Masquerade

by Susan Carroll

  "You don't see at all. Armande, please, it is not what you are thinking. Gilly left long before we ever-"

  But Armande had already kicked Nemesis in the sides. The stallion eagerly responded, charging off toward the stables, leaving Phaedra in a choking cloud of dust.

  Gritting her teeth, she whisked Furlong's reins, following him. Even as she did, her heart chilled with premonition. Their summer idyll was about to come to an end.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Phaedra reached the stable yard, Armande had dismounted and flung Nemesis's reins into the hands of a waiting groom. She caught a glimpse of her lover's tight-lipped expression before he turned on his heel and strode away.

  "Armande, wait," she called desperately. "I can explain." She slipped out of the saddle before Furlong came to a complete halt. Her toe caught on the train of her riding habit, sending her crashing to her knees, hands out flung to save herself. But she barely noticed the stinging of her palms. Scrambling to her feet, she started to run after Armande as he disappeared beneath the archway which led back to the house.

  But a wiry male arm caught her about the waist, halting her roughly in midstride. "Here now, Fae." Gilly's lilting voice sounded close to her ear. "Where would you be off to in such a hurry you've no time to greet your own cousin?"

  Phaedra struggled to pull free. "Please, Gilly. I am glad you have returned, but let me go. I will come back directly." "Directly, she says, and me gone on her own errand for nigh a month. Nay, I'm thinking we'd best have a chat right now, coz."

  Phaedra detected a hard edge in Gilly's voice she had never heard before. When he whipped her about to face him, all thoughts of chasing after Armande were momentarily forgotten. She stifled a gasp at the sight of the ugly bruises purpling one side of her cousin's face. His lower lip was puffed and split, one green eye fairly swollen shut. The other glared at her with no trace of Gilly's customary roguish twinkle.

  Phaedra's gaze shifted downward to where his hands gripped her arms. His knuckles were raw.

  "What on earth?" she breathed. He released her and she gently touched his bruised jaw. He flinched.

  "Curse it, Gilly. You've been fighting again. Who the devil was it this time?"

  "That doesn’t matter. The more important question is-what the devil have you been writing while I was gone?"

  Phaedra offered him a blank stare. "Writing? I don't under- stand."

  Gilly started to speak, but glanced at the stableboy who had come to take charge of Furlong, as though fearing the lad showed far too much interest in their conversation. Seizing Phaedra by the wrist, he hauled her into the stable itself, past the horse stalls to the small tack room at the back. It was completely deserted now, and Gilly rounded upon her.

  "I had just disembarked, and I barely managed to keep those rascally customs agents from having the very shirt off my back. The next I know, three dockhands approach me. 'Ye've the sound of an Irishman,' they said, none too friendly-like. 'That's right, me fine buckos,' I replied."

  Phaedra grimaced, well able to imagine the defiant manner in which Gilly must have thickened his brogue.

  Gilly continued, "Then the tallest one-a lout with squinty eyes like my grandmother's meanest sow-he up and says, 'Then ye must be one of those Irish Papists that there Robin Goodfellow wants set free to vote all God-fearing English Protestants out of the government, aye and bring in a Catholic king to murder our good King George and have us all up before the Inquisition."

  "Why,I never wrote any such thing," Phaedra cried. "All I did was call for an end to English rule in Ireland, and say that Irish Catholics should have their rights to vote and sit in parliament.”

  "All!" Gilly groaned, slapping his palm against the side of the last stall, startling the coach horse within into emitting a frightened whicker. "You must be completely daft, woman!"

  "I've written about Ireland many times before, and you've never thought so!"

  "All you have done before is complain about absentee English landlords exploiting the Irish. That's another matter entirely, so it is." Gilly paced before her, raking his hands through his disorderly curls. "But when you start stirring up this Catholic business, you're like to get us all lynched. There's too many Londoners as still remember the Scottish attempt to sweep out these dull Hanoverians and bring back the Pretender. Or have you forgotten the bonny, and most Catholic, Prince Charlie?"

  "But Gilly, the Jacobite rebellion was years ago."

