Susan Carroll (11 page)

She slipped her hand from Jonathan's grasp,
his gratitude making her uncomfortable. "Pray, don't look so
solemn," she said with forced gaiety. "This supper party promises
to be grim enough entertainment. Grandfather has ordered up so many
courses, the poor marquis may be obliged to-"

She broke off, her attention caught by Lucy's
timid face peeking inside the salon door. When Phaedra glanced her
way, the young girl beckoned frantically and closed the door.

Phaedra excused herself to Jonathan. She
inched her way toward the door as quickly as she could without
attracting attention, but the company seemed too absorbed by the
marquis to even notice when she slipped from the room.

She found Lucy in the hall, wringing her
hands.

"Lucy," she asked. "Whatever is the
matter?"

"Oh, milady, I thought you'd want to know.
Your cousin is here, trying to see you, and Mrs. Searle won't let
him in."

"Damn that woman." Phaedra bit her lip in
vexation. She could not be gone long, or her absence would be
noted, Armande's fascination notwithstanding. But Gilly would not
have ridden all the way out here at night unless he had something
important to tell her. Something he had learned about Varnais.

Her heart thudding with excitement, she
instructed Lucy, "If my grandfather comes looking for me, tell him
I have torn the flounce on my petticoat and will return as soon as
I've mended it."

She did not wait for Lucy's solemn nod of
agreement before raising her skirts and running toward the front
hall. She brushed past the suits of armor, which stood like a row
of silent, sentries. The padding of her slippered feet seemed to
raise a fearsome echo off the rafters towering overhead. But
Phaedra doubted if the two who struggled near the mansion's open
front door would have noticed her approach if she'd been wearing
iron-heeled boots.

The pale circle of lantern light spilled
across Gilly's cheerful features as he pressed his shoulder up
against the door in an effort to keep Mrs. Searle from closing
it.

"Come now, Madam Pester, there's a sweet
colleen. Just whisk to the dining room and be telling my cousin I'm
here."

"Out with ye, ye Irish wastrel," Searle
screeched as she was inched backward, losing in her struggle to bar
the door. "Get out afore I scream for John and Peter to toss ye on
yer ear."

"Mrs. Searle!" At the sound of Phaedra's
shout, the woman paused to look back.

"Admit my cousin at once." But the command
was unnecessary, for Gilly had already managed to force the door
and slip past her.

"But yer ladyship, being as ye are now naught
but a poor widow, ye ought to have more of a care for yer
reputation than to be receiving the likes of him. What would the
elegant company in the salon be thinking-"

"I care no more for their opinion than I do
for yours," Phaedra said. "Be about your business."

The housekeeper dipped into a sullen curtsy,
but she made no effort to conceal her resentful glare before
disappearing into the shadows beyond the stairway.

"Whew." Gilly straightened the black
solitaire knotted around his neck. "That creature pounced at me
like a daft cat. With all his wealth, I should think your
grandfather might hire a butler."

He rolled his eyes toward the collection of
halberds and swords mounted upon the walls, their sharp edges
glinting in the candlelight. "It is bad enough stepping into this
dungeon, without being greeted by a witch at the door."

"Pay her no heed." Phaedra eagerly embraced
him. "Where have you been? I have been expecting you for days "

Gilly ignored her question, gazing about him
with morbid fascination. "What a place this is at night!" He
lowered his voice to a sinister pitch. "Can't you half fancy that
old Lethe’s ghost yet hovers in the shadows, ready to bash his next
victim?”

Phaedra felt the hairs prickle at the back of
her neck. "Gilly, will you stop teasing?" Seizing her cousin by the
arm, she dragged him into her grandfather's anteroom. The chamber,
now devoid of its morning throng of satin-clad beggars, was as
solemn and silent as the hall beyond. Phaedra hastened to light an
oil lamp.

"Now tell me," she demanded, "what have you
found out? What did you discover about Varnais?"

Gilly swept off his cape. "Ah, and to think I
had a notion it was myself you were missing, you were so glad to
see me at your door."

He mournfully shook his head. "Well, if
tidings of Varnais is all you are after, my darlin' cousin, I fear
you are doomed to disappointment."

Phaedra frowned. "You've been gone nigh a
week. You must have learned something. Who is Armande de
LeCroix?"

