Page 27 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Your wages, villain, went to pay what was owing at the tavern-as was agreed.”
“Not by me. I am not a slave, to be thus bought and sold.” Weylin sloshed his wine about the bottom of his glass. “Any man is a slave who cannot control his drinking habits.”
Phaedra gripped the back of one of the chairs. Was her grandfather mad to bandy words so? Could he not see that this man was nigh-crazed? Her heart hammering, she noticed Armande inching closer to Wilkins.
The man dashed the back of one torn sleeve across his eyes. “I made a mistake once, but I have not touched a drop since. I am begging you. At least, let me keep half the money. My-my babe died today, and I’m like to lose my wife as well. She’s dying of hunger, starving while you?—”
His wild-eyed gaze flicked to the linen tablecloth littered with cake crumbs and the remnants of the rich desserts.
Her grandfather shrugged his beefy shoulders. He snapped his fingers at the footman. “John, clear away the rest of these scraps. Whatever is left give them to this beggar.”
The sound that erupted from Wilkin’s throat sounded like nothing human. Phaedra read her grandfather’s death in the man’s eyes.
“No!” Her outcry was lost in what happened next. She was never sure how Armande had moved so fast. He struck Wilkin’s hand upward. The pistol erupted with a deafening roar and a flash of blue fire.
As the acrid haze of smoke cleared, Phaedra cried out with relief to see her grandfather unharmed.John shoved past Phaedra, the burly footman diving for Wilkins and wrestling him to the ground. Amidst the screams of the women and the chaos of chairs overturning, Sir Norris leaped in eagerly to help. Although Wilkins struggled with the strength of a madman, he was quickly overwhelmed.
He collapsed, blood streaming from his nose. Sir Norris drew back his fist to hit the unconscious man again, but Armande seized Byram’s wrist.
“Enough,” the marquis commanded. Byram’s face darkened, and Phaedra thought he meant to turn his fists upon Armande. But he thought better of it, pulling away from the marquis. Armande’s breath came a little more rapidly than normal, but it was the only sign that he had been in any way affected by the violence.
Now that the danger was past, Phaedra’s knees shook, ready to give out beneath her. Somehow she managed to get herself to the opposite side of the dining room. In a gesture that surprised her as much as it did Weylin, she flung her arms about his neck.
“Grandpapa! Are you truly unharmed?”
“‘Course I am. Don’t be an idiot, girl,” Weylin said gruffly. He pushed her away, leaving her feeling foolish. Her concern vanished, replaced with anger.
“Me an idiot! You who all but begged that madman to shoot you. How could you taunt him so!”
Weylin struggled to his feet and regarded the powder-blackened hole in the wallpaper just beyond his head. Then he stumped round to gaze down at the inert Wilkins.
“I doubted the cowardly knave even had the pistol loaded.” His voice was a mixture of grudging admiration and contempt. “Well, cart the villain out of here.”
John and the other footmen moved to obey, all attempting to make excuses for allowing Wilkins to gain entry. But her grandfather cut short their efforts to blame each other. “Just tie the blackguard up, and see him delivered to Newgate. I will lodge my complaint in the morning.”
John hefted Wilkins over his shoulder. The man’s limbs hung down limp as a bundle of rags, his face smeared with blood. The man had just attempted to murder her grandfather, and yet Phaedra could not restrain a murmur of pity. “Maybe we should summon a doctor.”
Her grandfather shot her a look of scorn. “Waste of effort, m’dear, for someone already marked for the hangman’s noose.”
The other guests nodded approval as John carried Wilkins from the room. He was obliged to edge his way through the crowd of frightened servants who had gathered just beyond the door.
“Here now, you lot. Back to your work,” John growled, full of self-importance as he struggled to balance his grim burden. “Nothing happening here that’s of any concern to you.”
In the disorder that followed, Phaedra wondered if it was only she who noticed Armande slip out quietly after John. But she had little time to speculate on where he was going.
Mrs. Shelton claimed all of her attention. The woman had recovered enough to be propped up in a chair, but she moaned while Mrs. Byng fanned her. Phaedra moved to fetch Mrs. Shelton a glass of water, but her grandfather snorted.
“You’ll be wanting something stronger than that, m’girl.” He rang for a decanter of brandy, all the while giving the gentlemen present a broad wink. “We men don’t fret ourselves over such trifles, but the ladies might fancy a small drop.”
The laughter that this produced seemed to relieve much of the tension. Few of the guests resumed their seats, instead mingling in small groups discussing the incident. Many of themen were loud in their protestations, describing exactly what they had been about to do with Wilkins before the marquis interfered.
Phaedra’s lip curled with scorn. The fools all had plenty to say, but no one thought to voice the question that most needed asking. She rounded upon her grandfather and demanded, “And who exactly is this Mr. Wilkins, Grandfather? Why did he want to kill you?”
Weylin sloshed down a mouthful of brandy, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed. “A carpenter, hired to do work at the properties I own at the east end. My mistake. The sort of rascal one can expect to deal with when buying carcasses.”
There was a chorus of solemn assent from most of the others. Even Arthur Danby seemed to know what her grandfather meant.
“Buying carcasses? I don’t understand,” Phaedra said, frowning from one face to another, waiting for an explanation.
