Masquerade Read online

  Masquerade

  By Susan Carroll writing as Serena Richards

  Copyright 2012 Susan Carroll

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  The iron bars across the window cast their shadows upon Lady Phaedra Grantham's face as she paced the confines of her cell. She raked her fingers through tangled masses of red-gold hair, her dark-fringed green eyes darting from the grate in the heavy oak door to the window far above her head.

  The distance between the dingy plaster walls seemed to grow smaller each day, and the room closed in on her like the jaws of a trap. She knew it was all a trick of her imagination, the result of staring too long at the black beetles as they scuttled through the cracks to freedom-a freedom she might never know again.

  Phaedra shivered, rubbing her arms. It was so cold in this place. She pulled the ragged remains of a blanket over her lawn nightshirt as her bare feet trod ceaselessly back and forth on the wooden floor. The thin cloth afforded small protection against the wind that blew through the broken glass beyond the bars.

  Had the gnarled branches of the trees shed the last of their brittle leaves? She had no way of knowing. She had lost track of the days. All she could see of the world beyond was a patch of October sky, a pale wintry blue-the same color as his eyes. The man she had known as Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais.

  The thought of him made her breath come quicker, and she clenched her fists. Something stirred inside of her, like tiny wings fluttering deep within her womb.

  Phaedra stopped and leaned against the thick door. Cradling her hands across the slight swell of her abdomen, she forced herself to relax. She must not upset herself again. She must remain calm-if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the child.

  This resolution was forgotten when she heard the scratching sound on the other side of the door. A blood-soaked arm shot through the small opening of the grate. Phaedra bit back her scream as she shrank away from the sticky red fingers pawing at the air.

  A shrill laugh trickled along her spine like the icy blade of a knife. "Have you forgotten me so soon, my dear?" a voice crooned. “I came to tell you I've escaped."

  Phaedra lowered her trembling hands from her mouth. Through the grate, violet eyes gleamed at her. She saw a thicket of blond tresses framing a young girl's face that once perhaps had been beautiful, but now was gaunt, ravaged by such horrors as Phaedra refused to contemplate. She whispered, "Marie? Is that you? Dear God! What have you done to your wrists?"

  The woman giggled behind her hand like a child hiding a secret. "I told you these Russians could not hold an Austrian princess captive. My bones are too delicate for their clumsy shackles. I wriggled free. And when I tell my brother-.

  The violet eyes clouded. "My brother," she repeated as if searching for some elusive remembrance. An expression of haunting sadness crossed her features, only to be quickly replaced with her familiar, childlike smile.

  "Yes, I've told my brother, the Emperor Franz Joseph, all about you-"

  She broke off as Phaedra heard a rough voice shout, "There she is. Seize her."

  With another hysterical laugh, the woman disappeared from view, followed by the sound of running feet. As Phaedra buried her face in her hands she heard a heavy thud, and then a series of shrieks.

  What were they doing to the poor creature? Since the first day of her imprisonment, Phaedra had refused to look through the grate into the main gallery beyond. She knew too well what horrifying scenes waited on the other side of that door.

  But as the woman's screams were choked off, Phaedra could bear ignorance no longer. She had to know what was happening. She flung herself at the grillwork, clutching the rusted iron.

  The woman Phaedra knew only as Marie Antoinette jerked spasmodically on the straw-covered floor as a burly guard lashed her hands behind her.

  "Stop it," Phaedra cried. "Leave her alone, you fool! Can you not see she needs a doctor?"

  "Shut your mouth. Or you'll need one yourself!" The guard grabbed Marie by the ankles and hauled her away: heedless of the blond head banging against the floor. "Scrawny little bitch. I told them we needed smaller manacles."

  "The poor thing is mad, damn you!" Phaedra's fist smashed against the grate, scraping the skin from her knuckles while tears of anger burned her eyes. "Have you no pity?"

