Masquerade Page 9

  Gilly backed out of the room with obvious reluctance, unwilling to leave her alone with Armande. As soon as the door had closed behind her cousin, Phaedra felt her own bravado ebb.

  The silence that settled over the anteroom seemed heavier than one of London's fogs. Phaedra avoided looking at Varnais. Nervously she moistened her lips. "We'd best hasten to the dining parlor. I daresay the others will be wanting their supper."

  She took a step forward, but Armande's outstretched arm barred her path, not roughly, but an immovable barrier all the same. "My lady, I believe we have need of a talk."

  "Well, if you want to .talk about prying," Phaedra blustered, then realized with dismay, it was not he who had brought up such a thing, but she. She continued doggedly, "How dare you follow me from the salon!"

  "Your grandfather sent me to find you."

  "I hadn't realized there was a shortage of footmen." She tried to slip past him, but he planted himself more firmly in her path. Never had he seemed more formidable, his masculine strength thinly veiled beneath the cool exterior of ivory satin.

  "What you should realize, my lady," he said, "is that I seldom trouble myself to warn anyone a second time."

  Phaedra thrust out her chin, seized by an impulse to deny any knowledge of what he was talking about. But one look at his eyes glinting like shards of crystal, told her denial would be useless. She faltered. "And just how did you know that I-that Gilly-"

  A trace of amusement eased the hard lines of his mouth. "My dear Lady Grantham, you and your cousin are not exactly the most subtle people I have ever met. But I will admit that when reports reached my ears of a strange Irishman asking odd, unconnected questions about me, I neither knew his name nor associated him with you until ten minutes ago."

  "Oh," she said weakly. She retreated a step, still unable to gauge how annoyed he was. She had a strong fear that if she ever raised Armande's anger, she might not even know it until too late.

  She affected a careless shrug. ""So now you know it was I who set Gilly on, what will you do about it? Draw your sword and run me through?”

  He didn't answer her, but his smile unnerved her. With each step she took backward, he stalked closer, until she felt the edge of the fireplace pressing against her spine, leaving her no further room to retreat.

  "I suppose you think I owe you an apology," she said. "Maybe I do. You might be pleased to know all of Gilly's questions accomplished nothing, except perhaps to make me feel somewhat foolish for mistrusting you."

  Was it her imagination, or did she sense a slight relaxing in Armande's whipcord taut frame.

  "And does this mean you no longer mistrust me?" he demanded. "You are now satisfied. There will be no more questions?"

  "I-I-" she stammered. How did he expect her to reply when his lips drew so near to her own?

  "I suppose not," she said. He cradled her face between his hands. Although she made a faint protest, she felt strangely unable to resist. Her heart thundering in ears, she half closed her eyes, fully expecting him to kiss her. His strong fingers were surprisingly gentle as he stroked back the hair from her brow.

  "No more questions," he murmured. "Ah, Phaedra, I wish I could believe you, but already I fear I know you too well."

  He brushed his lips against her forehead, and then abruptly released her. There was something disturbingly final about the way Armande had embraced her, as though he bade her farewell. His blue eyes were warm with regret, his smile tinged with sadness. Somehow the expression frightened her more than any of his threats had ever done.

  The footman, John, held back the chair at the foot of the long dining table. Phaedra sank into the hostess's seat, her head swimming a little, although she had not tasted so much as a drop of wine. For once she could not attribute her reeling senses to the heat of the room. It all stemmed from the tangle of emotion generated by the enigmatic man who now seated himself at her right.

  What had happened between herself and Armande only bare moments ago? She thought if she closed her eyes she would still be able to feel his hands caressing her face, that gentle kiss which had somehow seared her more than the most heated embrace. For a brief space of time, all her mistrust had been swept away, her defenses lowered. She frowned. Or had it been Armande who had momentarily dropped his guard?

  If that were so, he had it firmly back in place. As she signaled to the footmen to begin serving the first course, she covertly studied Armande. If anything, he appeared even more withdrawn; but Phaedra could not be certain if was she whom he wished to distance himself from, or the rest of the company gathered.

