Page 26 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Her grandfather’s friends chortled in appreciation of his wit, even most of Phaedra’s own sex joining in or eyeing her with disapproval. She flushed with mortification.
Armande’s suave voice cut through the coarse laughter. “Some of the most enjoyable moments I have ever spent were inthe company of a certain lady whose beauty was only matched by her intelligence and her wit.”
He looked directly into Phaedra’s eyes as he spoke, leaving her in no doubt of his sincerity. She could not have been more stunned than if he had leaned forward and kissed her. Could the man truly be defending her learning? It was something not even her father had ever done.
Armande’s remark momentarily silenced the others until Byram smirked. “Strange pleasures you Frenchies have. Next I suppose you’ll be telling us we should be sending our daughters up to Oxford and giving them the franchise.”
His comment produced another spate of laughter, which quickly changed to gasps when Armande leveled a chilling stare at Byram.
“By all means. If a woman has a good mind, she should use it. Let the ladies vote. The more capable ones might even take a seat in parliament.”
He could not have stunned them more if he had advocated home rulefor Ireland. Even Phaedra found herself gaping at the marquis. The man was more of a radical than she had ever dreamed of being. She sensed the thunderclap about to erupt from her grandfather’s end of the table. His professed friendship for Varnais might have ended abruptly if Arthur Danby had not provided a diversion.
The fop leaped to his feet, spilling his second glass of wine that evening. “Stap me! Oxford. That’s it.” Trembling with excitement, he pointed at Armande. “That is where we met. We were up at Oxford together. Don’t you remember? It is me. Danby.”
While he thumped his chest, the other guests returned their attention to their plates, looking alternately amused and disgusted with Lord Danby’s drunken nonsense.
But Armande’s face went rigid. Ever sensitive to his mood changes, Phaedra noted how his fingers tightened about the stem of his wineglass.
“I regret, monsieur, you are mistaken. I took my education in Paris. “
But Danby continued as though he had not heard. “I remember you. Your name is-is?—”
A tremor passed through Armande’s hand, and Phaedra thought that in another moment, he would surely shatter the crystal. She breathlessly awaited Danby’s next words.
“Name of-of John or Jason something. You were—” Danby tried to snap his fingers, but couldn’t manage it. His concentration broken, he stared cross-eyed at his hand, trying to coordinate the movement of his thumb. Phaedra had an urge to fly at him and shake the fool out of his memory lapse.
Sir Norris reached around Mrs. Byng and caught Danby by the coattails. “Sit down, you fool, and stop making such an arse of yourself.” He yanked hard, tumbling the fop back into his chair.
Armande released the wineglass, his hand dropping back to his side. The footman mopped up the claret Danby had spilled, and the incident appeared forgotten. Forgotten, that is, by all but Phaedra and, she was certain, Armande.
For all that Armande had recovered his composure, Phaedra believed that Danby had left him badly shaken. She stared at Arthur Danby with an interest she had never felt in the man before. What had he been about to remember? Of course, he was a simpleton, a drunkard. Even while she studied him, the fool was using the rose water in his finger bowl to rinse out his mouth. No one ever took Danby seriously. If it had not been for Armande’s reaction, she would not have done so, either. But she vowed to get Danby alone. She must jar the dolt’s memory.
As the footmen began to clear away the dessert dishes and bring in the port, Phaedra realized with reluctance that it was time for her to signal the ladies to rise, and leave the gentlemen alone. Sir Norris Byram was obviously squirming to fetch out the chamber pot kept stored beneath the sideboard.
Phaedra was pushing back her chair to rise when the door behind her crashed open. She had not even time to turn around before a wild-eyed man burst into the room. Several of the women cried out. Arthur Danby exclaimed. “What the deuce!”
Phaedra’s own startled gasp was cut off as she stared at the man. It was the same haggard young man who had been ejected from her grandfather’s levee last week. The fellow still looked half-starved and ragged, but far more desperate.
Before the footman could move to intercept him, the man staggered the length of the dining room toward her grandfather. “This time, Weylin. This time you’ll bloody well hear what I have to say.”
From beneath his tattered coat, the man produced a flintlock pistol. Phaedra choked back a scream as he cocked the hammer and leveled the weapon straight at her grandfather’s head.
Seven
Phaedra pressed her hand to her mouth. Her stomach gave a lurch as the click of the hammer being pulled back. She caught her breath, anticipating the loud report of the pistol. But endless seconds ticked by and the only sound was the strange man’s ragged breathing as he continued to hold her grandfather at gun point. Phaedra was aware that Mrs. Shelton had crumpled to the floor in a dead faint; but the other guests sat frozen, their faces presenting a tableau of shock and horror. The only two in the room whose composure appeared unaffected were her grandfather and the marquis. Sawyer glowered up at the man who threatened him.”I told you before, Wilkins. I don’t receive workmen in my home.”
“I only come for what’s rightfully owed me.” Wilkins jerked the pistol closer to her grandfather’s face.
Phaedra could endure no more. She took a half-step forward, not quite clear even in her own mind what she meant to do. Armande seized her arm in an iron grip.
“Be still, you little fool,” he said in low, level tones. “Can you not see how that fellow’s hands are shaking?”
She halted, noting that Armande was correct. Wilkin’s hands trembled as though he were afflicted with palsy. The jerking movement could set off the pistol at any moment.
Yet her grandfather calmly reached for his wineglass. “I don’t owe you anything,” he said.
“My wages, damn you!” Wilkins cried.
