Masquerade Page 14

  The story was absurd. She was certain Armande would see through it at once. But the genuine anguish in her voice must have made it sound quite convincing. She actually felt tears start to her eyes.

  Armande's expression softened. He lightly touched her cheek. "There is no need to so distress yourself, ma chere. I will go back at once and look for it."

  Phaedra lowered her eyes, no longer able to bear to look at him. "Would you?" she quavered. "I'd be most grateful."

  As Armande left the shop. Phaedra fought down an urge to call him back. Even now she could put a halt to this.

  And do what? Sit back and wait until Armande found another way to destroy her? Taking no time to reconsider, Phaedra hurried toward the goldsmith.

  "Oh, sir. That man who left your shop just now-"

  "My lady's husband?" the goldsmith asked.

  "Heaven forfend. I never saw him before in my life. I think he was following me."

  The goldsmith's forehead furrowed with indignation. "The rogue. There are plenty of that sort about to accost innocent women. In future, might I suggest your maid accompany you?"

  “You don't understand, sir." Phaedra wrung her hands. This must not take too long. She had to be out of here before Armande returned. "His advances to me were all a ploy. He but used that for an opportunity to steal. I saw him slip a ring into his pocket. I was so frightened, I could not speak to warn you."

  The goldsmith frowned. "Are you certain, milady? The gentleman was most well-dressed for a thief."

  At Phaedra's insistence, the man examined his merchandise. She went through agonies of fear while he did so. It seemed to take him forever to notice the large seal ring was missing.

  The goldsmith shook his head. "Aren't these rascals getting bolder all the time? Such elegant raiment, too. Only fancy!"

  "While you are fancying, the man is making good his escape." Realizing her voice sounded too sharp, Phaedra quickly resumed her fluttery tone. "I mean, you must get the constable after him. He's only gone a small way up the street."

  "Well, if milady would be so good as to bear witness-"

  "No, I could not bear to set eyes upon the villain again."

  Phaedra struck her hand to her brow. "You will have all the evidence you need, I assure you, in his right front pocket. I must get to my carriage before I faint."

  That was not far from true, Phaedra thought as she stumbled from the shop. Her knees felt so weak she was relieved to find Peter waiting to hand her into the coach. She all but collapsed inside, wrenching the door closed herself. She wanted to order Ridley to drive back to the Heath at once, but she had to have some idea if her plot had succeeded.

  She instructed Peter in breathless accents. "Tell Ridley to drive around the next square and then come back up Oxford Street."

  Peter looked astonished but said, "Very good, my lady."

  Ridley would think she had taken complete leave of her senses, but Phaedra did not care. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, tensed and waiting. She had some notion of how pale she must have looked, for her maid tried to administer the vinaigrette.

  Phaedra waved her aside. "No, I need nothing except a little air."

  She slunk to the coach window and peered out as the carriage wound its way back up Oxford Street. The vehicle's progress was even slower than before, thanks to the crowd that had gathered outside the bookseller's stall. Armande stood in its midst, his tall figure appearing haughty and detached by comparison to the accusing mob. Phaedra caught a glimpse of the goldsmith's bald head, saw his arms wave in angry gesticulations. In a supremely scornful gesture, Armande flung back the flaps of his frock coat, feeling into the pocket of his waistcoat. Phaedra watched his hauteur dissolve into astonishment as he produced the missing ring.

  The crowd fell upon him then, seizing his arms before he could move. Phaedra clenched her hands, terrified of what would happen next. But Armande appeared too stunned to offer any resistance as he was hustled off to be taken into custody. Phaedra drew back as he was dragged past her coach. She was uncertain what caused Armande to glance up just then. Perhaps he recognized the markings of her grandfather's carriage. Perhaps it was that uncanny instinct he seemed to possess. For one moment Phaedra stared into Armande's upturned face.

  She saw realization flash across his countenance followed by a look of betrayal Phaedra thought would haunt her forever. Then his face seemed to turn to stone. If Armande had not despised her before, his glacial stare told her that he had now become her deadliest enemy.

