Susan Carroll (17 page)

"New-laid eggs, five a groat." "Hot mutton
pies, hot!" "Oysters, buy my oysters."

Phaedra let down her coach window, thriving
upon the din and confusion. Gilly had once teasingly remarked to
her, "They say Nero fiddled while Rome burned. In the midst of the
mayhem, you, my girl, would have gone shopping."

Phaedra was obliged to admit there was some
truth to the charge. In the grimmest times of her troubled marriage
to Ewan Grantham, she had fled to Oxford Street. Not to shop, but
to lose herself in the crowds, to banish her depression in all the
bustle and color, to draw from the vitality and life teeming about
her some reason for clinging to her own miserable existence.

It had always worked. Somehow jostling elbows
in such a sea of humanity had reduced Ewan and all his petty
cruelties to a level of insignificance. Phaedra hoped the street
could work its magic again. The din and uproar would diminish
Armande and the pain and confusion he had brought into her life, so
that she could but snap her fingers and he would be gone.

The younger footman, Peter, let down the
coach steps and helped swing Phaedra up onto the raised footpath.
Behind her, she could hear Ridley, up on his box, give a loud humph
of disapproval. Most ladies of quality, ever mindful of the dangers
of mud and pickpockets, did not wander the street, but preferred to
be deposited directly at the steps of the shop they wished to
visit.

Phaedra merely instructed Ridley to wait for
her at the next corner. She set off down the street, followed by
her maid.

"What would my lady be looking for?" Lucy
inquired timidly.

A diversion. A way to keep from being driven
mad by the deceptive charms of a certain ruthless Frenchman.
Phaedra kept to herself such thoughts as her maid would scarce have
understood. Lucy had always been mystified by these street
ramblings of hers. Phaedra usually found some practical reason for
the outing.

She said airily, "Oh, I am hoping to find a
gift for a dear friend of mine who is to be married soon." Phaedra
reflected how astonished Muriel Porterfield would be to her herself
described thus or to receive such a token of Phaedra's tender
regard.

No matter. The explanation satisfied Lucy,
leaving Phaedra to wander where she would, her thoughts free to
roam likewise. She strolled past a succession of shop fronts, the
glass glinting like mirrors set into treasures boxes, reflecting
back gold buckles and quill pens, parchment maps and perfumed
soaps, bagwigs and Dr. James Restorative Powders. The tradesmen
liked to boast that what one could not find in London shops, one
simply didn't need.

Except what Phaedra desired could not be
found there or anywhere. What Phaedra wanted was a mirror that
would help her see into the dark corners of Armande de LeCroix's
cold heart.

She paused in front of a jeweler's shop,
where a pair of twin sapphires were displayed in the window. In one
light they flashed blue fire, in another glinted as cold as shards
of ice-exactly like Armande's eyes.

"Does my lady wish to go into this shop?"
Lucy asked hopefully.

"No." Phaedra moved farther along the street.
She paused in front of a peruke-maker's establishment, frowning at
the white bagwig displayed there, with its elaborate sausage-roll
curls. Armande was far more attractive when he abandoned his wig
and powder. She could not help remembering the sweep of sable hair
waving back from his brow, the hard-muscled flesh he kept concealed
beneath his satins and lace. A man of frustrating contradictions,
he seemed a different person when he set aside all the
accoutrements of the elegant aristocrat.

Every puzzling thing she had ever noted about
Armande crowded into Phaedra's brain. His inexplicable position as
a guest of her grandfather, the painful flash of memory in his eyes
occasioned by the gray wool cloak, the way he had tensed at Danby's
seeming foolishness, his refusal to be thanked for saving Weylin's
life, the violent aversion to questions about his past that had led
him to try to ruin her. Thinking about Armande was like trying to
piece together shattered fragments of a mirror.

She rubbed her temples. It was no good. She
had come to Oxford Street to escape, for a time, Armande's
all-pervasive presence. Yet everything seemed to remind her of him.
Only a few yards away, a group of ballad singers burst into a
chorus of bawdy songs, so loud she could scarcely hear herself
think. She glanced about her, suddenly wondering why she had come
here. Why had she never noticed before how dirty Oxford Street was?
The shop displays were garish, and the people thronging past her
were loud-mouthed and vulgar. And the noise she had oft thought so
delightful was enough to split one's head!

