"No, I believe not. I would like to examine-"
"Or some Egyptian pebble teeth for your grandmama, perchance? Mayhap a new fan. I have an excellent assortment."
"No!" Phaedra said. "I merely wanted a closer look at the candlesticks in the window."
The shopkeeper raised himself up on his tiptoes and preened.
"Ah, the candlesticks! Your ladyship has the most excellent taste."
He scurried toward the window display and in another moment he was blowing the dust off the candlesticks and setting them upon the counter with a flourish.
"Treasures. Wonderful charming." He beamed.
Phaedra stripped of her gloves the better to examine the china. She lifted one of the candlesticks. A maiden, molded of blue and white jasper and garbed in flowing Grecian robes, held aloft a petal stem on which the taper was to be mounted.
Although Phaedra did not possess Armande's expert knowledge of china, she had a fine eye for detail. The similarities in style to her shepherdess were remarkable.
"I know this sounds foolish," she said hesitantly. "But I believe. I already possess a figurine made by the same artisan."
"Indeed, milady?" Lethington china is extremely rare."
Lethington. The name stirred some chord of memory in Phaedra, but she could not place it.
"The piece I have is a shepherdess," she said, and went on to describe it for the shopkeeper. He permitted a rather doubting frown to disturb the surface of his too smooth politeness.
"W-e-ell, 'tis a popular subject for china manufacturers, but I suppose you might have acquired one of a famous set. A shepherd and shepherdess were commissioned for the Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria and his sister, the French Queen Marie Antoinette; but unfortunately the figurines were never delivered. "
Phaedra tore her eyes away from the entrancing candlestick long enough to inquire. "Oh? Why not?"
"Alack, the Lethington manufactory was forced to close its doors. I procured many of the pieces when the property was sold to pay off debts. But the shepherd and shepherdess were missing." The merchant added almost too casually, "If your ladyship would like to bring me the figurine, I would be only too pleased to examine it to see if it is genuine Lethington."
"Is it worth a great deal of money, then? I have heard of Wedgwood china," she said, "but never Lethington."
"The Lethington family were well-acquainted with Josiah Wedgwood, I assure you. All of them from Staffordshire, all of them skilled craftsmen. Of course, the Lethington shop was a family concern. The mother and her two sons, James and Jason, as I recall. Also a sister, Julianna. Mrs. Lethington must have had quite a penchant for the letter J."
When the shopkeeper finished chortling at his own jest, he added, "Most of the actual designing was done by Miss Julianna."
That information caused Phaedra to examine the candlesticks with renewed interest, admiring Julianna Lethington's skill. How it would astonish her grandfather, who thought women could do nothing but embroider handkerchiefs. She murmured, "With such artistry, I am astonished that the Lethingtons should ever have been obliged to close their business."
"It was owing to a tragedy in the family-a scandal far too sordid for your ladyship's delicate ears." For all his protestations, Phaedra could tell the man was perishing to tell it to her. "The elder brother James was hanged for murder, and some say his sister committed suicide, flinging herself into the Thames. As for the younger brother and the mother, they simply packed their bags and fled to Scotland, so I've heard."
Although she made a murmur of sympathy, Phaedra's interest•in the tale had already begun to wane. Mulling everything over in her own mind, she decided that it was highly unlikely that her porcelain shepherdess could be the famous piece designed by Julianna Lethington for an emperor. Phaedra had found the statuette discarded in the attic. She knew her grandfather's shrewdness too well to think he would miss such a prize. Although Weylin had no appreciation of the arts, he had a canny instinct for anything of value.
Phaedra returned the candlesticks to the counter and thanked the shopkeeper for all of his time. The little man's chin dropped when he realized she intended to quit the shop without purchasing anything.
He followed her to the door. "Nay, milady, if the candlesticks do not please, let me show you some of my other pieces. I have many other things-wonderful charming."
