Chapter Eight
Morning sunlight flooded past the brocade curtains, almost merciless in its cheerfulness, the frolicsome song of a lark invading the heavy silence of Phaedra's bedchamber. The only sound from within the room was the whisper of a brush as Lucy quietly feathered the tangles from Phaedra's red curls.
Phaedra hardly noticed the bright promise of the day or her maid's efforts. She stared deep into the mirror that folded out from the top of her dressing table. Despite the elegance of her yellow figured silk gown, she looked exactly like what Gilly often called her, "Fey." Her green eyes glittered, huge in the pale oval of her face.
How old would she have to be, she wondered bitterly, before she lost that look of vulnerability, that wounded little-girl expression? Phaedra slammed the mirror down with a sudden violence that nearly toppled her porcelain shepherdess off the dressing table's edge. Moving the figurine to a more secure position, Phaedra said curtly to her maid, "Send down to the stables and tell them I will want the carriage today."
"Yes, my lady." Lucy ducked into a quick curtsy. Phaedra was aware that the girl studied the scratches and angry red scrapes that crisscrossed Phaedra's hands and arms. But the girl said nothing, merely handing Phaedra her bonnet and a pair of kid gloves before hastening to carry out Phaedra's command.
When the door had closed behind Lucy, Phaedra slowly raised herself from the cushioned stool, wincing as she did so, her body painfully stiff from the bruises battering her hip and side. She felt the familiar fog of depression about to creep over her, and fought it with the only weapon she had, her anger. Her gaze turned balefully toward the connecting door that led to Armande's bedchamber. She burned with a desire to confront him outright with the villainy he had practiced upon her last night.
He must be desperate indeed to stoop to such ignoble tricks. To think she had begun to believe she might have been wrong about the marquis! She had nearly been gulled into believing him different, not only from the villain of her imagination, but also different from Ewan, and from all the petty, narrow-minded men she had ever met. Different he certainly was, his cruelty far more subtle, couching his betrayal in words of velvet tenderness and feigned admiration. She had almost begun to believe in Armande and the warm, beckoning light she had glimpsed in his eyes. She had almost believed that maybe, just this once, she was not about to pursue the will-o' -the-wisp.
Phaedra tried to push aside the hollow sense of disappointment that washed through her.
Pleading illness, she had never returned to the salon; she had thus avoided Armande, for she had been unwilling to let him see how much his treachery had affected her.
It was unwise to reveal one's weakness to the enemy. And that was what he was-a most dangerous foe. All the more reason she should not burst into his bedchamber and confront him. When next they met, she must be in control of herself, as icy and subtle as he, if she ever hoped to beset him.
She wondered how Armande had been affected by the failure of his vicious scheme. She hoped he had spent a night of hell, wondering how she had escaped his trap, worrying that she had learned something from Arthur Danby. Yet she doubted it. She could picture him hunching those elegant shoulders in a careless shrug, laying his plans for a more clever scheme to rid himself of her the next time. She didn't intend to offer him any further opportunity.
A rap sounded at her bedchamber door. Most likely it was Jane come to fetch the breakfast tray away, Phaedra thought, calling out a command for the housemaid to enter.
It was not Jane's apple-pink cheeks framed in the open doorway, but the sly, dark features of Mrs. Searle. The housekeeper hovered on the threshold like a specter.
"What do you want?" Phaedra demanded, charging forward before the woman could set foot in her room.
"Some lad brought a message for yer ladyship. I knew if 'twas important, ye'd be wishful of reading' it at once."
"How excessively thoughtful of you," Phaedra said in dry tones as she reached for the note grasped in Hester's hand. The woman's fingertips crooked through the ends of her black lace mittens, curling about the vellum like talons. She seemed to be prolonging the moment, taking her time about handing the note over. Phaedra yanked it from her clutches.
Searle's beadlike eyes glistened. "Why, whatever's happened to yer ladyship's arms? Ye look as though ye’ve been scrapping with the cat."
