Page 33 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“You made my acquaintance last night,” Phaedra said, biting her tongue lest she add, “You silly clunch.”
“Alas, I’m a poor hand at names. I never forget faces, though.” “So you said last night. How much I enjoyed it when you entertained us with your anecdotes about Oxford.” She laid special stress on the word, trying to jar his memory.
“Did I? Well, I dare say I was quite witty.” Danby turned back to his inspection of the suit of armor.
Patience, Phaedra counseled herself, patience if you expect to learn anything from this fool.
“You mentioned that you knew Armande de LeCroix.”
“Who?”
“The Marquis de Varnais.” You said that you attended Oxford together. Except that you thought his name was—“ She paused, waiting expectantly.
Danby lifted the visor of the armor cautiously as though he feared to find a face peering back at him.
“No Frenchies at Oxford that I recall. ‘Course, there could have been for all I know. I never went there.”
“Never went there!”
“Cambridge man, myself.” He let the visor clang shut. “Well, good day to you, Lady Grantley. Thanks ever so for your hospitality. Must all meet again sometime.”
Somehow he gained possession of one of her hands and planted a moist kiss above her knuckles. He didn’t even notice that her fingers were clenched into a fist.
Phaedra stood there fuming. The one weapon she had most counted on in her battle against the marquis sauntered away from her. The footman let Danby out before she swore. Of all the incredible dolts. The man was a worse fool sober than drunk. She stalked from the hall, resigning all hope of ever learning anything from Arthur Danby.
Soon Lucy brought her news that only increased her frustration. Her grandfather’s elderly coachman, Ridley, had refused to hitch up the carriage until he knew where she meant to go.
“Anywhere.” Phaedra’s gaze traveled up the hall’s gray stonework. She had no intention of spending her day imprisoned here, awaiting Armande’s return with a mixture of dread and longing, anticipating his next attempt to drag her to the devil.
“Anywhere,” she repeated, “away from this accursed house.” Yet she realized such an answer would not suffice for Ridley. The elderly coachman was obliged to render a strict accounting to Sawyer Weylin. Anyone might have thought her grandfather took her for a prospective horse thief.
Where was she going? There was only one reasonable answer she could think of to give. “Tell the old martinet I wish to go to Oxford Street.”
Her grandfather would never succeedin making acitof her, Phaedra thought, as the carriage lumbered along the cobbled pavement. Only one part of London had ever succeeded in capturing her heart and imagination- Oxford Street, choked with its hackney cabs, sedan chairs, dirt and noise, a seemingly endless row of bowfront shop windows displaying tempting wares behind latticed panes.
All the raucous music, the riotous poetry that was London sang out here in the rumble of iron coach wheels, the bells tinkling from the collector for the penny post. Milkwomen yodeled, and the ballad singers bellowed, all striving to be heard above the litany of the street hawkers.
“New-laid eggs, five a groat.” “Hot mutton pies, hot!” “Oysters, buy my oysters.”
Phaedra let down her coach window, thriving upon the din and confusion. Gilly had once teasingly remarked to her, “They say Nero fiddled while Rome burned. In the midst of the mayhem, you, my girl, would have gone shopping.”
Phaedra was obliged to admit there was some truth to the charge. In the grimmest times of her troubled marriage to Ewan Grantham, she had fled to Oxford Street. Not to shop, but to lose herself in the crowds, to banish her depression in all the bustle and color, to draw from the vitality and life teeming about her some reason for clinging to her own miserable existence.
It had always worked. Somehow jostling elbows in such a sea of humanity had reduced Ewan and all his petty cruelties to a level of insignificance. Phaedra hoped the street could work its magic again. The din and uproar would diminish Armande and the pain and confusion he had brought into her life, so that she could but snap her fingers and he would be gone.
The younger footman, Peter, let down the coach steps and helped swing Phaedra up onto the raised footpath. Behind her, she could hear Ridley, up on his box, give a loud humph of disapproval. Most ladies of quality, ever mindful of the dangers of mud and pickpockets, did not wander the street, but preferred to be deposited directly at the steps of the shop they wished to visit.
Phaedra merely instructed Ridley to wait for her at the next corner. She set off down the street, followed by her maid.
“What would my lady be looking for?” Lucy inquired timidly.
A diversion. A way to keep from being driven mad by the deceptive charms of a certain ruthless Frenchman. Phaedra kept to herself such thoughts as her maid would scarce have understood. Lucy had always been mystified by these street ramblings of hers. Phaedra usually found some practical reason for the outing.
She said airily, “Oh, I am hoping to find a gift for a dear friend of mine who is to be married soon.” Phaedra reflected how astonished Muriel Porterfield would be to her herself described thus or to receive such a token of Phaedra’s tender regard.
No matter. The explanation satisfied Lucy, leaving Phaedra to wander where she would, her thoughts free to roam likewise. She strolled past a succession of shop fronts, the glass glinting like mirrors set into treasures boxes, reflecting back gold buckles and quill pens, parchment maps and perfumed soaps, bagwigs and Dr. James Restorative Powders. The tradesmen liked to boast that what one could not find in London shops, one simply didn’t need.
Except what Phaedra desired could not be found there or anywhere. What Phaedra wanted was a mirror that would help her see into the dark corners of Armande de LeCroix’s cold heart.