But Phaedra put an end to this by frankly admitting she had no extra money for china at the moment. Gathering up her maid, she escaped from the dark shop into the brilliant flood of sunlight. Considering that Phaedra's avowed intent had been to purchase a wedding gift, Lucy was looking rather puzzled.
To distract the girl as much as anything else, Phaedra entered a milliner's and made a trifling purchase of some sash ribbons, then sent Lucy to take the parcel back to the carriage, thus giving herself a moment alone. She had espied a bookseller's stall across the street and intended to secure herself a copy of the Gazetteer, to secret away with the other copies of her writing she kept in the locked desk in her garret.
As soon as she made certain Lucy was a safe distance up the street, Phaedra hiked up her skirts and darted through the traffic, barely escaping having her toes crunched by the wheel of a farm cart. In the next instant she was nearly knocked down by a running footman. The fellow did not even pause, but continued his sprint, waving his white baton in an effort to clear a path for the Duchess of Avalon's carriage. Phaedra leaped past the posts separating the street from the footpath just in time to save herself from being trampled by her grace's leaders.
She collided against a hard male chest with a force that nearly sent her sprawling backwards into the mud. A strong pair of arms closed about her, steadying her.
Phaedra took but a moment to catch her breath before mumbling. "Thank you, I beg your pardon." She struggled to pull free, aware that her rescuer appeared to be taking undue advantage of the situation, holding her longer than was necessary. As she focused on lean, chiseled features and ice-blue eyes, her heart gave a mighty thump instead. She could feel her face turn ashen. It was as well that Armande’s strong arms held her, or she might have fallen.
"Lady Grantham," Armande said, his lips tipped into that reluctant smile which was so peculiarly his own. The waves of his sable-colored hair captured the sunlight. The reflected warmth shone in the depths of his eyes, as well. How dare he pronounce her name like that, in those low, intimate tones! He almost made it sound like some sort of an endearment. She shoved away from him, the color flooding back into her cheeks.
All the composure with which she had planned to face him- where was it now? She could have cursed him for retaining his. It was not fair, his taking her by surprise this way, but then she already knew that the marquis played by his own rules.
"Lord Varnais. Only fancy encountering you here," she managed at last. She had meant to be all chilling sweetness, but she could not seem to avoid a flinty, accusing tone. "We do have a habit of meeting at the most unexpected times: One would almost think you had been following me." She nearly added, "Again."
"It is equally astonishing for me, but not unpleasant." He smiled. "I am glad to see you have recovered from your illness of last eve. Are you out here all alone?"
Armande's silken voice could make the most innocent questions sound sinister. She retreated a step, her eye drawn to the window of the shop from which she realized Varnais must have just emerged. A single black-edged placard proclaimed, FUNERALS FURNISHED HERE.
"No!" she blurted out. "My maid, the coachman, and footman are just at the next corner."
"I am glad to hear it. It is not safe for you to wander the streets unescorted."
"I'll wager I am as safe here as I would be in some of the rooms of my grandfather's own house." She stiffened with annoyance when she saw that her pointed remark produced not so much as a twitch of an eyebrow on Armande's impassive face. What a cool villain he was. Determined to force some guilty reaction from him, she continued, "Oxford Street is no longer what it wa
s like when my grandfather was a boy. He told me this part of the city was but a pit of mud, a likely spot to be set upon by cutthroats. But I imagine such villains are a little more subtle these days-perhaps more after the style of the French."
"We have villains in France with no more claim to cleverness than your English ones, madame."
"But I daresay you have some that are masters of the art of calculation."
"You could encounter such rogues anywhere." To her outrage, a flicker of amusement shaded his eyes. "It is all the more reason you should be careful, ma chere. Maybe you would permit me to walk you back to your carriage?"
He reached for her hand, but a sudden frown creased his brow.
Phaedra tried to draw away, but he would not let her. She grimaced, realizing she had forgotten to put her gloves back on after examining the candlesticks. Maintaining a firm but gentle clasp on her wrist, he inspected the scratches on her hands.
"Mon Dieu. What have you done to yourself?"
