Authors: Masquerade
The towering walls of the entrance hall were
of a deliberate bleakness, rough stone fancifully designed to
imitate the interior of an ancient castle. Shields splashed with
heraldic devices hung willy-nilly amidst a collection of medieval
weaponry. Broadswords, poleaxes,
cinquedea
daggers, and
halberds with wicked sharp-curving hooks now cheerfully jumbled
together, bore mute testimony to centuries of mayhem.
If nothing else, however, the gloom-ridden
hall provided an excellent setting for Hester Searle. Phaedra saw
that the housekeeper had cornered the cook's two small children by
one of the suits of armor. Phaedra paused at the foot of the
stairs, clenching her jaw. Blast the woman. She was at it again,
indulging in another of her favorite malicious pastimes,
terrorizing poor Matthew and Jeannie. The little ones cowered in
the shadow of what must have seemed like a great metal giant in
their eyes. But surely no more terrifying than Madam Hester
herself, who crooked one finger gleefully toward the morning-star
mace suspended in the armored figure's iron-gauntleted fist.
"And that was the very weapon, my dears, that
old Lethe used to dash out the brains of Lord Ewan's father."
Jeannie squeaked, clutching her brother and
burying her face against his chubby arm. Although Matthew tried to
pretend he was not afraid, his eyes were as round as those of his
small sister.
Phaedra stormed down the length of the hall
to put a stop to the gruesome tale, but Hester had already reached
her climax. Raising up both arms so that she resembled some
black-winged bird of prey, she said, "But they caught that wicked
murderer and hung him until his face turned blue with choking. So
take care, young'uns. They still say old Lethe rises from his grave
at midnight to carry off all bad children."
"Hold your tongue, you wretched woman!"
Phaedra cried, but her intervention came too late. With a
frightened squeal, Matthew and Jeannie plunged past her skirts,
sobbing as they ran to seek their mamma. They would have nightmares
for a week, thought Phaedra as she fought down a strong urge to
slap the housekeeper.
"Curse you! I told you I will not tolerate
your frightening the children with your horrid tales."
Hester folded her hands demurely in front of
her. "But milady, the murder is part of the history of this house.
The little 'uns find it fascinating-as ye would yerself if ye would
ever permit me tell you all about it." Hester smiled, lowering her
voice to a soft purr. "The foul deed took place the year before ye
came here to be Lord Grantham's bride. Arranging the details of
your marriage contract, they was, Mr. Weylin, and Master Ewan's
papa, Lord Carleton-"
"I am not interested."
"The servants had been given a holiday. All
alone in the house were Mr. Sawyer and Lord Carleton or so they
fancied."
"Be quiet!" Phaedra snapped. She could barely
restrain a shudder as she glanced at the heavy mace's pointed
spikes. She had no need of Hester's embellishments to imagine what
such a weapon might do to a man's skull. "Keep your ghoulish tale
for those as have a taste for such things. I'd best not ever see
you frightening Matthew and Jeannie."
"Oh, aye, yer ladyship," Hester smirked,
dipping into a stiff-kneed curtsy. "You shan't catch me at it
again."
Phaedra spun on her heel and walked away
before she was tempted to use the mace to perform its second
murder. When she reached the doors leading to the anteroom, Hester
called out, "Go right in, yer ladyship. I'll wager Master Weylin be
powerful eager to see you."
Phaedra ground her teeth but pretended that
she had not heard the woman's taunting words. Not waiting for one
of the footmen to bow her inside, Phaedra flung open one of the
doors and stepped inside the lofty chamber, all gold and cream, the
rococo plasterwork of scrolls and twisting leaves as elegant as a
king's stateroom. The anteroom was sparsely furnished, with a few
uninviting splat-back chairs. Sawyer Weylin did not like anyone to
be too comfortable while awaiting his pleasure.
Most of the men crowded into the anteroom
preferred to stand. Since her grandfather had managed to obtain a
seat in parliament, his levees seemed more popular than ever.
Phaedra pressed forward a few steps and was obliged to flatten
herself against the wall as two footmen brushed past her, dragging
a man from the room. The haggard-looking individual bore not much
chance in his struggle against her grandfather's burly servants,
the young man's limbs like thin sticks protruding from his shabby
second-hand garb.
