Susan Carroll (19 page)

"While you are fancying, the man is making
good his escape." Realizing her voice sounded too sharp, Phaedra
quickly resumed her fluttery tone. "I mean, you must get the
constable after him. He's only gone a small way up the street."

"Well, if milady would be so good as to bear
witness-"

"No, I could not bear to set eyes upon the
villain again."

Phaedra struck her hand to her brow. "You
will have all the evidence you need, I assure you, in his right
front pocket. I must get to my carriage before I faint."

That was not far from true, Phaedra thought
as she stumbled from the shop. Her knees felt so weak she was
relieved to find Peter waiting to hand her into the coach. She all
but collapsed inside, wrenching the door closed herself. She wanted
to order Ridley to drive back to the Heath at once, but she had to
have some idea if her plot had succeeded.

She instructed Peter in breathless accents.
"Tell Ridley to drive around the next square and then come back up
Oxford Street."

Peter looked astonished but said, "Very good,
my lady."

Ridley would think she had taken complete
leave of her senses, but Phaedra did not care. She leaned back
against the squabs and closed her eyes, tensed and waiting. She had
some notion of how pale she must have looked, for her maid tried to
administer the vinaigrette.

Phaedra waved her aside. "No, I need nothing
except a little air."

She slunk to the coach window and peered out
as the carriage wound its way back up Oxford Street. The vehicle's
progress was even slower than before, thanks to the crowd that had
gathered outside the bookseller's stall. Armande stood in its
midst, his tall figure appearing haughty and detached by comparison
to the accusing mob. Phaedra caught a glimpse of the goldsmith's
bald head, saw his arms wave in angry gesticulations. In a
supremely scornful gesture, Armande flung back the flaps of his
frock coat, feeling into the pocket of his waistcoat. Phaedra
watched his hauteur dissolve into astonishment as he produced the
missing ring.

The crowd fell upon him then, seizing his
arms before he could move. Phaedra clenched her hands, terrified of
what would happen next. But Armande appeared too stunned to offer
any resistance as he was hustled off to be taken into custody.
Phaedra drew back as he was dragged past her coach. She was
uncertain what caused Armande to glance up just then. Perhaps he
recognized the markings of her grandfather's carriage. Perhaps it
was that uncanny instinct he seemed to possess. For one moment
Phaedra stared into Armande's upturned face.

She saw realization flash across his
countenance followed by a look of betrayal Phaedra thought would
haunt her forever. Then his face seemed to turn to stone. If
Armande had not despised her before, his glacial stare told her
that he had now become her deadliest enemy.

The long jolting ride out of the city
afforded Phaedra too much time to think about what she had just
done. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Armande's face
tensing into lines of shock, his eyes shadowed with the pain of
betrayal. She had caught the same tormented expression in her own
mirror once too often not to recognize it in Armande.

Yet what right had he to feel betrayed? Had
he not brought it all upon himself? He had come to her
grandfather's house, cloaking himself in secrecy, threatening both
her and Gilly. He could not expect to endanger her and those she
loved, then imagine that she would behave like some witless doll,
letting him do as he pleased.

There was no reason in the world that she
should feel guilty. All the same, she kept envisioning Armande
being dragged away by the malicious, triumphant throng. For some
reason, it also conjured up memories of the carpenter Wilkins, his
bloodied form being slung over John's shoulder, being removed from
her grandfather’s dining parlor like a sack of refuse.

But it made little sense that she should thus
connect the two men. Aside from the fact that both Wilkins and
Armande would lodge in Newgate this night, there was no similarity.
No one had carted Armande off. Even surrounded by a threatening
mob, he had carried himself with a kind of scornful hauteur. Theft
was not so dreadful a charge as attempted murder. The most
important difference of all was that Armande's wealth and title
would settle over him like a protective mantle. Likely his trial
would be but a token affair. The scandal was what Phaedra was
counting upon to drive the marquis from her life. After being
proclaimed a thief, Armande would not dare show his face at the
Heath again. Her grandfather bore more tolerance for a would-be
assassin than he would for one charged with stealing.

