Susan Carroll (8 page)

"Should I invite you to take a seat, my lady?
Forgive me. I am not accustomed to holding levees for ladies."

Phaedra realized she been staring, the blush
threatening to rise into her cheeks anew. She blurted out, "You
don't look like a marquis."

"And have you examined that many marquises so
closely that you can pass such a judgment?"

For once, the smile tugging at his mouth was
more teasing than mocking. Her mouth curved in reluctant response.
"No, you are the first."

She knew she was behaving outrageously,
lingering in this room with the same man who had threatened her
only last night. And yet he scarcely seemed like the same man.
Could the absence of the wig and white powder make that much
difference? She studied the way his rich sable-brown hair waved
back from his brow. It softened the planes of his face, making him
appear less arrogant, and the light in his blue eyes was not quite
so chilling. Perhaps Gilly was right. Perhaps it was only her
imagination that made such a sinister figure of the marquis.

"If you continue to stand there watching,"
Armande said, "I may press you into service, tying my
solitaire."

"Would you trust me to knot something about
your throat?" she retorted.

His smile faded, his hand going up toward his
neck. The gesture drew Phaedra's attention to a small scar at the
base of Armande's throat. Could the marquis have been pierced there
with a sword? Phaedra could well imagine him as the sort of man to
fight duels, but she rather thought that he would not be the one
carried from the field.

"For the sake of your reputation," he said,
"I'd best tend to the dressing myself. If you will excuse me, my
lady, I must see if I can locate my tan waistcoat."

The abrupt change in his manner indicated a
dismissal, but as Armande disappeared into the small powdering room
that adjoined the bedchamber, Phaedra made no move to leave.
Without Armande's presence to distract her, her gaze roved
curiously about the chamber that had once been her husband's.

Ewan's personal belongings had all been swept
away, giving the room, although completely furnished, a strangely
barren appearance. Armande said he had been living here for a
fortnight but that was not strictly true. The marquis was simply
inhabiting this place, the evidence of his presence quite sparse-a
pair of immaculate boots perched near a needlepoint-covered stool,
his wicked-looking sword resting on the seat of a straight-backed
chair.

Phaedra skirted past the weapon, eyeing the
top of the dressing table, cleared except for a shaving mirror, a
jar of snuff, and an intriguing box shaped like a treasure
chest.

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but
there was no sign of Armande returning. She could still hear him
rummaging about in the other room. Maintaining what she hoped was a
casual flow of chatter, she began inching her way toward the
box.

"I know you are loath to answer questions,
but I wonder if you mean to make a long stay. Summer is unbearable
in the city. Most of the ton will leave for the country. Only my
grandfather adores London so much that he insists upon
staying."

Her words trailed off as her fingers closed
over the chest and tried the lid. Locked. Her shoulders sagged in
disappointment. The next instant she let out a squeak of fright.
Armande's hand shot out of nowhere, clamping about her wrist. How
had he managed to come up on her so silently?

He turned her slowly about to face him. The
silken strands of dark hair now did nothing to soften the
expression in his eyes. They pierced her like shards of ice.

"Still so curious, my lady Grantham?" he
murmured. "And I had hoped we had reached some sort of an
understanding."

Phaedra felt her pulse thrumming beneath the
pressure of his fingers. She struggled to be free, but his grip
only tightened. Her sense of shame at having been caught trying to
pry into the box caused her to glare at him with defiance. "All I
understand is that I neither like nor trust you."

"That you mistrust me, I believe. But as for
disliking me..." One of his eyebrows arched skeptically.

Phaedra managed to wrench her hand free at
last. She rubbed her bruised wrist, unable to look at Armande. She
feared that his arrogant suggestion might be true. She was
conscious of a strange attraction to this man, an attraction she
had felt from the first. He called to something primitive in her,
that dark side of her own nature Ewan had always warned her about.
Not trusting herself to speak, Phaedra whipped up her skirts and
headed for the door.

She heard him stalking after her and fought
down a panicky impulse to run. He caught hold of her upper arm.

"Let me go!" she cried.

