Masquerade

by Susan Carroll

  "This time, you've carried your impertinence too far, Mrs. Searle. In the first place, I've told you that I consider this my own private room. I don't ever want you coming in here. Secondly, that girl was acting upon my orders. I told her to destroy those gowns. I no longer have a use for them."

  Hester Searle pursed her lips. "Begging yer ladyship's pardon. How was I to know? Such a strange command, burning these lovely silks. If you had but told me you wished to be rid of them, I could have-"

  "You are only the housekeeper. How I dispose of my personal wardrobe is none of your affair. "

  "Aye, but Fae, I fear for once I must agree with Madame Pester about the gowns."

  Having all but forgotten Gilly's presence, Phaedra twisted her head to glower at him. He leaned up against the doorjamb. "'Tis more the action of a spoiled, highborn beauty than the cousin I know, to so wantonly destroy such clothes as many a poor woman would be glad to have upon her back. If you don't want them, m'dear, give them away."

  Phaedra bit her lip. More than anyone else, Gilly should understand why she despised those black gowns. With irritation she realized that Gilly was right. It was wasteful to burn up the gowns. She had seen enough of poverty herself to know better. Before she could reply, however, she was distracted by the sound of Hester hissing like a cat. Her pale eyes spit fire at Gilly.

  "You. You, here in this house! If my dear Lord Ewan were still alive, ye would never have dared.”

  Gilly gave the woman a mocking grin. "What, Madame Pester? You mean to say you are just now aware of my arrival? Tch. Tch. Your prying little eyes must be wearing dim with age."

  "Don't bandy words with her, Gilly." Phaedra stamped her foot. "Mrs. Searle, you will treat my cousin with respect or I swear I shall send you packing."

  But Gilly called out, "Now, Fae, Madame Pester has reason to be shocked by my presence. A gentleman in your private room, an Irishman and a Catholic to boot. Fie! For shame."

  "You are guilty on the last two counts," Phaedra retorted. "But upon my authority as a spoiled, highborn beauty, let me tell you, sir, that you are no gentleman. Now be off. I am certain you have a rather pressing errand to attend." She glanced pointedly toward where her manuscript bulged in his waistcoat pocket. "I can pack away these gowns for the almshouse without your interference."

  A smile of approval lit Gilly's face even.as he swept an exaggerated bow, encompassing both Phaedra and Mrs. Searle. "Oh, yes, your ladyship. Right away, your ladyship. And Madame Pester, charmed as always to be making your acquaintance again." Still bowing and scraping, Gilly backed out of the room.

  When his grinning countenance had disappeared from view, Phaedra turned her attention back to Mrs. Searle. The woman had successfully disguised any rage she felt at Gilly behind her normally morose expression. Her hands folded before her, her strangely wrought fingers peeked out of her black lace mittens, crooked only at the first joint like the claws of a vulture.

  "I regret having disturbed yer ladyship with my error," she said. "If I am excused, I will be about my work."

  "Oh, yes. I am sure you are just dying to go see my grandfather and tell him all about my having Gilly here. "Phaedra was well aware that Sawyer Weylin despised her Irish cousin nearly as much as her late husband had.

  "Nay, I shouldn't dream of disturbing the master when he's holding his levee," Hester said. Although she lowered her lashes, her thin, blue-veined lids did not hood her eyes enough to disguise a glint of malicious anticipation.

  "Get along, then. And when Lucy has recovered, send her up here to bundle these gowns. But if I ever catch you striking her or prowling through my room again, I swear I'll wring your scrawny neck with my own two hands. And not even my grandfather will be able to stop me."

  Her face emotionless, Hester nudged several of the black gowns aside with her toe, uncovering a cloak. Retrieving it from the pile, she prepared to slip out of the room.

  Phaedra sharply drew in her breath. "And where do you think you are going with that?"

  Hester shrugged, shooting Phaedra a sly glance. "I only thought as ye be now giving these things away, I would have it for myself. Being but a poor housekeeper with no wealthy grandfather to ease my way."

  "Oh, no, you don't. Give me that." Phaedra wrenched the cloak from the older woman's grasp. "You think I'll let you walk off with this, so I can find it turning up amongst my things again one day? Don't think for a minute I don't know that it is you who keeps slipping this back into my wardrobe."

