Susan Carroll (34 page)

"Indeed, Mr. Fitzhurst?" he said. He looked
directly into Gilly's eyes. "Well, I wish you a long life in which
to enjoy it."

Gilly blinked, astonished; and Armande
managed to walk past him with an air of quiet dignity. Her cousin
let out his breath in a long, low whistle.

"What a cool devil! I think I have been
rather silkily threatened, but stap me, if for an instant I didn't
fancy his good wishes were sincere."

Phaedra glared at him, realizing how her
hands had trembled during the exchange. It had been like watching
two duelists facing each other and wondering who would be goaded
into striking first.

"I shouldn't wonder if he had threatened you
when you were doing your damnedest to provoke him."

"I was only seeking to know the man better,
my dear." Gilly’s innocent expression was belied by the acid in his
tones. "Bring forth his warm, caring side you've been telling me so
much about. Perchance I’ll become better acquainted with himself
before the afternoon is out."

Phaedra placed her hands upon her hips.
"Perchance you'd best stay away from Armande-and the house."

"Oh, I promise to stay away from him."

"I warn you, Gilly," she said, "I will be
watching you."

He shot her an aggravating smile and
sauntered away, twirling his hat. She had little choice but to dog
his footsteps, fearful that at any moment he intended to slip off
to the Heath.

While Gilly joined a group of the older lads
in playing at ninepins, she hovered in the background, taking care
to keep her cousin constantly in sight, all the while affecting a
deep interest in the game. When someone tugged at her sleeve, she
pulled away without glancing around.

"Phaedra," Jonathan pleaded. "You must give
me but a moment of your time."

"Not now," she started to protest, then
swallowed the words as she recalled guiltily that she tended to
avoid Jonathan too often of late. The poor man appeared nearly ill
with worry over something. She sighed, offering her hand in a
gesture of acquiescence, permitting Jonathan to lead her to a bench
where she could still keep Gilly within her line of vision.

Knowing Jonathan, she was certain whatever
had caused this state of anxiety would prove nothing more than a
tempest in a teapot. She did not even feel startled when Burnell
announced gravely, "Phaedra, I am afraid you may be in danger."

Phaedra forced a smile to her lips, her eyes
drawn to where Gilly hurled the ball, scattering the heavy wooden
pins. "Jonathan, I assure you, despite the heat, I am not planning
to go swimming or do anything else which might distress you."

"I am worried about this Robin Goodfellow
affair," he said with a sharp edge to his voice. She glanced up at
him in surprise.

"Phaedra, it is that last piece you wrote.
You have caused riots in the city."

"I know all about that. Gilly told me."

"Did he also tell you Jessym's house was
attacked by a mob last night, the windows broken while they howled
for the real name of Robin Goodfellow?"

"N-no." She faltered. "I am sorry to hear
that. I trust Jessym was unharmed?"

"Aye, but I hear he would sell his soul to
reveal the identity of Goodfellow and deflect the anger from his
own door."

"He can sell away," Phaedra said. "As long as
the only two people who ..." Her words trailed off as she was about
to offer Jonathan the familiar assurance only he and Gilly knew her
secret. But there was now a third. Armande. But no matter how angry
he was with her, surely he would never betray her. Even if he had
ceased to love her, what possible reason could he have for doing
so?

"Everything will be all right," she said.
"This will all pass. And I have decided never to write as
Goodfellow again."

"Have you, my dear?" Jonathan brightened, his
careworn features suffused with relief. At least, she thought
wryly, her decision to fling aside her only chance for independence
had made someone happy.

He clasped her hand between his own. "Such a
wise choice. I am so glad of it." He immediately sobered. "Of
course, I realize what the writing meant to you. Your husband has
left you in such dire straits, and Sawyer sometimes can be so
difficult."

Such a mild description of her grandfather's
irascible temper almost made Phaedra laugh aloud, but she became
uncomfortably aware of the way Jonathan was stroking her hand.

"A woman as young as yourself," he said
timidly, "must marry again one day."

Phaedra gently but firmly disengaged her
hand. "You are beginning to sound like Grandfather. He has been
doing his best to thrust me into the marquis's path all
summer."

"Varnais? Surely not! Such a strange, cold
man."

Phaedra stiffened, not liking Jonathan's
assessment of the man she loved any more than she had Gilly's.

All the worry lines returned to Jonathan's
brow. "Blast Sawyer and his ambition. How could he even think of
forcing you to marry that-that-"

"Do stop fretting, Jonathan. No one is
forcing me to marry anyone."

"But I know too well what Sawyer is like when
he gets one of these notions in his head. Nothing ever stops
him."

"Jonathan, I assure you," Phaedra said
wearily. "I will never be the Marchioness de Varnais."

She regretted she had ever mentioned the
matter, only seeking to divert Jonathan's thoughts from the Robin
Goodfellow affair. Now she had given him something else to worry
about. At times his concern for her could be almost oppressive.

"I am sorry, Phaedra," he said. "I do not
mean to annoy you. But I would do anything in the world to protect
you."

"I know that, Jonathan," she said, making one
last effort to dispel his anxiety and coax a smile from the solemn
man. "Long before Grandfather bullies me into marrying anyone, I
will have run off to become a highwayman, just as my cousin and I
have always planned." She nodded to where Gilly played at
ninepins.

Where Gilly should have been playing. Her
cousin's place had been taken by a chubby boy with a jam-smeared
face. Phaedra jerked to her feet, glancing wildly about her. But
her desperate gaze encountered nothing but a sea of boys, her
grandfather urging them on in a tug of war, the servants bringing
forth more cakes and ices. Gilly was nowhere in sight. Nor could
she see Armande.