  "The English have damnable long memories. I know some as are still jawing about Bloody Mary feeding the Protestants into the fires at Smithfield. You don't understand your fellow countrymen as well as I thought, Fae. They are more afraid of Catholics than they are of the devil."

  "I'm not exactly sure anymore who my fellow countrymen are," Phaedra said bitterly.

  Gilly stopped his pacing long enough to give a sigh laden with exasperation. "I know you were meaning for the best when you did that bit of writing, but it hasn't worked out that way. I saw them burning copies of the Gazetteer down on the docks today, and I think they'd like to do the same to Robin Goodfellow and any Irishman they can get their hands on."

  Phaedra sank down upon a bale of hay. Burning copies of her work? They might as well set fire to herself. Never had she heard anything but popular acclaim for her daring essays. She felt strangely betrayed. She had always imagined those who bought her paper as honest, simple men whose common sense taught them to loathe injustice as much as she did. Now she saw them as naught but thick-skulled fools, understanding nothing, only looking for another excuse to riot and break heads. How unfair it was that the winds of opinion could sway so easily. It was even more unfair that Gilly should bear the brunt of her careless pen strokes.

  Stricken with guilt, she glanced up at him. "Then it was my fault that you've been beaten. And God knows how many other innocent people will suffer. I-I never thought ..."

  Gilly scuffed the toe of his boot against the stray bits of straw littering the stable floor. "Whist now," he said gruffly. "You know fretting over a deed that’s done never remedied anything."

  "But what can I do?" she asked. "I have to try to make it right."

  "I don't see as how you could be doing that.”

  "Well, I could write another article and say-"

  "And say what? That you didn't really mean it-that it is a proper thing that a man's religion should bar him from the freedoms granted other men? No! Perhaps it is wrong of me to be scolding you. You wrote from the heart, only saying what is right."

  "But you might have been killed! And a poor consolation it would be to me then, simply knowing I was right."

  Gilly's swollen lip curved into a lopsided smile. He looked a trifle sheepish as he confessed, "We-ell, the affair at the docks today was not entirely one-sided. I did make a remark to the pig-eyed one concerning his mother, but I think what clinched the matter was when I made the sign of the cross over him."

  "Oh, Gilly!" Phaedra choked, torn between horror and amusement at his recklessness. He plunked down upon the hay bale beside her, draping his arm about her shoulders.

  "Ah, it was not much of a set-to at that. There was only the three of them, and one was but a scrawny fellow. I've been in far grander fights."

  Phaedra shook her head, resisting his efforts to make light of the incident."I just wish there was something I could do."

  "Well, there isn't, except wait for the furor to die down. I think you'd best not write anything at all 'til then."

  "I had already resolved to put an end to Robin Goodfellow, especially after meeting Jessym. Why did you never tell me he was such a horrid little man?"

  "He's a businessman, hard-headed and practical, exactly what you needed." Gilly frowned. "But I wish you hadn't gone near him. He didn't know who you were, did he?"

  "Of course not. I went disguised. I only wish he didn't know you."

  "I'm not worried about that. If you do mean to stop writing altogether, it seems a pity. 'But the name of Goodfello
w will be forgotten by summer's end. Right now, tempers are running a trifle short." Gilly rubbed the back of his neck. "It is this blasted heat. It does peculiar things to a man's brain." He shot her a sidelong glance out of his good eye. "You don't seem to be bearing up so well under it yourself."

  Phaedra squirmed under the intensity of Gilly's scrutiny. She tugged nervously at the front of her riding jacket, almost afraid to look down in case she found one of the buttons undone.

  "I have been fine," she stammered. "Just fine."

  "Have you now? I wonder. I thought by this time you would be all over me with questions about what I learned in France."

  She stood up, smoothing her skirts with a fluttery motion. "Naturally I am most curious. Why don't you come up to the house? I should like to try to do something more for that eye of yours, and I'll wager you would be glad of a glass of ale."

  She tried to lead the way out of the stable, but Gilly caught her by the elbow, hauling her back. "What were you doing just now when I came up, tearing after that de Le Croix as though your life depended upon catching him? He looked as though he'd caught someone robbing his mother's grave."

