"How dare you!" she gasped.
He shrugged, and whatever desire she had seen flare to life in his eyes was gone. "Milles pardons, my lady. It would seem I misread your intent. In France, there is only one reason for a woman to so rush into a man's bedchamber."
So the kiss had been but another of the marquis's mockeries. Phaedra drew in a tremulous breath, raising one hand to her burning cheek in an attempt to cool it. "This was my husband's room. I came to see what you are doing here."
"Dressing myself."
He was baiting her she thought, and enjoying every minute of it. She replied in as cool a voice as she could muster. "You cannot stay here, especially not now that I've returned from Bath. This room adjoins my bedchamber."
“You can always keep your door bolted, if you wish," he said. In his voice was the barest suggestion that she might not wish it.
Phaedra's hand fluttered to the neckline of her gown. "So I shall, for the rest of your brief stay here."
He merely smiled and walked leisurely toward the bed, where his plain white shirt lay spread out on the blue velvet counterpane. He picked up the shirt, easing the .linen over the muscular contours of his shoulders. Did not the man have a valet? Phaedra wondered. That was odd for a great nobleman. Either he could not afford a manservant or he wanted no one in such close attendance upon him. The elegant cut of his clothes, and the heavy ruby glinting upon his finger, made a lack of funds seem unlikely.
When he had put on the shirt, he glanced up, looking as though he were surprised to find her still there.
"Should I invite you to take a seat, my lady? Forgive me. I am not accustomed to holding levees for ladies."
Phaedra realized she been staring, the blush threatening to rise into her cheeks anew. She blurted out, "You don't look like a marquis."
"And have you examined that many marquises so closely that you can pass such a judgment?"
For once, the smile tugging at his mouth was more teasing than mocking. Her mouth curved in reluctant response. "No, you are the first."
She knew she was behaving outrageously, lingering in this room with the same man who had threatened her only last night. And yet he scarcely seemed like the same man. Could the absence of the wig and white powder make that much difference? She studied the way his rich sable-brown hair waved back from his brow. It softened the planes of his face, making him appear less arrogant, and the light in his blue eyes was not quite so chilling. Perhaps Gilly was right. Perhaps it was only her imagination that made such a sinister figure of the marquis.
"If you continue to stand there watching," Armande said, "I may press you into service, tying my solitaire."
"Would you trust me to knot something about your throat?" she retorted.
His smile faded, his hand going up toward his neck. The gesture drew Phaedra's attention to a small scar at the base of Armande's throat. Could the marquis have been pierced there with a sword? Phaedra could well imagine him as the sort of man to fight duels, but she rather thought that he would not be the one carried from the field.
"For the sake of your reputation," he said, "I'd best tend to the dressing myself. If you will excuse me, my lady, I must see if I can locate my tan waistcoat."
The abrupt change in his manner indicated a dismissal, but as Armande disappeared into the small powdering room that adjoined the bedchamber, Phaedra made no move to leave. Without Armande's presence to distract her, her gaze roved curiously about the chamber that had once been her husband's.
Ewan's personal belongings had all been swept away, giving the room, although completely furnished, a strangely barren appearance. Armande said he had been living here for a fortnight but that was not strictly true. The marquis was simply inhabiting this place, the evidence of his presence quite sparse-a pair of immaculate boots perched near a needlepoint-covered stool, his wicked-looking sword resting on the seat of a straight-backed chair.
Phaedra skirted past the weapon, eyeing the top of the dressing table, cleared except for a shaving mirror, a jar of snuff, and an intriguing box shaped like a treasure chest.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Armande returning. She could still hear him rummaging about in the other room. Maintaining what she hoped was a casual flow of chatter, she began inching her way toward the box.
"I know you are loath to answer questions, but I wonder if you mean to make a long stay. Summer is unbearable in the city. Most of the ton will leave for the country. Only my grandfather adores London so much that he insists upon staying."
Her words trailed off as her fingers closed over the chest and tried the lid. Locked. Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. The next instant she let out a squeak of fright. Armande's hand shot out of nowhere, clamping about her wrist. How had he managed to come up on her so silently?