But he said calmly, "You're forgetting your
cloak." She glanced down and saw that he had meant to do nothing
more than hand her Anne's cloak which she had abandoned upon the
floor. He bent down to retrieve it for her.

Phaedra started to snatch the soft gray wool
from him but to her surprise, he refused to release it. A crease
deepened between his brows as he shook out the folds of the cloak
and stared at it, his expression unreadable. “This cloak is yours?
He asked at last in an oddly husky tone.

“No,” she snapped. She hardly knew what
bitterness induced her to add, “It belonged to one of my husband’s
paramours.”

Phaedra recoiled before the look Armande gave
her. The hatred that blazed in his eyes was as piercing as a length
of steel. He flung open the chamber door.

“Get out,” he said tersely. When she only
stared at him, he took her by the arm, firmly steering her into the
hall. He hooded his gaze, the shutters closing on the violent
emotion she had just glimpsed upon his face.

When he spoke again, he had regained a
measure of his icy calm. “You are correct, my lady. It does bid
fair to be a most hot summer in the city. I strongly suggest you go
back to Bath.”

Before she could reply he had closed the door
in her face. Phaedra was left alone to deal with the jumble of her
emotions-confusion, anger, fear, and fascination. A most
disconcerting fascination. She had sworn, after Ewan’s true nature
had revealed itself to never again allow any man to rouse such
feelings of desire in her. Especially not one as obviously
dangerous as Armande de LeCroix. Although she earnestly desired to
stay in London, she knew that it would be folly to spend an entire
summer under the same roof with this man.

It was high time to speak to her grandfather,
Phaedra thought, as she stormed to her own room. It was not until
she had reached the safety of her bedchamber that another thought
occurred to her.

The marquis had kept the dove-colored
cloak.

Long after Armande heard Phaedra's footsteps
retreat from his door, he stood, head bowed, holding the gray
cloak, his fingers clutching at the soft wool. Painful memories
flooded back to him of the young girl who had once worn the
cape.

Lady Phaedra's bitter words echoed through
Armande's mind- my husband's paramour.

Was that all that remained of Anne then, that
false epitaph and this damned cloak? His hands crushed the fabric
as Armande swore softly. He raised his head, his gaze locking upon
his own image in the cheval glass. The Marquis de Varnais's
chilling mask of indifference had cracked, revealing a visage at
once younger and more aged, his cheeks flushed with passion, his
eyes storm-ridden with bitterness and anger.

He recoiled in shock from the reflection. Was
that how he had looked only moments ago when he had thrust Phaedra
out of his room? He was going to have to be much more cautious,
especially now that that most inquisitive lady had returned from
Bath. His eyes never wavering from the mirror, Armande struggled to
repress all those dangerous feelings that the sight of Anne's cloak
had aroused. He forced his features to relax until he had once more
assumed the icy calm of the Marquis de Varnais.

"
Bien
-that's better," he muttered. He
strode over to the mahogany dressing table and relinquished the
cloak, laying it gently over the back of the chair. He could never
again afford to let his guard slip that way-not without
jeopardizing his entire reason for being in London, in Sawyer
Weylin's house. If the sight of Anne's cape was going to overset
him, then he'd best make sure it was out of sight.

A pity he could not do the same with Lady
Grantham. If there was anything that could have disturbed him, it
was Phaedra's arrival. Some instinct had warned him from the first
that Weylin's granddaughter might prove an unwanted complication to
his plans. That was why he had done his best to make sure she
stayed in Bath.

But he had been unprepared for exactly how
much of a complication the lady threatened to be and he was not
thinking of Phaedra's intelligence and determined curiosity. It was
her impact upon his senses that had taken Armande unawares. At the
masked ball, in the midst of the other artificial beauties with
their powdered false hair, Phaedra had struck him like the sun
blazing forth upon a winter's day. Her silken hair all gold and
flame, her green eyes that sparkled with the fire of finely cut
emeralds, the lithe beauty of her slender form in that low-necked
gown revealing the gentle swell of her breasts, pearly hued flesh
so velvet soft his fingers had ached to caress her.

