Susan Carroll (14 page)

The laughter that this produced seemed to
relieve much of the tension. Few of the guests resumed their seats,
instead mingling in small groups discussing the incident. Many of
the men were loud in their protestations, describing exactly what
they had been about to do with Wilkins before the marquis
interfered.

Phaedra's lip curled with scorn. The fools
all had plenty to say, but no one thought to voice the question
that most needed asking. She rounded upon her grandfather and
demanded, "And who exactly is this Mr. Wilkins, Grandfather? Why
did he want to kill you?"

Weylin sloshed down a mouthful of brandy, his
nostrils flaring as he sniffed. "A carpenter, hired to do work at
the properties I own at the east end. My mistake. The sort of
rascal one can expect to deal with when buying carcasses."

There was a chorus of solemn assent from most
of the others. Even Arthur Danby seemed to know what her
grandfather meant.

"Buying carcasses? I don't understand,"
Phaedra said, frowning from one face to another, waiting for an
explanation.

"It refers to the practice of hiring labor
from taverns, my lady," Armande answered her.

Phaedra whipped around. She had not even
heard the marquis return to the dining room. He stood just inside
the door, neatening the lace at his wrists. "The proprietor of a
tavern sells the service of a customer to cover the cost of his
drinking debts. All money earned for the work goes straight to the
tavern until the reckoning is paid."

Phaedra turned reproachful eyes upon Weylin.
"But Grandfather! Wilkins said he and his family were starving.
What did you expect them to live on?"

"It is not my problem, missy. I never forced
the man to go swilling himself that deep into debt."

"
Oui
, the poorer classes are such
weak-willed wretches," Armande said. "They only have to enter the
taverns to collect their wages-nobody is forcing them to drink. The
tapsters are ready to ply them with a glass-the credit is so easy
to obtain, and they have not the strength to resist."

Armande's ironic tone was entirely lost upon
her grandfather.

Weylin nodded his head in vigorous agreement.
"Weak-willed indeed. Why, I once both distilled gin and ran a
brewery. Yet I never had any problem remaining temperate. "

Arthur Danby hiccuped. "I'm a four bottle
man, m'self."

On this absurd note, the discussion of the
unfortunate Wilkins ended. Though the others seemed able to forget
the man, Phaedra could not. She feared her sleep tonight would be
haunted by the memory of Wilkins's wild-eyed despair. There was no
doubt in her mind of what fate awaited him. Her grandfather would
see to it that Wilkins suffered the full penalty of the law for
this night's work. There was little enough she could do to help
him, but she might be able to do something for Wilkins's poor wife
if she could find the woman. Phaedra thought wistfully of parting
with her small hoard of golden guineas, then shrugged. So Robin
Goodfellow might be obliged to waste a bit more ink before Phaedra
Grantham could declare her independence from tyranny. It had taken
the Americans years to do so. Surely she could endure a bit longer.
In any case, she had no choice. Her grandfather would never think
of helping the woman.

There was another action that Phaedra felt
obliged to perform- because Weylin never would. She sought out
Armande drawing him a little aside from the others.

"My lord," she said. "I fear my grandfather
has forgotten to thank you. You saved his life tonight."

Armande's brows drew together, his expression
far from encouraging. She placed one hand upon his sleeve.

"Well, allow me to thank you. I will always
be grateful for-"

“I don't want your gratitude." His voice was
harsh and then he added in a milder tone, "It was the most trifling
service, my lady. I beg you will say no more about it."

He grasped her hand and raised it to his lips
brusquely before turning away. Armande could be one of those men
who found it embarrassing to have someone in their debt and hated
being thanked. Yet she had difficulty imagining the self-possessed
marquis ever being embarrassed by anything.

A troubled frown creased her brow. It was
more like having saving her grandfather’s life, the marquis
regretted having done so.

Phaedra hoped that the Wilkins incident would
bring about an early end to the supper party, but she was
disappointed. With the exception of the Sheltons, who called for
their carriage at once, the other guests refused to allow their
evening to be spoiled by such trivial incidents as attempted murder
or a man being beaten unconscious and dispatched to prison.