  "Was that how he looked?" Phaedra asked, unable to keep the misery out of her voice. "He was angry. He believes I sent you to France spying, hunting for proof to expose him."

  "And so you did."

  "No! That was before-before-"

  "Before what?"

  Phaedra found she could neither answer her cousin nor continue to look him in the eye. She felt glad of her sunburned cheeks, hoping it concealed some of the blush she knew must be spreading across her face.

  "Your intuition about the man was right, Fae," Gilly said as she remained silent. "He is an impostor, but I have no way of proving it yet. The real Armande de LeCroix thumbed his nose at his highborn relatives years ago and set off adventuring to Canada. But this fellow who claims to be Varnais bears no resemblance to the rest of that family."

  "That doesn't mean anything," she said, a shade too quickly. "No one else in our family has ever had red hair, and yet that wouldn't prove me an impostor."

  "De Le Croix is a man in his early forties."

  "Maybe Armande is simply one of those men who bears his age well," she said, uncomfortably aware that Gilly was staring at her with growing consternation.

  "So it is Armande we're calling him now, is it?"

  Phaedra fidgeted with the sleeves of her jacket as though she had nothing more important on her mind than straightening the cuffs. "Very likely you are right about him," she said in what she hoped was a voice of airy unconcern. "But what does it truly matter? Most likely Armande is carrying out this pose for a wager. I'm sure it's all some sort of a lark. When you get to know him-"

  "A lark!" Gilly seized her chin, forcing her face upward. She tried to look indifferent, but he had known her far too long to be fooled. "Sweet Mother of God. You've gone and fallen in love with the man."

  Phaedra shoved his hand away. "And what if I have?"

  "What if you-" Gilly nearly choked. "Now you just listen to me, my girl. No one takes the kind of risks that man is taking for a lark. You, if anyone, should have the sense not to trust your heart to a man you scarce know. You allowed yourself to be charmed by one bastard, and lived to regret it."

  "Armande is different," she cried, resenting the comparison. "He's nothing at all like Ewan. Armande is warm, sensitive, and caring."

  "And a bloody damn liar!" Gilly flung up his hands, as though he could not credit what he was hearing. "I can see that I've returned none too soon. You've taken complete leave of your senses."

  "This is no longer any of your concern," she said stiffly. "I am grateful you went to France for me, but-"

  "Grateful be damned." He glared at her, looking as though he would have liked to lock her up somewhere. "I can see that it is high time I took charge of this matter and found exactly who the deuce this fellow is."

  She thrust out her chin belligerently. "I know as much about him as I need to know. In my judgment-"

  "Your judgment!" Gilly snorted. "It is clear you have no judgment left at all. The man's put you under some God-cursed spell."

  "I don't wish to discuss this any further."

  But her haughty words might as well have gone unspoken for all the heed Gilly paid her. "What I need is free access to that damned house so that I can search his room."

  "Don't you dare." Phaedra gasped. "I won't let you."

  "Why not? If this fellow is as wonderful as you say, what are you so afraid I'm going to find out?"

  "Nothing ... I mean, I don't know." She could feel talons of dread sinking deep in her stomach at the mere thought of Gilly's suggestion. How could she possibly make Gilly understand why she no longer wanted to know Armande's secrets? How could she communicate her fear that a little more knowledge might be enough to separate them forever? She had been so happy-and if it took willful blindness to cling to that happiness for even a little bit longer, why then, so be it.

  "Fae," Gilly said, his voice gone tender with concern. "You have to listen to reason." He tried to put his arm about her again, but she jerked away.

  "No, leave me alone. I wish you hadn't come back. I wish you would just go away again."

  Hurt welled in his eyes, but his jaw stiffened into an expression every bit as stubborn as her own. "I'm not about to do that. I love you too damn much to see you setting yourself up for grief all over again. "

  "If you truly love me, you will please just-"

  Her anguished words were cut off by a gruff voice booming down the length of the stables, "Eh, what's all this?"

  Phaedra did not have to turn around to realize that her grandfather was bearing down upon them. She heard the floorboards creaking beneath Weylin's bulk.