But for the first time, some of the flaws in
her impulsive plot began to occur to Phaedra. What if Armande
revealed to her grandfather the trick she had played upon him? She
would deny it, of course. But who would her grandfather
believe?

What if Armande simply returned to the Heath
to exact his own vengeance upon her in full measure? If he did so,
Phaedra was only sure of one thing, his revenge would be cruel,
subtle, and well-planned, not conceived in the heat of a panic as
her own had been.

The only thought bolstering her courage was
that it would take Armande time to extricate himself. Justice moved
slowly, even for a nobleman. By the time he was free, perhaps Gilly
would have returned. Or she might have thought of another way to
deal with Armande.

What she needed to do now was compose herself
for the moment when she faced her grandfather across the dinner
table and he wondered what the deuce had become the marquis. She
would have to be able to turn upon him a pair of most innocent
eyes.

The carriage was well on its way out of
London, turning upon that stretch of road that led out to the
Heath, when Phaedra's thoughts reverted to the Wilkins affair. Her
preoccupation with Armande had nearly driven all thought of the
unfortunate carpenter and his wife from her head.

She had counted upon being able to send Gilly
to find out where Mrs. Wilkins lived, but Gilly was gone. Perhaps
it might be possible to get one of the younger male servants to
undertake the errand for her, despite the possibility of incurring
her grandfather's displeasure. The footman, Peter, was a most
amenable young lad.

For once, luck was with Phaedra. When she
mentioned the matter to Lucy, her maid imparted the startling
information that very likely Peter would go. He knew the Wilkins
family quite well.

Phaedra banged on the roof of the coach,
shouting for Ridley to stop. She almost thought the old man meant
to ignore her, but after a time, she felt the carriage slow, the
wheels themselves seeming to grind to a grudging halt.

Peter came to the coach door at once. The
carriage had pulled past the environs of the city, and there was
nothing in sight but a rolling green meadow with several cows
peacefully grazing.

"Peter," Phaedra said. "Lucy tells me you
knew the Wilkins man."

Peter shot a reproachful glance at Lucy, then
began to bluster. "I only talked to him a time or two when he did
some carpentry work down at the stables. It wasn't me who let him
in that night, Lady Grantham. I swear."

"No, Peter," she said "I wasn't accusing you.
I only wanted to know if you knew where the man's wife lives."

"Eliza Wilkins? Well, aye I do, but-"

"Good. Then direct Ridley to turn the coach
about and drive there at once."

Peter's jaw dropped. "Surely not, my lady.
You'd never be wanting to go to that part of London. "

"I assure you that I do. Tell Ridley at once,
Peter." Her tone brooked no refusal. Peter withdrew from the coach
doorway, but she could hear him muttering, "I can always tell
Ridley, my lady. But I doubt he'll do it."

Peter was soon proved correct. Ridley balked
at the notion and prepared to whip up his horses, continuing on for
the Heath. But Phaedra leaped down from the carriage and engaged in
a heated argument with the stubborn old coachman. She only won in
the end by threatening to set out on foot if need be.

Ridley surrendered with a bad grace, snarling
that her grandfather would hear of this, that if they were all
murdered down there in Canty Row, Sawyer Weylin would receive full
report. Phaedra bit back a smile as she reentered the coach. Having
achieved her object, she enjoyed a small feeling of victory, almost
unspoiled by the knowledge that she would later have to deal with
her grandfather's wrath.

Ridley set the horses off at a slow pace, as
though determined to thwart Phaedra in whatever small way he could.
But a full hour later, when the carriage rumbled down Canty Row,
Phaedra began to appreciate Ridley's reluctance.

The carriage wheels jounced and ground their
way through ruts compounded of mud and offal, the pungent odor
pervading the air as though the decay of centuries festered in the
narrow lane. Coal smoke hung thick above the street, casting a pall
over buildings that looked as though they should long ago have
crumbled to dust. The tenements leaned against each other, like
drunkards groping for support. Everywhere windows were boarded up
to avoid the window tax, yet it made no odds-for the sun itself
seemed to have forgotten this part of London.

