Masquerade Page 15

  "I would follow him, wherever he was sent," Eliza said.

  Phaedra glanced dubiously at the frail woman, considering it unlikely the woman had the strength to follow Tom Wilkins to the other side of London let alone across the ocean.

  "I love him, you see," Eliza said simply, as though that accounted for everything. Perhaps for her it did, Phaedra thought, staring with envy at the woman's rapt expression. She felt as though it were Eliza Wilkins who was garbed in silk, and she the one deprived, lacking.

  She drew toward the door, preparing to depart. "I am relieved to hear you are being so well taken care of," she said. "I will not intrude upon you any longer."

  Eliza surprised her by seizing hold of her hand. She gave Phaedra's fingers a gentle squeeze. “Don't you go away from here distressing yourself. You are not to blame for anything."

  Phaedra could not meet the woman’s earnest gaze. She did not blame herself for anything her grandfather had done. The guilt Eliza was obviously reading upon Phaedra's countenance stemmed from a far different cause.

  Eliza was filled with hope, believing that Armande was wielding his influence to-save Tom Wilkins from the jaws of Newgate. Only Phaedra knew that at that moment, thanks to her, those prison gates were slamming tight upon Armande himself.

  "Where the deuce is de LeCroix?" her grandfather asked for the third time. Pacing the green salon, he consulted his watch, occasionally stopping to wince. His gout was acting up again, no matter how he might pretend to the contrary. He grumbled, "Frenchies. Got no notion of being on time for dinner."

  With only Phaedra and Jonathan Burnell for an audience, Weylin appeared to have forgotten all his quips about not keeping city hours. Phaedra was grateful that only Jonathan had been invited to dinner. There was no way she could have managed even one commonplace to entertain a guest this evening.

  She sat poised on the Queen Anne's chair by the hearth and started to thrust the poker into the grate when she remembered there was no fire to stir. There was something depressing about a empty fireplace. With the grate swept clean, the andirons slicked with grease and stored away until autumn, the soot-blackened opening yawned before her, like a condemned man's cell the day after-

  Phaedra nearly dropped the poker, then silently cursed herself for allowing her mind to keep running on such things. Yet why on earth had word of Armande's arrest not reached Blackheath Hall? Surely the gossip must be circulating through London by now, and her grandfather and Jonathan had spent the entire afternoon haunting their regular coffeehouse.

  "My dear Phaedra." Jonathan's voice bit through her like the crack of a whip. She hoped her grandfather did not notice how she jumped, how tense she was.

  "Are you well?" Jonathan asked anxiously. "You look so pale."

  Phaedra forced a smile and shook her head. Jonathan was one of the kindest men living, but must he forever plague her with questions about her health? She started to reassure him, when her grandfather answered for her.

  "Of course the wench looks pale. That is all the more good it did, sending her off to Bath to drink the cursed waters." He leveled upon her the irritation he was feeling toward the absent marquis. "Why can't you paint yourself up a bit like the other fashionable gels I see, and powder that carrot-top hair? Small wonder the marquis is not here. That dour look of yours is enough to drive any man from our door."

  Phaedra had heard this refrain too often to bother defending herself. Jonathan's face rarely ever registered anger, but he glared at Sawyer Weylin. "If the marquis can find any flaw in Phaedra, why, the man must be blind."

  The intended compliment came out twisted, an awkward attempt at gallantry from a plain man not accustomed to making such gestures. Phaedra could not even offer him a smile of gratitude. She felt miserable enough without being made more so by the undeserved admiration of an old friend.

  Weylin continued ranting at Phaedra as though Jonathan was not even in the room. "More than likely you've caught something, likely spotted fever or a pox, sneaking off to Canty Row with my best horses, paying social calls at the house of my assassin."

  "Canty Row! My dearest Phaedra!" Jonathan cried.

  His distress was ignored as her grandfather shook his thick finger at Phaedra. "Did you think Ridley would not report the whole of your doings to me, missy?"

  "It wasn't a house, only a room," she said, thinking of the Wilkinses' bleak abode. "And as to assassins, you still seem very much alive to me, Grandpapa."

  "No thanks to that villain Wilkins."

  Jonathan's gaze darted between Phaedra and her grandfather. "But Phaedra! Whatever induced you to go there?"

  "I only thought to help Mrs. Wilkins."

  "Meddling" Weylin's jowls puffed with indignation. "You silly chit. I expect you were taken in by Wilkins's whining tale. Set out to right the wrongs of your wicked old grandfather, did you? I'm an ogre because I expect able-bodied men and women to do an honest day's work, and keep their debts paid without looking for handouts. I never in my life asked for charity, and I don't intend to have my granddaughter running round behind my back dispensing it, either."