"Stop your carryings on," one of the footmen
growled. "The master does not receive slum rats like you here."
"I have to see him," the man sobbed. "I have
to have my wages. My wife and child are ill-" The rest of his
protest was lost as Weylin's servants dragged him out of the
room.
"John," Phaedra attempted to call after the
footman, to see what the trouble was, but the minute she spoke, she
found herself surrounded. She could not see past the tops of
white-powdered wigs bending over her. Masculine voices importuned
her on all sides.
"Lady Grantham, a moment of your time. I hear
your grandfather is seeking an architect after the style of Adam. I
know of just such a fellow."
"Your ladyship, your grandfather promised to
get my son a post in the customs office."
"Please, Mr. Weylin's not receiving anyone
this morning. If you could put in a word-"
"Gentlemen, please." Phaedra raised one hand,
attempting to ward them all off, refraining from telling the last
poor fool who spoke that a word from her would surely condemn his
cause.
When her grandfather refused to allow anyone
into his private dressing room, Phaedra knew, he was usually in a
vile humor. Otherwise, a privileged few were generally permitted
into that inner sanctum, to wheedle and flatter while the old man
donned his wig. Phaedra elbowed her way out of the circle of
anxious place-seekers and tradesmen, squaring her shoulders for the
battle to come.
Slipping through the door at the end of the
anteroom, she shut it firmly in the faces of the disappointed
throng. Although designated as a dressing room, this inner chamber
was fully as large and ostentatious as the anteroom, with gilt
chairs placed as though for a performance. But the chief actor was
obviously in too surly a humor to ring up the curtain today.
One gout-ridden foot propped up on a pile of
feather-tic pillows, Sawyer Weylin shifted his not inconsiderable
bulk upon cushions of Italian velvet, resting his large-knuckled
hands along arm rails carved into the shape of snarling lions. The
chair resembled a throne that might have been found in the palace
of the Venetian Doges. Her grandfather could easily have passed for
an Italian despot, with his impressive jowls, his heavy-lidded
eyes, and a powdering jacket drawn about his bull-like neck.
He took no note of Phaedra's entrance, his
features florid with a rage directed at the barber trembling before
him.
The man timidly held up a gray bagwig. "I
assure you, sir, 'tis designed in the latest fashion."
"Bah! I can't abide gray." Weylin slapped his
own bald pate."Think that I shaved off the remnants of my own hair
for you to trick me out like some old woman. And charge me thirty
guineas into the bargain."
"The price is more than fair, and gray is
most becoming to you. Surely my lady agrees."
The barber's remark and his hopeful glance at
Phaedra alerted her grandfather to her presence. He twisted round
upon his throne as far as his size would allow him, and glared.
Phaedra curtsied. "Good morrow,
Grandfather."
"Good morrow is it?" Weylin roared.
"Disobedient chit. Get over here and account for yourself at once.
What d'ye mean-" He broke off to snarl at the barber. "Don't stand
there gawking. Be on your way, rascal."
"But your wig, sir- "
Weylin snatched it from him. "Be off with you
and send me the reckoning. Fifteen guineas, mind you, and not a
penny more."
"Sir!" The man's wail turned into a gasp as
Sawyer Weylin groped for his gold-tipped cane, poking it at the
man. As the barber scrambled for the door, her grandfather managed
to deliver a well-placed thrust at the man's plump buttocks. Weylin
grunted in satisfaction before turning to rail at Phaedra.
"Stap me, if I ain't beset upon all sides by
highwaymen and robbers. There's not an honest tradesmen left in all
of London." Weylin jammed the wig upon his head.
"Now, missy, over here!" He tapped a spot
near his chair with the cane. "What d'ye mean by sneaking back from
Bath, filling my house with Irish papists? Searle told me you
received that rascal cousin of yours. I won't have it! Foreign
villains creeping about under my roof."
Phaedra gasped with indignation. "You're a
fine one to talk about foreign villains. What about your French
friend ensconced in Ewan's room? I daresay he is as Catholic as
Gilly."
"I'd trust a Frenchman a deal further than I
would an Irish or a Scots. At least Armande is not a pauper."