"Exactly who he claims to be. The Marquis de
Varnais."

"If such a family and title exist. Did you
make inquiries of the French Ambassador?"

"Ambassador!" Gilly snorted. "My dear, if you
truly wish to know any secrets, you don't go asking an ambassador.
You speak to his footman or his cook."

"And so what did his excellency's footman
have to say?"

"That the name of Varnais is well-known in
the south of France. Both title and family are as ancient as Notre
Dame. The present marquis's parents died when he was but a babe. He
had two elder brothers, both of whom are also dead, without issue.
Consequently, the title came to de LeCroix."

"Then he really is the Marquis de Varnais,"
Phaedra said slowly. She was uncertain whether she felt relieved or
disappointed. "And Armande himself? What did you learn of him?"

"Let me see." Gilly rubbed his chin, staring
up at the ceiling. "Well, he orders his snuff from Trebuchets in
Oxford Street. He prefers French tailors to English, and has
ordered no new clothes while in London."

"Gilly!" Phaedra was startled by the
sharpness of her own voice. Her cousin regarded her with
open-mouthed surprise, and, turning aside, she fidgeted with the
pole fire screen, the panel done up in her own indifferent
needlework-a relic of the manner in which she had filled her days
before embarking upon the far more interesting career of Robin
Goodfellow.

"I beg of you to stop tormenting me," she
said. "This matter is far too important for jesting. Now did you at
least make inquiries about him at his former lodgings?"

"Aye," Gilly's voice was subdued when he
answered her this time. "But I couldn’t get much out of the
landlady. The laundry maid, the porter and the scullery girl had
nothing but praise for the marquis, no doubt owing to how generous
he is with his vails. And the man has no personal servants.”

“Don’t you find that odd? That a nobleman
such as Varnais would not at least have a valet?”

“According to his laundry maid, the marquis
was obliged to dismiss his last manservant for stealing and had yet
to find another valet to meet his exacting standards.”

Phaedra heaved a deep sigh of frustration.
This scanty information was not what she had waited a week to
hear.

"Admit it, Fae," Gilly said. “You've got
yourself in a dither over nothing. This marquis of yours is a
little more aloof than most men. You've allowed your imagination to
run riot, conjuring up all sorts of sinister fantasies."

Phaedra closed her mouth in a tight, stubborn
line. No one, not even Gilly, took her suspicions seriously.

"I suppose you did the best you could," she
said stiffly. "Doubtless you are right. I am making a fool of
myself as usual."

"Fae, don't be angry with me. If you want, I
could try to follow the man-"

"I wouldn't dream of wasting any more of your
valuable time." She scooped up his cape and folded it across his
arm.

He fetched a deep sigh, but made no move to
leave. He lingered by the door, regarding her wistfully, his eyes
bearing the soulful expression of a great galumphing puppy, begging
to be let in out of the rain. It was the same look that had been
getting him out of scrapes ever since he was five. Phaedra was not
proof against his charm.

"It's an ill-tempered shrew I am," she said,
hugging him. "Forgive me, Gilly. But you know well how hard it is
for me to admit when I am in the wrong. It is doubly embarrassing
when I think what I wrote about Varnais for the Gazetteer."

"There's no sense fretting about that, Fae.
Jessym already has that issue at the booksellers by now. All you
need do is write something else and stir up a fresh hornet's nest.
Whatever you've said about Varnais will be soon forgotten and-
bless me! I've nigh forgotten my main purpose in coming out here
tonight."

Gilly fished a well worn leather purse from
his waistcoat pocket. "Hold out your hands," he commanded.

Bewildered, Phaedra complied. He undid the
drawstrings of the purse and poured into her upturned palms a
handful of golden guineas.

"Payment, my dear coz," he said gleefully,
"wrung out of your clutch-fisted publisher by my persuasive Irish
tongue. I told Jessym if he didn't come across with an advance, I'd
be like to break his pate."

"Oh, Gilly, you darling." Phaedra balanced
the coins between her cupped palms. "I'm a woman of substance
again," she crowed. "Independently wealthy."

Gilly chuckled. "I don't know as I'd go that
far. But I did get the old rogue to promise double for your next
piece."

"Double. That's wonderful. I-"

She broke off at a sharp click, signaling the
door handle to the anteroom was being turned. One of the heavy oak
portals pushed open.