His feigned concern caused her more pain than the knowledge that he was responsible for her injuries.
"A trifling accident," she said tersely. "I assure you that no such mishap will ever befall me again."
She jerked away from him. Pulling her gloves out of her drawstring bag, she tugged them on. Damn him! She could endure no more of his performance. She would dash her fist into his face, if he continued to regard her with that mock-tender light in his eyes. As though he worried over a few minor scratches, when she knew well he'd just as soon she had broken her neck.
"You will excuse me if I decline your offer of an escort," she said. “I am not returning to my carriage. I was on my way to the bookseller."
"Then I will stroll with you. I had a purchase I wished to make myself." He slipped his arm through hers, the movement full of graceful gallantry, yet inexorable. There was no way to be rid of him unless she wished to make a scene in the streets.
She acquiesced in silence, walking stiffly beside him. As they drew near the bookseller's stall, Phaedra attempted to shake Armande off by feigning a deep interest in purchasing a book. The variety that this particular seller offered was small, a mixture of old and new. Goldsmith and Johnson were tumbled haphazardly amongst volumes of Fielding and Smollett. Not far off Phaedra could see a copy of the Gazetteer, but with Armande hovering so close to her side, she dared not reach for it. She snatched up a book without noticing the title.
"You and your cousin seem to have an admiration for Swift."
Armande's comment made no sense until Phaedra realized she was holding the first volume of Gulliver's Travels.
"Yes," she said slowly, stabbed by a painful remembrance. "It is one of the few books my mother ever bought for me, though I did not appreciate the satire when I was a child. I read it more for-for-.”
“For the fantasy. For the pleasure of traveling to such faraway exotic places as the kingdoms of Lilliput and Brobdingnag."
Phaedra could only stare up at him, for a moment forgetting her anger, as she wondered how he could know such things about her childhood. He sounded as though he had shared her dreams, had been her fellow traveler when she had voyaged with Lemuel Gulliver.
He pointed to the book in her hands. "Well, you can scarce wish to purchase what you already have."
"But I don't have it." Her fingers tightened almost unconsciously. "My husband burned it-all my books."
Why was she telling Armande all this? He could not possibly care. No one but she had ever mourned the loss of the books from her childhood. She had mourned them like old friends, the one legacy from her parents lost to her forever.
She could still recall that day she had come in from riding, preparing to take tea with Jonathan. She experienced again that sick feeling, when she had found the garret bookcase empty, and had seen Ewan's cruel smile when he had indicated the heap of ashes in the fireplace grate. It was yet another punishment for her being ‘too clever.’ He had nearly broken her that time. It was as though he had thrust every dream she'd ever cherished into those flames, reducing a part of her very soul to ashes. That day she had finally begun to hate Ewan Grantham.
"Phaedra?" As though from a great distance, she heard Armande's voice. She blinked, coming back to the present to find him studying her with grave concern, the bookseller eyeing with suspicion the volume she hugged to her chest as though she meant to steal it.
"Will my lady be wanting that wrapped?" the man asked. Much to the bookseller's evident disgust, she shook her head.
Armande appeared about to protest, so she said quickly, "I doubt I could afford it. My grandfather has no more liking for Irish authors than Ewan had. I could not bear to see another book cast into the fire." She laughed weakly. "Coal is so much cheaper to burn."
She replaced the book. "I believe I have done enough browsing for one day."
"Bien. I will make my purchase, then we'll go. I fear it is I who must risk offending your grandpere. My curiosity has been aroused by the crude Sir Norris."
Phaedra watched as Armande proceeded to buy the copy of the Gazetteer she had noticed earlier. But the urge she had felt last night to prevent his reading it was gone. With a kind of cold fascination, she watched him flick through the pages. She knew when he had read down to the section that concerned him. His fingers tightened upon the newsprint, a wintry expression replacing the warmth with which he had regarded her earlier.
"You do not seem to have found Mr. Goodfellow's essay all that diverting," she ventured.
