Frustrated, she drew back from the window. What mischief was that woman up to now, conversing so late with a man in the gardens? Phaedra stifled a yawn, turning what few words she had caught over in her mind, but could make little sense of them. She could not even be sure from the tone of Hester's voice-never genteel-whether the woman had been threatening someone or simply passing along information. Only one word had stood out with undisputed clarity-tomorrow.
Phaedra dragged herself to her bed. Her mind was far too unfocused for her to sort the matter out tonight. As she stretched out upon the sheets, her gaze traveled wistfully toward the connecting door.
It was obvious she would have to wait until the morning's light before she found the solution to the worries besetting her. Tomorrow, she would take care of everything, Armande, Gilly, Hester ... tomorrow.
Phaedra closed her eyes, but as she drifted off to sleep, the thought kept nagging at her.
Tomorrow might be too late.
Chapter Fifteen
“Voices in the garden last night?” Hester’s mouth set in a prim line, but the morning light streaming through the kitchen window betrayed the furtive look in her eyes. "Why, I'm sure I don't know what yer ladyship would be meaning."
"And I am perfectly sure that you do."
Phaedra whisked past the spit boy turning a haunch of beef over the kitchen's massive hearth. She followed Hester round the broad oak table heaped with biscuits, cakes, and enough hunks of gingerbread to feed an army of hungry boys. Hester reached for a straw basket, affecting to count the currant cakes.
"I heard you talking to someone. A man," Phaedra persisted, her temper fraying. She'd had too little sleep, and was oppressed by the heat rolling from the cook's fires. "It must have been past two o'clock in the morning."
"I am not the sort of woman to be found entertaining gentlemen in the gardens after midnight." Hester sniffed. "It must’ve been one of the parlor maids.”
"I know your voice quite well," Phaedra said. "It was you, although I could not tell who the man was."
"Couldn't you?" Hester's smile was smug. She shrugged. "Yer ladyship must have been dreaming, 'tis all that I can say."
"I was not dreaming!" Phaedra slammed the palm of her hand upon the table with a force that nearly toppled a stack of cakes. Hester bustled past, issuing commands to the kitchen girls to look sharp and see that all the pastries were packed into the baskets.
"I've got to make sure the master gets his breakfast afore all those young devils of his descend upon us." Reaching for the silver coffee tray, Hester shot a sly glance at Phaedra as she addressed one of the footmen. "John, there'll be no need fer ye to set a place for his lordship the marquess. I'll doubt he'll be bearing much appetite for his breakfast. Proper done in, he looked when he returned."
Phaedra,feeling on the verge of seizing Hester and shaking the truth from her, paused, thrown off-balance by the reference to Armande.
"You saw his lordship return?" she asked.
"Late last night. If ye had truly been awake, as yer ladyship claims, I don't doubt but what ye would have heard him, yer rooms being so close and all." Balancing the coffee tray, Hester disappeared through the kitchen door, a smirk upon her face.
Phaedra let her go. Hester's moonlit tryst in the garden dwindled to insignificance when set beside the news of Armande's return. She had tried his door first thing this morning, even risking a light knock. But the room had responded with the same grim silence as it had known in the days after Ewan’s death. Phaedra had despaired, fearing that Armande would never return. Perhaps he thought she and Gilly had been about to expose him.
She was therefore filled with great relief at Hester's seemingly casual information. But she was not about to humble herself to Hester by asking after Armande's whereabouts. Leaving the kitchen, she obtained the information she wanted from Peter.
Aye, the footman informed her, his lordship was indeed up and about. In the music gallery, so Peter believed. Phaedra ran toward the back of the house and quietly opened the door to the salon. The gallery was as still and empty as the nave of some great church on a working day. The discordant notes being sounded upon the spinet were all the more jarring, almost a mockery of the chamber's solemn aura of stateliness.
