the sprawled legs of her grandfather. Weylin had
ensconced himself in a wing-back chair opposite Phaedra, where he
sat drinking brandy, a soured expression twisting his lips.

Armande bent over her, holding out the glass
he had just filled.

"Here. Drink this," he commanded gently.

She shook her head, having already refused
Lucy's offers of sal volatile, burnt feathers, and whatever other
restorative the girl could think of. Armande was more insistent
than her maid had been. He raised Phaedra's hand, curling her
fingers about the goblet's stem.

"You need it, love," he said softly. “It is
stifling in here, and yet you look half-frozen to death."

He was right. Her grandfather mopped at the
sweat on his brow, yet she felt cold, so very cold. She sipped the
golden liquid, which seemed to spread fire through her, but no real
warmth. Phaedra peered anxiously up at Armande, but she could read
nothing in his winter-blue eyes except concern for her. Her gaze
traveled involuntarily to the small table beside the sofa. Atop its
glossy surface reposed the dirt-smudged copy of
Gulliver's
Travels
. Someone, she had no idea who, had retrieved the book
from where it had fallen beside Hester.

Her hands shook, nearly spilling the brandy.
She felt Armande's fingers close over hers, their strength helping
her support the glass and raise it again to her lips. She forced
herself to drink.

He settled beside her on the sofa and she had
a strong urge to fling herself into his arms, an equally
inexplicable urge to shrink away from him. A silence settled over
the salon, as oppressive as the heat within the closed-up
chamber.

Her grandfather was the first to break it,
setting his own glass down with such a sharp sound that Phaedra
jumped. Weylin glared at no one in particular. "It is one hell of
an end to my fete-day. That wretched woman's accident could not
have been more ill-timed. Now I suppose I must look out for another
housekeeper."

Gilly stopped his pacing long enough to stare
at her grandfather, his green eyes sparking with contempt.
"Accident! Holy Mary, Mother of God!"

"You watch your nasty papist tongue, m'lad."
Weylin wagged a warning finger at Gilly, his thick finger slightly
unsteady owing to the unaccustomed amount of brandy he had
consumed. "It was an accident, and I'll have no one saying any
different. Or next I know the rector will be refusing to bury the
woman in the churchyard, and there'll be all manner of scandal.
Damn the creature, anyway. If she wanted to kill herself, couldn't
she go fling herself into the Thames like everyone else does?"

"Suicide? Now there's an interesting theory,"
Gilly said. He cocked one eyebrow, his gaze no longer leveled at
her grandfather, but at Armande. "I wonder what his lairdship would
be thinking. Tell us, me laird, do you believe Madam Pester to be
the sort of woman who would take her own life?"

Phaedra could not begin to guess where
Armande's thoughts had been. From the hazed look in his eyes, he
had been miles away. Gilly’s question wrenched him back. He
regarded her cousin with frowning surprise. "I did not know the
woman well enough to say what she was likely to do."

"Didn't you? I would have wagered that Madam
Pester numbered you amongst her most intimate acquaintances."

Phaedra saw Armande tense. His eyes blazed at
Gilly, the line of his mouth turning white and pinched. Phaedra
uttered a faint sound of protest, though what she sought to deny,
she hardly dared to think. Feeling ill, She set down her brandy
glass before she dropped it.

The only one who did not seem to comprehend
Gilly's insinuation was her grandfather. He glowered at Gilly.
"Damnation, boy! What would the marquis be intimate with the
housekeeper for? Not even Arthur Danby ever took notice of Searle.
And Lord knows when he is drunk enough, that fool would take after
anything in petticoats."

"I was not referring to the carnal sort of
intimacy," Gilly said.

Weylin growled, "Then what the devil are you
talking about?"

Armande jerked to his feet. "I am not pleased
to understand Mr. Fitzhurst, either."

Phaedra wanted to beg Gilly to stop, but she
was strangely helpless. It was all a nightmare, spinning out of
control. She could neither direct its course nor waken from it.

Gilly leaned one arm up against the mantel,
the hard set of his jaw belying the casualness of his pose. "I
could not help remarking how shaken your lairdship appeared to
discover Madam Pester's untimely end. Of course, it took you the
deuce of a long time to arrive. You must have been the last of us
all to come gawking."

"I don't share your penchant for grim
spectacle," Armande said.

The two men squared off, Gilly's eyes hard as
emeralds, glittering with accusation, Armande's like frozen flame.
Phaedra struggled to her feet to fling herself in front of Gilly,
but she wobbled, her legs feeling too weak to hold her.

Her movement had the effect of deflecting
Armande's gaze from Gilly, drawing the full force of it upon
herself. As Armande reached out to steady her, she felt Gilly's arm
close about her shoulders, drawing her protectively back against
him.

She stared at Armande, trying hard to see the
face of the man she loved.•But it was impossible to focus on the
present as the fragments of memory whirled through her brain. She
heard the echoes of her own voice warning Armande against the
housekeeper, and Hester threatening the unseen man in the garden;
saw the garret door ajar, finding the books put there by Armande,
and the open window, through which she well knew no one could have
fallen, not without help.

