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 clung 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 lif
e.
"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.
Jonathan hovered over her. "My dear, you look so pale. Have you not been eating?"
She gave a tiny shrug, the hopelessness of her situation weighing heavy upon her. "What does it matter?"
"It matters a great deal to me." Jonathan turned to peek inside the contents of her soup bowl. He pulled a face. "I know the food here is not the most palatable, but you must keep up your strength."
When she made no response, he clasped one of her hands between his own. "Please, Phaedra. For me."
She returned his squeeze, favored him with a wan smile. "Very well, Jonathan. For you, I will try not to lose heart. I believe you are the only living soul who cares in the least what has become of me."
Instantly, she regretted her words when he dropped to one knee beside her, the severe angles of his face softened by the glow of his eyes. He pressed a kiss into her palm. His voice thickened as he said, "You know I would do anything to bring you happiness."
Phaedra squirmed; even under these dire circumstances, she was discomfited by Jonathan's expressions of devotion. She carefully disengaged her hand. "Just get me away from this place. That is all that you can do for me."
He bowed his head, concealing whatever hurt her blunt statement may have given him. Phaedra tried to take the sting from her words by stroking aside the strands of graying hair that drooped over his brow. He rose awkwardly to his feet.
"I know what you must be suffering," he said, "but when you are free, I shall make you forget all this ever happened. If you could but keep your courage awhile longer."
Jonathan gave a nervous cough. "One thought did occur to me. I wondered if the father of your child might be a man of enough influence to help you. I do not wish to pry but, if you would trust me enough to tell me the name."
Phaedra broke into a mirthless peal of laughter. "You think I should appeal to the father of my child?"
"Please, Phaedra. I am sorry. I did not mean to make you overwrought. Please don't laugh like that. It frightens me."
"That is only because you do not know. Maybe I should tell you his name. Then you could share my amusement."
Jonathan drew back with a flurried gesture. "No, don't. I regret that I asked. The name is of no consequence. He-"
"His name is Armande, the most noble Marquis de Varnais." She watched as the color drained from Jonathan's face; but she felt relief that someone else should at last share the burden of her dreadful secret.
"Varnais," Jonathan said hoarsely. "I feared it but I never thought it possible. He seems so dispassionate, so cold."
"Aye, as cold as a drift of snow." But even as she spoke, Phaedra envisioned a pair of icy blue eyes, burning with the blazing intensity of the blue core in the midst of flames. She saw sternly set lips that could be tender; his hard-muscled limbs that, when devoid of their cool satin, were bronzed like a sun god's, his passion just as warm.
"And you!" Jonathan's tone was vaguely accusing. "I always believed you hated him."
Phaedra shook her head to dispel the sensation of Armande's presence that was all too real, all too vivid in the midst of this hell where she now resided.
"I wish that I did hate him. It would make everything so much easier.” She had always thought hate such a fiery emotion until she met Armande. Now she knew that it was a chilling, numbing thing. She felt so cold, so empty.
Jonathan clumsily patted her shoulder, mumbling some words of comfort, adjuring her to rest and to eat. All would turn out for the best. Then he was gone, leaving her with the feeling she had lost her last contact with the world of sanity.
Phaedra reached listlessly for the bowl of unappetizing stew. One thought alone sustained her: the child inside her. She would let nothing else matter. Damn Armande and his quest for vengeance. Let him destroy himself in his vast wasteland of hate. Such an emotion would never touch her life or her babe's. It had been love that had driven her into Armande's embrace, love that would sustain her and the child. She would love enough for both of them.
Holding fast to that thought, she raised the spoon to her lips, averting her eyes from the grayish lumps of meat. She managed to swallow a few quick bites before she gagged. Belda's cooking was worse than ever. For the sake of her child, Phaedra choked down half the contents of the bowl before setting the spoon aside. One more mouthful, and she feared she would be sick.
Burrowing deep into the thin cot, she pulled the ragged blanket tightly over her arms, seeking whatever warmth and rest she could find. She had scarce closed her eyes when the first pain struck.