  Chapter Nine

  The long jolting ride out of the city afforded Phaedra too much time to think about what she had just done. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Armande's face tensing into lines of shock, his eyes shadowed with the pain of betrayal. She had caught the same tormented expression in her own mirror once too often not to recognize it in Armande.

  Yet what right had he to feel betrayed? Had he not brought it all upon himself? He had come to her grandfather's house, cloaking himself in secrecy, threatening both her and Gilly. He could not expect to endanger her and those she loved, then imagine that she would behave like some witless doll, letting him do as he pleased.

  There was no reason in the world that she should feel guilty. All the same, she kept envisioning Armande being dragged away by the malicious, triumphant throng. For some reason, it also conjured up memories of the carpenter Wilkins, his bloodied form being slung over John's shoulder, being removed from her grandfather’s dining parlor like a sack of refuse.

  But it made little sense that she should thus connect the two men. Aside from the fact that both Wilkins and Armande would lodge in Newgate this night, there was no similarity. No one had carted Armande off. Even surrounded by a threatening mob, he had carried himself with a kind of scornful hauteur. Theft was not so dreadful a charge as attempted murder. The most important difference of all was that Armande's wealth and title would settle over him like a protective mantle. Likely his trial would be but a token affair. The scandal was what Phaedra was counting upon to drive the marquis from her life. After being proclaimed a thief, Armande would not dare show his face at the Heath again. Her grandfather bore more tolerance for a would-be assassin than he would for one charged with stealing.

  But for the first time, some of the flaws in her impulsive plot began to occur to Phaedra. What if Armande revealed to her grandfather the trick she had played upon him? She would deny it, of course. But who would her grandfather believe?

  What if Armande simply returned to the Heath to exact his own vengeance upon her in full measure? If he did so, Phaedra was only sure of one thing, his revenge would be cruel, subtle, and well-planned, not conceived in the heat of a panic as her own had been.

  The only thought bolstering her courage was that it would take Armande time to extricate himself. Justice moved slowly, even for a nobleman. By the time he was free, perhaps Gilly would have returned. Or she might have thought of another way to deal with Armande.

  What she needed to do now was compose herself for the moment when she faced her grandfather across the dinner table and he wondered what the deuce had become the marquis. She would have to be able to turn upon him a pair of most innocent eyes.

  The carriage was well on its way out of London, turning upon that stretch of road that led out to the Heath, when Phaedra's thoughts reverted to the Wilkins affair. Her preoccupation with Armande had nearly driven all thought of the unfortunate carpenter and his wife from her head.

  She had counted upon being able to send Gilly to find out where Mrs. Wilkins lived, but Gilly was gone. Perhaps it might be possible to get one of the younger male servants to undertake the errand for her, despite the possibility of incurring her grandfather's displeasure. The footman, Peter, was a most amenable young lad.

  For once, luck was with Phaedra. When she mentioned the matter to Lucy, her maid imparted the startling information that very likely Peter would go. He knew the Wilkins family quite well.

 
; Phaedra banged on the roof of the coach, shouting for Ridley to stop. She almost thought the old man meant to ignore her, but after a time, she felt the carriage slow, the wheels themselves seeming to grind to a grudging halt.

  Peter came to the coach door at once. The carriage had pulled past the environs of the city, and there was nothing in sight but a rolling green meadow with several cows peacefully grazing.

  "Peter," Phaedra said. "Lucy tells me you knew the Wilkins man."

  Peter shot a reproachful glance at Lucy, then began to bluster. "I only talked to him a time or two when he did some carpentry work down at the stables. It wasn't me who let him in that night, Lady Grantham. I swear."

  "No, Peter," she said "I wasn't accusing you. I only wanted to know if you knew where the man's wife lives."

  "Eliza Wilkins? Well, aye I do, but-"

  "Good. Then direct Ridley to turn the coach about and drive there at once."

  Peter's jaw dropped. "Surely not, my lady. You'd never be wanting to go to that part of London. "

  "I assure you that I do. Tell Ridley at once, Peter." Her tone brooked no refusal. Peter withdrew from the coach doorway, but she could hear him muttering, "I can always tell Ridley, my lady. But I doubt he'll do it."