  Her gaze traveled past him down the length of the table, the pristine white linen cloth covered with the glitter of crystal, china and silver-plate, and the candelabrum of blue jasper. Only with difficulty had Phaedra kept her grandfather from displaying every piece of expensive tableware that he owned.

  She caught glimpses of Weylin's face framed between the branches of the candlesticks. His lips pursed with smug satisfaction as the ladies exclaimed over the table setting. Their husbands expressed more pleasure at the sight of the steaming soup tureen and silver platters laden with meat.

  A marquis and Wedgwood china, leek soup and mutton dressed with French sauce. How easily impressed these people were! Immediately Phaedra felt ashamed of herself for being so snobbish. Her grandfather's merchant friends were decent folk, well-mannered and intelligent. It was only that their conversation was more likely to center about the Royal Exchange rather than Sheridan's latest play or the witty speech Lord Chatham had made in the House of Lords today.

  Not that Weylin's so-called noble guests showed any disposition to discuss such interesting topics, either. Sir Norris Byram slurped his soup with such violent enthusiasm that he spattered the cuffs of poor Jonathan, who sat opposite him. Lord Danby had sobered up enough to take his seat at the table. He plucked out his quizzing glass and proceeded to inspect everyone with great astonishment as though he had not seen any of them until just that moment. He paused when his inspections reached Phaedra's end of the table, focusing on Armande. As much, Phaedra thought with scorn, as Arthur Danby ever focused on anyone.

  "Stap me, sir," Lord Arthur said, "but we've met before." Armande dismissed Danby with one bored sweep of his ice-blue eyes. "Aye, in the green salon but a half-hour past."

  Danby beamed, looking quite pleased with himself. "So we did. Never forget a face." He squinted at Armande for a few moments longer, then shrugged.

  Phaedra picked at the food on her plate. She had little appetite for any of the fancy dishes dressed by her grandfather's new French chef-one more indication of Armande's influence. Although the rest of the guests chatted amicably enough, the first hour of the meal passed for her in a kind of isolated silence.

  She was hardly aware of any of them but the tall, proud Frenchman seated so close to her. She had but to reach out for her hand to brush against his. Yet Armande directed his attention toward the woman seated on the other side of him, his broad shoulder and his averted profile providing as much a barrier as if he had erected a wall between himself and Phaedra.

  The fluttery Mrs. Eulalie Shelton dropped her spoon, looking ready to faint when Armande fixed his gaze upon her. I should have never seated her near the marquis, Phaedra fretted. The tiny wool draper's wife was a timid soul, easily overwhelmed.

  But to Phaedra's surprise, the lines of Armande's face relaxed. Even his voice grew gentle as he strove to make Mrs. Shelton feel at ease, feigning interest in commonplace topics such as the Wedgwood china.

  "I prefer Mr. Josiah's fancier sort myself." The elderly woman at last became brave enough to venture. "The kind with the Etruscan ladies dancing in the center."

  "Ah, but madame, the china is most elegante when the design is kept simple." Armande indicated the deceptively plain mint-green border that scrolled the rim of his saucer. He displayed an astonishing knowledge as he went on to describe the Dysart glazing process, which gave the china its lighter tints.

&nbs
p; Phaedra could only shake her head. She wondered if the day would ever come when she would know Armande well enough that he would cease to amaze her. She would have wagered that most of his pastimes would be far more dangerous than the collecting of china.

  Armande had Mrs. Shelton quite relaxed by the time the platters of the second course were served. Much to Phaedra's embarrassment, the conversation veered from the cups and saucers to herself.

  "Poor dear Lady Grantham," Mrs. Shelton whispered to Armande in a voice meant for his ears alone. "So young to be a widow. Her husband's death was shockingly sudden. You see, he was out riding on his estates up north when he suffered the most horrid accident.”

  "So I had heard," Armande said. He did not seem as eager to discuss Ewan Grantham's death as he had the china.

  But Mrs. Shelton, made comfortable by Armande's previous kindness as well as two cups of claret, persisted. "The Grantham family has seen more than its share of tragedy. Did you know that Lord Ewan saw his own father murdered in this very house!"