  "Have you no pity? No pity! No pity!" Her words were taken up by other voices, until they echoed around the hall, swelling into an indistinguishable howl. Against her will, she stared at the occupants of the large chamber. What Phaedra saw was like a scene from Dante's Inferno-twisted limbs writhing against their chains, mouths issuing forth sounds unheard of outside the regions of hell. Scores of vacant eyes stared at her, empty reflections of the beings whose souls had been stolen from them ages ago.

  All hope abandon, ye who enter here. The poet's verse pounded through her brain. How had Dante, writing centuries ago, imagined a place like St. Mary of Bethlehem Hospital in London? The poet had been expressing his visions of hell. Hell ... Bedlam. They were one and the same. How long before Phaedra's captors reduced her to the same broken state as those poor wretches on the other side of the door? How long before she became as mad as her captors claimed?

  "Someone will help me," she whispered, dashing aside her tears. Jonathan? No, he was her longtime friend, but he was too weak, incapable. But if Jonathan could find her cousin. Only Gilly was bold enough to find some way to save her. Where was he?

  He should have returned to London by now unless his Irish temper had gotten the better of him, and he had challenged the man known as Armande de LeCroix. She shuddered as the image of that aquiline face forced its way into her memory. The sable-brown hair that flowed back from his brow, the eyes that could be so cold with hate, they burned. Skilled with a sword, the blade became an extension of Armande's own lithe and ruthless strength.

  Surely Gilly would not be so foolish as to provoke Armande. No, Gilly was too clever for that, Phaedra reassured herself. As she started to withdraw farther into her cell, a flash of movement in the gallery caught her eye. Peering through the grate, she saw figures grotesquely out of place in the ragged company of lunatics. The pink satin of the fop's knee breeches and waistcoat stood out as brightly as the purple silks of his lady friend. As they progressed lazily through the hall, Phaedra sensed that they were headed toward the door to her cell.

  "Dear God, not again," she murmured. Retreating to her cot, she sat down, gripping the edge of the mattress, hoping she might be spared the humiliation just this once. But her prayers went unanswered. The key chinked in the lock and she heard the false syrupy tones that her gaoler, Belda, adopted for visitors.

  "And in here, m'lord, m'lady, is the treat I promised your worships. One of the finest spectacles Bedlam has to offer. "

  Belda's bewhiskered face appeared in the doorway, sneering at Phaedra as she entered, balancing a tray of food against her drooping bosom--one of the few features of Belda's bulky person that indicated her sex.

  "Come in, come in," she called over her shoulder to the visitors as she set the tray down on the stool. "There's naught to fear."

  The dandy stepped inside, his long nose sniffing the air with distaste as he leveled his quizzing glass at Phaedra. His lady clung close to him, shaking out the polonaise loops of her gown and ducking her head so that her powdery mountain o
f frizzed hair did not brush against the doorframe.

  "Oh, Danny," the creature wailed, blanching beneath the layers of rouge. "This one's not even chained."

  "Perfectly all right, miss." Belda grinned. "She's quiet most of the time, though she's been known to get wild. But I'm here to see she behaves herself, ain't that right, dearie?"

  The matron prodded Phaedra's arm with one pudgy finger. "Say good morning to the nice lady and gentleman."

  "Go to perdition," Phaedra said, her fingers clamping down harder upon the mattress.

  "Naughty, naughty." Belda pinched Phaedra's chin until her eyes watered. "Mind your manners. We wouldn't want to have another session in Dr. Crowley's tranquilizing chair, would we?"

  No, we wouldn't, Phaedra thought as she yanked her head aside. She would not let Belda goad her into a display of temper this time. Too often, she had provided the spectacle visitors craved, throwing herself forward to beg for help or railing at them for their heartlessness in coming to gawk at the unfortunate inmates. It was worse when she recognized her visitors, as she did now. The foppish man was Lord Arthur Danby.

  He and the lady stood just inside the door, looking her over as if she were one of the animals in the Royal Menagerie. Her tray of food was within reach. How would those two white-powdered heads look with some of Bedlam's gray stew dripping down into their ears?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Phaedra caught Belda's malicious grin. No, that was just the excuse the matron was looking for. Phaedra gritted her teeth and forced her hands to lie folded in her lap.

