Susan Carroll (13 page)

Phaedra tried to concentrate upon the trifle,
driving her fork into the wine-soaked sponge cake and fighting back
an urge to break into hysterical laughter.

"Nay, Sawyer," Jonathan's quiet voice
interrupted her grandfather's tirade at last. Phaedra's friend
looked so stricken with fear that she regretted having burdened him
with her dread secret.

"The Gazetteer did not even start publication
until after the revolution had begun," Jonathan said earnestly. "I
am sure the colonists have never even heard of Robin
Goodfellow."

"Aye, they have their own set of
rabble-rousers," Norris Byram agreed.

Her grandfather's scowl deepened. "That's
what they all are- rabble. Every blasted one of those
revolutionaries. A pack of ruffians only fit for the gaol.
Destroying property, dumping good tea into the harbor."

Phaedra rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Her
grandfather had been harping upon that incident in Boston for the
past four years, with as much rancor as though he were a tea
merchant and it had been his own cargo destroyed.

But as ridiculous as his sentiments seemed to
Phaedra, he received a chorus of approval from most of the men
present. Only Armande appeared uninterested, his long fingers
crooked languidly about his wineglass, toying with the stem.

"Ungrateful lot, those colonists. No loyalty.
After all the years our army has protected them from savages and
the French." Phaedra listened to the men's comments with growing
irritation, determined to keep her lips sealed. Far wiser to
swallow her own opinions, save them for Robin Goodfellow to
expound. But when one fool piped up, "and we maintained a fair
system of trade for them," the bounds of her self-control
burst.

"Fair," she echoed with contempt. "You
gentlemen certainly have a strange notion of what is fair. We sell
our goods to the colonists at outrageous prices, and then we tax
their own crafts so they cannot compete. That is supposed to be
fair?"

"No one asked your opinion, missy," Weylin
growled.

But Phaedra could not stop herself once she
had started. "You talk about the colonists like they were unruly
children who needed chastising, but they value the same freedoms
you do and are not about to-"

"Be quiet," Weylin thundered. "Od's fish,
girl. You don't have the least idea what you are talking
about."

Sir Norris sniggered. "Lord, but the chit has
gotten cheeky since Ewan stuck his spoon in the wall. Poor fellow
must be turning in his grave."

"It is her father's fault," Sawyer Weylin
said. "Fool let her read too many books. Trying to teach her to
think, he said. About as much use for a thinking woman as there is
for a talking dog."

Her grandfather's friends chortled in
appreciation of his wit, even most of Phaedra's own sex joining in
or eyeing her with disapproval. She flushed with mortification.

Armande's suave voice cut through the coarse
laughter. "Some of the most enjoyable moments I have ever spent
were in the company of a certain lady whose beauty was only matched
by her intelligence and her wit."

He looked directly into Phaedra's eyes as he
spoke, leaving her in no doubt of his sincerity. She could not have
been more stunned than if he had leaned forward and kissed her.
Could the man truly be defending her learning? It was something not
even her father had ever done.

Armande's remark momentarily silenced the
others until Byram smirked. "Strange pleasures you Frenchies have.
Next I suppose you'll be telling us we should be sending our
daughters up to Oxford and giving them the franchise."

His comment produced another spate of
laughter, which quickly changed to gasps when Armande leveled a
chilling stare at Byram.

"By all means. If a woman has a good mind,
she should use it. Let the ladies vote. The more capable ones might
even take a seat in parliament."

He could not have stunned them more if he had
advocated home rulefor Ireland. Even Phaedra found herself gaping
at the marquis. The man was more of a radical than she had ever
dreamed of being. She sensed the thunderclap about to erupt from
her grandfather's end of the table. His professed friendship for
Varnais might have ended abruptly if Arthur Danby had not provided
a diversion.

The fop leaped to his feet, spilling his
second glass of wine that evening. "Stap me! Oxford. That's it."
Trembling with excitement, he pointed at Armande. "That is where we
met. We were up at Oxford together. Don't you remember? It is me.
Danby."

While he thumped his chest, the other guests
returned their attention to their plates, looking alternately
amused and disgusted with Lord Danby's drunken nonsense.