  "Why, ma'am, ye seemed to cherish it so," Hester purred. "I couldn't believe ye meant to discard it."

  "Liar!" Phaedra's fingers tightened on the soft folds. "I will tolerate no more of your tricks, do you hear me? Now get out of here. Go make your report to my grandfather. And keep your sneaking face out of my sight."

  "Yes, my lady," Hester sneered, her stiff skirts rustling as she glided out of the garret, the door clicking shut behind her.

  Phaedra trembled with anger. Meddlesome old witch. She did not doubt for a moment that the housekeeper's true purpose had been to snoop amongst Phaedra's most private belongings.

  Anxiously, Phaedra hastened toward a small cabinet lodged in one corner of the room. One of the few pieces of furniture she had brought with her from Ireland, the cabinet was fashioned of blackened bog oak, the sides carved with fanciful figures like those found in the Book of Kells. Within its locked drawers resided her notes, first drafts of the pieces she had written under the name of Robin Goodfellow and the copies of the Gazetteer, the newspaper that printed her essays.

  Reassuring herself that the cabinet had not been tampered with, she resolved to take even greater precautions in future to keep Hester Searle out of her rooms. She'd endure no more of the woman's prying and malicious tricks.

  Phaedra's gaze dropped to the garment she yet clutched in her hands. She wanted to fling the cloak from her, but instead she smoothed it out, the cloth exercising the same terrible fascination for her it always had. Fashioned of dove-colored cassimere, it had a folding hood that expanded to frame the wearer's face in layers of ruffles. Phaedra hugged the cloak close to her body, the inches of fabric falling far short upon her. The garment had been designed for someone daintier than herself.

  Her eyes misted over when she recalled the first time she had ever seen the cloak. It had been lying draped over that very same indigo-blue velvet wing chair, nestled so close to the fire screen. Of course, then the wing chair had been new, part of the elegant bedroom furnishings downstairs. The velvet was faded now, but not so her memory. Sinking down upon the daybed's stiff brocade covering, Phaedra stroked the soft wool of the cloak, her mind drifting back to her wedding day.

  She had returned, exhausted from the celebration of the rites in Hanover Square, to the rooms Sawyer Weylin had had prepared for her and Ewan. Exhausted, yes, but happy and full of plans for the future. She had not been pleased to begin her married life under her tyrannical grandfather's roof, but was sure it would not be long until Ewan whisked her off to his own estate in Yorkshire. Scrambling into her linen shift, she had sent her maid away, then snuggled beneath the coverlets to await Ewan. Her handsome, charming, husband.

  Phaedra's heart had skipped a beat, her youthful body wriggling in anticipation. She was not totally ignorant of what to expect. Although she was still a maiden, Phaedra had learned much from a muscular Irish stableboy, whom she had once fancied. Learned far more than her parents would have wished. It was at that time the decision had been made to find her a husband. Phaedra had giggled as she remembered how forcefully her mother had put the case to Papa.

  “By my faith,” Lady Siobhan had snorted, “the girl is overripe, George. Delay much longer, and we shall see her fruit plucked by the wrong hands."

  Strangely, Sawyer Weylin had chosen that time to heal the breach between himself and his son. Although Weylin still had refused to receive his Irish daughter-in-law, he had showed an interest in producing a suitable candidate for his granddaughter's hand. At first Phaed
ra had rebelled, wanting nothing to do with the grandfather who so snubbed her beloved mother. But Lady Siobhan herself had insisted that Phaedra accept Weylin's offer, seeing better prospects for her daughter in England than in Ireland. Phaedra's own objections had lessened when she saw the portrait of the man Sawyer Weylin had selected. Lord Ewan Grantham was decidedly a fine figure of a man.

  The betrothal was delayed for another year by the untimely death of her mother. Most willingly would Phaedra have remained with her father, but George Weylin seemed to have no heart left for anything but his grief. He had bundled Phaedra off to England at the earliest opportunity. Banished to a strange country, her mother gone, her Papa far away at Abbey Lough, Phaedra had received a cold welcome from Sawyer Weylin, who from the outset regarded this half-Irish grandchild critically. But Lord Ewan had turned out to be as handsome as his portrait. Most naturally, Phaedra had transferred the full fire of her passionate affections to him, adoring her new husband.

