The moments dragged by slowly. Phaedra was beginning to fear she had come to the wrong address when the driver returned, followed closely by a short man wrapped in a navy greatcoat and wearing a gray powdered bagwig.
Momentarily, Phaedra forgot all caution as she let down the coach window, straining for her first glimpse of Farley Jessym. The middle-aged man who thrust his face close to the coach window was quite ordinary in appearance, with a hard set to his mouth and a look of jaded weariness in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was sharp, startling Phaedra into backing away from the window.
"Eh, what nonsense is this? What do you want that you summon me out into the streets from my home?"
She thrust the packet containing her writing out the window. "From Robin Goodfellow," she rasped in a deep voice.
Jessym's brow arched, his cynical face registering a flash of surprise. He yanked the packet from her grasp. Much to Phaedra's dismay, he jerked the hackney's door open, as well. She shrank back as Jessym leaned inside, his eyes narrowed as though he would penetrate both the gloom-filled interior and the layerings of her veil.
"So now I'm to deal with a wench, am I?" he growled. "What happened to the Irishman?"
Phaedra shrugged, trying to avoid speaking any more than was necessary.
Jessym muttered an oath. "Well, you can tell Mr. Goodfellow for me, I'm a bit weary of all this secrecy. I like to know who my writers are."
Phaedra merely extended her hand, wishing that it did not tremble so. "The advance as promised, please."
"Not so fast, my fine lady, until I see what I have here. This could be naught but a parcel of your love letters for all I know."
Phaedra stiffened while Jessym undid the packet, hauling forth the first few pages of the manuscript. He squinted at it in the meager light offered by the coach's lanterns.
"Emancipation for Catholics, eh?" Jessym grunted. "This is bound to stir up a pretty rumpus. Not altogether sure I should print it."
Phaedra's heart sank, but she ventured bravely, "My-I mean,the money, if you please."
Jessym stared at her for a long moment, before taking a worn purse from beneath his frock coat. He counted off a handful of coins, but when Phaedra reached for them, he held the money just out of her grasp.
"Trouble's brewing. Goodfellow ought to be aware of that. The king's ministers are growing tired of the license of the press, and they are looking to make an example of him."
"Nonsense!" Phaedra forgot herself, speaking in her normal voice. "I-we've heard those threats before. Ever since the John Martin affair, the king has been afraid to persecute writers lest he create another popular hero and martyr."
"Don't you be so sure about that," Jessym scoffed. "All I'm saying is, if the day comes and I'm arrested for spreading sedition, I don't mean to stand in the docks alone. You just make sure Goodfellow knows that."
Jessym tumbled the coins into her hand and stepped back. He closed the door, signaling the hackney driver to move along. The coach lurched into movement before Phaedra had time to react to Jessym's parting words.
As the hackney lumbered off down the street, she fumed, angry at herself for not having exercised more control over the interview which had just taken place. She had not even counted the money to make sure it was the sum Jessym had promised.
She fingered the coins in her lap, not attempting to do so even now. What did Jessym mean by making such a spiteful threat, that he would not stand trial alone? He knew no one else to accuse except Gilly.
Sickened with fear, Phaedra reprimanded herself for allowing herself to be so easily terrified. Jessym had not yet been arrested for printing the Gazetteer, and she had already lampooned King George and his ministers many times with impunity. The harsh-faced publisher was raising alarms over nothing.
But what if Jessym was right, and her luck was indeed running out? What if the king's forbearance were drawing to an end? She glanced out the window, the gray mists assuming before her eyes the grim guise of Newgate Prison and its horrors, as detailed by her grandfather. She could no longer afford to take the risk. Not when she was playing with Gilly'S life and her grandfather's reputation, as well as her own safety.
Robin Goodfellow would simply have to make his fortune in some far less dangerous fashion. Phaedra sighed, her fingers tightening over the coins. A wise decision. She only hoped that she had not reached it too late.
