Susan Carroll (18 page)

"Lord Varnais. Only fancy encountering you
here," she managed at last. She had meant to be all chilling
sweetness, but she could not seem to avoid a flinty, accusing tone.
"We do have a habit of meeting at the most unexpected times: One
would almost think you had been following me." She nearly added,
"Again."

"It is equally astonishing for me, but not
unpleasant." He smiled. "I am glad to see you have recovered from
your illness of last eve. Are you out here all alone?"

Armande's silken voice could make the most
innocent questions sound sinister. She retreated a step, her eye
drawn to the window of the shop from which she realized Varnais
must have just emerged. A single black-edged placard proclaimed,
FUNERALS FURNISHED HERE.

"No!" she blurted out. "My maid, the
coachman, and footman are just at the next corner."

"I am glad to hear it. It is not safe for you
to wander the streets unescorted."

"I'll wager I am as safe here as I would be
in some of the rooms of my grandfather's own house." She stiffened
with annoyance when she saw that her pointed remark produced not so
much as a twitch of an eyebrow on Armande's impassive face. What a
cool villain he was. Determined to force some guilty reaction from
him, she continued, "Oxford Street is no longer what it was like
when my grandfather was a boy. He told me this part of the city was
but a pit of mud, a likely spot to be set upon by cutthroats. But I
imagine such villains are a little more subtle these days-perhaps
more after the style of the French."

"We have villains in France with no more
claim to cleverness than your English ones, madame."

"But I daresay you have some that are masters
of the art of calculation."

"You could encounter such rogues anywhere."
To her outrage, a flicker of amusement shaded his eyes. "It is all
the more reason you should be careful,
ma chere
. Maybe you
would permit me to walk you back to your carriage?"

He reached for her hand, but a sudden frown
creased his brow.

Phaedra tried to draw away, but he would not
let her. She grimaced, realizing she had forgotten to put her
gloves back on after examining the candlesticks. Maintaining a firm
but gentle clasp on her wrist, he inspected the scratches on her
hands.

"
Mon Dieu
. What have you done to
yourself?"

His feigned concern caused her more pain than
the knowledge that he was responsible for her injuries.

"A trifling accident," she said tersely. "I
assure you that no such mishap will ever befall me again."

She jerked away from him. Pulling her gloves
out of her drawstring bag, she tugged them on. Damn him! She could
endure no more of his performance. She would dash her fist into his
face, if he continued to regard her with that mock-tender light in
his eyes. As though he worried over a few minor scratches, when she
knew well he'd just as soon she had broken her neck.

"You will excuse me if I decline your offer
of an escort," she said. “I am not returning to my carriage. I was
on my way to the bookseller."

"Then I will stroll with you. I had a
purchase I wished to make myself." He slipped his arm through hers,
the movement full of graceful gallantry, yet inexorable. There was
no way to be rid of him unless she wished to make a scene in the
streets.

She acquiesced in silence, walking stiffly
beside him. As they drew near the bookseller's stall, Phaedra
attempted to shake Armande off by feigning a deep interest in
purchasing a book. The variety that this particular seller offered
was small, a mixture of old and new. Goldsmith and Johnson were
tumbled haphazardly amongst volumes of Fielding and Smollett. Not
far off Phaedra could see a copy of the Gazetteer, but with Armande
hovering so close to her side, she dared not reach for it. She
snatched up a book without noticing the title.

"You and your cousin seem to have an
admiration for Swift."

Armande's comment made no sense until Phaedra
realized she was holding the first volume of
Gulliver's
Travels
.

"Yes," she said slowly, stabbed by a painful
remembrance. "It is one of the few books my mother ever bought for
me, though I did not appreciate the satire when I was a child. I
read it more for-for-.”

“For the fantasy. For the pleasure of
traveling to such faraway exotic places as the kingdoms of Lilliput
and Brobdingnag."

Phaedra could only stare up at him, for a
moment forgetting her anger, as she wondered how he could know such
things about her childhood. He sounded as though he had shared her
dreams, had been her fellow traveler when she had voyaged with
Lemuel Gulliver.

