Page 30 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
She saw no sign of Danby stumbling about the halls. Directing her footsteps toward the wing of the mansion that housed Weylin’s prized picture gallery, she caught a glimpseof Mrs. Searle conducting her nightly inspection, making sure all the windows were locked. Phaedra ducked into the shadows until the housekeeper passed. She was not about to stop that sly old witch to inquire after Danby’s whereabouts.
When she was certain Hester had gone, Phaedra resumed her search. She had reached the last bedchamber before she met with any success. The door to the Gold Room stood ajar. Phaedra was certain the vulture-eyed Searle would never have left it so.
Tiptoeing forward, she eased the door open. Barely inching her toe over the threshold, she called softly, “Lord Danby?”
She was greeted by a silence in which she could have heard the dust settling. The white bedhangings shifted slightly from the draft of the open door, the gossamer fabric stirring ghostlike against the lumbering shadow of the bed frame.
Phaedra retreated. But just as she began to close the door, she spotted what looked like a dark bundle of cloth dumped on the carpet before the window.
“Lord Danby?” Phaedra repeated uncertainly. She crept farther into the room. She lowered her hand, guiding the candle’s unsteady light toward the floor.
The figure slumped by the window was indeed Arthur Danby. His arms sprawled out, his head lolling at an awkward angle, he looked so still, the man might well have been-
Dead.
The thought jolted Phaedra. She tipped the candle, splashing hot wax upon her hand. As she steadied the candlestick, she tried to steady her nerves, as well. Rubbing the congealing wax from her hand, she massaged her sore skin.
She crept nearer to Danby. His mouth lolled upon, his eyes closed, his face as waxen as her candle. She leaned over him, stretching out one tentative finger and poked him.
He was dead all right-dead drunk. She might have guessed as much. Phaedra drew back, disgusted by the sour smell reekingfrom Danby. She straightened, glowered down at Danby. Useless creature, unless she could find some way of reviving him.
Her gaze roved about the darkened room until she caught the gleam of the ewer and basin. She hurried over to the washstand and set the candle down. The possibility of some of the guests lingering overnight must have occurred to her grandfather for the room had obviously been readied. The pitcher was filled with water, some thick towels draped nearby.
Phaedra’s fingers crooked about the pitcher’s white porcelain handle. She hesitated, recalling Armande asking her if she would continue to mistrust him and pry into his past. She had not exactly promised him she would not.
Why, then, did she feel as though she were about to betray him? Simply because he had defended her from ridicule when she had dared to voice her opinions, something no one had ever done? Or because he had saved her grandfather’s life?
She thought of the gentle kiss he had pressed against her forehead, the look of sadness shading his eyes. Maybe she was playing the role of Pandora; maybe her curiosity would let loose all manner of evil. Yet if Armande did harbor a dangerous secret, surely she had a duty to discover it.
She carried the pitcher across the room and stood gazing down at Danby. She thought briefly of wetting one of the towels and dabbing the cool water over his face. Then she shrugged and poured the entire jugful over his head.
Danby spluttered, and floundered about like a fish dragged up into the air. After much blinking, he raised himself up onto one elbow. “Stap me,” he groaned. Then he rolled over and muttered, “Bargeman, bargeman. Thish boat has a leak.”
His head thunked down as though he were fading back into another stupor.
“No, you shan’t,” Phaedra cried. She seized him by the collar and after much struggle, managed to flop him on his back. Shaking him, she called, “Wake up, my lord.”
His lids fluttered open and he regarded her fuzzily. “Ish time to go to Dushess’s rid-riditto?”
“No. It is time to sober up so we may have a little talk.” “Never good time be shober.” He squinted toward the window. “Very dark. Time for bed.”
To Phaedra’s horror, Danby fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. He apparently had acquired much skill in the art of undressing himself while roaring drunk, for he managed to undo several of them.
“Stop that!” She grabbed his hands.
He peered up at her, a sickening leer crossing his foolish countenance. “Charmelle, that you, m’pet? C’mere.”
Danby tugged Phaedra down, his mouth trailing a line of sloppy kisses along her neck, his hands tangling with her hair. With an oath of disgust, Phaedra wrenched herself free. But at the same moment, Danby’s fingers hooked around the neckline of her gown, tearing it down one shoulder.
Phaedra shoved Danby away with such force, his head bounced against the floor. In his current state, she doubted he even felt the jolt. He smiled at her beatifically and passed out again.
Phaedra struggled to her feet, making a futile attempt to pull the silk fabric up over her bare shoulder. She glared at Danby in frustration, resisting the urge to give him a swift kick. What,if anything, the idiot knew about Armande, the secret was safe from her this night. She would have to sink Arthur Danby in the Thames before rousing him to his senses-if the man had any, which she had begun to doubt.
But there was little use railing at an unconscious man. She would have to wait until tomorrow. Retrieving her candle, sheprepared to seek out her own bedchamber and have Lucy repair the damage to her gown.
When she crossed to the other side of the room, she was surprised to find the door closed. She had no memory of having shut it. Reaching for the handle, she turned it. But nothing happened.
Phaedra tried again. It seemed to be stuck. She set down the candle and rattled the knob with both hands. She tried twisting and pulling with both feet braced at the same time.
