Their luster seemed somehow dulled now, as she thought of the torment on James's face, and of how her grandfather's silence had helped see him hanged. As though some of James's bitterness crept into her own soul, she rejected the pearls, dropping them back into the box. The only object she removed was an oval gold locket.
The locket was extremely plain. Its beauty for Phaedra lay in her memory of the giver. Two days before she had set sail from Ireland to become Ewan Grantham's bride, Gilly had tossed the locket into her lap, saying, with one of his teasing grins, "And you can rest easy wearing it, darlin'. 'Tis even paid for."
Phaedra's hand shook as she fumbled with the catch, opening the locket to reveal the hollow emptiness. "Damn you, Patrick Gilhooley Fitzhurst. Why did you never think to put a likeness of yourself inside?"
She clicked the locket closed, telling herself it didn't matter. She would carry the image of unruly black curls and laughing green eyes forever in her heart. It was the most painful part of her leaving-not being able to bid Gilly farewell. She had forestalled him with great difficulty these past few days, sending him notes begging him not to come to the Heath until she sent for him. She had even gone so far as to lie, writing that James Lethington had left the Heath, simply disappeared, assuring Gilly that all was well with her.
She feared seeing her cousin, knowing she might break down and reveal her plans. She could well imagine what Gilly's reaction would be. He would attempt to kill James rather than let her go off with a man he deemed dangerous.
Her only choice was to slip away like this, leaving behind a letter for Gilly, pleading with him to understand and not to fear for her, ending with the prayer that, God willing, they would somehow meet again one day.
Phaedra fastened the locket about her neck. She took one last glance about her bedchamber, but she felt no regrets that she had spent her last night here. She had never truly known happiness in this room or any other of the elegant chambers of Sawyer Weylin's mansion. Only one part of the house had ever held any charm for her.
Lighting a candle, Phaedra rustled out of her bedchamber to take one final peek into her garret. She had not been up there since the day she had discovered Hester dead. As she mounted the narrow stairs, she tensed with apprehension. But she need not have worried. The candle's soft glow revealed her little sanctuary to be undisturbed even by the ghosts of the past. The dust gathered silently upon the jumbled assortment of furniture, which meant nothing to anyone save herself.
Phaedra walked immediately over to the bookshelf, running her fingers ruefully over the stiff leather spines. It was impossible to take the volumes with her. How ironic, she thought, that once more she must lose her treasured books-and this time because of the very man who had restored them to her.
Her gaze roved about the garret with a kind of bittersweet nostalgia. She found herself remembering all the dreams she had woven up here, her plans for independence, the desire to be free, never to place herself in the power of any man again.
Of course, she told herself hastily, that had all been long before she had fallen so desperately in love with James. A mocking voice inside her reminded her that she had once fancied herself wildly devoted to Ewan Grantham.
But it was far different this time, she assured herself. It had to be; the risks were so much greater. She was flinging herself into a void, with only James’s love to sustain her. She had to trust him.
Thus resolved, Phaedra had but one more task to perform before she quit the Heath forever. She walked over to the oak desk and unlocked it. She intended to make sure all copies of her Robin Goodfellow writings were burned. But as Phaedra groped inside the desk, a feeling of panic settled over her. They were gone-the drafts she had bound up so neatly with the black ribbon.
She rifled through the drawer, coming up with nothing but blank sheets of parchment and yellowed issues of the Gazetteer. Phaedra straightened, willing herself to be calm and think.
The last she had seen of the papers had been the day she had showed them to James. He had flung them back at her. She had gathered up the parchment in great distress. And then ...
She pressed her fingertips to her temples in frustration, her mind drawing a blank. She simply couldn't remember. She thought she had brought the papers back up here, stuffed them into the desk. Phaedra rummaged through the drawer one more time, but with no result. She supposed she might have temporarily placed the drafts in her dressing table.
