Susan Carroll (28 page)

Phaedra nearly choked with the effort to
suppress her fury because she knew Hester was right. She could
hardly complain to her grandfather about what Hester had done
without having to try to explain what she had been doing alone with
Lord Danby in that bedchamber.

Hester looked so maliciously smug, it was all
Phaedra could do not to slap her.

“’Course, ye need not worry so much about
protecting your reputation. It won’t matter a jot in the end. Ye'll
never be no marchioness. That Lord Varnais don't love ye no more
than Master Ewan ever did. He'll but use ye-"

"I said get out!" Phaedra advanced upon
Hester, not quite sure what she might have done had the housekeeper
not at last shown the good sense to back away from her. She bobbed
an insolent curtsy.

"Aye, just as ye wish, yer ladyship."

As the woman marched out the door, Phaedra
sank down upon the gilt chair, cursing herself. She had allowed
Hester to get the better of her again, drive her to anger just when
she had fancied herself immune to the woman's vicious barbs.

The creature must indeed be a witch,
searching out Phaedra's heart with her hag's gaze. When one tender
area had healed, she knew just where to direct a new thrust. That
Lord Varnais don't love ye ... he'll but use ye.

Phaedra slammed the palm of her hand upon the
dressing table. She would let no more of Hester's poison enter her
heart. The housekeeper was nothing but an embittered, jealous old
woman. Phaedra would not allow one particle of her happiness to be
snatched away by Hester’s grasping fingers.

She tried to resume brushing her hair. But
she found herself staring at the golden-haired shepherdess perched
before her. It was as though Hester's malice had tainted even her
enjoyment of that, the figurine's eyes appearing sad, the hue of
the lips as crimson as a slash of blood. Phaedra seized the statue
and buried it deep in the dressing table drawer.

The memory of her quarrel with Hester clung
in Phaedra’s mind like finely spun cobwebs, refusing to be brushed
aside. Even days later, as she jounced through London in the faded
splendor of a hackney coach, she found herself thinking about Mrs.
Searle.

Perhaps it was the evening fog that swirled
about the carriage, turning the familiar streets of London into a
nightmare world of illusion, of lurking mists that kept reminding
Phaedra of Hester. Or perhaps it was the knowledge of the risk she
took in being out alone, on a mission of just the sort of secrecy
the spying housekeeper would most have liked to discover.

Nervously, Phaedra patted the packet that
contained the writing she soon hoped to deliver into Jessym's
hands. She was supposed to be taking tea with Jonathan. Her plan
was to drop off the packet and continue on to Jonathan's house in
Cheapside before her absence could be noticed. She knew her friend
would willingly lie to cover her activities, but Phaedra had no
desire to place Jonathan in such an awkward position.

She did not intend for her business with
Jessym to take long. Phaedra adjusted the heavy veil over her face,
trusting that the fine black silk would obscure her features when
she thrust the manuscript out the coach window. She would not
alight from the carriage, thus keeping Jessym from studying her at
any great length.

Leaning forward, Phaedra risked a peek out
the hackney's grimy window to see if she could determine how close
they might be to Fleet Street. But the fog blanketed everything,
drawing down the curtain of night far sooner than she had
anticipated. The few other carriages that dared risk travel on such
an evening clattered past her and disappeared like shadow riders
into the thick mists; even the clop of the horses' hooves was muted
into a dreamlike unreality.

Many of the town houses had already lit their
oil lamps, which the law required them to burn above the pavement
in an effort to discourage the rogues who roved London's streets by
night. This eve, the lamps flickered dimly in the graying haze. The
illumination did not even reach the center of the street where the
hackney coach ambled, leaving Phaedra feeling cut adrift in a sea
of darkness far from the welcoming beacon of any shore.

She huddled back against the seat, wondering
why she had not asked Armande to accompany her, why even now she
did not trust him enough to tell him the truth of Robin
Goodfellow's identity. She was certain he was no longer angry about
the article she had written maligning his pose as the Marquis de
Varnais. She had never even heard him mention Robin Goodfellow
again since that day they had met by the bookseller's in Oxford
Street. Then why not confide in him as she had Gilly and
Jonathan?

Perhaps it was because, deep down in her
heart, she feared Hester was right. Armande did not love her, was
indeed planning to use her for some sinister purpose of his
own.

