Page 63 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“No, Gilly has another engagement.”
They spoke in unison, glaring at each other.
“Well, well, another time perhaps,” Sawyer said, much to Phaedra’s relief. But then he added, “Why don’t you come out tomorrow, Fitzhurst? We are having the sort of simple entertainment that I know you Irish enjoy. I call it my working lads’ fete.”
Phaedra winced. The fete. Was that to be so soon? She had forgotten all about it. Once a year, in the summertime, her grandfather sponsored a holiday for many of the young apprentice boys of London. It was the only sort of charitable activity she had ever known Sawyer Weylin to indulge in.
“We’ll have a luncheon under the trees,” her grandfather went on, “then games of wrestling, tug-of-war, wringing the neck of a greased goose, all sorts of jollifications.”
Phaedra did not like the gleam of interest that sparkled in Gilly’s eyes. “What a grand idea, sir, to get all your household out of doors, frisking in the fields.”
“Aye, they like it well enough although it is infernally hot this year.” Weylin drew forth a handkerchief and swabbed at his sweating countenance. “But it will still be a splendid opportunity for a bit of amusement.”
“Splendid indeed,” Gilly murmured.
Phaedra began, “Unfortunately, Gilly cannot be?—”
But this time her cousin stepped in front of her, interrupting, “I accept your invitation with the greatest of pleasure, sir.” His lips parted in a wolfish smile, and Phaedra was certain only she heard the double-edged meaning in his next words. “It is an opportunity I would not miss for worlds.”
Gilly left before Phaedra could deter him from the course she feared he meant to pursue. Her grandfather lingered in the stable until Gilly mounted his horse, thus rendering her unable to argue her cousin out of his intention to search Armande’s room. When Gilly had gone, she had excused herself from her grandfather’s presence as quickly as possible, unable to endure any more of his benign humor. There had been a time when she would have been more than grateful for one modicum of Sawyer Weylin’s approval. But.to bask in his favor now, knowing the cause of it, made her feel ill with apprehension.
Leaving the stable yard, she hastened toward the house, determined to find Armande. She had to make him understand about Gilly’s journey to France, how the whole thing had been conceived long before she had fallen in love with him. But she could not warn him what her cousin now planned to do. She would have to find some way of stopping Gilly herself. Aye, stop him before Armande did. Phaedra shuddered, uncertain where that chilling thought had come from, but she was quick to banish it to those same dark regions.
Much to her chagrin, she could not find Armande anywhere, neither in the house, nor upon the grounds. She even sprinted out to the man-made pond, but it was as though the man had vanished. Sweat trickling down her face, she trudged back to the stairs leading to the Palladian mansion’s front door when she heard the clatter of hooves on the gravel drive behind her.
She whirled about in time to see Nemesis flash past in a blur of white, heading for the Heath’s main gates. Phaedra raced back down the steps, starting to shout Armande’s name, but she stopped in midstep, never letting the cry escape her lips. It was hopeless. If she had admired the stallion’s speed before, she was now stunned by the breakneck pace Nemesis set going down the drive. It was as though Armande rode to outrace the devil. Animpossible task, Phaedra feared because he carried his demons within his own heart.
She dragged herself inside the front hall only to be confronted by Hester’s gloating smile. “The marquess will not be dining in this evening. I daresay he’s found other interests to keep him occupied.”
Phaedra said nothing, determined not to accord her the satisfaction of a reply. She swept up her skirts and stalked on past. Only when she was within the confines of her own bedchamber did Phaedra permit her shoulders to droop with disappointment. So Armande did not mean to return for supper. How could she possibly bear it-to know what bitter thoughts he must be nourishing, and to be unable to make all right again?
But he had to come back sometime. He had taken nothing with him, so his clothes must still be here. Her heart ached to think that he could believe she had spent nights in his arms, whispering of her love for him, all the while plotting to betray him. She would sit up all night if she had to until he returned. She would force him to listen.
But her resolve provided cold comfort as the hours of evening dragged by. Never had she spent a more dreary evening at the Heath, dining alone with her grandfather, making halfhearted replies to his jovial teasing about Armande, watching the clock hands move as though weighted by lead.
When she discovered he had invited Jonathan, Sir Norris Byram, and a few other gentleman over for a quiet evening of cards and a late supper, Phaedra was quick to excuse herself. Rising from the table, she said, “Your pardon, Grandfather, but I fear I’ve had a touch too much of the sun today. My head is aching fit to burst, so I pray you will excuse me.”
“Of course, it is not the sort of evening’s entertainment I expected to appeal to you, especially with your Armandeabsent.” Weylin gave her a broad wink, then tossed down the rest of his glass of port and heaved himself to his feet.
When Phaedra curtsied and moved to go, she was surprised to feel his arm upon her elbow, detaining her.
“You needn’t rush off that fast, girl. There’s a matter I need to speak to you about.”
“I am very tired, Grandfather. Could it not wait until the morrow?” But her protestations were ignored. Weylin insisted she accompany him as he stumped from the dining room, leading her to that one area of the house where he rarely permitted anyone, his private study.
All dark oak and leather, the chamber was the only room at the Heath that did not reflect Sawyer Weylin’s love of ostentation. The room was reminiscent of his days as a simple tradesman, with its scarred desk more designed for work than show, and straight-backed, austere chairs.
Phaedra hesitated on the threshold of this forbidden sanctum, but her grandfather impatiently motioned her onward, setting down a multi-branched candlestick atop the desk. Phaedra followed, searching her mind for some reason for the unexplained invitation. Could he be meaning to scold her about Gilly’s visit, after all? Or perhaps, she thought, drawing her breath with a sharp intake of apprehension, he had gleaned some hint of the Robin Goodfellow business, after all.
No, if that were the case, her grandfather would hardly seem so- She could not determine what he seemed. If it had been any man other than the blustery Sawyer Weylin, she would have described his manner as almost shy and uncertain. He slid open the desk’s center drawer, groping for something.
“What is amiss, Grandfather?” she asked, unable to endure the suspense any longer. “Have the bills from the mantua-maker been too high? It was you who insisted I have that last gown.”
“Certainly I insisted. Couldn’t hope to have you net a marquis dressed in rags. Nay, it is nothing to do with bills.” He found what he had been searching for, but secreted it so quickly behind his back, she caught no glimpse. He faced her, his round countenance flushing a dull red. “I wanted to make you a small present, that’s all.”
All? Phaedra’s mouth hung open. Her grandfather had always paid the reckonings for any expenses, both hers and her late husband’s. But the gowns, the jewels, the fripperies were things she had been required to purchase for herself. Never had her grandfather troubled himself to visit the shops, select something, and present it as a gift.
“A present?” she faltered. “But why?”