Armande attempted to choke off his thoughts,
to stem the heat of desire coursing through his veins, a desire he
could not afford to feel for any woman, let alone Ewan Grantham's
widow.

It was not any amorous intent that had
brought him to London, but a harsh and deadly purpose. As though to
remind himself of this, he bent down and retrieved his sword. The
cold weight of the finely tempered steel, felt good in his hand.
Lightly balancing the weapon, he executed several movements,
flashing the blade through the air, parrying imagined blows. The
exercise helped to cool some of his turbulent thoughts of Phaedra.
Indeed, it was an insult to Anne's memory to feel aught but hatred
for anyone bearing the name of Grantham.

But Phaedra was innocent, his mind argued.
She had not even been in England when Anne had been destroyed. And
as for pain-what a wealth of it he had seen in Phaedra's expressive
eyes no matter how defiantly she strove to hide it. The lady’s
fine-boned features revealed every emotion she felt. Dissembling
smiles were not part of Phaedra's makeup. Her air of vulnerability
stirred feelings other than desire in Armande, feelings he had
thought long dead.

His sword arm wavered in midstroke, and
Armande slowly lowered the weapon to his side. No, he could not
deny it. Phaedra obviously also had suffered at Ewan Grantham's
hands. She was an innocent, just as Anne had been but an innocent
who could wreak havoc with Armande's carefully laid designs.

"I did warn the lady not to pry," he said
with a heavy sigh. And if she continued not to heed that warning?
What then?

His grip tightened upon the sword, his gaze
drawn to the sharply honed blade. In his bitter experience, the
innocents were always the first to pay.

Prudence dictated that Phaedra not intrude
upon her grandfather but wait for the old tyrant to summon her. He
was undoubtedly in the midst of his levee, that morning ritual
where toadeaters and place-seekers gathered to dance attendance
upon a great man while he dressed, to admire his taste, to discuss
business, to beg for favors. Sawyer Weylin would not be pleased if
she burst in upon him while he entertained his sycophants,
especially if she came demanding explanations regarding the Marquis
de Varnais.

But prudence had never governed Phaedra's
relationship with Sawyer Weylin. She had been at loggerheads with
her grandfather ever since she had set foot off the packet from
Ireland. She sensed that Varnais's presence in the house would do
little to change that. Very likely the marquis would make matters
worse.

Consequently, she resolved to see her
grandfather at once. She had Lucy help her into a pink silk gown,
then she seated herself before her dressing table, while her maid
drew part of Phaedra's thick hair into an old-fashioned
topknot.

The surface of Phaedra's dressing table was
cluttered with all the feminine accoutrements any woman could
desire. Sawyer Weylin had grudged no expense to make his
granddaughter appear quite the grand lady. But to her, the
silver-handled brushes, the perfumed pastilles, and the gilt-edged
mirror were all impersonal ostentation. Phaedra's own touches were
mixed in-a cup of wilting violets, a copy of The Rights of Man open
to the last page she had read and a porcelain statue.

As Lucy applied the crimping iron, coaxing
Phaedra's hair into loose-flowing curls, Phaedra picked up the
figurine-a diminutive shepherdess with rose-flushed cheeks and
wistful blue eyes. She had found the statue long ago, buried behind
the ancient bookcase in the garret. Obviously of no value to anyone
else, the shepherdess had enchanted Phaedra. Somehow the sculptor
had managed to make the porcelain come alive. Phaedra almost
expected the dainty bare feet to step forward, the small white hand
curving round the shepherd's crook to move, the waist-length
cascade of golden hair to stir with the wind.

Lost in contemplation of this small treasure,
it took Phaedra several seconds to realize Lucy had finished with
her hair. Sighing, Phaedra restored the figurine to its place on
the table. Taking one last glance at herself in the mirror, she set
off to do battle with her grandfather.

Her petticoats rustling in time to her
militant step, Phaedra stalked toward the second-story landing.
Twin staircases of polished marble curved down to the floor below.
Running her hand along the delicately wrought gilt railing, Phaedra
descended into what she termed her grandfather's chamber of
horrors.