Half-turned away from her, Armande stood over the instrument, his features beclouded despite the sunshine pouring in through the tall French windows, his fingers plucking listlessly at the keys. One look at him was enough to send Phaedra's heart sinking to her toes. He was garbed in a blue embroidered frock coat and cream-colored breeches, all traces of his dark hair hidden by his powdered wig. Gone was the bronzed sun god whose loving had warmed her yesterday in the meadow's sweet grass. Resurrected in his place was the lord of winter, come to chill her heart.
Phaedra sighed, pulling the door shut behind her. Armande's head snapped up at the sound. She braced herself for his most frozen stare, but the expression on his face was one she'd never seen there before. His eyes were frighteningly empty.
"I have been looking everywhere for you," she said. "I knew you were fond of music, but I didn't know you played."
"I don't," he said, moving away from the instrument. He swept her a mechanical bow. Her ears, fine-tuned to every nuance of his voice, caught the edge of sarcasm as he said. "Bonjour, madame. I trust you-"
"Don't!" she said sharply. She had to suppress a strong urge to fly to him, wrench the wig from his head and, kiss away the jaded weariness that marred his features. "You know I hate that pretense."
"I thought it was only in bed that the performance didn't amuse you." He tried to hold her at a distance, but Phaedra refused to let him. She flung her arms about him, pressing her face against his waistcoat. The satin felt too cool, too slick beneath her cheek, his chest as unyielding as iron. He made no move to thrust her away, but his arms did not close about her, either.
"Please, Armande. I know you are feeling hurt, betrayed. But you will not give me a chance to explain. You were gone nearly all night. I feared that you were never coming back."
"I almost didn't. Then I remembered why I had come to London. I've taken too many risks to be undone by you now. I simply never realized how much his granddaughter you are."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer her, waiting with studied patience for her to release him. But she clung to him more tightly, fearing that if she let him go now, it might be the last time she ever touched him.
"So what did your Irish spy find out in France?" he asked. "Obviously not enough for you to go running to your grandfather and have me whipped at cart tail's end for the low impostor that I am."
"Gilly found out nothing that I didn't already know," she said. "He went to France the same day I tried to have you arrested for theft-before I ever came to your bed, before I even dared whisper to myself that I loved you."
She searched his face, praying for one sign that he believed her words. But his eyes were like blue steel. She continued desperately, "I spent yesterday afternoon trying to persuade Gilly you really are the Marquis de Varnais, attempting to deceive him. Gilly, my dearest friend, who has been like my own brother."
Armande raised an eyebrow. "And did he believe you?"
"No." Her mouth quivered into a lopsided smile. "I'm such a terrible liar."
"One improves with practice." Armande's hard words seemed to mock himself more than her.
"The important question is whether you believe me," she said.
"You cannot think that I seduced you in order to-"
"It is not important whether I believe you or not."
"Not important? How can you say that when this is wrenching us apart?"
"You cannot tear apart what never has truly been together."
His words filled her with despair. "We have been living in a fool's paradise, my dear. But even fools must eventually grow wise."
Her arms slipped from around his neck, dropping back to her sides. It was as though his coldness had finally seepe
d into her heart, leaving her numb.
"Was it so foolish," she asked, "your loving me?"
"The most stupid thing I've ever done." His harsh answer caused her to flinch. "Love cannot survive where there is no trust. I realized that at the outset and should have spared us both this misery. There is no way you can ever have any faith in me, no way you will ever be able to trust me."
She drew herself upright, stung by his words. All these weeks she had demanded no explanations, never pleaded to know his real name. What more proof of her love and trust did the man require?
Yet her anger was tinged with guilt. She had willingly closed her eyes and turned her head the other way. But self-deceit was not the same as trusting, putting complete faith in the man one loved. She had held back as much from Armande as he from her.
"You give up on our love far too easily, Armande,” she said. "If it is trust you want, I shall bring it to you. The kind you can hold between your hands."
She ignored his bewildered frown as she ran from the room. She rushed to her garret, unlocked the desk drawer and yanked it open. Grabbing up a handful of the ribbon-bound papers, she raced back down to the music gallery.