Phaedra slammed the door in her face. What a pity for Hester that she hadn't broken her neck last night, Phaedra thought. It would have given the woman something grisly to talk about besides old Lethe.
She quickly forgot the housekeeper as she examined the folded piece of vellum. Her name was inked across it in a rushed series of blots which could only be Gilly's handwriting. Phaedra flipped the note over to break the seal, but the red wax came away easily. Phaedra would have wagered her last groat that Hester had read the letter.
"Damn that woman," she muttered, unfolding the note. She scanned the contents, fearful of what might have been set down there for Hester to see. Fortunately, this message made no mention of Robin Goodfellow. She would have to caution Gilly to take care what he committed to paper. Future missives might not be so harmless as this one, which dealt with Armande.
My dear Fae,
By the time you read this, I should be well on my way to France. Having met your marquis, I'm thinking perhaps there is something more to your fears than mere imagination. I'm after making a few more inquiries to see if I can coax the Varnais family into passing the time of day with a charming Irish lad. Not to fret yourself over my lack of funds. I won a grinning contest at the Boar's Tooth, myself pitted against a dour Scot, name of Dermot MaCready with a handsome set of teeth. I out-grinned him by a full five minutes. Hope to return in a fortnight. My tender regards to Madame Pester.
Much love, Gilly
Despite the letter's lighthearted tone, Phaedra felt no inclination to smile. Gilly might have been her twin as far as impulsiveness was concerned. Why could he not have consulted her first before undertaking this rash voyage to France?
Perhaps it would prove a good notion, but right now she felt abandoned, deserted by her one true friend. Much could happen to her in a fortnight. If Armande attempted to serve her another such turn as he had last night-
Fear and loneliness tugged at her, threatening to swirl her down into dark eddies of depression. But she resisted the pull. She could manage without Gilly. Let Armande scheme as he would. The next move would be hers.
Phaedra shoved the note in a drawer. Donning her bonnet, she scooped up her gloves and hardened her jaw with resolution. Never had she been so nervous about descending the stairs of her own home. She was not at all certain she could maintain her composure when she came face to face with Armande.
When she came downstairs, she discovered that she needn't have worried. John informed her that both her grandfather and the marquis had gone out.
"Thank you, John," she said, the stiff set of her shoulders easing. She could almost regret Armande's absence, having composed in her head several greetings, all of them alike in their acid sweetness.
She forgot every single one of them as her gaze focused on the man meandering aimlessly about the front hall, in flashy clothes that looked much the worse for having been slept in. Armande might be gone, but Lord Arthur Danby was not.
His lordship strutted toward the front door as though coming from the king's levee. He paused by one of the suits of armor, stopping long enough to level his quizzing glass at the pointed spikes of the infamous mace.
He appeared on the point of making his departure when Phaedra rushed after him. "Lord Danby?" she called.
The quizzing glass swiveled in her direction. Phaedra skidded to a halt in-front of him. "Good morrow, Lord Danby. I trust you slept well."
"'Deed I did. Most kind of you to ask." He brushed back the straggling ends of his disheveled gray wig and offered her a vacuous smile. Except for a certain puffiness about the eyes, he appeared not much the worse for last evening's rev
els. Even sober, he still bore the expression of a besotted sheep. Phaedra sought for a way to introduce the subject of Armande without seeming too abrupt, when Danby disconcerted her by saying, "Forgive me, my beauty. But I have not the honor of knowing your name."
"Why, I'm Lady Phaedra Grantham,"
He dipped into an awkward bow. "Charmed to be making your acquaintance. Simply charmed."
"You made my acquaintance last night," Phaedra said, biting her tongue lest she add, "You silly clunch."
"Alas, I'm a poor hand at names. I never forget faces, though." "So you said last night. How much I enjoyed it when you entertained us with your anecdotes about Oxford." She laid special stress on the word, trying to jar his memory.
"Did I? Well, I dare say I was quite witty." Danby turned back to his inspection of the suit of armor.
Patience, Phaedra counseled herself, patience if you expect to learn anything from this fool.
"You mentioned that you knew Armande de LeCroix."