Phaedra started at a touch upon her sleeve.
She had all but forgotten Lucy's presence. Her maid said, "Maybe
milady could find something in that shop to please your
friend."

Phaedra turned toward the shop front that
Lucy so shyly indicated. Her gaze flicked over some indifferent
pieces of china and a silver tea service.

"No, I think not-" Phaedra began, preparing
to continue on her way, when she was arrested by the sight of
something almost lost in the shadow of the tea urn. She peered
closer, pressing near the glass. It was naught but a pair of
candlesticks-and yet there was something in the delicate artistry
of the china that reminded her strikingly of the shepherdess she
had found in the attic. Of course, there was nothing remarkable in
the fact that the same artisan should have fashioned other pieces
than her figurine. But Phaedra's curiosity was aroused enough to
slip inside the shop, with Lucy following at her heels.

The interior was quiet, appearing not to
enjoy much trade. She was the only customer-perhaps the only one in
some time, Phaedra thought, eyeing the layering of dust on the
shelves. They were stuffed with an odd assortment of jewelry,
buckles, snuffboxes, ladies' fans, and trinkets.

The shopkeeper who bustled forward to serve
her struck Phaedra as being something of a trinket himself. He
barely came up to her shoulder. Both his smile and his black hair
looked painted on, as much as if he had been a wooden toy
soldier.

"Good afternoon, milady," he trilled. "Such a
fine day. So perfect for your outing."

Phaedra suspected he would have greeted her
in the same fashion even if it had been pouring rain.

"And how may I have the honor of serving your
ladyship?"

"Well, I did wish to inquire about-"

But before she could finish, the little man
rushed on."An enameled sand box for dusting dry the ink upon your
letters? Wonderful charming."

"No, I believe not. I would like to
examine-"

"Or some Egyptian pebble teeth for your
grandmama, perchance? Mayhap a new fan. I have an excellent
assortment."

"No!" Phaedra said. "I merely wanted a closer
look at the candlesticks in the window."

The shopkeeper raised himself up on his
tiptoes and preened.

"Ah, the candlesticks! Your ladyship has the
most excellent taste."

He scurried toward the window display and in
another moment he was blowing the dust off the candlesticks and
setting them upon the counter with a flourish.

"Treasures. Wonderful charming." He
beamed.

Phaedra stripped of her gloves the better to
examine the china. She lifted one of the candlesticks. A maiden,
molded of blue and white jasper and garbed in flowing Grecian
robes, held aloft a petal stem on which the taper was to be
mounted.

Although Phaedra did not possess Armande's
expert knowledge of china, she had a fine eye for detail. The
similarities in style to her shepherdess were remarkable.

"I know this sounds foolish," she said
hesitantly. "But I believe. I already possess a figurine made by
the same artisan."

"Indeed, milady?" Lethington china is
extremely rare."

Lethington. The name stirred some chord of
memory in Phaedra, but she could not place it.

"The piece I have is a shepherdess," she
said, and went on to describe it for the shopkeeper. He permitted a
rather doubting frown to disturb the surface of his too smooth
politeness.

"W-e-ell, 'tis a popular subject for china
manufacturers, but I suppose you might have acquired one of a
famous set. A shepherd and shepherdess were commissioned for the
Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria and his sister, the French Queen
Marie Antoinette; but unfortunately the figurines were never
delivered. "

Phaedra tore her eyes away from the
entrancing candlestick long enough to inquire. "Oh? Why not?"

"Alack, the Lethington manufactory was forced
to close its doors. I procured many of the pieces when the property
was sold to pay off debts. But the shepherd and shepherdess were
missing." The merchant added almost too casually, "If your ladyship
would like to bring me the figurine, I would be only too pleased to
examine it to see if it is genuine Lethington."

"Is it worth a great deal of money, then? I
have heard of Wedgwood china," she said, "but never
Lethington."