Armande hovered upon the threshold as though he had been on the verge of coming after her. Phaedra shoved him back into the room, closing the door.
"Here," she said. "This will show you how much I trust you."
She tugged the ribbons off the paper and slapped the unfolded parchment upon a table before Armande, as though she were flinging down a gauntlet.
Armande regarded her uneasily. "Phaedra, I don't understand."
"Just read," she commanded.
He picked up the sheets with reluctance and skimmed the black ink, his brow furrowing into an even deeper frown. "I still don't understand. These seem to be some sort of political tracts, pages of text copied from what is that blasted paper? The Gazetteer?”
"Not copies," she said. "The original drafts. What you see before you is the hand of Robin Goodfellow."
She waited for his reaction, but he still looked confused.
"My hand," she added.
The truth broke over him at last, his eyes flashing to meet hers in a startled expression. "You are Robin Goodfellow!"
"That's right. So never again tell me that I cannot trust you. You are holding enough there to ruin me and my grandfather, as well."
All color drained from his face as Armande clutched the sheets.
The first feelings of doubt niggled at Phaedra. She had not known quite what to expect from Armande at this moment. Amazement certainly, but where was his realization of how much she did love him? She had expected even a little praise perhaps, some pride in those achievements of her mind that he had always claimed to admire. What she had not expected was this silence.
"Don't you understand what I have given you?" she cried. "It is my life bound up in those pages-"
"It is you who do not understand!"
Phaedra recoiled before the anger that flared in Armande's eyes. It was a fury strangely mixed with despair.
"Damn you! I was trying to make it as plain as possible that you dare not trust me." He flung the papers back at her and they fluttered to her feet, like leaves tossed by the wind. "If you have any more such secrets, keep them to yourself!"
He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Phaedra stared after him, hardly able to breathe. At last, she bent and began gathering up the scattered papers. She felt like a gambler who had taken an enormous risk and lost. Most disturbing of all, she wasn't even certain how high the stakes had been.
Phaedra snapped open her parasol to shield her face from the afternoon sun beating down upon the lawn, hoping that it shielded her unhappy expression as well. She picked her way past her grandfather's servants struggling to clear away the remains of the fete luncheon.
The table looked like a field of battle at the end of a fray, with linen cloths hanging askew, some of the crockery broken, and forks like discarded weapon strewn through a trail of cake crumbs. But the combatants had not retired. Tearing past Phaedra's skirts, some fifty boys whooped, their voices ranging from the childish treble to those cracking on the brink of manhood. Most of them were from hard-working families known to Sawyer, lads he and Jonathan had seen placed beneath the tutelage of good, honest masters to learn a trade.
Some of the boys crammed their cheeks full of gingerbread, while others wrestled, traded cuffs, or played at tag, as frolicsome and clumsy as puppies in a kennel. Phaedra started back as a horseshoe whizzed past her nose.
Several stout lads who were supposed to be playing at quoits were growing more unruly by the minute. The game that had resulted in the misfired shoe broke into a bout of fisticuffs. Grinning like a boy himself, Sawyer guffawed, encouraging the rough-and-ready behavior. It was left to a harassed-looking Jonathan and one of the footmen to separate the young pugilists before any came away with a bloodied nose.
"Tell Mrs. Searle to fetch more cakes for the lads," Sawyer bellowed. "Blast it all, where is that woman?"
"More cake is the last thing they need," Jonathan snapped. The heat appeared to be affecting even his solemn composure. He tried desperately to catch Phaedra's eye.
"Phaedra, I must talk to you," he said as she glided past, but she ducked deeper into the shade of her parasol.
Her mind was yet too full of the scene with Armande. She barely heeded Jonathan or the boys' antics, not even when one bold rascal let loose a frog near her petticoats.
"You must have been mad." She rebuked herself for the dozenth time. "Whatever possessed you to confess to Armande that you were Robin Goodfellow?"