  "Indeed?"

  Mrs. Shelton heaved a great sigh. "Poor Lord Carleton."

  "From what I heard about 'poor' Lord Carleton," Phaedra started to chime in, then stopped herself. It might sound ill-natured to say that Ewan's father likely had deserved to be murdered. By all reports, Carleton Grantham had been a bad-tempered rakehell, likely to rape a maidservant or to whip a hunting dog to death. As cutting as Ewan's tongue had been at times, Phaedra had taken some comfort from the fact that he at least had not been as violent as his father.

  Armande in any case showed little interest in the subject. He drained his crystal goblet, his mouth pursing as though he found the wine sour. He lapsed into a chilling silence that left poor Mrs. Shelton looking flustered and confused.

  Phaedra was far from enjoying the supper party herself. She hailed with relief the arrival of the footman to clear the table for the dessert course. But her relief was short-lived, for now Sir Norris Byram leaned back in his chair and belched loudly. He stole a glance at the rest of the company, his porcine features stretching into the leer of a man contemplating some mischief. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he produced folded up pages from a newspaper.

  "Look," he said, waving it about. "Another issue of the Gazetteer. That rascal Goodfellow is at it again."

  Phaedra choked in the act of taking a sip of wine. Armande turned in her direction, his brow furrowed with concern. He reached toward her, but Phaedra shrank back, muffling her face behind a napkin. The last thing she wished for right now was Armande's penetrating gaze upon her. Blast Norris Byram. The man had a talent for making a nuisance of himself.

  Sawyer Weylin reddened to such an extent Phaedra feared he would have an attack of apoplexy. "How dare you, sir," he bellowed. "How dare you bring a copy of that rag sheet under my roof!"

  Unperturbed, Byram unfolded the paper, his gaze shifting toward Armande with an expression of sly malice. "I thought it might be of interest to one of your guests. His lordship's name is mentioned not a few times." Byram shifted in his chair and prepared to hand the paper down the table to Armande.

  A flicker of surprise crossed the marquis's face, but otherwise he extended his hand with a look of indifference. Phaedra had to restrain a wild urge to snatch the newspaper. She could not have explained the feeling, but she suddenly knew she did not want Armande to read what she had written about him. There was still much about the marquis that disconcerted her, roused her suspicions, but she now saw that Robin Goodfellow's insinuations about Armande were both mean-spirited and cowardly. For the first time, she felt ashamed of her work.

  Armande's fingers closed over the paper and he was about to begin reading the contents. Then suddenly, Sawyer Weylin's chair scraped back. With a speed astonishing for a man of his girth, he stormed the length of the dining hall and grabbed the paper from Armande's hands.

  At the haughty look Armande bestowed upon him, Sawyer Weylin huffed, "Your pardon, my lord. But I am a member of parliament, the loyal servant of good King George. I can't permit the works of that treasonous dog Goodfellow to be passed about under my own roof."

  Armande shrugged. "As you wish, sir. I am sure the matter is of no great import to me."

  Weylin proceeded to shred the newspaper to bits and cast it into the empty fireplace grate. Phaedra expelled a deep breath of relief as her grandfather resumed his seat.

  "Well, I can always tell his lordship what Goodfellow wrote." Byram sneered.

  Weylin's fist pounded against the table with a force that made the forks jump. "Hold your tongue! I forbid even the mention of that pernicious rascal's name in my house."

  Her grandfather looked so fierce that Byram had the good sense to close his mouth. The uneasy silence that settled over the room was broken only by the arrival of dessert. The rich assortment of creams, sugar puffs, iced cakes, and trifle topped with pudding did much to sweeten everyone's disposition, with the exception of Sawyer Weylin.

  Her grandfather proceeded to break his own rule, launching into an invective against Robin Goodfellow that held the writer responsible for everything from the king's poor health to inciting the American colonists to revolt against the crown.

  Phaedra tried to concentrate upon the trifle, driving her fork into the wine-soaked sponge cake and fighting back an urge to break into hysterical laughter.