Her mouth flew open in a startled gasp at the intensity of it. She had no time to recover before the next one struck and the next, like waves of a storm-tossed winter sea washing over her, shards of ice in the water piercing her. She flung her arms over her stomach as if she could somehow protect herself from this unseen assailant.
The pain intensified, waves no longer, but a steady agony, a knife twisting and turning inside her. Her body jerked in a series of bone-wrenching spasms as she tumbled off the cot, clawing at the floor, her hand clattering against the food tray, sending clumps of stew flying against the walls. Even through the mists of her pain, the terrifying thought penetrated her consciousness. Poison! She had been poisoned! Then she was lost in the sound of her own screams.
An eternity passed before distant figures bent over her, shrouded by her pain-filled gaze . . . Belda, a leering goblin amidst this nightmare of agony, the ghost-white face of the doctor, hands wrenching her from the floor. No, dear God, no. Don't touch me!
Ahead of her loomed the blessed darkness, if she could only reach it. But her limbs shook so. The darkness came and receded before the glaring white light of pain. How cold she was! But at least the cold dulled the merciless ache inside of her. She was freezing to death, and she did not care. It was such a relief to be done with the pain.
Eventually even the cold ceased to bother her. She felt her eyelids growing heavy as the frigid walls of her cell faded. For the first time in weeks, she felt warm. It was no longer autumn, but the last days of spring. Phaedra's eyes fluttered closed, allowing herself to be enveloped by the heat, the glowing lights of the ballroom. It was spring again, and she was seeing Armande de LeCroix for the first time...
Chapter Two
The heat of Lady Porterfield’s ballroom assaulted Phaedra’s senses in one great wave. Through the slits of her velvet mask, she stared up at her ladyship's famed chandelier, tier upon tier of crystalline ice set ablaze by no fewer than five hundred candles. For a moment, her eyes were so bedazzled that the ballroom became a blur of color, an array of silk-clad forms that flashed with diamonds and other gemstones.
She blinked, accustoming herself to the brilliant scene. A sea of white-powdered heads inclined toward where she had paused beneath the archway. Even the profusion of spangled masks could not disguise the malicious speculation in the eyes that had turned her way. Above the scrape of violins, Phaedr
a heard the whispers. "Phaedra Grantham. I thought she was still in Bath. Imagine! Attending a masked ball unescorted! Who would bring her, my dear? Her husband?" Titters of laughter, then indignation. "Shocking, I call it. Not so much as black ribbon on her petticoats, and the poor man not dead a year."
Phaedra moved her hand upward to adjust her own mask. Of course, she need not wonder how her identity had been so easily guessed. Self-consciously, she touched one of the shining red curls that gleamed against the gold-figured silk domino she wore over her gown. As always, she wore her locks unpowdered, in defiance of fashion or perhaps only in defiance of her grandfather, who claimed he detested red hair.
As she met the room full of hostile stares, she felt as though time had reversed itself. Suddenly she was seventeen again, stepping into this same ballroom for the very first time, only not alone. Then her husband had stood by her side, and the strange faces had surged nearer for a closer inspection of Lord Ewan Grantham's bride. She remembered clinging to Ewan's elbow and being ruthlessly shaken off. Trembling, she had forced a smile to her lips, wanting so badly to make a good impression; wanting to make Ewan proud of her. But her husband's well-modulated voice had cut through whatever self-possession she had maintained. "Ah, Lady Porterfield, this is my bride, Phaedra, fresh from the wilds of Donegal. You must excuse her appearance. I had not thought it necessary to tell her hoops were always worn for evening functions. One would have imagined that even in Ireland- Ah, well. Phaedra, make your curtsy."
She felt his hand in the small of her back, shoving her off-balance. "And don't mumble, dearest. Her ladyship will think you unacquainted with English, and I assure you no one here speaks Gaelic any more than they do Hindi." Ewan had joined in the laughter at his own wit. Her eyes brimming with tears, Phaedra had stared at her handsome husband as if seeing him for the first time. Cruel, petty, mean-spirited, he would never love her. She had realized, more painfully still, that she did not love him; she had realized this in a room full of heartless, uncaring strangers. The knowledge left her soul stripped bare. She felt set adrift, alone.
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