He turned her slowly about to face him. The silken strands of dark hair now did nothing to soften the expression in his eyes. They pierced her like shards of ice.
"Still so curious, my lady Grantham?" he murmured. "And I had hoped we had reached some sort of an understanding."
Phaedra felt her pulse thrumming beneath the pressure of his fingers. She struggled to be free, but his grip only tightened. Her sense of shame at having been caught trying to pry into the box caused her to glare at him with defiance. "All I understand is that I neither like nor trust you."
"That you mistrust me, I believe. But as for disliking me..." One of his eyebrows arched skeptically.
Phaedra managed to wrench her hand free at last. She rubbed her bruised wrist, unable to look at Armande. She feared that his arrogant suggestion might be true. She was conscious of a strange attraction to this man, an attraction she had felt from the first. He called to something primitive in her, that dark side of her own nature Ewan had always warned her about. Not trusting herself to speak, Phaedra whipped up her skirts and headed for the door.
She heard him stalking after her and fought down a panicky impulse to run. He caught hold of her upper arm.
"Let me go!" she cried.
But he said calmly, "You're forgetting your cloak." She glanced down and saw that he had meant to do nothing more than hand her Anne's cloak which she had abandoned upon the floor. He bent down to retrieve it for her.
Phaedra started to snatch the soft gray wool from him but to her surprise, he refused to release it. A crease deepened between his brows as he shook out the folds of the cloak and stared at it, his expression unreadable. “This cloak is yours? He asked at last in an oddly husky tone.
“No,” she snapped. She hardly knew what bitterness induced her to add, “It belonged to one of my husband’s paramours.”
Phaedra recoiled before the look Armande gave her. The hatred that blazed in his eyes was as piercing as a length of steel. He flung open the chamber door.
“Get out,” he said tersely. When she only stared at him, he took her by the arm, firmly steering her into the hall. He hooded his gaze, the shutters closing on the violent emotion she had just glimpsed upon his face.
When he spoke again, he had regained a measure of his icy calm. “You are correct, my lady. It does bid fair to be a most hot summer in the city. I strongly suggest you go back to Bath.”
Before she could reply he had closed the door in her face. Phaedra was left alone to deal with the jumble of her emotions-confusion, anger, fear, and fascination. A most disconcerting fascination. She had sworn, after Ewan’s true nature had revealed itself to never again allow any man to rouse such feelings of desire in her. Especially not one as obviously dangerous as Armande de LeCroix. Although she earnestly desired to stay in London, she knew that it would be folly to spend an entire summer under the same roof with this man.
It was high time to speak to her grandfather, Phaedra thought, as she stormed to her own room. It was not until she had reached the safety of her bedchamber that another thought occurred to her.
The marquis had kept the dove-colored cloak.
Long after Armande
heard Phaedra's footsteps retreat from his door, he stood, head bowed, holding the gray cloak, his fingers clutching at the soft wool. Painful memories flooded back to him of the young girl who had once worn the cape.
Lady Phaedra's bitter words echoed through Armande's mind- my husband's paramour.
Was that all that remained of Anne then, that false epitaph and this damned cloak? His hands crushed the fabric as Armande swore softly. He raised his head, his gaze locking upon his own image in the cheval glass. The Marquis de Varnais's chilling mask of indifference had cracked, revealing a visage at once younger and more aged, his cheeks flushed with passion, his eyes storm-ridden with bitterness and anger.
He recoiled in shock from the reflection. Was that how he had looked only moments ago when he had thrust Phaedra out of his room? He was going to have to be much more cautious, especially now that that most inquisitive lady had returned from Bath. His eyes never wavering from the mirror, Armande struggled to repress all those dangerous feelings that the sight of Anne's cloak had aroused. He forced his features to relax until he had once more assumed the icy calm of the Marquis de Varnais.
"Bien-that's better," he muttered. He strode over to the mahogany dressing table and relinquished the cloak, laying it gently over the back of the chair. He could never again afford to let his guard slip that way-not without jeopardizing his entire reason for being in London, in Sawyer Weylin's house. If the sight of Anne's cape was going to overset him, then he'd best make sure it was out of sight.