And yet, she thought, why should she continue to fret so over the incident? It was not as if Armande were the enemy she had once imagined him to be. This was the man who had cradled her in his arms so many hot summer nights, vowing his love for her. And she had believed him.
If only his reaction to her secret had not been so strange. She had never seen such anger in his eyes, an anger that she sensed had been directed against himself as well as her.
Her gaze strayed to where Armande stood at the far edge of the lawn. No trace of his wrath remained as he tried to help a chubby, freckle-faced lad string a bow that was much too large for him. The boy thrust his tongue between his teeth, puffing and turning red as he tried to bend the supple wood back far enough to slip the string into the notch.
"I doubt biting your tongue off will help, monsieur," she heard Armande say. The teasing light springing into his blue eyes played havoc with her heart. How oft had she glimpsed that same expression in the hours when they exchanged banter that so frequently concealed a growing desire.
"A little more muscle is what is wanted." Armande's strong, slender fingers closed over the small pudgy ones, helping the child accomplish the task. He handed the boy the arrow, and then tousled his hair. "Now don't shoot any of your comrades, hein?" He smiled as the boy gave his promise and ran off.
Hope fluttered inside Phaedra. At this moment Armande looked very like the man who had so tenderly lifted her out of the saddle yesterday afternoon. She rustled toward him, but his smile faded the instant their eyes met. It was the Marquis de Varnais who raised his head and attempted to stride past her.
His rejection of her pierced her more keenly than any wound Ewan, with all of his studied cruelties, had ever been able to inflict.
"You needn't take to your heels the instant I approach, monsieur," she said. "I assure you, I don't intend to burden you with any more of my secrets."
"I pray you don't have any more such to reveal," he muttered.
He had started to move away, when he turned and came back as though drawn to her side against his will. "I am sorry if I lost my temper with you earlier." His apology was as stiff as his manner. "You took me by surprise when-"
Armande's eyes darkened as he bent forward, his voice hard and bitter. "Why in blazes did you choose to confide in me now? Where you hoping for some sort of trade? Your secrets for
mine?”
"And you presume to lecture me on the subject of trust!"
Phaedra arched her brows, trying to look scornful-but it was difficult with tears burning behind her eyes. "No, monsieur, I was not seeking a trade. I merely had some foolish notion that it would help if I offered you proof of my love. I fear I always have been too stupid to know when matters are past mending."
This time it was she who tried to walk away from him, placing her parasol between them like a shield.
"Phaedra." He breathed her name, but whatever Armande had been about to say was blotted out by the sound of another voice, whose lilting notes carried above the shouts of the boys.
"Top of the afternoon to you, Master Weylin. Master Burnell. 'Tis that sorry I am to be late. I can see I've been missing a feast fine enough to take the shine out of Paddy Duggan's wake."
Phaedra whipped about in time to see her cousin, resplendent in a scarlet frock coat, sweeping off his three-cornered hat and favoring Sawyer with a jaunty bow. The bruises marring Gilly’s eye and jaw had faded to an unbecoming shade of yellow, but they did nothing to tone down his impudence.
She had nearly forgotten he was coming, as well as his reasons for doing so. Never had she thought the time would come when she would view the sight of those sparkling green eyes with such dismay.
She glanced at Armande and saw him go rigid at Gilly's approach, the wary expression upon his face far from welcoming. Her stomach knotted tighter.
After greeting her grandfather and Jonathan, Gilly vaulted toward her in three quick strides. "Phaedra, my sweetest coz. Sure and you're looking as fair as the shamrocks in the springtime."
Despite his jovial expression and the thick brogue he was putting on for her grandfather's benefit, she saw the hard glint of determination in Gilly's eyes. His resolution to search Armande's room had not abated a jot in the past twenty-four hours.
Her cousin bruised her ribs with his rough embrace. She hissed in his ear, "Gilly, I swear if you go near the house today, I will break your head."
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