  "I would scarce describe Mrs. Wilkins as able-bodied, Grandfather. Wilkins's tale was perfectly true. She has been very ill since the death of their child."

  "It was kindhearted of you to help the woman, my dear," Jonathan said. "I only wish you had come to me first. I could have used my patronage to have the poor woman taken into a hospital."

  "If you aren't another pretty fool." Her grandfather poked the tip of his cane at Jonathan. "Taking the money you've worked so hard for all your life and flinging it into patronage. Foundling homes, charity schools, and your hospitals, bah! More like shelters for a pack of sluggards feigning sickness."

  Weylin flung up his arms in a frustrated gesture. "Stap me, you might as well lock me up in Bedlam. I suppose I must be mad, since I seem to be the only one not inclined to empty my pockets for a lot of undeserving rascals." He scowled. "Mind you, if I had known about the Wilkens child-"

  He hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders, stumping impatiently to the door, looking at his watch again.

  What would her grandfather say, Phaedra wondered, if he knew it really had been Armande who had helped the woman? It would vastly change his impression of the marquis, even as it had done her own. It was no coldhearted villain who had called upon Mrs. Wilkins today. Phaedra still marveled at what Armande had done. It went beyond a gesture of noblesse oblige, beyond flinging a handful of coins to the peasants. He had obviously put himself to no little trouble, seeking out Eliza Wilkins, arranging for the funeral of her child. It showed a great depth of feeling she would have never thought Armande possessed.

  And what of his reason for behaving in a manner that seemed so out of character? Eliza Wilkins's explanation echoed through Phaedra's mind. He said he knew what it was like to be at the mercy of the powerful and ruthless. Men like her grandfather, men like Armande de LeCroix himself. So Phaedra had once thought. Now she was no longer sure. Armande's sympathy for Wilkins, that haunted expression she had on occasion glimpsed in his cold blue eyes. What was there in his past that inspired such things, the past that he was at such pains to conceal?

  If only instead of threatening her, Armande had chosen to confide. But perhaps she had seemed to him like another Muriel Porterfield, a selfish lady of the haut ton. Perhaps he thought she would never have understood. There was little use in speculating. It was too late now, far too late.

  Phaedra stared back into the fireplace grate, the stones so cold. Despite the warm evening, she could almost fancy the chill from it creeping into her bones. What was it like to spend a night in Newgate Prison? She shuddered.

  As if her nerves were not stretched taut enough, some imp of perversity had taken possession of her grandfather this evening. Perhaps her own guilty reflections made it seem so, but her grandfather appeared able to talk of nothing but the very subjects Phaedra most wished to avoid.

  "I declare," he huffed. "London is naught
but a city of rogues these days. I was coming up High Street and what did I see, but a footpad as bold as you please, leaping atop a sedan chair. The rogue cut a hole in the roof and snatched a wig from a man's head. In full light of day! A twenty-farthing wig! The villain will swing for that if he is ever caught."

  Phaedra, who had been trying to blot out the sound of her grandfather's haranguing, stiffened at his last words. "Hang for twenty farthings?" she faltered. "Most surely not."

  "Most surely could." Her grandfather rocked back on his heels, his lips pursed in evident satisfaction at the thought. "A man may hang for any theft over five shillings, and so he should. Lazy 'rogues fleecing honest, hard-working men!"

  Five shillings. Phaedra's hand crept to the lacy shawl knotted round her shoulders and she tugged uncomfortably at the fringe. The ring she had planted upon Armande was well above five shillings in value. But they don't hang noblemen, she reminded herself. All the same, she hadn't known men could die for so little cause. What if she was wrong about the immunity of noblemen, as well?

  Of a sudden, she remembered Muriel's gossip about Tony Ackerly being flung into Newgate. Only fancy! That some shabby shopkeeper could have a gentleman treated thus! Of course, Tony was not a lord. But so many of the English had a strong antipathy toward foreigners, especially the French. What if Armande's rank as Marquis de Varnais counted for nothing?

  Jonathan sighed. "I have always thought the law too harsh. The gallows at Tyburn are put to far too great a use."

  Weylin eyed him contemptuously. "Fortunately we are all saved a great deal of trouble by gaol fever. It carries off most of the rascals."

  "Gaol fever?" Phaedra asked weakly.

  Aye, girl. What d'you think Newgate is? Some charming country manor house? The fever runs rampant through that pest hole so that few who take it ever recover." Weylin grinned. "I heard old magistrate Harbottle goes in such fear of the fever, he came to court with a nosegay pressed to his face the other day. He kept the prisoners at such a distance from him, he could hardly hear their pleas."

  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."