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  But Danby continued as though he had not heard. "I remember you. Your name is-is-"

  A tremor passed through Armande's hand, and Phaedra thought that in another moment, he would surely shatter the crystal. She breathlessly awaited Danby's next words.

  "Name of-of John or Jason something. You were-" Danby tried to snap his fingers, but couldn't manage it. His concentration broken, he stared cross-eyed at his hand, trying to coordinate the movement of his thumb. Phaedra had an urge to fly at him and shake the fool out of his memory lapse.

  Sir Norris reached around Mrs. Byng and caught Danby by the coattails. "Sit down, you fool, and stop making such an arse of yourself." He yanked hard, tumbling the fop back into his chair.

  Armande released the wineglass, his hand dropping back to his side. The footman mopped up the claret Danby had spilled, and the incident appeared forgotten. Forgotten, that is, by all but Phaedra and, she was certain, Armande.

  For all that Armande had recovered his composure, Phaedra believed that Danby had left him badly shaken. She stared at Arthur Danby with an interest she had never felt in the man before. What had he been about to remember? Of course, he was a simpleton, a drunkard. Even while she studied him, the fool was using the rose water in his finger bowl to rinse out his mouth. No one ever took Danby seriously. If it had not been for Armande's reaction, she would not have done so, either. But she vowed to get Danby alone. She must jar the dolt's memory.

  As the footmen began to clear away the dessert dishes and bring in the port, Phaedra realized with reluctance that it was time for her to signal the ladies to rise, and leave the gentlemen alone. Sir Norris Byram was obviously squirming to fetch out the chamber pot kept stored beneath the sideboard.

  Phaedra was pushing back her chair to rise when the door behind her crashed open. She had not even time to turn around before a wild-eyed man burst into the room. Several of the women cried out. Arthur Danby exclaimed. "What the deuce!"

  Phaedra's own startled gasp was cut off as she stared at the man. It was the same haggard young man who had been ejected from her grandfather's levee last week. The fellow still looked half-starved and ragged, but far more desperate.

  Before the footman could move to intercept him, the man staggered the length of the dining room toward her grandfather. "This time, Weylin. This time you'll bloody well hear what I have to say."

  From beneath his tattered coat, the man produced a flintlock pistol. Phaedra choked back a scream as he cocked the hammer and leveled the weapon straight at her grandfather's head.

  Chapter Seven

  Phaedra 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 notic
ed 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 i
t 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."