A pity he could not do the same with Lady Grantham. If there was anything that could have disturbed him, it was Phaedra's arrival. Some instinct had warned him from the first that Weylin's granddaughter might prove an unwanted complication to his plans. That was why he had done his best to make sure she stayed in Bath.
But he had been unprepared for exactly how much of a complication the lady threatened to be and he was not thinking of Phaedra's intelligence and determined curiosity. It was her impact upon his senses that had taken Armande unawares. At the masked ball, in the midst of the other artificial beauties with their powdered false hair, Phaedra had struck him like the sun blazing forth upon a winter's day. Her silken hair all gold and flame, her green eyes that sparkled with the fire of finely cut emeralds, the lithe beauty of her slender form in that low-necked gown revealing the gentle swell of her breasts, pearly hued flesh so velvet soft his fingers had ached to caress her.
Armande attempted to choke off his thoughts, to stem the heat of desire coursing through his veins, a desire he could not afford to feel for any woman, let alone Ewan Grantham's widow.
It was not any amorous intent that had brought him to London, but a harsh and deadly purpose. As though to remind himself of this, he bent down and retrieved his sword. The cold weight of the finely tempered steel, felt good in his hand. Lightly balancing the weapon, he executed several movements, flashing the blade through the air, parrying imagined blows. The exercise helped to cool some of his turbulent thoughts of Phaedra. Indeed, it was an insult to Anne's memory to feel aught but hatred for anyone bearing the name of Grantham.
But Phaedra was innocent, his mind argued. She had not even been in England when Anne had been destroyed. And as for pain-what a wealth of it he had seen in Phaedra's expressive eyes no matter how defiantly she strove to hide it. The lady’s fine-boned features revealed every emotion she felt. Dissembling smiles were not part of Phaedra's makeup. Her air of vulnerability stirred feelings other than desire in Armande, feelings he had thought long dead.
His sword arm wavered in midstroke, and Armande slowly lowered the weapon to his side. No, he could not deny it. Phaedra obviously also had suffered at Ewan Grantham's hands. She was an innocent, just as Anne had been but an innocent who could wreak havoc with Armande's carefully laid designs.
"I did warn the lady not to pry," he said with a heavy sigh. And if she continued not to heed that warning? What then?
His grip tightened upon the sword, his gaze drawn to the sharply honed blade. In his bitter experience, the innocents were always the first to pay.
Chapter Five
Prudence dictated that Phaedra not intrude upon her grandfather but wait for the old tyrant to summon her. He was undoubtedly in the midst of his levee, that morning ritual where toadeaters and place-seekers gathered to dance attendance upon a great man while he dressed, to admire his taste, to discuss business, to beg for favors. Sawyer Weylin would not be pleased if she burst in upon him while he entertained his sycophants, especially if she came demanding explanations regarding the Marquis de Varnais.
But prudence had never governed Phaedra's relationship with Sawyer Weylin. She had been at loggerheads with her grandfather ever since she had set foot off the packet from Ireland. She sensed that Varnais's presence in the house would do little to change that. Very likely the marquis would make matters worse.
Consequently, she resolved to see her grandfather at once. She had Lucy help her into a pink silk gown, then she seated herself before her dressing table, while her maid drew part of Phaedra's thick hair into an old-fashioned topknot.
The surface of Phaedra's dressing table was cluttered with all the feminine accoutrements any woman could desire. Sawyer Weylin had grudged no expense to make his granddaughter appear quite the grand lady. But to her, the silver-handled brushes, the perfumed pastilles, and the gilt-edged mirror were all impersonal ostentation. Phaedra's own touches were mixed in-a cup of wilting violets, a copy of The Rights of Man open to the last page she had read and a porcelain statue.