  Peter was soon proved correct. Ridley balked at the notion and prepared to whip up his horses, continuing on for the Heath. But Phaedra leaped down from the carriage and engaged in a heated argument with the stubborn old coachman. She only won in the end by threatening to set out on foot if need be.

  Ridley surrendered with a bad grace, snarling that her grandfather would hear of this, that if they were all murdered down there in Canty Row, Sawyer Weylin would receive full report. Phaedra bit back a smile as she reentered the coach. Having achieved her object, she enjoyed a small feeling of victory, almost unspoiled by the knowledge that she would later have to deal with her grandfather's wrath.

  Ridley set the horses off at a slow pace, as though determined to thwart Phaedra in whatever small way he could. But a full hour later, when the carriage rumbled down Canty Row, Phaedra began to appreciate Ridley's reluctance.

  The carriage wheels jounced and ground their way through ruts compounded of mud and offal, the pungent odor pervading the air as though the decay of centuries festered in the narrow lane. Coal smoke hung thick above the street, casting a pall over buildings that looked as though they should long ago have crumbled to dust. The tenements leaned against each other, like drunkards groping for support. Everywhere windows were boarded up to avoid the window tax, yet it made no odds-for the sun itself seemed to have forgotten this part of London.

  What ragged inhabitants Phaedra saw were mostly children. They stared at her coach, their eyes aglitter with the hunger and savagery of half-starved rats. Phaedra half-expected them to fall upon the carriage at any moment and gnaw at the wooden wheels.

  Lucy shrieked when one scrawny youth chunked a rock. It hit the side of the coach with a startling thunk. But Ridley brandished his whip, scattering the urchins back into the dark shelter of the doorways.

  Ridley adamantly refused to let Phaedra dismount from the carriage. She did not argue with him, letting Peter go in search of Mrs. Wilkins. He disappeared into one of the more respectable-looking buildings. Phaedra waited several minutes, the first daunting impression of Canty Row beginning to fade, losing its ability to intimidate her. She should never have let Peter go alone. Mrs. Wilkins was supposed to be ill. Most likely the woman would not be able to come out to her.

  She had almost made up her mind to follow Peter when the footman emerged. He leaned in the door of the coach. "It is all right, my lady. I believe it would be safe for you to come in."

  Ridley started to howl a protest. but Phaedra had already leaped from the coach. She turned a deaf ear to both Lucy's frightened pleas and Ridley's more vociferous ones.

  She followed Peter beneath the shadow of one of the tenements, up a flight of rickety wooden stairs. The sour smells of urine and sickness assaulted her in a great wave. She pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose, beginning to doubt both Peter's wisdom and her own. From a corner of the hallway, she caught a glimpse of the child who had thrown the rock, staring at her with sullen eyes and swilling from a bottle of gin.

  She had little time to register her shock before Peter ushered her into a large room. He closed the door, maintaining a watchful post by the threshold. Phaedra adjusted her eyes to the room's dim atmosphere, then glanced about her with astonishment. It was not in the least what she would have expected.

  The room showed signs of the building's general state of decay, but it was obvious someone had been at great pains to keep the chamber clean. An oil cloth was spread across the wooden floor, its worn surface well swept. The sparse furnishings-a mattress, a table and one chair-bore no hint of the grime of Canty Row. Upon the windowsill stood a clay pot, in which some bright red poppies managed to bloom, catching what little light filtered past the window boards. The flowers provided a splash of color in what was otherwise a drab world.

  Eliza Wilkins came slowly forward to greet Phaedra. Her much-mended gown hung upon her thin frame, her features almost ethereally pale. Her blond hair fell past her shoulders, the strands of a lackluster hue. Yet nothing could erase the delicate structure of the bones beneath the transparent skin, the beauty of a pair of soft brown eyes or the proud set of her emaciated shoulders. At one time, Phaedra thought, Eliza Wilkins must have been a very lovely young woman.

  It suddenly occurred to Phaedra that as Weylin's granddaughter, she would likely not be welcome.

