Page 32 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
He must be desperate indeed to stoop to such ignoble tricks. To think she had begun to believe she might have been wrong about the marquis! She had nearly been gulled into believing him different, not only from the villain of her imagination, but also different from Ewan, and from all the petty, narrow-minded men she had ever met. Different he certainly was, his cruelty far more subtle, couching his betrayal in words of velvet tenderness and feigned admiration. She had almost begun to believe in Armande and the warm, beckoning light she had glimpsed in his eyes. She had almost believed that maybe, just this once, she was not about to pursue the will-o’ -the-wisp.
Phaedra tried to push aside the hollow sense of disappointment that washed through her.
Pleading illness, she had never returned to the salon; she had thus avoided Armande, for she had been unwilling to let him see how much his treachery had affected her.
It was unwise to reveal one’s weakness to the enemy. And that was what he was-a most dangerous foe. All the more reason she should not burst into his bedchamber and confront him. When next they met, she must be in control of herself, as icy and subtle as he, if she ever hoped to beset him.
She wondered how Armande had been affected by the failure of his vicious scheme. She hoped he had spent a night of hell, wondering how she had escaped his trap, worrying that she had learned something from Arthur Danby. Yet she doubted it. She could picture him hunching those elegant shoulders in a careless shrug, laying his plans for a more clever scheme to rid himself of her the next time. She didn’t intend to offer him any further opportunity.
A rap sounded at her bedchamber door. Most likely it was Jane come to fetch the breakfast tray away, Phaedra thought, calling out a command for the housemaid to enter.
It was not Jane’s apple-pink cheeks framed in the open doorway, but the sly, dark features of Mrs. Searle. The housekeeper hovered on the threshold like a specter.
“What do you want?” Phaedra demanded, charging forward before the woman could set foot in her room.
“Some lad brought a message for yer ladyship. I knew if ‘twas important, ye’d be wishful of reading’ it at once.”
“How excessively thoughtful of you,” Phaedra said in dry tones as she reached for the note grasped in Hester’s hand. The woman’s fingertips crooked through the ends of her black lace mittens, curling about the vellum like talons. She seemed to be prolonging the moment, taking her time about handing the note over. Phaedra yanked it from her clutches.
Searle’s beadlike eyes glistened. “Why, whatever’s happened to yer ladyship’s arms? Ye look as though ye’ve been scrapping with the cat.”
Phaedra slammed the door in her face. What a pity for Hester that she hadn’t broken her neck last night, Phaedra thought. It would have given the woman something grisly to talk about besides old Lethe.
She quickly forgot the housekeeper as she examined the folded piece of vellum. Her name was inked across it in a rushedseries of blots which could only be Gilly’s handwriting. Phaedra flipped the note over to break the seal, but the red wax came away easily. Phaedra would have wagered her last groat that Hester had read the letter.
“Damn that woman,” she muttered, unfolding the note. She scanned the contents, fearful of what might have been set down there for Hester to see. Fortunately, this message made no mention of Robin Goodfellow. She would have to caution Gilly to take care what he committed to paper. Future missives might not be so harmless as this one, which dealt with Armande.
My dear Fae,
By the time you read this, I should be well on my way to France. Having met your marquis, I’m thinking perhaps there is something more to your fears than mere imagination. I’m after making a few more inquiries to see if I can coax the Varnais family into passing the time of day with a charming Irish lad. Not to fret yourself over my lack of funds. I won a grinning contest at the Boar’s Tooth, myself pitted against a dour Scot, name of Dermot MaCready with a handsome set of teeth. I out-grinned him by a full five minutes. Hope to return in a fortnight. My tender regards to Madame Pester.
Much love, Gilly
Despite the letter’s lighthearted tone, Phaedra felt no inclination to smile. Gilly might have been her twin as far as impulsiveness was concerned. Why could he not have consulted her first before undertaking this rash voyage to France?
Perhaps it would prove a good notion, but right now she felt abandoned, deserted by her one true friend. Much could happen to her in a fortnight. If Armande attempted to serve her another such turn as he had last night-
Fear and loneliness tugged at her, threatening to swirl her down into dark eddies of depression. But she resisted the pull.She could manage without Gilly. Let Armande scheme as he would. The next move would be hers.
Phaedra shoved the note in a drawer. Donning her bonnet, she scooped up her gloves and hardened her jaw with resolution. Never had she been so nervous about descending the stairs of her own home. She was not at all certain she could maintain her composure when she came face to face with Armande.
When she came downstairs, she discovered that she needn’t have worried. John informed her that both her grandfather and the marquis had gone out.
“Thank you, John,” she said, the stiff set of her shoulders easing. She could almost regret Armande’s absence, having composed in her head several greetings, all of them alike in their acid sweetness.
She forgot every single one of them as her gaze focused on the man meandering aimlessly about the front hall, in flashy clothes that looked much the worse for having been slept in. Armande might be gone, but Lord Arthur Danby was not.
His lordship strutted toward the front door as though coming from the king’s levee. He paused by one of the suits of armor, stopping long enough to level his quizzing glass at the pointed spikes of the infamous mace.
He appeared on the point of making his departure when Phaedra rushed after him. “Lord Danby?” she called.
The quizzing glass swiveled in her direction. Phaedra skidded to a halt in-front of him. “Good morrow, Lord Danby. I trust you slept well.”
“‘Deed I did. Most kind of you to ask.” He brushed back the straggling ends of his disheveled gray wig and offered her a vacuous smile. Except for a certain puffiness about the eyes, he appeared not much the worse for last evening’s revels. Even sober, he still bore the expression of a besotted sheep. Phaedra sought for a way to introduce the subject of Armande withoutseeming too abrupt, when Danby disconcerted her by saying, “Forgive me, my beauty. But I have not the honor of knowing your name.”
“Why, I’m Lady Phaedra Grantham,”
He dipped into an awkward bow. “Charmed to be making your acquaintance. Simply charmed.”