As Lucy applied the crimping iron, coaxing Phaedra's hair into loose-flowing curls, Phaedra picked up the figurine-a diminutive shepherdess with rose-flushed cheeks and wistful blue eyes. She had found the statue long ago, buried behind the ancient bookcase in the garret. Obviously of no value to anyone else, the shepherdess had enchanted Phaedra. Somehow the sculptor had managed to make the porcelain come alive. Phaedra almost expected the dainty bare feet to step forward, the small white hand curving round the shepherd's crook to move, the waist-length cascade of golden hair to stir with the wind.
Lost in contemplation of this small treasure, it took Phaedra several seconds to realize Lucy had finished with her hair. Sighing, Phaedra restored the figurine to its place on the table. Taking one last glance at herself in the mirror, she set off to do battle with her grandfather.
Her petticoats rustling in time to her militant step, Phaedra stalked toward the second-story landing. Twin staircases of polished marble curved down to the floor below. Running her hand along the delicately wrought gilt railing, Phaedra descended into what she termed her grandfather's chamber of horrors.
The towering walls of the entrance hall were of a deliberate bleakness, rough stone fancifully designed to imitate the interior of an ancient castle. Shields splashed with heraldic devices hung willy-nilly amidst a collection of medieval weaponry. Broadswords, poleaxes, cinquedea daggers, and halberds with wicked sharp-curving hooks now cheerfully jumbled together, bore mute testimony to centuries of mayhem.
If nothing else, however, the gloom-ridden hall provided an excellent setting for Hester Searle. Phaedra saw that the housekeeper had cornered the cook's two small children by one of the suits of armor. Phaedra paused at the foot of the stairs, clenching her jaw. Blast the woman. She was at it again, indulging in another of her favorite malicious pastimes, terrorizing poor Matthew and Jeannie. The little ones cowered in the shadow of what must have seemed like a great metal giant in their eyes. But surely no more terrifying than Madam Hester herself, who crooked one finger gleefully toward the morning-star mace suspended in the armored figure's iron-gauntleted fist.
"And that was the very weapon, my dears, that old Lethe used to dash out the brains of Lord Ewan's father."
Jeannie squeaked, clutching her brother and burying her face against his chubby arm. Although Matthew tried to pretend he was not afraid, his eyes were as round as those of his small sister.
Phaedra stormed down the length of the
hall to put a stop to the gruesome tale, but Hester had already reached her climax. Raising up both arms so that she resembled some black-winged bird of prey, she said, "But they caught that wicked murderer and hung him until his face turned blue with choking. So take care, young'uns. They still say old Lethe rises from his grave at midnight to carry off all bad children."
"Hold your tongue, you wretched woman!" Phaedra cried, but her intervention came too late. With a frightened squeal, Matthew and Jeannie plunged past her skirts, sobbing as they ran to seek their mamma. They would have nightmares for a week, thought Phaedra as she fought down a strong urge to slap the housekeeper.
"Curse you! I told you I will not tolerate your frightening the children with your horrid tales."
Hester folded her hands demurely in front of her. "But milady, the murder is part of the history of this house. The little 'uns find it fascinating-as ye would yerself if ye would ever permit me tell you all about it." Hester smiled, lowering her voice to a soft purr. "The foul deed took place the year before ye came here to be Lord Grantham's bride. Arranging the details of your marriage contract, they was, Mr. Weylin, and Master Ewan's papa, Lord Carleton-"
"I am not interested."
"The servants had been given a holiday. All alone in the house were Mr. Sawyer and Lord Carleton or so they fancied."
"Be quiet!" Phaedra snapped. She could barely restrain a shudder as she glanced at the heavy mace's pointed spikes. She had no need of Hester's embellishments to imagine what such a weapon might do to a man's skull. "Keep your ghoulish tale for those as have a taste for such things. I'd best not ever see you frightening Matthew and Jeannie."
"Oh, aye, yer ladyship," Hester smirked, dipping into a stiff-kneed curtsy. "You shan't catch me at it again."
Phaedra spun on her heel and walked away before she was tempted to use the mace to perform its second murder. When she reached the doors leading to the anteroom, Hester called out, "Go right in, yer ladyship. I'll wager Master Weylin be powerful eager to see you."
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