He pointed to the book in her hands. "Well,
you can scarce wish to purchase what you already have."

"But I don't have it." Her fingers tightened
almost unconsciously. "My husband burned it-all my books."

Why was she telling Armande all this? He
could not possibly care. No one but she had ever mourned the loss
of the books from her childhood. She had mourned them like old
friends, the one legacy from her parents lost to her forever.

She could still recall that day she had come
in from riding, preparing to take tea with Jonathan. She
experienced again that sick feeling, when she had found the garret
bookcase empty, and had seen Ewan's cruel smile when he had
indicated the heap of ashes in the fireplace grate. It was yet
another punishment for her being ‘too clever.’ He had nearly broken
her that time. It was as though he had thrust every dream she'd
ever cherished into those flames, reducing a part of her very soul
to ashes. That day she had finally begun to hate Ewan Grantham.

"Phaedra?" As though from a great distance,
she heard Armande's voice. She blinked, coming back to the present
to find him studying her with grave concern, the bookseller eyeing
with suspicion the volume she hugged to her chest as though she
meant to steal it.

"Will my lady be wanting that wrapped?" the
man asked. Much to the bookseller's evident disgust, she shook her
head.

Armande appeared about to protest, so she
said quickly, "I doubt I could afford it. My grandfather has no
more liking for Irish authors than Ewan had. I could not bear to
see another book cast into the fire." She laughed weakly. "Coal is
so much cheaper to burn."

She replaced the book. "I believe I have done
enough browsing for one day."

"
Bien
. I will make my purchase, then
we'll go. I fear it is I who must risk offending your
grandpere
. My curiosity has been aroused by the crude Sir
Norris."

Phaedra watched as Armande proceeded to buy
the copy of the Gazetteer she had noticed earlier. But the urge she
had felt last night to prevent his reading it was gone. With a kind
of cold fascination, she watched him flick through the pages. She
knew when he had read down to the section that concerned him. His
fingers tightened upon the newsprint, a wintry expression replacing
the warmth with which he had regarded her earlier.

"You do not seem to have found Mr.
Goodfellow's essay all that diverting," she ventured.

"No, I didn't. I would have thought the man
could have found more important matters to write about, but it
seems he shares your interest regarding my background. "

Phaedra flinched before the sudden hard look
of suspicion Armande directed her way. He could not possibly have
guessed the truth, but she fidgeted with her purse strings, saying
as indifferently as she could manage, "I daresay Mr. Goodfellow's
curiosity could make things far more uncomfortable for you than I
ever did."

"He could if I continue to let him write this
tripe."

"However would you stop him?" Phaedra asked,
not liking the glint in Armande's eyes. "Even the members of
parliament, who have been used much worse by the writer than you,
have been tolerant. Especially after the John Martin affair."

When Armande shot her a questioning look, she
explained, "He was another writer who dared criticize the king.
When he was imprisoned, riots broke out on his behalf."

"There are more effective ways to stop a
man's pen than prison," Armande said coldly.

"Alas, no one has the least notion who Robin
Goodfellow might be."

"I will find out." The steely resolution in
Armande's voice left her in no doubt that he would. It would not be
difficult for Armande to track down her publisher. Gilly had told
her that Jessym was tough, a close-mouthed individual, but Armande,
Phaedra feared, would know how to be most persuasive. Even if
Jessym knew nothing of her, he would be bound to mention Gilly.
Armande knew that her cousin had been investigating him. The
marquis might assume that Gilly was Robin Goodfellow. And then- No,
she couldn't let it come to that.

Phaedra tried to behave naturally, permitting
Armande to take her by the arm to lead her back to her carriage.
But beneath her outwardly calm exterior, her heart pounded. All
unknowingly, Armande suddenly posed a greater threat to her than he
had when he had locked her in with Danby.

If she ever meant to fight back, find a way
to be rid of him, she had to do it quickly. But her mind was all
but numb from panic. What could she do? What on earth could she
do?