"Who?"
"The Marquis de Varnais." You said that you attended Oxford together. Except that you thought his name was-" She paused, waiting expectantly.
Danby lifted the visor of the armor cautiously as though he feared to find a face peering back at him.
"No Frenchies at Oxford that I recall. 'Course, there could have been for all I know. I never went there."
"Never went there!"
"Cambridge man, myself." He let the visor clang shut. "Well, good day to you, Lady Grantley. Thanks ever so for your hospitality. Must all meet again sometime."
Somehow he gained possession of one of her hands and planted a moist kiss above her knuckles. He didn't even notice that her fingers were clenched into a fist.
Phaedra stood there fuming. The one weapon she had most counted on in her battle against the marquis sauntered away from her. The footman let Danby out before she swore. Of all the incredible dolts. The man was a worse fool sober than drunk. She stalked from the hall, resigning all hope of ever learning anything from Arthur Danby.
Soon Lucy brought her news that only increased her frustration. Her grandfather's elderly coachman, Ridley, had refused to hitch up the carriage until he knew where she meant to go.
"Anywhere." Phaedra's gaze traveled up the hall's gray stonework. She had no intention of spending her day imprisoned here, awaiting Armande's return with a mixture of dread and longing, anticipating his next attempt to drag her to the devil.
"Anywhere," she repeated, "away from this accursed house." Yet she realized such an answer would not suffice for Ridley. The elderly coachman was obliged to render a strict accounting to Sawyer Weylin. Anyone might have thought her grandfather took her for a prospective horse thief.
Where was she going? There was only one reasonable answer she could think of to give. "Tell the old martinet I wish to go to Oxford Street."
Her grandfather would never succeed in making a cit of her, Phaedra thought, as the carriage lumbered along the cobbled pavement. Only one part of London had ever succeeded in capturing her heart and imagination- Oxford Street, choked with its hackney cabs, sedan chairs, dirt and noise, a seemingly endless row of bowfront shop windows displaying tempting wares behind latticed panes.
All the raucous music, the riotous poetry that was London sang out here in the rumble of iron coach wheels, the bells tinkling from the collector for the penny post. Milkwomen yodeled, and the ballad singers bellowed, all striving to be heard above the litany of the street hawkers.
"New-laid eggs, five a groat." "Hot mutton pies, hot!" "Oysters, buy my oysters."
Phaedra let down her coach window, thriving upon the din and confusion. Gilly had once teasingly remarked to her, "They say Nero fiddled while Rome burned. In the midst of the mayhem, you, my girl, would have gone shopping."
Phaedra was obliged to admit there was some truth to the charge. In the grimmest times of her troubled marriage to Ewan Grantham, she had fled to Oxford Street. Not to shop, but to lose herself in the crowds, to banish her depression in all the bustle and color, to draw from the vitality and life teeming about her some reason for clinging to her own miserable existence.
It had always worked. Somehow jostling elbows in such a sea of humanity had reduced Ewan and all his petty cruelties to a level of insignificance. Phaedra hoped the street could work its magic again. The din and uproar would diminish Armande and the pain and confusion he had brought into her life, so that she could but snap her fingers and he would be gone.
The younger footman, Peter, let down the coach steps and helped swing Phaedra up onto the raised footpath. Behind her, she could hear Ridley, up on his box, give a loud humph of disapproval. Most ladies of quality, ever mindful of the dangers of mud and pickpockets, did not wander the street, but preferred to be deposited directly at the steps of the shop they wished to visit.
Phaedra merely instructed Ridley to wait for her at the next corner. She set off down the street, followed by her maid.
"What would my lady be looking for?" Lucy inquired timidly.
A diversion. A way to keep from being driven mad by the deceptive charms of a certain ruthless Frenchman. Phaedra kept to herself such thoughts as her maid would scarce have understood. Lucy had always been mystified by these street ramblings of hers. Phaedra usually found some practical reason for the outing.