  "Nay, Sawyer," Jonathan's quiet voice interrupted her grandfather's tirade at last. Phaedra's friend looked so stricken with fear that she regretted having burdened him with her dread secret.

  "The Gazetteer did not even start publication until after the revolution had begun," Jonathan said earnestly. "I am sure the colonists have never even heard of Robin Goodfellow."

  "Aye, they have their own set of rabble-rousers," Norris Byram agreed.

  Her grandfather's scowl deepened. "That's what they all are- rabble. Every blasted one of those revolutionaries. A pack of ruffians only fit for the gaol. Destroying property, dumping good tea into the harbor."

  Phaedra rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Her grandfather had been harping upon that incident in Boston for the past four years, with as much rancor as though he were a tea merchant and it had been his own cargo destroyed.

  But as ridiculous as his sentiments seemed to Phaedra, he received a chorus of approval from most of the men present. Only Armande appeared uninterested, his long fingers crooked languidly about his wineglass, toying with the stem.

  "Ungrateful lot, those colonists. No loyalty. After all the years our army has protected them from savages and the French." Phaedra listened to the men's comments with growing irritation, determined to keep her lips sealed. Far wiser to swallow her own opinions, save them for Robin Goodfellow to expound. But when one fool piped up, "and we maintained a fair system of trade for them," the bounds of her self-control burst.

  "Fair," she echoed with contempt. "You gentlemen certainly have a strange notion of what is fair. We sell our goods to the colonists at outrageous prices, and then we tax their own crafts so they cannot compete. That is supposed to be fair?"

  "No one asked your opinion, missy," Weylin growled.

  But Phaedra could not stop herself once she had started. "You talk about the colonists like they were unruly children who needed chastising, but they value the same freedoms you do and are not about to-"

  "Be quiet," Weylin thundered. "Od's fish, girl. You don't have the least idea what you are talking about."

  Sir Norris sniggered. "Lord, but the chit has gotten cheeky since Ewan stuck his spoon in the wall. Poor fellow must be turning in his grave."

  "It is her father's fault," Sawyer Weylin said. "Fool let her read too many books. Trying to teach her to think, he said. About as much use for a thinking woman as there is for a talking dog."

  Her grandfather's friends chortled in appreciation of his wit, even most of Phaedra's own sex joining in or eyeing her with disapproval. She flushed with mortification.

  Armande's suave voice cut through the coarse laughter. "Some
of the most enjoyable moments I have ever spent were in the company of a certain lady whose beauty was only matched by her intelligence and her wit."

  He looked directly into Phaedra's eyes as he spoke, leaving her in no doubt of his sincerity. She could not have been more stunned than if he had leaned forward and kissed her. Could the man truly be defending her learning? It was something not even her father had ever done.

  Armande's remark momentarily silenced the others until Byram smirked. "Strange pleasures you Frenchies have. Next I suppose you'll be telling us we should be sending our daughters up to Oxford and giving them the franchise."

  His comment produced another spate of laughter, which quickly changed to gasps when Armande leveled a chilling stare at Byram.

  "By all means. If a woman has a good mind, she should use it. Let the ladies vote. The more capable ones might even take a seat in parliament."

  He could not have stunned them more if he had advocated home rulefor Ireland. Even Phaedra found herself gaping at the marquis. The man was more of a radical than she had ever dreamed of being. She sensed the thunderclap about to erupt from her grandfather's end of the table. His professed friendship for Varnais might have ended abruptly if Arthur Danby had not provided a diversion.

  The fop leaped to his feet, spilling his second glass of wine that evening. "Stap me! Oxford. That's it." Trembling with excitement, he pointed at Armande. "That is where we met. We were up at Oxford together. Don't you remember? It is me. Danby."

  While he thumped his chest, the other guests returned their attention to their plates, looking alternately amused and disgusted with Lord Danby's drunken nonsense.

  But Armande's face went rigid. Ever sensitive to his mood changes, Phaedra noted how his fingers tightened about the stem of his wineglass.

  "I regret, monsieur, you are mistaken. I took my education in Paris. "