"No, I didn't. I would have thought the man could have found more important matters to write about, but it seems he shares your interest regarding my background. "
Phaedra flinched before the sudden hard look of suspicion Armande directed her way. He could not possibly have guessed the truth, but she fidgeted with her purse strings, saying as indifferently as she could manage, "I daresay Mr. Goodfellow's curiosity could make things far more uncomfortable for you than I ever did."
"He could if I continue to let him write this tripe."
"However would you stop him?" Phaedra asked, not liking the glint in Armande's eyes. "Even the members of parliament, who have been used much worse by the writer than you, have been tolerant. Especially after the John Martin affair."
When Armande shot her a questioning look, she explained, "He was another writer who dared criticize the king. When he was imprisoned, riots broke out on his behalf."
"There are more effective ways to stop a man's pen than prison," Armande said coldly.
"Alas, no one has the least notion who Robin Goodfellow might be."
"I will find out." The steely resolution in Armande's voice left her in no doubt that he would. It would not be difficult for Armande to track down her publisher. Gilly had told her that Jessym was tough, a close-mouthed individual, but Armande, Phaedra feared, would know how to be most persuasive. Even if Jessym knew nothing of her, he would be bound to mention Gilly. Armande knew that her cousin had been investigating him. The marquis might assume that Gilly was Robin Goodfellow. And then- No, she couldn't let it come to that.
Phaedra tried to behave naturally, permitting Armande to take her by the arm to lead her back to her carriage. But beneath her outwardly calm exterior, her heart pounded. All unknowingly, Armande suddenly posed a greater threat to her than he had when he had locked her in with Danby.
If she ever meant to fight back, find a way to be rid of him, she had to do it quickly. But her mind was all but numb from panic. What could she do? What on earth could she do?
She could not have said how the idea first popped into her head.
If she had been thinking more clearly, she would have dismissed the thought at once as insanity. The mere notion of attempting such a thing left her in a cold sweat. No, she couldn't. What if it went awry? What if Armande caught her?
Yet even though she was nearly choked by her fears, she was already clearing the way to set the plan into motion. When her maid reappeared at last, she found an excuse to send the girl away a
gain. “You may wait in the carriage, Lucy. You can see I have the marquis with me now. I am sure I can depend upon him to escort me upon one more errand. Just tell Ridley to bring the carriage around by the goldsmith's shop."
She hoped her voice sounded flirtatious, like Muriel Porterfield's, instead of shrill with panic. But it scarce mattered. Armande seemed to have withdrawn into himself, too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice her nervousness. He made no protest about escorting her to the goldsmith's, holding the door open for her with a kind of stiff gallantry. How could she possibly be scheming to do such a thing to him? No, she adjured herself, steeling her shoulders. After what he had done to her last night, the threat he posed to herself and Gilly, he deserved it. That is, if it worked.
Phaedra started when the low-voiced proprietor approached her. A solemn, businesslike man with a balding forehead, he appeared accustomed to the vagaries of female clientele. He made no demur when Phaedra had him drag out almost every item in the shop for her inspection, every necklet, ring, chain and watch. She pretended to examine them all, while trying to summon her courage. It had been many years since she had played at sleight of hand games with Gilly. She had no way of knowing if she still possessed the skill-at least not until she tried.
Swallowing hard, she dropped her purse. While the goldsmith bent to retrieve it, Phaedra palmed one of the gold seal rings. That of course was the easy part. She skirted over to where Armande stared moodily at a delicate lady's watch and chain. Phaedra brushed up against him. In one swift movement, she slipped the seal ring into his waistcoat pocket.
He glanced down at her, his eyes widening in surprise. Phaedra's stomach lurched with fear. Had he felt her planting the ring?
"Oh dear," she faltered. "I think I've lost my ..."
She nearly said purse, realizing in time she was still clutching it. "My handkerchief. It was one my mother embroidered for me. I must have dropped it back at the bookseller's. I don't know how I could have been so careless. I cannot bear the thought of having lost it."
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