Page 38 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Phaedra waved her aside. “No, I need nothing except a little air.”
She slunk to the coach window and peered out as the carriage wound its way back up Oxford Street. The vehicle’s progress waseven slower than before, thanks to the crowd that had gathered outside the bookseller’s stall. Armande stood in its midst, his tall figure appearing haughty and detached by comparison to the accusing mob. Phaedra caught a glimpse of the goldsmith’s bald head, saw his arms wave in angry gesticulations. In a supremely scornful gesture, Armande flung back the flaps of his frock coat, feeling into the pocket of his waistcoat. Phaedra watched his hauteur dissolve into astonishment as he produced the missing ring.
The crowd fell upon him then, seizing his arms before he could move. Phaedra clenched her hands, terrified of what would happen next. But Armande appeared too stunned to offer any resistance as he was hustled off to be taken into custody. Phaedra drew back as he was dragged past her coach. She was uncertain what caused Armande to glance up just then. Perhaps he recognized the markings of her grandfather’s carriage. Perhaps it was that uncanny instinct he seemed to possess. For one moment Phaedra stared into Armande’s upturned face.
She saw realization flash across his countenance followed by a look of betrayal Phaedra thought would haunt her forever. Then his face seemed to turn to stone. If Armande had not despised her before, his glacial stare told her that he had now become her deadliest enemy.
Nine
The long jolting ride out of the city afforded Phaedra too much time to think about what she had just done. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Armande’s face tensing into lines of shock, his eyes shadowed with the pain of betrayal. She had caught the same tormented expression in her own mirror once too often not to recognize it in Armande.
Yet what right had he to feel betrayed? Had he not brought it all upon himself? He had come to her grandfather’s house, cloaking himself in secrecy, threatening both her and Gilly. He could not expect to endanger her and those she loved, then imagine that she would behave like some witless doll, letting him do as he pleased.
There was no reason in the world that she should feel guilty. All the same, she kept envisioning Armande being dragged away by the malicious, triumphant throng. For some reason, it also conjured up memories of the carpenter Wilkins, his bloodied form being slung over John’s shoulder, being removed from her grandfather’s dining parlor like a sack of refuse.
But it made little sense that she should thus connect the two men. Aside from the fact that both Wilkins and Armande would lodge in Newgate this night, there was no similarity. No onehad carted Armande off. Even surrounded by a threatening mob, he had carried himself with a kind of scornful hauteur. Theft was not so dreadful a charge as attempted murder. The most important difference of all was that Armande’s wealth and title would settle over him like a protective mantle. Likely his trial would be but a token affair. The scandal was what Phaedra was counting upon to drive the marquis from her life. After being proclaimed a thief, Armande would not dare show his face at the Heath again. Her grandfather bore more tolerance for a would-be assassin than he would for one charged with stealing.
But for the first time, some of the flaws in her impulsive plot began to occur to Phaedra. What if Armande revealed to her grandfather the trick she had played upon him? She would deny it, of course. But who would her grandfather believe?
What if Armande simply returned to the Heath to exact his own vengeance upon her in full measure? If he did so, Phaedra was only sure of one thing, his revenge would be cruel, subtle, and well-planned, not conceived in the heat of a panic as her own had been.
The only thought bolstering her courage was that it would take Armande time to extricate himself. Justice moved slowly, even for a nobleman. By the time he was free, perhaps Gilly would have returned. Or she might have thought of another way to deal with Armande.
What she needed to do now was compose herself for the moment when she faced her grandfather across the dinner table and he wondered what the deuce had become the marquis. She would have to be able to turn upon him a pair of most innocent eyes.
The carriage was well on its way out of London, turning upon that stretch of road that led out to the Heath, when Phaedra’s thoughts reverted to the Wilkins affair. Her preoccupation withArmande had nearly driven all thought of the unfortunate carpenter and his wife from her head.
She had counted upon being able to send Gilly to find out where Mrs. Wilkins lived, but Gilly was gone. Perhaps it might be possible to get one of the younger male servants to undertake the errand for her, despite the possibility of incurring her grandfather’s displeasure. The footman, Peter, was a most amenable young lad.
For once, luck was with Phaedra. When she mentioned the matter to Lucy, her maid imparted the startling information that very likely Peter would go. He knew the Wilkins family quite well.
Phaedra banged on the roof of the coach, shouting for Ridley to stop. She almost thought the old man meant to ignore her, but after a time, she felt the carriage slow, the wheels themselves seeming to grind to a grudging halt.
Peter came to the coach door at once. The carriage had pulled past the environs of the city, and there was nothing in sight but a rolling green meadow with several cows peacefully grazing.
“Peter,” Phaedra said. “Lucy tells me you knew the Wilkins man.”
Peter shot a reproachful glance at Lucy, then began to bluster. “I only talked to him a time or two when he did some carpentry work down at the stables. It wasn’t me who let him in that night, Lady Grantham. I swear.”
“No, Peter,” she said “I wasn’t accusing you. I only wanted to know if you knew where the man’s wife lives.”
“Eliza Wilkins? Well, aye I do, but?—”
“Good. Then direct Ridley to turn the coach about and drive there at once.”
Peter’s jaw dropped. “Surely not, my lady. You’d never be wanting to go to that part of London. “
“I assure you that I do. Tell Ridley at once, Peter.” Her tone brooked no refusal. Peter withdrew from the coach doorway, but she could hear him muttering, “I can always tell Ridley, my lady. But I doubt he’ll do it.”
Peter was soon proved correct. Ridley balked at the notion and prepared to whip up his horses, continuing on for the Heath. But Phaedra leaped down from the carriage and engaged in a heated argument with the stubborn old coachman. She only won in the end by threatening to set out on foot if need be.
Ridley surrendered with a bad grace, snarling that her grandfather would hear of this, that if they were all murdered down there in Canty Row, Sawyer Weylin would receive full report. Phaedra bit back a smile as she reentered the coach. Having achieved her object, she enjoyed a small feeling of victory, almost unspoiled by the knowledge that she would later have to deal with her grandfather’s wrath.
Ridley set the horses off at a slow pace, as though determined to thwart Phaedra in whatever small way he could. But a full hour later, when the carriage rumbled down Canty Row, Phaedra began to appreciate Ridley’s reluctance.
The carriage wheels jounced and ground their way through ruts compounded of mud and offal, the pungent odor pervading the air as though the decay of centuries festered in the narrow lane. Coal smoke hung thick above the street, casting a pall over buildings that looked as though they should long ago have crumbled to dust. The tenements leaned against each other, like drunkards groping for support. Everywhere windows were boarded up to avoid the window tax, yet it made no odds-for the sun itself seemed to have forgotten this part of London.
What ragged inhabitants Phaedra saw were mostly children. They stared at her coach, their eyes aglitter with the hunger and savagery of half-starved rats. Phaedra half-expected them tofall upon the carriage at any moment and gnaw at the wooden wheels.