Snatching up the candle, she raced down to her bedchamber, but although she fairly tore the room apart, she turned up no sign of the missing papers. When Lucy came upstairs for the second time to report that Sawyer Weylin was growing impatient, Phaedra reluctantly had to abandon her search.
But as she flung her cloak over her arm, she fretted, "What could have happened to those accursed things?"
A thought occurred to her. Not a thought so much as a name-James. But she would not allow herself to pursue the fear. Instead she tried to tell herself that it truly did not matter. She was leaving London and her days as Robin Goodfellow far behind. If the papers came to light after the departure, she could rest assured her grandfather would be quick to destroy them.
Still striving to stifle her uneasiness, Phaedra descended the main stair to find her grandfather awaiting her in the hall below. James had not yet come down either, and the old man was fuming.
Leaning upon his cane, Sawyer Weylin hobbled past the suits of armor, his elaborately curled white wig and purple satin waistcoat straining over his huge middle, making a strange contrast to those lean men of iron.
Phaedra tensed at the sight of him. Ever since hearing James's story, it had been difficult for her to meet Sawyer with any degree of composure. She had adjured James to forget the past, but discovered she had a hard time doing so herself.
Each time she regarded the stubborn set of her grandfather's lips, the shrewd eyes set beneath heavy lids, she was unable to think of anything but the misery her grandfather had brought to both herself and James. How different things might have been if Weylin's first concern had been for his granddaughter's happiness! But he had thrown it all away, for the dream of enabling a great-grandchild to wear a coronet.
Phaedra feared that her face revealed some of what she felt. Her grandfather had seemed uneasy in her presence of late, and had grown more belligerent than ever. After growling his usual dissatisfaction with her unpowdered hair, he barked, "Why the deuce do you keep staring at me in that addle-witted fashion? Sometimes I think you've not been right in the head since the death of that Searle woman."
"Hester's violent death came as a shock to me," Phaedra said quietly, lowering her eyes. "Despite the fact that I never liked her. She was a most unpleasant woman."
"But a damned efficient housekeeper. I shall ne'er come by another so cheaply."
Phaedra choked back a bitter laugh. Hester's presence at the Heath had proved far more costly than her grandfather could ever imagine. The woman's death had forced Phaedra to open her eyes, to seek answers about Armande. Those answers had led to her plans for this night. But thinking of the manner of Hester's death, Phaedra shuddered. That was one mystery that must remain unsolved, although it would continue to trouble her long after she had left this place.
Phaedra's eyes traveled unwillingly toward the iron-spiked mace. There was more than one matter she should be content to let rest, but she could not seem to do so. She would never see her grandfather again after tonight, never have the chance to demand an accounting of his exact part in James's tragedy.
She asked, "Did you ever hear how Hester used to terrify cook's children with the story of James Lethington?"
Her grandfather appeared absorbed in consulting his pocket watch, shaking the timepiece as though it had stopped running. He grunted. "Fool woman would've done better to tend to her dusting instead of blathering about what was none of her concern."
"But I often have wondered about the murder myself," Phaedra continued, studying her grandfather through her lashes. "
Ewan sometimes spoke of it, of how he testified at Lethington's trial. But something never quite rang true. Do you suppose Ewan truly did witness his uncle's death?"
Weylin's florid countenance seemed to darken a shade. "'Course he did." Then after a lengthy pause, he added, "And even if he hadn't, it would not have mattered."
"Not have mattered!" Phaedra trembled with outrage, tortured by a vision of the rope crushing James's neck. "When a man's very life was at stake!"
"Lethington was guilty. I saw enough myself to be sure of that."
"Truly, Grandfather? Exactly how much did you see?”
He feigned not to have heard her question. He stumped over to the bottom of the stair, peering upward. "Where the deuce is Armande? The man takes his blasted time about everything. Why hasn't he proposed to you by now?"
Phaedra refused to allow herself to be diverted. "From what I heard, James Lethington might have had a reason for attacking Ewan's uncle. Carleton Grantham abducted his sister. Did you ever hear anything about that, Grandfather?"