  Lord Arthur Danby swung his quizzing glass by its string. "Well, she's hardly worth having paid an extra shilling to see."

  His companion pouted her agreement, unfurling a painted chicken-skin parchment fan before her face.

  "I liked that skinny man downstairs much better."

  "The one who kept exposing his privates? Charmelle, you nasty gel." They both went off into a fit of giggling which Belda interrupted by seizing Phaedra's hair and forcing her head back.

  "But look. This one is a famous noblewoman, Lady Phaedra Grantham. The demented thing tried to take her own life. Threw herself into the river."

  Phaedra pursed her lips to keep from crying out. It’s a lie. I was pushed. Someone tried to kill me. Such statements only ended with her being bound and gagged until the "mad humor" had left her.

  "Phaedra Grantham?" Danby stepped forward for a closer inspection.

  "Oh, Danny, do be careful," Charmelle cooed. "Her green eyes look so wild."

  Lord Arthur scratched at his neck beneath the edge of his wig. "But stap me, Charmelle. I believe I've met this woman somewhere before."

  Of course you did, you fool, Phaedra thought as she glared up into Danby's vapid face. The cloying reek of his orange flower-water scent made her stomach chum. You passed out on the floor of the Gold Room the night I first suspected Armande of trying to destroy me, using you as his tool. But I daresay you were too drunk to remember.

  Danby scowled as if she had spoken the words aloud, then shrugged as if the effort of memory was too great for him. "Bedlam is full of attempted suicides. I see nothing so interesting about this one."

  Belda released Phaedra's hair and rolled her eyes piously heavenward. "Ah, but her wickedness goes beyond trying to throw her own life away." The matron tugged Phaedra's gown tight against her frame, revealing the slight swell of her stomach. "She tried to kill her poor babe, too."

  Phaedra wrenched her shift out of Belda's grasp, the heat of anger flooding into her cheeks. Belda's large breasts shook with her chuckle. "Aye, a babe and this fine lady's husband long in his grave. So you know the child be none of his getting, unless her high-and-mightiness found some way of lying with a corpse."

  Charmelle shook her head behind her fan. "Tsk, tsk."

  "Get out of here. Get out of my room, you old hag, and take these dolts with you." Phaedra leaped to her feet, her hands balling into fists.

  Belda tapped a finger significantly to her temple. "Thinks she's still back at her estate, playing grand lady of the manor."

  All three of them stared at her, waiting as if for the curtain to go up on the farce at Drury Lane. She heard Belda snickering under her breath. The laugh reminded Phaedra of her grandfather, Sawyer Weylin.

  "Your passions will be the ruin of you, girl," the old man had been wont to tell Phaedra. "The flame of your hair burns clean through your scalp, setting your brain afire."

  No, not this time, Grandfather. She could almost see the old man nod his head in approval. So strange to think that she would probably never see him again. Phaedra sank back onto the cot, closing her eyes tight, wrapping her arms around herself until she felt the anger receding. A disappointed sigh escaped Charmelle while Danby yawned.

  "Maybe you should refund their money," Phaedra said to Belda. The matron jerked back her arm to deliver a blow, then lowered it in frustration. Straightening her shoulders, Phaedra sat more erect, suppressing her triumphant smile. Never since entering this place had she felt so much in control.

  Lord Arthur stepped aside to examine her food tray. When he raised the cover from the bowl, the odor of rancid gruel permeated the room; he hurriedly pressed a lace handkerchief to his nose.

  "Faugh! What is this stuff? Boiled rats?"

  "No, indeed." Belda bustled over to him, stirring a spoon through the thickened, grayish lumps. “'Tis a most nourishing stew. I prepared it myself."

  While the two of them had their backs to her, Phaedra turned her attention to Charmelle, who lingered by the doorway. The temptation was too great to resist. Phaedra squinted up one eye and bared her teeth, mouthing the words, "I'll tear your heart out and eat it."