  "Mrs. Wilkins?" she stammered. "I've come- that is, I am-"

  "I know who you are, Lady Grantham," Eliza Wilkins said.

  There was no rancor in her voice, only infinite weariness. She did not look at Phaedra as she invited her to sit down.

  Phaedra glanced at the room's single chair. "No, thank you."

  Eliza Wilkins looked as though she were the one who ought to be sitting. Indeed, Phaedra wondered what was holding the woman on her feet. She stood patiently waiting, Phaedra was sure, for Phaedra to declare her business and get out.

  "I was so sorr-" Phaedra broke off again. What was she going to say? That she was sorry for the woman's misfortunes. Dear God, Wilkins had said that their babe had died recently. Added to Eliza's grief must be the knowledge that her husband was certain to hang. All phrases of condolence seemed woefully inadequate, almost patronizing.

  What could she say then-that she had come to help? Phaedra fingered her small purse of coins. That too seemed inadequate in the face of all this. Her gaze once more roved over the barrenness of the room's furnishings, the sorrow set deep in Eliza Wilkins's dark eyes.

  She became miserably conscious of how she must look, trailing in here with her livery-garbed footman, her silk gown, the lace dusting of her petticoats peeking out. She felt ashamed that she had ever dared fancy she knew anything of poverty, ashamed of being Sawyer Weylin's granddaughter.

  She drew in a deep breath and tried again. "I have heard something of your misfortunes, and I regret that my grandfather should have been the cause of them. I cannot do much, but I would like to help you-if you will let me."

  Perhaps the humbleness of her tone inspired Eliza Wilkins to look up at Phaedra for the first time. "Thank you," she said. "But the other gentleman has already been more than kind."

  "Other gentleman?"

  "Aye, he was a guest at your dinner party last night when my husband tried to-" Eliza's voice faltered. She concluded, "The French gentleman called upon me only this morning."

  "You cannot mean Armande de LeCroix," Phaedra cried, incredulous.

  "How odd." Eliza's eyes became almost luminous with wonder. "I never realized until just now he never told me his name."

  "Then describe him."

  Eliza Wilkins regarded her for a moment, no doubt surprised by the anxiousness of Phaedra's command. But the woman sketched for Phaedra an exact picture of Armando de LeCroix as Phaedra had last see
n him except for her description of the marquis's expression.

  "He had the most gentle blue eyes of any man I'd ever met," Eliza mused aloud. "Yet so sad. I hope he finds whatever he is seeking."

  Phaedra stared at the woman. "What makes you think he is looking for something?"

  "I don't know. He simply gave me the impression of a man who is not at peace with himself." The woman gave a brittle laugh. "And God knows, I have met enough men like that. My Tom ..." She let the thought trail off.

  Phaedra gaped at her. She tried to imagine the haughty Armande, coming to such a place, seeking out Mrs. Wilkins. It was not so difficult. She was aided by the memory of how gentle his fingers had been only that morning when examining her injured hand. Phaedra recalled how Armande had slipped from the dining room last night, after Wilkins had been taken away. Had it been to find out where the man lived?

  But it made no sense. What reason would Armande have to help these people? Phaedra turned to Eliza Wilkins. She wanted to know everything he had done and said. Fortunately Eliza Wilkins was not at all loath to talk about the marquis.

  "Why did he come here?" Eliza repeated Phaedra's question, a furrow creasing her brow. "I wondered that myself. All that he said was that he knew what it was like to be at the mercy of the powerful and ruthless."

  Armande? Phaedra could not picture the indomitable marquis ever being at anyone's mercy. But she did not interrupt Eliza as she continued, "He was very generous with his money and oh, so much more. He even promised me that he would see my babe had a proper burial and was not thrust into the poor hole. And for my husband-" Eliza brightened, her eyes wistful with hope. "He swears that I will be with my Tom again. The marquis intends to see that Tom is not hanged, but only transported."

  "Only transported!" Phaedra could not refrain from blurting out. "But you would still likely never see him again.” She stumbled over her words, trying to amend the error of her clumsy tongue. But it seemed wrong of Armande to give Eliza Wilkins any false hope of ever being reunited with her husband.