His only reply was a grunt.
Phaedra persisted, "Julianna must have been a great inconvenience. Ewan always said he would have married her instead of me if she had not died."
Her grandfather dragged forth a handkerchief to mop at his brow. "Ewan was a fool. From the way your marriage to him turned out, without even a son to inherit the title, I might as well have let him indulge his folly and marry some poor china-maker's chit."
Phaedra sucked in her breath. "You might as well have let Ewan marry Julianna? Pray tell me, Grandfather, what you did do prevent it."
Never had Phaedra seen such an expression upon her grandfather's face. His eyes shifted away from her in guilty fashion.
"Why, nothing," Weylin blustered. "Except to offer Ewan Grantham enough money to make sure he forgot about the Lethington girl. It was the wench's own idea to run off and kill herself."
In that moment, Phaedra had a sick feeling that all of James's suspicions were correct. Her grandfather did know more of what had happened to Julianna Lethington than he ever would tell. But before she could ask anything further, James descended the stairs.
He looked magnificent, his powerful thighs molded by a pair of satin breeches, his rich burgundy frock coat showing off to perfection the power of his chest and shoulders. Phaedra was disturbed to see that he had powdered his hair. It was as though upon this final night as the Marquis de Varnais, he was determined to play the role to the hilt.
But he was not quite bringing it off. There was a high color in his face that belied the marquis's cool indifference, a suppressed excitement in his manner. Phaedra thought it fortunate that her grandfather had never really obtained a good view of James Lethington, or surely he would have recognized him in Armande tonight.
When his gaze met Phaedra's, she forgot all her doubts. She read nothing upon James's face but the glow of a man deeply in love, about to realize his heart's desire. Yet when his eyes shifted to her grandfather, her uneasiness returned.
James's mouth hardened with a contempt he was no longer at any pains to conceal. "Ah, Monsieur Weylin, garbed in all the splendor of your customary good taste, I see."
Even her thick-skinned grandfather could not possibly mistake the sneer behind James's words. Bewildered by his guest's change in manner, he sought to reply; Phaedra hastened to interpose herself in between the two men.
"We'd best hurry. I do detest arriving after the performance has begun." She handed James her cloak with a nervous smile. He stared hard at her grandfather a moment longer, then gazed down upon her with a gentle smile.
He eased the cloak about her shoulders with great tenderness, even daring to press a furtive kiss behind her ear.
"Soon, my love," he breathed. "Very soon, it will all be over."
She thought that a most strange way of expressing their departure, but she nodded in agreement. She felt relieved when they left the house, James supporting her arm, her grandfather trailing after them.
The carriage ride into the city passed by in a haze. She remembered little of it but the warmth of James's hand clutching hers in the darkness. And yet she could not seem to draw any comfort from his strength. His fingers were never still, constantly caressing her palm as though it were the only outlet he could find for his restless anticipation.
The carriage set them down in the square outside Covent Garden Theatre, The "Market of Venus," the magistrate Sir John Fielding had once referred to it. The painted ladies of the night certainly did seem to outnumber those attending the opera.
Most of the haut ton no longer lived in London, preferring to spend the autumn hunting season at their country estates. And the opera had lost much of its popularity since the days when the great Handel had been the director at Covent Garden Theatre.
Phaedra did not know whether to feel relieved or sorry not to be caught up in a press of people. A large crowd might have made their plans that much easier. As it was, she saw no one that she knew until she and James were about to step beneath the theater's portico. Then a familiar figure melted out of the shadows.
"Sure and this is a surprise. Fancy encountering you here, my dearest coz."
Phaedra's heart slammed against her ribs. She stared up into Gilly's unsmiling face, torn between the joy of seeing him one last time and a sensation of dread.
Gilly's eyes darkened with reproach, then narrowed as he shifted his gaze toward James. "And if it isn't himself, his most noble lairdship, the Marquis de Varnais. Still taking in the pleasures of London, -I see."