Chapter Thirteen
Phaedra could not bring herself to burn the copies of the essays she had written. Instead she tied the articles neatly together with a black mourning ribbon and made sure they were locked safely away in the garret desk. Beyond that, she gave small consideration to the demise of Robin Goodfellow or what the future might hold for her. Relieved when no tidings ever came concerning Jessym's imminent arrest, she was content to live in the present, making the most of every precious moment with Armande, giving no heed to what the morrow might bring.
Summer descended upon London in a blaze of heat, each day more searing than the last. Those who could afford to do so had long ago fled the city for seaside resorts. Those that had to remain, sweltered in the shade and suffered. One afternoon as she and Armande rode out into the meadowland beyond the Heath's neatly trimmed lawns, they saw no another living creature save for a flock of newly shorn sheep.
Phaedra galloped across the pasture's brittle grasses, scarcely attempting to shield her face beneath the brim of her riding hat. Her roan gelding strove in vain to match stride with Armande's great white stallion, Nemesis.
With but the merest touch from Armande upon the reins, his horse shot forward, scattering the flock of frightened sheep in all directions. Phaedra drew rein upon Furlong before she exhausted the poor beast entirely. The gelding's sides streamed with sweat as he wheezed his way across the meadow.
Armande at last noticed that he had lost her. Halting at the edge of the pasture under the spreading shade of an oak tree, he waited. With sweat glistening on his tanned face, he unbuttoned his linen shirt enough to reveal his neck and the dark dusting of hair upon his chest.
A teasing light glinted in Armande's eyes as Phaedra drew alongside. He bent forward, addressing his stallion in a conspiratorial whisper. "In good faith, Nemesis, if I had but known, I could have fetched a knacker for that poor beast to put it out of its misery."
"You never told me you meant to ride as though a band of savage cutthroats were after us," Phaedra said. "Nemesis. What sort of name for a horse is that, anyway?"
"It seemed an apt enough choice when I christened him. But I'm not so sure, anymore." A faraway look crept into Armande's eyes. Then he snapped himself back to the present and slid from his horse.
"If we are to cherish any hope of returning to the Heath," he teased, "it is obvious we must give your spirited mount a rest."
She raised no objections when he lifted her from the saddle. Not far beyond the oak tree, Armande found a rill; rather sluggish with the heat, it yet managed to carve a bed for itself at the edge of the pasture. They allowed the horses to drink, then moved to a spot farther down the bank before kneeling themselves. Phaedra hitched up the voluminous skirts of her sky-blue riding habit and petticoats, dabbing the cool water on her cheeks, then cupping her hands for a drink. She stole glances at Armande, watching him splash the cooling liquid over the strong cords of his neck. Phaedra's gaze was once more drawn to the scar on his throat. Armande had once told her that the wound was a result of something a friend had once done to him. Was it the same friend he had once mentioned as having been imprisoned, whose memory had haunted him the day she had.had Armande arrested?
No. Phaedra drew firm rein on the forbidden direction of her thoughts. No more questions. She sank back on her heels, running her finger inside the collar of her jacket.
"I may well be obliged to walk home." She sighed. "I should not have pushed Furlong so hard in this heat."
Armande stood up and tethered both horses firmly to a branch of a small apple tree, whose shade afforded the animals some cool, sweet gra
ss unscorched by the sun. As he stroked Furlong's neck, he said, "You are a skilled horsewoman. It is a shame to see you mounted on such an old slug."
"I have a great deal of affection for my old slug!" But she could not help adding wistfully, "I sometimes wish for a mare with a little more pepper in her step, but my grandfather is not much of a judge of horseflesh. He and Ewan used to have terrible rows over the expensive hunters Ewan wanted him to buy. But he did manage to wring a few fine ones out of Grandfather."
She tugged off her riding hat and stretched out dreamily, flat on her back in the meager shade. "The last hunter Grandfather bought was magnificent. He had the most showy chestnut mane and extremely powerful hind quarters. It was a great pity Ewan had to have been riding Brute the day he-"
She broke off, flushing at the waywardness of her own tongue. She hardly ever mentioned her late husband to Armande, let alone referring to the manner of his death. She glanced up to find Armande eyeing her gravely.