What ragged inhabitants Phaedra saw were
mostly children. They stared at her coach, their eyes aglitter with
the hunger and savagery of half-starved rats. Phaedra half-expected
them to fall upon the carriage at any moment and gnaw at the wooden
wheels.

Lucy shrieked when one scrawny youth chunked
a rock. It hit the side of the coach with a startling thunk. But
Ridley brandished his whip, scattering the urchins back into the
dark shelter of the doorways.

Ridley adamantly refused to let Phaedra
dismount from the carriage. She did not argue with him, letting
Peter go in search of Mrs. Wilkins. He disappeared into one of the
more respectable-looking buildings. Phaedra waited several minutes,
the first daunting impression of Canty Row beginning to fade,
losing its ability to intimidate her. She should never have let
Peter go alone. Mrs. Wilkins was supposed to be ill. Most likely
the woman would not be able to come out to her.

She had almost made up her mind to follow
Peter when the footman emerged. He leaned in the door of the coach.
"It is all right, my lady. I believe it would be safe for you to
come in."

Ridley started to howl a protest. but Phaedra
had already leaped from the coach. She turned a deaf ear to both
Lucy's frightened pleas and Ridley's more vociferous ones.

She followed Peter beneath the shadow of one
of the tenements, up a flight of rickety wooden stairs. The sour
smells of urine and sickness assaulted her in a great wave. She
pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose, beginning to doubt both
Peter's wisdom and her own. From a corner of the hallway, she
caught a glimpse of the child who had thrown the rock, staring at
her with sullen eyes and swilling from a bottle of gin.

She had little time to register her shock
before Peter ushered her into a large room. He closed the door,
maintaining a watchful post by the threshold. Phaedra adjusted her
eyes to the room's dim atmosphere, then glanced about her with
astonishment. It was not in the least what she would have
expected.

The room showed signs of the building's
general state of decay, but it was obvious someone had been at
great pains to keep the chamber clean. An oil cloth was spread
across the wooden floor, its worn surface well swept. The sparse
furnishings-a mattress, a table and one chair-bore no hint of the
grime of Canty Row. Upon the windowsill stood a clay pot, in which
some bright red poppies managed to bloom, catching what little
light filtered past the window boards. The flowers provided a
splash of color in what was otherwise a drab world.

Eliza Wilkins came slowly forward to greet
Phaedra. Her much-mended gown hung upon her thin frame, her
features almost ethereally pale. Her blond hair fell past her
shoulders, the strands of a lackluster hue. Yet nothing could erase
the delicate structure of the bones beneath the transparent skin,
the beauty of a pair of soft brown eyes or the proud set of her
emaciated shoulders. At one time, Phaedra thought, Eliza Wilkins
must have been a very lovely young woman.

It suddenly occurred to Phaedra that as
Weylin's granddaughter, she would likely not be welcome.

"Mrs. Wilkins?" she stammered. "I've come-
that is, I am-"

"I know who you are, Lady Grantham," Eliza
Wilkins said.

There was no rancor in her voice, only
infinite weariness. She did not look at Phaedra as she invited her
to sit down.

Phaedra glanced at the room's single chair.
"No, thank you."

Eliza Wilkins looked as though she were the
one who ought to be sitting. Indeed, Phaedra wondered what was
holding the woman on her feet. She stood patiently waiting, Phaedra
was sure, for Phaedra to declare her business and get out.

"I was so sorr-" Phaedra broke off again.
What was she going to say? That she was sorry for the woman's
misfortunes. Dear God, Wilkins had said that their babe had died
recently. Added to Eliza's grief must be the knowledge that her
husband was certain to hang. All phrases of condolence seemed
woefully inadequate, almost patronizing.

What could she say then-that she had come to
help? Phaedra fingered her small purse of coins. That too seemed
inadequate in the face of all this. Her gaze once more roved over
the barrenness of the room's furnishings, the sorrow set deep in
Eliza Wilkins's dark eyes.

She became miserably conscious of how she
must look, trailing in here with her livery-garbed footman, her
silk gown, the lace dusting of her petticoats peeking out. She felt
ashamed that she had ever dared fancy she knew anything of poverty,
ashamed of being Sawyer Weylin's granddaughter.