Phaedra had no idea what her face revealed
until she saw her own tormented thoughts reflected in Armande's
eyes. She might just as well have taken a knife and plunged it
through his heart.

He turned abruptly away.

"If you will excuse me, Mr. Weylin," he said,
"I will leave this inquest to Fitzhurst and your granddaughter.
They appear quite capable of reaching a verdict without any help
from me."

Armande stalked from the room. Phaedra took a
hesitant step, wanting to go after him, but Gilly's arm only
tightened about her.

Sawyer Weylin huffed out of his chair, his
heavy jowls quivering. "What the deuce is going on here, Fitzhurst?
I'll not have you insulting guests under my roof. I only permitted
Phaedra to have you about in the first place as a reward, a small
treat."

Although still pale, Gilly had recovered some
of his insouciance. "Mayhap you should have been after giving her
one of those little lapdogs instead. Far tamer than an Irish
hound."

"You insolent whelp! I'll have you thrown out
on your ear. These manners might do for Ireland, sir. But in an
English drawing-“Weylin broke off with a sharp gasp, doubling over,
clutching at the region of his heart. A spasm of pain distorted his
features, his flesh turning as gray as his wig.

"Grandfather!" Phaedra reached out to him,
Gilly seeking to support the old man from the opposite side.
Drawing in several ragged breaths, Weylin straightened, pulling
away from them both.

"No need to shriek in my ear, girl. I am all
right. Just cannot deal with any more tonight-" He stumbled toward
the door. "Been too long a day, far too long. Need my bed."

When Phaedra tried to accompany him, he waved
her aside.

"Just remember when you retire yourself, make
sure you put out your hound."

He hobbled through the doorway, his
gout-ridden foot, as ever, giving him pain; but his shoulders were
squared, and he appeared to have recovered from his momentary
spasm. Phaedra watched anxiously from the doorway until she saw
Peter coming to help him up to bed.

Closing the door, she leaned up against it.
Quiet descended over the room once more, the silence itself seeming
to threaten her. The air felt heavy with all the things she knew
Gilly wanted to say, things she didn't want to hear. She gazed back
at him, pleading with her eyes.

Her cousin's grim expression softened. He
closed the distance between them, gathering her into his arms. She
buried her face against the worn fabric of his coat while he
stroked her hair, murmuring gently to her, as though she were
crying. But she felt far beyond tears as she clung to Gilly for
comfort-much the way she had when they were children, and one of
their reckless escapades had led to a scrape.

He drew her back to the couch, forcing her to
sit down, her head resting upon his shoulder. "The old gaffer was
right," he murmured. "Sure and it's been the very devil of a
day."

"I shall never forget it as long as I live,"
Phaedra said. When I looked down the window and saw her lying
there-all that blood.”

"Don't think about it anymore, Fae." Gilly
kneaded the back of her neck. "It’s over. They'll take her off to
be buried in the morning."

But Gilly knew as well as she that it was not
over. There were too many questions, too many suspicions that would
not be buried in that grave with Hester.

"I suppose she could have killed herself,"
she said. "Such a strange, bitter woman!"

She felt Gilly's shoulder tense beneath her
cheek. "Nay, darlin'. I cannot allow that. You full well know to be
thinking such a thing would be but self-delusion."

"Why would it be?" she asked, pulling away
from him. "Why is it so impossible that Hester could have leaped
from that window by her own free will?"

The brief moment of comfort and kinship
between them had faded. Gilly's lips tightened as he answered,
"Setting aside the question of Hester's sensitive, delicate nature,
there's another damned good reason why suicide cannot be
considered. If someone else besides me had troubled to take a good
look at her body, I wouldn't be the only one raising up
doubts."

"What about Hester's body?"

"She landed face down, but there was blood
smeared in her hair. She had taken the devil of a crack on the back
of her head. Madam Pester never went through that window of her own
accord."

Phaedra stood up and took a nervous turn
about the room. "Well, she could have hit the side of the house on
the way down. There was no sign of any sort of struggle in my
garret."

"Then why didn't anyone hear her scream? A
woman taking a plunge like that would have been bound to cry out.
Considering Madam Pester's genteel set of lungs, she should have
been heard all the way to Westminister."

"Not if she had willed herself to be
silent."

"Damn it, Fae!" Gilly caught her shoulders in
a bruising grip. "You can't keep walking about with the wool pulled
over your eyes. You know cursed well that woman was murdered, and
only one person could likely-"

"You have no reason to suspect Armande," she
started to cry, then stopped, betrayed by her own words. It was not
Gilly who had brought up Armande's name, but she.

She continued desperately, "It could have
been some vagrant who crept inside the Heath, a footpad come to
steal."

"And it might have been the ghost of old
Lethe. Phaedra, you've got to face the truth this time."

"You are asking me to believe the man I love
could be a murderer. Don't you understand that is as painful as
asking me to believe that you killed Hester?"

Although Gilly continued to frown, his grip
upon her slackened, becoming gentle.

"Do you know what Armande did for me?" she
asked. "He replaced my books that Ewan destroyed, put them back on
my shelves in the garret. Do you think a man capable of such
consideration could-could-"

"Spare a few minutes from the shelving to
stuff Hester out the window? Aye, I do." I would have liked to have
done it myself.