"I suppose you feel I am a terrible, heartless woman," she said. "That I could so mourn the loss of a good horse and not spare one tear for my husband's broken neck."
"No, I don't think you are terrible at all."
Despite his reply, Phaedra felt driven by a need to defend herself. "The accident was Ewan's own fault. He was always careless with his horses, tearing about like a madman; even over unfamiliar ground. He was out riding alone that morning and decided to cut across some poor farmer's fields. He never checked his pace when jumping that stone fence, never bothered worrying what might be on the other side, that some field hand might have been careless enough to leave his plow behind."
Her eyes shut tight as though a vision of the accident might rise up before her. "Mercifully, Ewan must have died at once. They say he never suffered, but Brute took the worst of the blow, breaking his leg, gashing his side on the plow and it was some time before anyone found them. It was all so strange."
"Strange? How?"
Armande's question startled her. He had been quiet for so long, she had almost begun to wonder if he were even listening. She opened her eyes to find his gaze intent.
"Well, I hardly know," she said slowly, sitting up. "Perhaps ironic is what I really meant, that Ewan should have been riding alone. Ewan hated solitude. Why, sometimes he even sought out my company rather than be left alone."
"Your life with him was very unhappy, wasn't it?"
"Pure hell," she said with a shaky laugh.
"Then I'm doubly glad he broke his neck."
Phaedra shivered. She had come close often to thinking that herself; but the deathlike quiet with which Armande gave voice to her guilty thought left her feeling cold.
She regretted ever having mentioned her late husband. The mere sound of Ewan's name seemed to have cast a pall over the bright summer's day she and Armande were sharing together. And she had no idea how many more such days she might be granted.
"The worst of those days are all behind me," she said, hugging her legs in close. "I am a free woman now."
"But you will marry again." Armande's voice sounded strained. "I have noticed that one friend of your grandfather's seems most devoted to you. I would imagine Mr. Burnell could offer a woman a most secure future. "
Was this Armande's way of telling her that he had no future to offer her himself? She had sensed that long ago, and one glance at the sadness darkening his eyes was enough to confirm it. She looked away again, not wanting to face that just now.
"I shall never allow myself to be shackled by the bonds of marriage again. I intend to be an independent woman one day."
"I am sorry you feel that way," Armande said. "Marriage was never meant to be like the misery you shared with Grantham. If things were different, I would try to make you change your mind.-" He broke off abruptly, standing and walking away from where she sat. He stared out across the meadow.
"But what would you know of it?" she asked. "You have never been married, have you?"
"No, I have never been that fortunate. But I have the example of my mother and father to draw upon. There were never two people who came closer to achieving perfect happiness in this very imperfect world."
"Your parents were supposed to have died when you were only a babe," she said gently.
For a moment he looked startled, then he flung up one hand in the manner of a fencer acknowledging a hit. "Piqued again! Merci beaucoup, madame, for the reminder."
"I wasn't trying to be clever." She frowned up at him. "I only hope you are not as careless in the presence of others as you are with me."
"It was at your insistence, my dear, that I abandoned my pose as the marquis."
"Only with me. I never meant for you to risk exposure with anyone else. God knows what my grandfather would do if he discovered you are an impostor. And there are many who would take malicious delight in telling him. Hester, for one."
She had explained to Armande exactly what Hester Searle was capable of, revealing how Hester had been the one to lock her in the Gold room with Danby. She had apologized to Armande for accusing him, but he had shrugged the matter aside as being no longer of any importance, although he had expressed his wish that he could rid Phaedra of the woman’s irksome presence.
Phaedra saw no way of doing so. She could only beg him as she had before.
“Please, Armande. You have to take great care around that horrid woman.”