But Armande's face went rigid. Ever sensitive
to his mood changes, Phaedra noted how his fingers tightened about
the stem of his wineglass.

"I regret, monsieur, you are mistaken. I took
my education in Paris. "

But Danby continued as though he had not
heard. "I remember you. Your name is-is-"

A tremor passed through Armande's hand, and
Phaedra thought that in another moment, he would surely shatter the
crystal. She breathlessly awaited Danby's next words.

"Name of-of John or Jason something. You
were-" Danby tried to snap his fingers, but couldn't manage it. His
concentration broken, he stared cross-eyed at his hand, trying to
coordinate the movement of his thumb. Phaedra had an urge to fly at
him and shake the fool out of his memory lapse.

Sir Norris reached around Mrs. Byng and
caught Danby by the coattails. "Sit down, you fool, and stop making
such an arse of yourself." He yanked hard, tumbling the fop back
into his chair.

Armande released the wineglass, his hand
dropping back to his side. The footman mopped up the claret Danby
had spilled, and the incident appeared forgotten. Forgotten, that
is, by all but Phaedra and, she was certain, Armande.

For all that Armande had recovered his
composure, Phaedra believed that Danby had left him badly shaken.
She stared at Arthur Danby with an interest she had never felt in
the man before. What had he been about to remember? Of course, he
was a simpleton, a drunkard. Even while she studied him, the fool
was using the rose water in his finger bowl to rinse out his mouth.
No one ever took Danby seriously. If it had not been for Armande's
reaction, she would not have done so, either. But she vowed to get
Danby alone. She must jar the dolt's memory.

As the footmen began to clear away the
dessert dishes and bring in the port, Phaedra realized with
reluctance that it was time for her to signal the ladies to rise,
and leave the gentlemen alone. Sir Norris Byram was obviously
squirming to fetch out the chamber pot kept stored beneath the
sideboard.

Phaedra was pushing back her chair to rise
when the door behind her crashed open. She had not even time to
turn around before a wild-eyed man burst into the room. Several of
the women cried out. Arthur Danby exclaimed. "What the deuce!"

Phaedra's own startled gasp was cut off as
she stared at the man. It was the same haggard young man who had
been ejected from her grandfather's levee last week. The fellow
still looked half-starved and ragged, but far more desperate.

Before the footman could move to intercept
him, the man staggered the length of the dining room toward her
grandfather. "This time, Weylin. This time you'll bloody well hear
what I have to say."

From beneath his tattered coat, the man
produced a flintlock pistol. Phaedra choked back a scream as he
cocked the hammer and leveled the weapon straight at her
grandfather's head.

Phaedra pressed her hand to her mouth. Her
stomach gave a lurch as the click of the hammer being pulled back.
She caught her breath, anticipating the loud report of the pistol.
But endless seconds ticked by and the only sound was the strange
man's ragged breathing as he continued to hold her grandfather at
gun point. Phaedra was aware that Mrs. Shelton had crumpled to the
floor in a dead faint; but the other guests sat frozen, their faces
presenting a tableau of shock and horror. The only two in the room
whose composure appeared unaffected were her grandfather and the
marquis. Sawyer glowered up at the man who threatened him."I told
you before, Wilkins. I don't receive workmen in my home."

"I only come for what's rightfully owed me."
Wilkins jerked the pistol closer to her grandfather's face.

Phaedra could endure no more. She took a
half-step forward, not quite clear even in her own mind what she
meant to do. Armande seized her arm in an iron grip.

"Be still, you little fool," he said in low,
level tones. "Can you not see how that fellow's hands are
shaking?"

She halted, noting that Armande was correct.
Wilkin's hands trembled as though he were afflicted with palsy. The
jerking movement could set off the pistol at any moment.

Yet her grandfather calmly reached for his
wineglass. "I don't owe you anything," he said.

"My wages, damn you!" Wilkins cried.

"Your wages, villain, went to pay what was
owing at the tavern-as was agreed."

"Not by me. I am not a slave, to be thus
bought and sold." Weylin sloshed his wine about the bottom of his
glass. "Any man is a slave who cannot control his drinking
habits."