"Lady Grantham?" Armande's cool voice slashed
through the sudden silence like a saber's blade.

"Well! Speak of the devil!" Gilly mumbled in
Phaedra's ear, but she barely heeded her cousin. She stared at the
tall, elegant figure, whose broad shoulders blocked the door. The
man moved with the stealth of a stalking leopard.

"Your pardon, milady," Armande said. "I had
not meant to startle you, but I thought I heard your voice in
here."

Heard her voice and how much more? Phaedra
wondered, her heart thudding from the shock of his sudden
appearance.

"I had some business to attend. Private
business." She tried to present the picture of haughty composure,
but her hands trembled as she hastened to slip the coins back into
the purse. Faith, she could not have appeared more guilty than if
she were the infamous Guy Fawkes caught stacking a powder keg under
parliament.

Gilly, on the other hand, had contrived a
smile of the most charming innocence. The rogue probably could have
done so even if he stood holding a lighted fuse in his hand,
Phaedra thought with some envy.

In her nervous haste, she dropped one of the
guineas. It rolled to a halt by Armande's silver-buckled shoe. He
bent and retrieved the coin in one graceful motion.

"I am sorry if I am intruding," he said.
Armande took her hand. He pressed the gold coin into her palm,
cupping her fingers about it. His ice-blue eyes delved into hers,
seeming to promise that what secrets he had not heard, he would
prize from her by force of will. Then his gaze traveled to Gilly.
One of the marquis's dark eyebrows arched questioningly.

Phaedra had no choice but to perform the
introduction. "My lord, this is my cousin, Patrick Gilhooley
Fitzhurst."

"A pleasure it is, my lord." Unabashed by
Armande's appraising stare, her cousin seized the marquis's hand
and wrung it in a hearty shake. Devilish lights danced in Gilly's
eyes as he added, "I've heard a great deal about you."

"I'll wager you have, Mr. Fitzhurst," Armande
said.

"My cousin helps me. With my investments,
from time to time," Phaedra said and then she silently cursed
herself. She owed Armande no explanations. "Unfortunately, Gilly
was just on the point of leaving."

"You are not staying for supper, Mr.
Fitzhurst?"

"Nay, my lord." Gilly swung his cape about
his shoulders. "I fear most of Mr. Weylin's guests are the sort to
take Mr. Swift's
Modest Proposal
to heart. Not only do they
think all Irish children should be devoured-they wouldn't hesitate
to serve me up, tough and stringy as I am."

To Phaedra's surprise, the marquis laughed.
It was the first time she had ever heard him do so, the sound rich
and, deep-timbered, but also restrained, as though the man dared
not find genuine amusement in anything. She found the thought
disturbing and somehow sad.

"Farewell, coz. Your lordship." Gilly bowed
to Armande and gave Phaedra an audacious wink as he moved toward
the door. "No need for you to summon Madam Pester. I can find my
own way out."

Gilly was nearly across the threshold and
Phaedra had just felt herself begin to relax when Armande spoke up.
"One word before you go, about your, er-investments, Mr.
Fitzhurst."

Her cousin paused on the threshold, his brow
furrowed in an expression of polite inquiry. The marquis shook out
the lace at his wrists and continued in completely impassive tones,
"Half a crown might do for a laundry maid, but it takes far more to
induce a good lodging house keeper to gossip about one of her
guests.”

A gasp escaped Phaedra, and she could feel
the color begin to drain from her cheeks. He knew. Dear God,
Varnais knew about the questions Gilly had been asking. For a
moment, even her cousin looked shaken, but he quickly
recovered.

"I shall bear that in mind, your lordship."
Although he flashed the marquis an impudent smile, his gaze swept
over Armande as though reappraising the Frenchman. He said to
Phaedra, "Maybe I should stay awhile longer-"

"No, I wouldn't dream of detaining you,"
Phaedra said. She all but thrust him across the threshold,
muttering low enough so that only her cousin could hear. "Please,
Gilly. You will only make matters worse. I can deal with the
marquis."

Gilly backed out of the room with obvious
reluctance, unwilling to leave her alone with Armande. As soon as
the door had closed behind her cousin, Phaedra felt her own bravado
ebb.