No! She nearly cried aloud in her vehemence
to deny it. How could she yet doubt the soft glow she had seen in
Armande's eyes when he looked at her, the tenderness of his kiss?
She would think no more about what Hester had said. The woman's
malicious whispers about Armande were more of the poison festering
inside Hester's own wretched heart.

Phaedra was thrown slightly off-balance as
the coach lurched to a stop. Through the haze she glimpsed a plain,
straight building of ugly red brick, grim' and uninviting. The
hackney driver swung down from his perch, yanking the door
open.

"This be it, milady. The address where you
asked to be set down."

"No, I didn't," Phaedra protested, the mist
threatening to seep into the hackney's interior, leaving her damp
and chilled."I mean, could you please knock at the door and request
a Mr. Jessym to come out to me?"

The driver scowled, and it took a great deal
of effort to persuade him-almost as though he feared Phaedra meant
to make off with his cab and horse the minute his back was turned.
By adding a considerable tip to the fare, an expense she could ill
afford, she convinced the coachman to fetch Jessym.

When he had gone, she fussed with her veil,
making sure not so much as one strand of red hair was showing. Her
fingers felt slick with perspiration within her tan kid gloves.
What if Jessym, accustomed to dealing with Gilly, refused to have
anything to do with her?

The moments dragged by slowly. Phaedra was
beginning to fear she had come to the wrong address when the driver
returned, followed closely by a short man wrapped in a navy
greatcoat and wearing a gray powdered bagwig.

Momentarily, Phaedra forgot all caution as
she let down the coach window, straining for her first glimpse of
Farley Jessym. The middle-aged man who thrust his face close to the
coach window was quite ordinary in appearance, with a hard set to
his mouth and a look of jaded weariness in his eyes. When he spoke,
his voice was sharp, startling Phaedra into backing away from the
window.

"Eh, what nonsense is this? What do you want
that you summon me out into the streets from my home?"

She thrust the packet containing her writing
out the window. "From Robin Goodfellow," she rasped in a deep
voice.

Jessym's brow arched, his cynical face
registering a flash of surprise. He yanked the packet from her
grasp. Much to Phaedra's dismay, he jerked the hackney's door open,
as well. She shrank back as Jessym leaned inside, his eyes narrowed
as though he would penetrate both the gloom-filled interior and the
layerings of her veil.

"So now I'm to deal with a wench, am I?" he
growled. "What happened to the Irishman?"

Phaedra shrugged, trying to avoid speaking
any more than was necessary.

Jessym muttered an oath. "Well, you can tell
Mr. Goodfellow for me, I'm a bit weary of all this secrecy. I like
to know who my writers are."

Phaedra merely extended her hand, wishing
that it did not tremble so. "The advance as promised, please."

"Not so fast, my fine lady, until I see what
I have here. This could be naught but a parcel of your love letters
for all I know."

Phaedra stiffened while Jessym undid the
packet, hauling forth the first few pages of the manuscript. He
squinted at it in the meager light offered by the coach's
lanterns.

"Emancipation for Catholics, eh?" Jessym
grunted. "This is bound to stir up a pretty rumpus. Not altogether
sure I should print it."

Phaedra's heart sank, but she ventured
bravely, "My-I mean,the money, if you please."

Jessym stared at her for a long moment,
before taking a worn purse from beneath his frock coat. He counted
off a handful of coins, but when Phaedra reached for them, he held
the money just out of her grasp.

"Trouble's brewing. Goodfellow ought to be
aware of that. The king's ministers are growing tired of the
license of the press, and they are looking to make an example of
him."

"Nonsense!" Phaedra forgot herself, speaking
in her normal voice. "I-we've heard those threats before. Ever
since the John Martin affair, the king has been afraid to persecute
writers lest he create another popular hero and martyr."

"Don't you be so sure about that," Jessym
scoffed. "All I'm saying is, if the day comes and I'm arrested for
spreading sedition, I don't mean to stand in the docks alone. You
just make sure Goodfellow knows that."

Jessym tumbled the coins into her hand and
stepped back. He closed the door, signaling the hackney driver to
move along. The coach lurched into movement before Phaedra had time
to react to Jessym's parting words.