  Squirming beneath the sheets on her wedding night, Phaedra had wondered how she could contain herself much longer if Ewan did not hasten to her side. It was then that she had first noticed the dove-colored cloak. With a shriek of feminine joy, she had bounded out of bed, snatching up the garment. Then the door to the bedchamber had crashed open and Ewan had staggered inside. She had turned to him, glowing with pleasure.

  "Oh, my love. What a splendid wedding gift. I thank you, oh, a hundred times."

  But instead of the urbane smile she had come to expect, Ewan flashed her a look of anger and hatred. He yanked the cloak from her hands, nearly spinning her off-balance.

  "Don't you ever touch this again," he had slurred. He reeked of whiskey. Phaedra shrank back, the smile withering upon her lips. "I-I am most dreadfully sorry. I thought it was meant for me."

  "You?" He gave a vicious bark of laughter. "This little cloak for a great horse like you?" He shoved the fabric in her face, and she stepped back, wincing.

  "Then whose is it?" she had whispered.

  "This, my little Irish bitch, belonged to the woman I loved."

  Hugging the cloak as if he embraced a lover, Ewan wove his way across the room. He attempted to seat himself in the wing-backed chair, missed, and sank into a heap by the fire.

  Phaedra had tried to reach out to him, but he waved her away, shaking his fist. "You stay away from me. Don't want you. Never did." He buried his face in the cloak. "Oh, Anne, my lovely Anne."

  Phaedra's hand fell limp to her side. She quavered. "Is she your mistress?"

  Ewan had raised his head long enough to roar at her. "No! She would have been my wife! My true wife!" His voice grew thick with weeping and his entire frame shook with sobs. Numbly, Phaedra had retreated to her own bedchamber, but the heavy oak door could not block out the sound of his dreadful sobs, which continued far into the night. It was then that Phaedra had fled to the top of the house and found the abandoned attic chamber that would become her retreat-a place to shed quiet tears of her own for a love lost, for a love that she had never truly had.

  The memory of that night faded as Phaedra folded up the cloak her husband had wept over so long ago. She had never asked Ewan what had become of his Anne, whether the woman had died or married someone else. The manner in which Ewan had cherished that cloak had told Phaedra all she cared to know. She could see now what a fool she had been, becoming infatuated by a handsome face. How many times had she met Ewan before their wedding day? Perhaps thrice. She had been nothing but a pawn, caught between two ruthless men: her ambitious grandfather, who wished to marry a member of his family into the nobility, and Ewan Grantham, in need of Weylin's money to settle his debts. Never, Phaedra vowed, would she permit herself to be so used again.

  She resolutely put the garment from her. She had had to endure Ewan's keeping the cloak about, but now that he was dead, she was not going to be haunted by it anymore. She regarded the fireplace grate, longing for the courage to stuff the cloak in and watch it burn to ashes. After all these years, the dove-colored wool still seemed to exercise a spell upon her. But, at least, she would have it boxed up, sent someplace where she never had to lay eyes upon it again.

  Stuffing Anne's cloak under her arm, she retreated down the stairs to the hall below, directing her steps toward that wing of Sawyer Weylin's mansion that she had shared with her late husband. The carpeted floors seemed unnaturally quiet now without the constant stream of tradesmen, barbers, and other servants who had ceaselessly attended upon Ewan's demands.

  Although Sawyer Weylin was generous about paying Grantham's debts, there had been conditions attached. The one that had irked Ewan the most was her grandfather's' insistence that the newlywed couple live under his roof, where Sawyer could maintain control over her spendthrift husband. Too weak to defy the old man, Ewan had directed his bitterness at Phaedra. He had felt as trapped by their marriage as she. His dying had released them both.

  Phaedra's step faltered as she passed the door to Ewan's bedchamber, locked now in accordance with the mourning custom, which dictated that the deceased's chambers be shut up for a lengthy period of time. Not that Phaedra cared a whit for that. She had no desire ever to set foot again in that room, which held for her only memories of humiliation. On those infrequent occasions when she had had to submit to Ewan in his bed, his lovemaking had been brief, almost savage, as though he sought to punish her for not being Anne.