If she could not be rid of these people,
Phaedra determined to pour out coffee in the green salon rather
than the music room. She dreaded being pressed into playing the
spinet. An indifferent musician at best, she was in no humor to
plod through Rule Britannia, the only composition her grandfather
appreciated.

She felt relieved when the card tables were
brought out, easing any further demands upon her to play hostess.
Disinclined to play herself, she paced before the salon's long
windows. The moon had come out at last to war with the clouds,
making a feeble effort to spill pools of light into what was a sea
of blackness. Not that the salon's windows presented a breathtaking
vista for they only looked out on a broad expanse of lawn.

Her grandfather's gardener Bullock had tried
to imitate Capability Brown; but alas, although he absorbed some of
the great landscaper's precepts, he had not acquired his taste.
Bullock had leveled every tree and flower about the mansion,
leaving the Heath standing in the midst of an uninspired green
prairie of neatly trimmed grass.

Phaedra drummed her fingers restlessly
against one of the panes of glass. Sir Norris Byram glanced up from
his cards to glare at her, and she stopped, hugging her hands
beneath her arms. The evening's events had put a greater strain
upon her nerves than she had realized. How she longed for the
solitude of her garret, where she could curl up on the daybed, her
chin upon her knees, and be alone with her thoughts- thoughts that
centered upon one man. Ever since she had stood up with Armande
dueling wits with him to the strains of a minuet, the marquis
seemed to have taken possession of her every waking moment.

Her gaze strayed back to the salon. Most of
the guests were grouped in foursomes, but Armande sat with one of
the younger men, engaged in a hand of piquet. The candle's glow
cast a soft illumination over Armande's face, somehow easing the
lines of those haughty, patrician features; his eyes looked hazy
and preoccupied. Phaedra could only wonder what mysterious roads
his mind traveled, what secrets lay sealed beneath the curve of
those sensual lips.

Her longing to discover those secrets burned
as strongly as ever, but the desire had taken a subtle turn she
hardly comprehended. She no longer wished to expose the man as much
as she wanted to understand him. Armande had done something this
night that filled her with wonder whenever she recalled it,
something even more wondrous then the saving of her grandfather's
life.

Armande had defended her. Not her honor. That
would have occasioned no gratitude in her. She supposed there were
gallant fools enough who would have done that. Armande had defended
her mind, her right to have opinions on matters other than the cut
of a gown or the latest dance step. He had made her feel that it
was not so unfeminine for a woman to think, that the intelligence
she cloaked beneath the guise of Robin Goodfellow was not so
shameful. Any man who held such views would have attracted her
interest, but that it was the enigmatic Armande who had done so
intrigued her almost beyond bearing.

She could nearly hear Gilly's voice
cautioning her. If you spied a will-o'-the-wisp, Fae, I vow you'd
follow it until you were hopelessly lost.

"Perhaps I already am, Gil," she murmured.
Without making it obvious what she did, she glided closer to
Armande. Fanning herself, she affected a casual interest in his
game.

There was no change in his negligent posture.
His broad shoulders remained relaxed, one leg crooked back, the
other lazily extended, displaying the outline of his muscular calf
sheathed in silken hose. All the same, Phaedra felt that he was
very much aware of her presence. Still waters, both of them, with
not a ripple in one that the other couldn't sense.

Phaedra immediately dismissed the peculiar
notion. She tried to concentrate on the game, noting uneasily the
large amount of money strewn on the table between the two men.
Frowning, she studied Armande's partner, striving to recollect his
name from the introductions. Mrs. Byng's eldest son; Charles, she
believed he was. Deeply flattered by the marquis's attention, the
young man was playing too deep in an effort to impress him.

It pained Phaedra to think that Armande might
be taking advantage of the man's inexperience. Once more than
willing to believe the worst about Armande, she regarded with
dismay the notion that the marquis might be nothing more than a
common cardsharp.