Phaedra gripped the back of one of the
chairs. Was her grandfather mad to bandy words so? Could he not see
that this man was nigh-crazed? Her heart hammering, she noticed
Armande inching closer to Wilkins.

The man dashed the back of one torn sleeve
across his eyes. "I made a mistake once, but I have not touched a
drop since. I am begging you. At least, let me keep half the money.
My-my babe died today, and I'm like to lose my wife as well. She's
dying of hunger, starving while you-"

His wild-eyed gaze flicked to the linen
tablecloth littered with cake crumbs and the remnants of the rich
desserts.

Her grandfather shrugged his beefy shoulders.
He snapped his fingers at the footman. "John, clear away the rest
of these scraps. Whatever is left give them to this beggar."

The sound that erupted from Wilkin's throat
sounded like nothing human. Phaedra read her grandfather's death in
the man's eyes.

"No!" Her outcry was lost in what happened
next. She was never sure how Armande had moved so fast. He struck
Wilkin's hand upward. The pistol erupted with a deafening roar and
a flash of blue fire.

As the acrid haze of smoke cleared, Phaedra
cried out with relief to see her grandfather unharmed.John shoved
past Phaedra, the burly footman diving for Wilkins and wrestling
him to the ground. Amidst the screams of the women and the chaos of
chairs overturning, Sir Norris leaped in eagerly to help. Although
Wilkins struggled with the strength of a madman, he was quickly
overwhelmed.

He collapsed, blood streaming from his nose.
Sir Norris drew back his fist to hit the unconscious man again, but
Armande seized Byram's wrist.

"Enough," the marquis commanded. Byram's face
darkened, and Phaedra thought he meant to turn his fists upon
Armande. But he thought better of it, pulling away from the
marquis. Armande's breath came a little more rapidly than normal,
but it was the only sign that he had been in any way affected by
the violence.

Now that the danger was past, Phaedra's knees
shook, ready to give out beneath her. Somehow she managed to get
herself to the opposite side of the dining room. In a gesture that
surprised her as much as it did Weylin, she flung her arms about
his neck.

"Grandpapa! Are you truly unharmed?"

"'Course I am. Don't be an idiot, girl,"
Weylin said gruffly. He pushed her away, leaving her feeling
foolish. Her concern vanished, replaced with anger.

"Me an idiot! You who all but begged that
madman to shoot you. How could you taunt him so!"

Weylin struggled to his feet and regarded the
powder-blackened hole in the wallpaper just beyond his head. Then
he stumped round to gaze down at the inert Wilkins.

"I doubted the cowardly knave even had the
pistol loaded." His voice was a mixture of grudging admiration and
contempt. "Well, cart the villain out of here."

John and the other footmen moved to obey, all
attempting to make excuses for allowing Wilkins to gain entry. But
her grandfather cut short their efforts to blame each other. "Just
tie the blackguard up, and see him delivered to Newgate. I will
lodge my complaint in the morning."

John hefted Wilkins over his shoulder. The
man's limbs hung down limp as a bundle of rags, his face smeared
with blood. The man had just attempted to murder her grandfather,
and yet Phaedra could not restrain a murmur of pity. "Maybe we
should summon a doctor."

Her grandfather shot her a look of scorn.
"Waste of effort, m'dear, for someone already marked for the
hangman's noose."

The other guests nodded approval as John
carried Wilkins from the room. He was obliged to edge his way
through the crowd of frightened servants who had gathered just
beyond the door.

“Here now, you lot. Back to your work," John
growled, full of self-importance as he struggled to balance his
grim burden. "Nothing happening here that's of any concern to
you."

In the disorder that followed, Phaedra
wondered if it was only she who noticed Armande slip out quietly
after John. But she had little time to speculate on where he was
going.

Mrs. Shelton claimed all of her attention.
The woman had recovered enough to be propped up in a chair, but she
moaned while Mrs. Byng fanned her. Phaedra moved to fetch Mrs.
Shelton a glass of water, but her grandfather snorted.

"You'll be wanting something stronger than
that, m'girl." He rang for a decanter of brandy, all the while
giving the gentlemen present a broad wink. "We men don't fret
ourselves over such trifles, but the ladies might fancy a small
drop."