She could not have said how the idea first
popped into her head.

If she had been thinking more clearly, she
would have dismissed the thought at once as insanity. The mere
notion of attempting such a thing left her in a cold sweat. No, she
couldn't. What if it went awry? What if Armande caught her?

Yet even though she was nearly choked by her
fears, she was already clearing the way to set the plan into
motion. When her maid reappeared at last, she found an excuse to
send the girl away again. “You may wait in the carriage, Lucy. You
can see I have the marquis with me now. I am sure I can depend upon
him to escort me upon one more errand. Just tell Ridley to bring
the carriage around by the goldsmith's shop."

She hoped her voice sounded flirtatious, like
Muriel Porterfield's, instead of shrill with panic. But it scarce
mattered. Armande seemed to have withdrawn into himself, too
preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice her nervousness. He
made no protest about escorting her to the goldsmith's, holding the
door open for her with a kind of stiff gallantry. How could she
possibly be scheming to do such a thing to him? No, she adjured
herself, steeling her shoulders. After what he had done to her last
night, the threat he posed to herself and Gilly, he deserved it.
That is, if it worked.

Phaedra started when the low-voiced
proprietor approached her. A solemn, businesslike man with a
balding forehead, he appeared accustomed to the vagaries of female
clientele. He made no demur when Phaedra had him drag out almost
every item in the shop for her inspection, every necklet, ring,
chain and watch. She pretended to examine them all, while trying to
summon her courage. It had been many years since she had played at
sleight of hand games with Gilly. She had no way of knowing if she
still possessed the skill-at least not until she tried.

Swallowing hard, she dropped her purse. While
the goldsmith bent to retrieve it, Phaedra palmed one of the gold
seal rings. That of course was the easy part. She skirted over to
where Armande stared moodily at a delicate lady's watch and chain.
Phaedra brushed up against him. In one swift movement, she slipped
the seal ring into his waistcoat pocket.

He glanced down at her, his eyes widening in
surprise. Phaedra's stomach lurched with fear. Had he felt her
planting the ring?

"Oh dear," she faltered. "I think I've lost
my ..."

She nearly said purse, realizing in time she
was still clutching it. "My handkerchief. It was one my mother
embroidered for me. I must have dropped it back at the
bookseller's. I don't know how I could have been so careless. I
cannot bear the thought of having lost it."

The story was absurd. She was certain Armande
would see through it at once. But the genuine anguish in her voice
must have made it sound quite convincing. She actually felt tears
start to her eyes.

Armande's expression softened. He lightly
touched her cheek. "There is no need to so distress yourself,
ma
chere
. I will go back at once and look for it."

Phaedra lowered her eyes, no longer able to
bear to look at him. "Would you?" she quavered. "I'd be most
grateful."

As Armande left the shop. Phaedra fought down
an urge to call him back. Even now she could put a halt to
this.

And do what? Sit back and wait until Armande
found another way to destroy her? Taking no time to reconsider,
Phaedra hurried toward the goldsmith.

"Oh, sir. That man who left your shop just
now-"

"My lady's husband?" the goldsmith asked.

"Heaven forfend. I never saw him before in my
life. I think he was following me."

The goldsmith's forehead furrowed with
indignation. "The rogue. There are plenty of that sort about to
accost innocent women. In future, might I suggest your maid
accompany you?"

“You don't understand, sir." Phaedra wrung
her hands. This must not take too long. She had to be out of here
before Armande returned. "His advances to me were all a ploy. He
but used that for an opportunity to steal. I saw him slip a ring
into his pocket. I was so frightened, I could not speak to warn
you."

The goldsmith frowned. "Are you certain,
milady? The gentleman was most well-dressed for a thief."

At Phaedra's insistence, the man examined his
merchandise. She went through agonies of fear while he did so. It
seemed to take him forever to notice the large seal ring was
missing.

The goldsmith shook his head. "Aren't these
rascals getting bolder all the time? Such elegant raiment, too.
Only fancy!"