Much to her relief, the marquis was a most
indifferent card player, taking no time over his discards. Charles
Byng easily took the next hand. He emitted a crow of triumph as he
scooped in his winnings. "Your luck is certainly out tonight, my
lord."

Armande displayed no more concern over his
losses than if he had been tossing pennies to urchins.

"One cannot expect always to be attended by
good fortune," he drawled. "A bitter fact you may have to learn one
day, my young friend."

"Pooh! If you mean to start preaching like
one of my maiden aunts, I'll have done with you." Charles proceeded
to reshuffle the deck and gave Phaedra an audacious wink. "Your
game might improve if you paid more attention to the cards and
spent less time stealing glances at Lady Phaedra."

Had Armande been looking at her? Phaedra
wondered. In any case, he did so now, the glint in his blue eyes
bringing the heat to her cheeks. "Indeed," he murmured. "I begin to
despair of ever winning the game. Her ladyship does present a
danger of breaking my concentration."

Although his words were light, Phaedra sensed
an edge of steel in his voice, another meaning hidden like a dagger
beneath a cloaking of velvet. Did he truly perceive her as
dangerous? She was stunned to realize she did not want him to do
so. She wished he could begin to trust her.

Dipping into a curtsy, she smiled and said,
"My apologies, sir."

As she glided away from him, he offered her
that smile of his which was all too fleeting. Lost in her thoughts
of Armande it took her several moments to realize someone was
tugging at her sleeve. She glanced around to find John, looking
distressed.

"My lady," the footman whispered, "about that
Danby fellow. He wants-"

"More wine?" Phaedra interrupted, grimacing
at the bottle of Madeira John balanced upon a silver tray. It
seemed the last thing Danby needed, but she shrugged. "I suppose
you'd best give it to him. He's over-." She started to indicate the
French gilt sofa where she had last seen Danby sprawled. The
cushion still bore the imprint of his head, but the sofa was
empty.

"That's just it, my lady," John said. "His
lordship's gone upstairs. I think he's fancying he's in his own
house and is trying to find his bedchamber."

"Well and have you informed my
grandfather?"

"Aye, but all master said was to let him pass
out wherever he liked."

Phaedra rolled her eyes. Always the perfect
host, her grandfather! With her luck, it would likely be her own
bedchamber that Danby selected. She sighed. "Thank you, John. I
shall take care of the matter."

John looked relieved. "If you would be
requiring my help, my lady-"

"No, you are needed here." She rustled away
from him, intending to summon another of the servants. It would
serve Hester right if Phaedra sent her to deal with Danby. She
smiled at the notion, remembering all of Danby's drunken buffoonery
at the dinner table, climaxing in his absurd declaration that he
knew Armande from Oxford.

Yet exactly how absurd was that statement?
She hesitated, temptation beckoning to her. She had no desire to
confront Danby herself in his idiotic state, yet might she not be
losing a perfect opportunity? If she could find him alone, perhaps
she could sober him up enough to find out if he really did remember
something about Armande.

A guilty flush spread across her cheeks. She
had just been thinking that she wanted Armande to trust her. This
was not the way to begin, by continuing to question and pry. She
glanced toward Armande, half-fearful of his uncanny knack for
guessing her thoughts. But Charles appeared to be keeping him fully
occupied.

How much harm could she do by having just a
few words with Danby? Obviously the marquis was not concerned about
Lord Arthur for he had made no move to seek out the man. Certainly
if Danby posed any real threat, Armande would- Phadera shivered.
She harbored little doubt as to what Armande would do. With her
customary impulsiveness, she snatched up a candle and darted out of
the salon.

The marquis continued to sprawl in his chair,
his cards held languidly before him. It would have taken someone
far more observant than Charles Byng to notice the tension coiled
within Armande-although the young man had discerned the manner in
which Armande kept stealing glances at Phaedra.

I must have been all too ridiculously
obvious, Armande thought, but he was finding it increasingly
difficult not to be, harder not to devour Phaedra with his gaze.
Never had he been so achingly aware of any woman, the fresh,
feminine scent of her skin, the animated lilt of her voice, those
candid green eyes that were such mirrors to her thoughts.