"The Lethington family were well-acquainted
with Josiah Wedgwood, I assure you. All of them from Staffordshire,
all of them skilled craftsmen. Of course, the Lethington shop was a
family concern. The mother and her two sons, James and Jason, as I
recall. Also a sister, Julianna. Mrs. Lethington must have had
quite a penchant for the letter J."

When the shopkeeper finished chortling at his
own jest, he added, "Most of the actual designing was done by Miss
Julianna."

That information caused Phaedra to examine
the candlesticks with renewed interest, admiring Julianna
Lethington's skill. How it would astonish her grandfather, who
thought women could do nothing but embroider handkerchiefs. She
murmured, "With such artistry, I am astonished that the Lethingtons
should ever have been obliged to close their business."

"It was owing to a tragedy in the family-a
scandal far too sordid for your ladyship's delicate ears." For all
his protestations, Phaedra could tell the man was perishing to tell
it to her. "The elder brother James was hanged for murder, and some
say his sister committed suicide, flinging herself into the Thames.
As for the younger brother and the mother, they simply packed their
bags and fled to Scotland, so I've heard."

Although she made a murmur of sympathy,
Phaedra's interest•in the tale had already begun to wane. Mulling
everything over in her own mind, she decided that it was highly
unlikely that her porcelain shepherdess could be the famous piece
designed by Julianna Lethington for an emperor. Phaedra had found
the statuette discarded in the attic. She knew her grandfather's
shrewdness too well to think he would miss such a prize. Although
Weylin had no appreciation of the arts, he had a canny instinct for
anything of value.

Phaedra returned the candlesticks to the
counter and thanked the shopkeeper for all of his time. The little
man's chin dropped when he realized she intended to quit the shop
without purchasing anything.

He followed her to the door. "Nay, milady, if
the candlesticks do not please, let me show you some of my other
pieces. I have many other things-wonderful charming."

But Phaedra put an end to this by frankly
admitting she had no extra money for china at the moment. Gathering
up her maid, she escaped from the dark shop into the brilliant
flood of sunlight. Considering that Phaedra's avowed intent had
been to purchase a wedding gift, Lucy was looking rather
puzzled.

To distract the girl as much as anything
else, Phaedra entered a milliner's and made a trifling purchase of
some sash ribbons, then sent Lucy to take the parcel back to the
carriage, thus giving herself a moment alone. She had espied a
bookseller's stall across the street and intended to secure herself
a copy of the Gazetteer, to secret away with the other copies of
her writing she kept in the locked desk in her garret.

As soon as she made certain Lucy was a safe
distance up the street, Phaedra hiked up her skirts and darted
through the traffic, barely escaping having her toes crunched by
the wheel of a farm cart. In the next instant she was nearly
knocked down by a running footman. The fellow did not even pause,
but continued his sprint, waving his white baton in an effort to
clear a path for the Duchess of Avalon's carriage. Phaedra leaped
past the posts separating the street from the footpath just in time
to save herself from being trampled by her grace's leaders.

She collided against a hard male chest with a
force that nearly sent her sprawling backwards into the mud. A
strong pair of arms closed about her, steadying her.

Phaedra took but a moment to catch her breath
before mumbling. "Thank you, I beg your pardon." She struggled to
pull free, aware that her rescuer appeared to be taking undue
advantage of the situation, holding her longer than was necessary.
As she focused on lean, chiseled features and ice-blue eyes, her
heart gave a mighty thump instead. She could feel her face turn
ashen. It was as well that Armande’s strong arms held her, or she
might have fallen.

"Lady Grantham," Armande said, his lips
tipped into that reluctant smile which was so peculiarly his own.
The waves of his sable-colored hair captured the sunlight. The
reflected warmth shone in the depths of his eyes, as well. How dare
he pronounce her name like that, in those low, intimate tones! He
almost made it sound like some sort of an endearment. She shoved
away from him, the color flooding back into her cheeks.

All the composure with which she had planned
to face him- where was it now? She could have cursed him for
retaining his. It was not fair, his taking her by surprise this
way, but then she already knew that the marquis played by his own
rules.