  Charmelle's painted mouth hung open for a moment before she screeched, "Owww, Danny, save me." She whirled in a rustle of purple skirts and petticoats, blundering into the door. Amidst a cloud of powder, she fled the room.

  "Charmelle! What the deuce!" Lord Arthur spluttered, running after her and slamming the door behind him. Belda eyed Phaedra with suspicion, but Phaedra sat with her hands folded across her lap, gazing vacantly at the wall.

  Banging the lid back down over the soup bowl, Belda scowled, "You'd best not be up to any more of your tricks, m’girl. Eat your dinner, or I swear I'll come back and stuff it down your throat. We want no more of your starving nonsense."

  Phaedra continued to stare as if she heard nothing.

  Belda paused just outside the door to peek one last time through the grate. "You don't fool me none with those saintly airs. You'll end up buried at the crossroads with a stake through your heart yet, you mark my words."

  With this grim prediction, the matron stalked away. Phaedra waited until she heard the heavy feet retreating before she permitted her lips to twitch into a smile. As she thought of Charmelle bleating like a terrified sheep, the smile became a chuckle, the chuckle a laugh which shook her entire frame. She rocked to and fro with her mirth until the tears stung her eyes. Abruptly she stopped, ramming her hand into her mouth. Heaven help her! She was starting to sound like Marie.

  Drawing in fortifying breaths, she calmed herself. No, they would not make her mad. Even if no one came to help her, she would find some way to save herself and her child despite Belda, despite the throngs of insensitive visitors. Despite Armande.

  She had barely time to dry her tears when she heard the scrape of the key. Not Belda again so soon. She had controlled her emotions as much as she was capable of in one morning. She could not bear any more torment. She half-rose, tempted to fling herself at the door and keep the old witch out, when she heard a familiar, gravelly voice.

  "Phaedra, it's me."

  A slender man of medium height stepped into the room, his dark eyes anxiously seeking out hers, the sensitive mouth twitching into a semblance of a melancholy smile.

  "Jonathan!" Phaedra hurled herself into his arms, burying her face against the plain brown poplin of his waistcoat, reveling in the cold, fresh scent of autumn that still clu
ng to his greatcoat. His thin hands tangled in her hair.

  "Oh, Phaedra, Phaedra. My dear one."

  "Take care, sir," Belda growled a warning from the threshold. "Her hands'll be around your waist one moment, your throat the next."

  "Be gone, old woman. Leave us in peace."

  Enfolded in the comfortable security of her friend's embrace, Phaedra heard with surprise the authoritative note in Jonathan's voice. Equally surprising was the manner in which Belda obeyed, although she did grumble as she locked the door behind her, "Damned fool. Serve him right if he gets his eyes clawed out."

  Phaedra raised her head, eagerly scanning Jonathan's careworn face, unable to still the hope that flared to life. "You have done it, then? You have secured my release?"

  Tears filled his eyes."My dear, I would give anything if I could. Alas, no, I am not yet able to bring you home."

  One crystal droplet overflowed, trickling down his face. Phaedra swallowed her own disappointment for his sake. She caressed away the tear, her fingers trailing over his rough cheek, pitted from the bout with smallpox that had almost cost him his life.

  "Do not distress yourself," she said, easing herself out of his arms. "I am sure you will find a way to help me very soon."

  Dear, loyal, ineffectual Jonathan. She sank back down onto the cot with a sigh. Where was Gilly when she so desperately needed him?

  She did not realize she had voiced the question aloud until Jonathan replied, "I am sorry, my dear. I can find no trace of your cousin. He seems to have vanished from the face of the earth."

  Phaedra's heart grew numb. Gilly vanished? No, nothing could have happened to him.

  "And Grandfather?" she asked softly.

  "Sawyer is mending somewhat." But Jonathan's smile was too forced to deceive Phaedra.

  Her grandfather was dying, she thought sadly. Her relationship with the old man had been stormy at the best of times, and yet she would fain have seen him one last time before he passed away.

  Her heart already overburdened with despair, she started to inquire after Armande, then stopped herself. No, she need not imagine that he was ever coming back. The man had accomplished what he'd set out to do.