"So you have warned me many times before. I know full well how to protect myself, Phaedra." The hard planes of his face softened with longing. "It is only with you that I have ever been in any danger. I sometimes think I would sell my soul to be able to tell you everything, hear you call me by my real name."
"The price would be far too dear," she said. She no longer wanted any confessions from him, fearful that she now stood to lose as much from the revelation of his secrets as he. She stood up briskly, shaking blades of grass from her skirts.
She forced a more cheerful inflection into her voice. "Well, sir," she said, "since it was you who were so ungallant as to make me race, if Furlong doesn't recover, I think it only fair that you lend me your mount."
"If you think you could ride Nemesis, milady."
"Pooh! My mother gave birth to me on the back of a horse. I learned to ride before I could walk," she boasted. "We Irish are famous for our horse sense."
"For your horse thieving, too-so I've heard."
When Armande made comments like that, Phaedra harbored no doubts as to the man's origin. The smug expression settling upon his handsome features resembled nothing so much as what she termed, ‘the Englishman's superior smirk.’
She scooped up a handful of water and flicked it at him. Unruffled, he wiped the spray from his cheek with the back of his hand, his desire for reprisal betrayed by the devilish light that danced in his eyes.
"And of course," he drawled, "there is the Irish lady's fondness for taking a swim."
But Phaedra, guessing his purpose, tore off running across the meadow. She could hear Armande coming after her, and she had no more chance of outdistancing him than Furlong would have Nemesis.
Armande caught her roughly about the waist and tumbled with her to the grass. They rolled over until they both became entangled in her skirts, gasping with laughter. Armande pinned her beneath his weight and swooped down to capture her lips, the sweet, rough texture of his tongue mating with hers.
Breathless moments later, he drew back. He entwined a lock of her hair until it formed a fiery ring about his finger.
"Sorceress," he murmured. "Your name should be Circe, luring a man into forgetting all he ever knew of his past after being ensnared by your charms."
Phaedra's smile was tremulous. She wished she did possess witchlike powers, to free Armande from whatever dark motives had first swept him into her life-from those anguished memories she feared would one day tear him from her. In the innermost corner of her heart, she knew this idyll they shared could not last. Phaedra flung her arms about his neck with a fierceness akin to des
peration, pulling his mouth down to meet hers, heedless of the hot sun blazing down upon them.
This was her season, hers and Armande's, a season of fire. But the frosts of autumn and the chilling winds of winter could never be far behind.
The sun was much lower in the sky by the time Phaedra and Armande rode back to the Heath; they shared a quiet mood born of contentment, languorous with the afterglow of making love. As the gates leading to the stable yard came into view, Phaedra made one last effort to smooth back the wildly curling ends of her hair. She feared she had sun burned her face. She wrinkled her nose, wincing.
Her disheveled appearance alone would not have been so bad, but somehow Armande contrived to appear as neat as when they had set out, his white shirt once more buttoned decorously to the top, his hair bound trimly in place. Phaedra found this neatness disturbing; it galled her that the passion they had shared this afternoon in the meadow had left no visible mark upon Armande.
He glanced across at her and smiled. "It is as well we are returning. It would seem you have a visitor."
He reined in, drawing Nemesis to a halt. Phaedra did likewise with her gelding, staring in the direction that Armande indicated. Another rider was just cantering into the stable yard ahead of them, taking his sorrel mare at an easy loping pace. Phaedra covered her eyes with one hand, squinting in the new arrival's direction. But she did not need to be that close to recognize the lazy grace with which the man rode his horse, or the familiar tumble of black curls.
"It is Gilly," she said, her words coming out in a joyful breath of excitement. "My cousin. You remember-"
"Aye, I remember him," Armande said dryly. "Though it has been some time since I have had the pleasure of his company."
"He's been in France," Phaedra began, then stopped abruptly. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. Armande looked as though she had just kicked him in the stomach. He quickly recovered, his features setting into the mask of ice she had hoped to never see again.
"To France?" he repeated. "I see."
Masquerade Page 21