  Gilly muttered, "Now there'll be the devil to pay and no mistake."

  Despite her desire for Gilly to leave, Phaedra whipped around to face her grandfather. She stepped in front of her cousin like a mother tigress, ready to defend him against Weylin's certain demand for Gilly's eviction.

  Weylin hobbled forward, puffing with the exertion, leaning heavily upon his cane. "Why, bless me, girl," he growled. "What's come of your manners when you think to entertain honored guests down in the stables?"

  Phaedra gaped at him, sure she could not have heard him correctly. She glanced at Gilly, who was looking around, as though trying to find the guest to whom her grandfather referred.

  "This is your cousin, if I am not mistaken," Weylin continued in tones that sounded almost cordial. "The Honorable Mr. Patrick Fitzhurst." Although her grandfather did not go so far as to offer Gilly his hand, Weylin leaned on his cane, his mouth spreading into a bland smile.

  "Aye, the selfsame, sir," Gilly said faintly, sounding as though he were not quite sure himself.

  "I do have a right to see my own cousin whenever I choose." Phaedra squared her shoulders, preparing for the familiar battle.

  "So you do, my dear." Weylin roughly tweaked her cheek. "But why keep the poor man down in the stables? Why not bring him up to the house?"

  "But I-I ... you've always said ... " Phaedra floundered. She knew her grandfather had been quite mellow of late, but never had he regarded her with such an expression. He looked almost affectionate. He wagged his finger at her as though she were a naughty child.

  "I declare," he said, turning to Gilly. "I don't know what I shall ever do with this wild granddaughter of mine. I quite despair of ever teaching her our civilized English ways. Only look at this hair."

  Chuckling, Weylin yanked one of Phaedra's tangled red curls. "And I'll be hanged if she doesn't have the marquis running about now, unpowdered like a savage."

  Phaedra felt entirely too dumbfounded by this smiling good humor even to muster a retort. Her grandfather cocked his head, studying Gilly's face.

  "Stap me, Mr. Fitzhurst, but what have you done to your head, lad? Were you in some sort of accident?"

  "No, sir," Gilly drawled. "I've been having a bit o
f trouble with my eyesight. I seem to keep walking into some of your civilized English fists. "

  Weylin guffawed and slapped his thigh, shaking all over as though Gilly had made the greatest of jests. Her cousin rolled his eyes at Phaedra, indicating that he thought her grandfather had run completely mad. Phaedra was beginning to wonder about the old man's sanity herself until Weylin said, "Well, Fitzhurst, I daresay your cousin has been too modest to tell you. She's made quite a conquest this summer. She will likely soon astonish you by becoming the Marchioness of Varnais."

  "That would astonish me," Gilly said. He added in a low mutter that only Phaedra could hear, "I'll bet it would surprise the marquis, too, wherever he is."

  Phaedra trod on her cousin’s foot, flashing him a warning look. The reason for her grandfather’s abrupt change in manner had become abundantly clear. She had been a fool to think that shrewd old man had not noticed some of what had passed between herself and Armande this summer. Now he assumed that his fondest wish was about to come true- her marriage to the marquis. How furious would his reaction be when this delusion ended, as it inevitably must.

  But she had a more immediate problem to deal with, Gilly’s vow to search Armande’s room. With dismay, she heard her grandfather inviting Gilly to sup with them this evening.

  “I should be only too pleased to do so, sir.”

  “No, Gilly has another engagement.”

  They spoke in unison, glaring at each other.

  “Well, well, another time perhaps,” Sawyer said, much to Phaedra’s relief. But then he added, “Why don’t you come out tomorrow, Fitzhurst? We are having the sort of simple entertainment that I know you Irish enjoy. I call it my working lads’ fete.”

  Phaedra winced. The fete. Was that to be so soon? She had forgotten all about it. Once a year, in the summertime, her grandfather sponsored a holiday for many of the young apprentice boys of London. It was the only sort of charitable activity she had ever known Sawyer Weylin to indulge in.

  “We’ll have a luncheon under the trees,” her grandfather went on, “then games of wrestling, tug-of-war, wringing the neck of a greased goose, all sorts of jollifications.”