Authors: Masquerade
Weylin guffawed and slapped his thigh,
shaking all over as though Gilly had made the greatest of jests.
Her cousin rolled his eyes at Phaedra, indicating that he thought
her grandfather had run completely mad. Phaedra was beginning to
wonder about the old man's sanity herself until Weylin said, "Well,
Fitzhurst, I daresay your cousin has been too modest to tell you.
She's made quite a conquest this summer. She will likely soon
astonish you by becoming the Marchioness of Varnais."
"That would astonish me," Gilly said. He
added in a low mutter that only Phaedra could hear, "I'll bet it
would surprise the marquis, too, wherever he is."
Phaedra trod on her cousin’s foot, flashing
him a warning look. The reason for her grandfather’s abrupt change
in manner had become abundantly clear. She had been a fool to think
that shrewd old man had not noticed some of what had passed between
herself and Armande this summer. Now he assumed that his fondest
wish was about to come true- her marriage to the marquis. How
furious would his reaction be when this delusion ended, as it
inevitably must.
But she had a more immediate problem to deal
with, Gilly’s vow to search Armande’s room. With dismay, she heard
her grandfather inviting Gilly to sup with them this evening.
“I should be only too pleased to do so,
sir.”
“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.
An impossible 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
Armande absent." 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?"
Her question restored some of his bluster.
"Why? You silly chit! Because I chose to-that's why. Here, take
it."
He held out a velvet-covered jewel case. When
she continued to stare, he thrust it at her. "Take it! Take it, I
said!"
Her fingers closed over the rectangular box.
Knowing her grandfather's tastes, she imagined some gaudy jewel,
flashy and too expensive. But when she opened the box, it revealed
a strand of pearls, each bead a perfect circle of milky-white
translucence.
"They’re beautiful," she stammered.
"Your grandmother's," he said.
She gaped at him again, overcome with
astonishment.
"You did have a grandmother, you know." His
bushy brows drew together in a fierce glower. "I didn't produce
your father all on my own."
"It is only that you've never mentioned her,"
Phaedra said. "I don't believe I even know her name."
"Corinda. She died young-too young."
"Father never told me anything about her,
either."
"Didn't know anything to tell. He was but a
lad of three at the time." Weylin lapsed into a frowning silence,
and Phaedra thought that was all he meant to offer on the subject.
The candlelight played harsh tricks with his face, making the
fleshy pockets about his eyes and jowls appear to droop, adding
years to his already age-lined face, his shrewd eyes dulled by an
expression of remembered pain.
Phaedra longed to know more about the young
wife he had lost, but doubted that he would tell her. He rarely
spoke about his past, except to boast of his financial
achievements. She was surprised when he continued.
"Your grandmother and I-we didn't live in a
house like this one-nothing even approaching it." He glanced about
him as though half-expecting the Heath's magnificence to disappear
at any moment. "Two rooms are what Corie and I shared, but we made
do. I was but a journeyman brewer then. My wages didn't stretch to
even an adequate supply of coal to heat the place."
Weylin crossed his arms, rubbing them as he
stared into the candle flame. "Those dratted rooms were never warm
enough for Corie. I always had to keep telling the foolish wench
not to huddle so close to the fire. 'Mind your petticoats, Corie,
afore you scorch them. A chit of her age should have had more
sense."
He emitted a heavy sigh. "It was powerful
cold that winter. Corie had been suffering from a chill, and she
was always bundling up the boy in her own cloak. She was alone that
day, no one else with her but the lad. I supposed she just couldn't
get warm enough, and I wasn't there to warn her." He swallowed
thickly.
"They reckoned afterwards that the hem of her
dress must've caught fire, and she pure panicked-just ran and ran.
They found her facedown in the snow-" Weylin broke off, blinking
hard. "Damned foolish girl." Abruptly he turned his back on
Phaedra.
Her hands clenched about the jewel box, and
as she stared down at the pearls, it was almost as though she could
see a reflection caught in each tiny lustrous bead, that of a
sweet-faced young girl, with her father's gentle eyes and delicate
features and her hair. Phaedra hardly knew why, but without ever
having set eyes upon Corinda Weylin, she felt certain her
grandmother had had flowing masses of red hair.
Phaedra longed to go to her grandfather and
wrap her arms about him in a comforting gesture. But she had been
thrust aside too many times to risk it. Weylin stood, with his
hands clasped behind his back.
He said gruffly, "I always told Corie one day
I'd be able to give her whatever she wanted, furs, fine carriages,
jewels. But there was only one bit of finery she ever hankered
after, and that was a rope of pearls. I was never able to buy them
for her-so now I'm giving them to you."
"Thank you, Grandpapa," Phaedra said. She at
last dared to plant a quick kiss upon his rough cheek. He did not
push her away, but he squirmed with obvious discomfort.
"No need to make a fuss. You've turned out a
good, obedient wench, so you have-far more sensible than your
father. I could have made a grand gentleman of him if he had had
the wit to let me. But you're going to surpass any hope I ever had
of him."
A smile played about Weylin's lips. "The
Marchioness de Varnais. Not bad for a brewer's granddaughter."
Phaedra set the pearls back on the desk, the
pleasure she had taken in the gift fading. "The marquis has not
favored me with a proposal, Grandfather."
"He will." Weylin nodded confidently. "I've
seen the look in his eyes when he gazes upon you."
Not lately you haven't, she thought. Her
heart ached with the wish that it all could be exactly as her
grandfather fancied-that Armande could be who he claimed to be, and
so much in love with her that he would sweep her off to his
chateau, there to live happily ever after. Impossible. They were
bound up in such a fog of lies and deceit that there appeared no
hope of lasting love or happiness.