  But her own bedchamber was linked to his by a connecting door, and Phaedra was disturbed by the tomblike silence that now emanated from Ewan's room. It was like living next to a mausoleum.

  Clutching Anne's cloak a little tighter, Phaedra prepared to skirt past that still, forbidding doorway. Then she froze, hearing a sound where there should have been none. The light padding of a footfall, a whisper of silk.

  Not even the housemaids were permitted to enter Ewan's room. Then who would dare? The door had remained locked since the day of Ewan's burial. Stretching out a hand, she tried the knob.

  It turned easily. Phaedra scowled. The housekeeper was the only person with a key. Phaedra ground her teeth as she inched the door noiselessly open. If Hester were up to more of her tricks, she would-

  Phaedra paused on the threshold, taken aback by the flood of sunlight. She had expected to find the room shrouded in darkness, but the curtains were flung wide. All the furniture was gleaming with a fresh polish of beeswax from the mahogany dressing table to the four-poster bed where where a strange man stood with his back to her, shrugging himself into a pair of breeches. Phaedra caught a glimpse of muscular buttocks before the man eased the tanned cloth over his lean hips. Stunned, her eyes roved upwards past a trim waistline to a broad back, as hard-muscled as any strapping farm laborer's. Shagged lengths of sable-colored hair covered the nape of his neck.

  "Who are you? What are you doing in my husband's room?" Phaedra managed to ask at last.

  The man started at the sound of her voice. As he spun around, a gasp escaped Phaedra. Her arms went slack, dropping Anne's cloak in a heap.

  "You!" she cried.

  The elegant satins might be stripped away, along with the mask and white-powdered wig. But there was no mistaking the lean, jawline, the sensual mouth, the chilling blue eyes. The half-naked man who now stalked toward her was undoubtedly Armande de LeCroix, the most noble Marquis de Varnais.

  Chapter Four

  Varnais halted inches from where Phaedra stood, immobile, on the threshold. She had but to raise her hand and she could have touched the dark mat of hair that clung with sweat-sheened dampness to his bare chest. With unshaken aplomb, LeCroix worked to close the last button on his breeches. Phaedra forced herself to wrench her eyes away from the deft movement of those long, tanned fingers.

  "Bon jour, Lady Grantham." He inclined his head toward her in an ironic bow. "An unexpected pleasure. Is this another of your unusual English customs?"

  His light mockery roused Phaedra, flooding her with anger at the shock he'd given her.

  "Damn you! What are y
ou doing here?"

  "I live here," he said dryly.

  "Since when?"

  "Since your grandfather most kindly suggested that I give up my lodgings and become his guest-about a fortnight ago."

  "A fortnight!" Phaedra sputtered. "Then last night when we met, you knew you already were-would be-" Sleeping but yards away, divided only by one wall from where she had tossed in her bed, tormented with dreams of him threatening her, caressing her. The thought brought heat rushing into her cheeks.

  "You did not trouble yourself to inform me of the fact!" she accused.

  The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint trace of amusement shading his eyes. "It was one of the few questions you did not ask me, my lady."

  Taking a hesitant step backward, she scarce knew what to do next. She could not bodily eject Armande from Ewan's room as she would have liked to have done. The most ladylike course of action would be to stalk away in high dudgeon to find her grandfather. The marquis was half naked, and even now she could hear one of the maids coming down the hall.

  Impulsively, Phaedra bolted forward and slammed the door closed behind her. The abrupt movement brought her brushing up against Armande. Flinging out her hands to ward him off, her palms pressed against the warm, firm flesh of his shoulders. She received the briefest of warnings from the sudden intensity of his gaze and jerked her hands back as though she had been seared. But it was too late. His arms banded about her, imprisoning her against him. Heart thudding, for one moment she forgot herself enough to allow him to draw her close. But at the first heated touch of his lips, his mouth grazing hers with the promise of sweeter fire to come, she struggled to be free. To her surprise, he readily released her.