Phaedra hardly dared to glance at James's expression as he acknowledged Gilly's presence with a stiff nod.
"Gilly," Phaedra started to plead, not knowing what her cousin might be prepared to do or say next, when her grandfather huffed up to join them.
"Eh! Fitzhurst, you here? Never knew you Irish had a fancy for opera."
"Oh, I would never miss an opportunity to hear the English caterwauling." Gilly's hard gaze never wavered from Phaedra and James. "Would it be too imposing of me to include myself in this charming little party?"
Phaedra felt James's grip tighten possessively on her elbow as he spoke. "I am sure you would find a far better seat in the pits."
Gilly's jaw tightened. "I don't think so. I'm thinking I might be missing a great deal by not being up in the gallery."
Sawyer Weylin pushed past them all impatiently. "Well, come along to my box then and cease nattering about it before we miss the first act."
Gilly shot James a defiant stare and squared his shoulders. He insisted upon walking behind them, as though he intended not to let her or James out of his sight.
"James," Phaedra whispered. "What are we going to do?"
"Exactly as we planned," was his cool reply. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "There is no need to worry about your cousin. Everything will be all right."
But it wouldn't be. She swallowed hard. James did not know Gilly as she did. He would not be so easily hoodwinked as her grandfather. Already she feared Gilly had read far too much of her intention upon her face.
As they were about to enter the box, Gilly managed to yank her aside and hiss in her ear. "You wrote to me that Lethington had gone. Now just what the devil are you about?"
“Attending the opera,” she said with a nervous laugh.
Gilly's fingers crushed so hard about her wrist, she nearly cried out. "Aye, a cozy entertainment, this," he said angrily. "Just you,Jamey-boy, and his next intended victim."
"Don't!" she shrilled, then lowered her voice. "James is not going to hurt anyone. I have seen to that. You must trust me, Gilly."
"Trust you, bedamned. You lied to me, Fae, and 'tis plain as a pikestaff, you're far too besotted to know what you are doing anymore. When I accidentally met up with that Burnell fellow and he told me you were coming to the theater tonight, I could not credit my ears."
"Gilly, please." Phaedra noticed James observing their tete-a-tete from the doorway. "I will explain everything to yo
u after the show."
The lie tasted bitter upon her lips, but it satisfied Gilly for the moment. They took their seats upon the benches in the box, James forestalling Gilly's efforts to sit beside her. From the grim looks that passed between the two men, Phaedra feared a scuffle.
But Gilly grudgingly removed himself to sit directly behind her. He lit a candle to follow the book of the opera, and then swore when James turned and snuffed it.
"It is a practice I would not encourage," James said levelly.
"The dangers of fire, you know."
The way Gilly glowered at him made Phaedra relieved when the orchestra struck up the first bars of the music and the opera began.
But she could not focus on the performance, and the shrill voice of the soprano served only to grate upon her nerves. In their box, the members of the little party were all but shadowy figures in the dark. Yet Phaedra could sense Gilly's watchfulness and James's determination. Dear God, this was never going to work. Gilly would never believe her excuse of feeling faint. She had never swooned in her life. And even if he did believe her, he was bound to follow her and James out of the box. Her grandfather nodded off as he usually did at the theater but she didn't have to look back to know that Gilly's eyes were not trained upon the stage.
They were deep into the second act, when Phaedra felt James's touch upon her hand, giving her the signal. She tried to ignore it, but the pressure of James's hand became more insistent. She half-rose, starting to speak, then sank back down in despair.
She could sense James's growing impatience, but before any of them could react, the door to their box was flung open. Much to Phaedra's astonishment, Jonathan rushed in. She had never seen the somber man in such a state. Pale and wild-eyed, he seized her grandfather by the front of his coat, shaking him awake.
"Sawyer-Sawyer, for the love of God, you must leave."
Her grandfather snorted, rubbing his eyes. "Eh, what? But the opera- it is not over."
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