She said airily, "Oh, I am hoping to find a gift for a dear friend of mine who is to be married soon." Phaedra reflected how astonished Muriel Porterfield would be to her herself described thus or to receive such a token of Phaedra's tender regard.
No matter. The explanation satisfied Lucy, leaving Phaedra to wander where she would, her thoughts free to roam likewise. She strolled past a succession of shop fronts, the glass glinting like mirrors set into treasures boxes, reflecting back gold buckles and quill pens, parchment maps and perfumed soaps, bagwigs and Dr. James Restorative Powders. The tradesmen liked to boast that what one could not find in London shops, one simply didn't need.
Except what Phaedra desired could not be found there or anywhere. What Phaedra wanted was a mirror that would help her see into the dark corners of Armande de LeCroix's cold heart.
She paused in front of a jeweler's shop, where a pair of twin sapphires were displayed in the window. In one light they flashed blue fire, in another glinted as cold as shards of ice-exactly like Armande's eyes.
"Does my lady wish to go into this shop?" Lucy asked hopefully.
"No." Phaedra moved farther along the street. She paused in front of a peruke-maker's establishment, frowning at the white bagwig displayed there, with its elaborate sausage-roll curls. Armande was far more attractive when he abandoned his wig and powder. She could not help remembering the sweep of sable hair waving back from his brow, the hard-muscled flesh he kept concealed beneath his satins and lace. A man of frustrating contradictions, he seemed a different person when he set aside all the accoutrements of the elegant aristocrat.
Every puzzling thing she had ever noted about Armande crowded into Phaedra's brain. His inexplicable position as a guest of her grandfather, the painful flash of memory in his eyes occasioned by the gray wool cloak, the way he had tensed at Danby's seeming foolishness, his refusal to be thanked for saving Weylin's life, the violent aversion to questions about his past that had led him to try to ruin her. Thinking about Armande was like trying to piece together shattered fragments of a mirror.
She rubbed her temples. It was no good. She had come to Oxford Street to escape, for a time, Armande's all-pervasive presence. Yet everything seemed to remind her of him. Only a few yards away, a group of ballad singers burst into a chorus of bawdy songs, so loud she could scarcely hear herself think. She glanced about her, suddenly wondering why she had come here. Why had she never noticed before how dirty Oxford Street was? The shop displays were garish, and the people thronging past her were loud-mouthed and vulgar. And the noise she had oft thought so delightful was enough to split one's head!
Phaedra started at a touch upon her slee
ve. She had all but forgotten Lucy's presence. Her maid said, "Maybe milady could find something in that shop to please your friend."
Phaedra turned toward the shop front that Lucy so shyly indicated. Her gaze flicked over some indifferent pieces of china and a silver tea service.
"No, I think not-" Phaedra began, preparing to continue on her way, when she was arrested by the sight of something almost lost in the shadow of the tea urn. She peered closer, pressing near the glass. It was naught but a pair of candlesticks-and yet there was something in the delicate artistry of the china that reminded her strikingly of the shepherdess she had found in the attic. Of course, there was nothing remarkable in the fact that the same artisan should have fashioned other pieces than her figurine. But Phaedra's curiosity was aroused enough to slip inside the shop, with Lucy following at her heels.
The interior was quiet, appearing not to enjoy much trade. She was the only customer-perhaps the only one in some time, Phaedra thought, eyeing the layering of dust on the shelves. They were stuffed with an odd assortment of jewelry, buckles, snuffboxes, ladies' fans, and trinkets.
The shopkeeper who bustled forward to serve her struck Phaedra as being something of a trinket himself. He barely came up to her shoulder. Both his smile and his black hair looked painted on, as much as if he had been a wooden toy soldier.
"Good afternoon, milady," he trilled. "Such a fine day. So perfect for your outing."
Phaedra suspected he would have greeted her in the same fashion even if it had been pouring rain.
"And how may I have the honor of serving your ladyship?"
"Well, I did wish to inquire about-"
But before she could finish, the little man rushed on."An enameled sand box for dusting dry the ink upon your letters? Wonderful charming."
Masquerade Page 12