"I'll wager you have no notion who the
marquis might be, any more than anyone else does." Phaedra advanced
upon her grandfather. Ignoring the manner in which his chin
quivered with anger, she proceeded to straighten his wig, which
looked ridiculously askew. The old man thrust her aside.
"And so you've already presented yourself to
the marquis, looking like a raggle-taggle gypsy, I suppose." He
jerked on one of her red curls. "Od's lights, girl, why can't you
ever powder that carroty hair of yours? 'Tis damned hard upon a
man's eyes this hour of the day."
"We have more important matters to discuss
than my hair." Phaedra flicked her tresses out of his reach.
"So we have. Why the deuce you couldn't stay
put in Bath until I sent for you? You've likely ruined
everything."
Phaedra started to snap out her reason for
returning to London, but her grandfather's last remark brought her
up short. What did he mean, she'd ruined everything? Before she
could question him, the old man gasped a flood of curses as the
pillows shifted out from under his leg, jarring his gouty foot.
"Damnation. God curse it!"
Phaedra bent down to rearrange the pillows
beneath the limb, which was swathed in a linen bandage. "Stop
thumping about like that. You are only making it worse." She
wondered when the stubborn old man had last been seen by his
physician.
When she'd managed to ease the foot into a
more comfortable position, Weylin sagged back in his chair, mopping
at his sweating brow with a large handkerchief.
"Ah, that's better." He glanced down at
Phaedra with a look approaching fondness. "Foolish, headstrong
girl. If only you knew how I have your best interests at
heart."
The layers of flesh on his face crinkled, his
lips stretching into a bland smile, revealing a row of even white
teeth, remarkably unblemished for a man of his years. He was
inordinately proud of them.
Her fingers still curled about a pillow,
Phaedra stared up at him, her mouth hardening into a line of
suspicion. It struck her that something was wrong here. She had
expected her grandfather to be furious at her unannounced return
from Bath. Despite his grousing, she had the feeling he was not
altogether displeased to have her back. Smiling down at her, Sawyer
reminded her of a fat, lazy crocodile, sunning itself on the banks
of a river. But Phaedra had seen too many fools snapped up in her
grandfather's jaws to be taken in.
"What did you mean a moment ago," she
demanded, "when you said I'd ruined everything?"
"Only that I'd hoped eventually to present
you to Armande in style, once I'd brought him around to the
notion."
"Notion? What notion?"
"Of marrying you, you dunderhead. D'you want
to be a widow the rest of your days?"
Her grandfather's words struck her like the
blunt end of a cudgel. Phaedra scrambled to her feet. "Good Lord!
You could not be possibly thinking that I and-and Armande de
LeCroix-"
"And why not? He's a marquis, m'girl, with
money. That makes him as good as a duke in my books."
"You don't even know this man. He's
dangerous, secretive, and ruthless."
"Hah! So he is." Weylin seemed pleased by her
description. "A much more likely specimen than that milksop
Grantham."
Phaedra forebore to remind her grandfather
that it had been he who had schemed to make Ewan her husband.
Weylin's fascination with nobility and titles bordered on madness.
It had been the chief reason he had delivered her into Ewan's bed,
for her grandfather had felt nothing but contempt for her late
husband. But this time Sawyer Weylin's obsession for raising his
family into the ranks of the aristocracy had taken a far more
dangerous turn.
"By God," she said, "I think you would drive
me into the arms of the devil himself if he had a patent of
nobility."
"So I would," the old man growled.
"I greatly fear this devil has other plans,
Grandfather. He could be an impostor for all you know of him. I
find certain aspects of his behavior most odd. Only just this
morning, he-"
Her grandfather smacked his cane against the
floor, his jowls trembling with outrage. "D'you take me for an old
fool, girl? I've been spotting sharpers since before you were born,
aye, before your own father was breeched. I guess I would know
whether or not this marquis is the genuine article. "
"It scarce matters if he is. Ewan was bad
enough. I will not be caught up in your marriage schemes a second
time."
"You'll do as I bid you." Weylin expelled his
breath in a snort. "You can scarce afford to be particular, my fine
lady. Thanks to your witless father." Her grandfather's face
darkened with that bitter expression he always wore when speaking
of his only son. He launched into what to Phaedra was an
all-too-familiar and hated refrain.