As the hackney lumbered off down the street,
she fumed, angry at herself for not having exercised more control
over the interview which had just taken place. She had not even
counted the money to make sure it was the sum Jessym had
promised.

She fingered the coins in her lap, not
attempting to do so even now. What did Jessym mean by making such a
spiteful threat, that he would not stand trial alone? He knew no
one else to accuse except Gilly.

Sickened with fear, Phaedra reprimanded
herself for allowing herself to be so easily terrified. Jessym had
not yet been arrested for printing the Gazetteer, and she had
already lampooned King George and his ministers many times with
impunity. The harsh-faced publisher was raising alarms over
nothing.

But what if Jessym was right, and her luck
was indeed running out? What if the king's forbearance were drawing
to an end? She glanced out the window, the gray mists assuming
before her eyes the grim guise of Newgate Prison and its horrors,
as detailed by her grandfather. She could no longer afford to take
the risk. Not when she was playing with Gilly'S life and her
grandfather's reputation, as well as her own safety.

Robin Goodfellow would simply have to make
his fortune in some far less dangerous fashion. Phaedra sighed, her
fingers tightening over the coins. A wise decision. She only hoped
that she had not reached it too late.

Phaedra could not bring herself to burn the
copies of the essays she had written. Instead she tied the articles
neatly together with a black mourning ribbon and made sure they
were locked safely away in the garret desk. Beyond that, she gave
small consideration to the demise of Robin Goodfellow or what the
future might hold for her. Relieved when no tidings ever came
concerning Jessym's imminent arrest, she was content to live in the
present, making the most of every precious moment with Armande,
giving no heed to what the morrow might bring.

Summer descended upon London in a blaze of
heat, each day more searing than the last. Those who could afford
to do so had long ago fled the city for seaside resorts. Those that
had to remain, sweltered in the shade and suffered. One afternoon
as she and Armande rode out into the meadowland beyond the Heath's
neatly trimmed lawns, they saw no another living creature save for
a flock of newly shorn sheep.

Phaedra galloped across the pasture's brittle
grasses, scarcely attempting to shield her face beneath the brim of
her riding hat. Her roan gelding strove in vain to match stride
with Armande's great white stallion, Nemesis.

With but the merest touch from Armande upon
the reins, his horse shot forward, scattering the flock of
frightened sheep in all directions. Phaedra drew rein upon Furlong
before she exhausted the poor beast entirely. The gelding's sides
streamed with sweat as he wheezed his way across the meadow.

Armande at last noticed that he had lost her.
Halting at the edge of the pasture under the spreading shade of an
oak tree, he waited. With sweat glistening on his tanned face, he
unbuttoned his linen shirt enough to reveal his neck and the dark
dusting of hair upon his chest.

A teasing light glinted in Armande's eyes as
Phaedra drew alongside. He bent forward, addressing his stallion in
a conspiratorial whisper. "In good faith, Nemesis, if I had but
known, I could have fetched a knacker for that poor beast to put it
out of its misery."

"You never told me you meant to ride as
though a band of savage cutthroats were after us," Phaedra said.
"Nemesis. What sort of name for a horse is that, anyway?"

"It seemed an apt enough choice when I
christened him. But I'm not so sure, anymore." A faraway look crept
into Armande's eyes. Then he snapped himself back to the present
and slid from his horse.

"If we are to cherish any hope of returning
to the Heath," he teased, "it is obvious we must give your spirited
mount a rest."

She raised no objections when he lifted her
from the saddle. Not far beyond the oak tree, Armande found a rill;
rather sluggish with the heat, it yet managed to carve a bed for
itself at the edge of the pasture. They allowed the horses to
drink, then moved to a spot farther down the bank before kneeling
themselves. Phaedra hitched up the voluminous skirts of her
sky-blue riding habit and petticoats, dabbing the cool water on her
cheeks, then cupping her hands for a drink. She stole glances at
Armande, watching him splash the cooling liquid over the strong
cords of his neck. Phaedra's gaze was once more drawn to the scar
on his throat. Armande had once told her that the wound was a
result of something a friend had once done to him. Was it the same
friend he had once mentioned as having been imprisoned, whose
memory had haunted him the day she had.had Armande arrested?