"Damn him!" she said through clenched teeth,
although she was not certain which man she cursed. Perhaps both of
them. Not taking the time to offer an explanation to the startled
Jonathan, Phaedra tore off running toward the house. She heard him
calling her name, but she dared not stop.

She was out of breath when she reached the
set of long doors that brought her in at the back of the Green
Salon. Clutching her aching side, she hastened into the front
hall.

The house was silent except for the sound of
her ragged breathing. She might have fancied herself in some
abandoned castle with all the grim accoutrements of war gathering
dust upon the walls above her. So quiet was the vast stone chamber,
as still as that long ago night when James Lethington must have
hidden behind the armor, the mace clutched in his sweating
palms.

Phaedra darted up the stairs as though the
armored suit itself could come to life and pursue her. She buried
her fear beneath angry muttering. "It is I who shall be doing the
murdering this time. I will kill Gilly when I find him."

That is, if Armande had not already done so.
She suppressed the thought, hating herself for even imagining her
love capable of such a thing.

The deathlike silence pervaded the landing as
well. Had not one servant remained behind to guard the place? Any
other time that wretched Hester Searle would be lurking about to
intercept her cousin. Where was the blasted woman the one time
Phaedra needed her?

Phaedra crept toward Armande's bedchamber and
pressed her ear to the door. She did not know whether to feel
relieved or more alarmed when she detected not a single sound. She
tried the door and found it unlocked. Inching it open a crack, she
risked a peek inside.

"Gilly?" she whispered, but received no
answer. The room appeared undisturbed, Armande's scant belongings
untouched, even down to the small locked chest upon the dressing
table. Still, Phaedra did not quite trust her wily cousin not to be
hiding somewhere, merely waiting for her to leave.

She tiptoed into the room, peering into the
dressing chamber, behind the draperies and the wardrobe, beginning
to feel rather foolish. Perhaps she had once more leapt to
conclusions. Perhaps Gilly was not in the house at all, but still
somewhere upon the grounds, waiting for his opportunity. She had
better hasten out of here, before Armande caught her prowling.

She left the room, softly closing the door
behind her. Should she linger here to see if Gilly did attempt to
make good his threat?

Uneasily, she glanced down the hallway. She
hated being alone here. It was as if the Heath itself brooded,
watching her with unseen eyes. Adjuring herself to stop being
ridiculous, she made her way toward the backstairs. Knowing her
cousin, she thought it likely that he might be trying to slip in
through the servants' passageway.

At the bend of the servants' stairway she
paused, trying to decide whether to go up or down. If Gilly's
object was to search Armande's room, it was not likely he would
have gone to the Heath's uppermost floor. But when she glanced up
the stairs, she was startled to see the door to her garret flung
wide.

She supposed Gilly might have hidden up there
if he thought he heard someone coming, but she doubted it. As she
mounted the steps slowly, her heart thudded in a disquieting
rhythm. She craned her neck, trying to peer inside the room without
actually entering. She could not even bring herself to breathe
Gilly's name this time. Why had she never noticed before how
gloom-ridden her precious garret was, even in the daytime?

At last she took a cautious step inside,
telling herself she was being even sillier than she had been in
Armande's room. Her garret appeared much as it had this morning
when she had bolted inside to gather up the papers to show Armande.
Of course, she had been in a tearing hurry then.

Her gaze flew to the desk, the carved
gargoyle heads on the legs grimacing back at her, seeming as ever
to guard her secrets. Then why was she beset by this eerie feeling
of something being not quite right about the garret, something
different or out of place?

She studied each feature of the room, trying
to determine what it was that bothered her. Her glance skimmed past
the window, the desk, the daybed, the jumbled assortment of
three-legged stools, the little table that held her supply of
candles, the bookshelf tucked away in its dark corner.

The bookshelf which should have been
empty.

Phaedra stared, uncertain whether what she
saw was reality or some startling phantom image. The shelves, which
had stood vacant for so long were now crowded with books.

Stumbling across the room, she reached for
the leather-bound volumes of every size and thickness, half-afraid
they would crumble and disappear at her touch. Smollett, Johnson,
Goldsmith, Fielding, even her Shakespeare and Aristotle, they were
all there, like old friends miraculously restored to life,
resurrected from the ashes of Ewan’s fire. Only the bindings were
newer, as yet unworn by her loving hands. Nearly every book Ewan
had robbed her of had been returned, along with a few new ones. For
a moment all she could do was caress the fine-tooled leather, too
stunned to do anything else. Then she reached for one-rose-bound
book on the top shelf which stood a little out from the others, as
though beckoning her.

The first volume of
Gulliver's
Travels
.

Phaedra carried it over to the light
streaming through the garret window in order to see it more
clearly. She opened the book to its flyleaf, half-expecting she
might see the inscription her mother had written so long ago,
somehow knowing what she would really find.

The words were not in Lady Siobhan's
delicate, spidery hand, but a bold, elegant scrawl. To Phaedra, the
inscription read,
From your fellow voyager on the sea of
dreams
.

He hadn't written his name, but she needed no
signature to identify the writer. She thought back to the time she
and Armande had spent together these past weeks, those precious
stolen moments of making love and those other, equally precious
moments when he had encouraged her to talk. She realized now he had
been drawing her out, carefully gleaning the title of every
treasured volume she had lost, committing the names to memory. What
hours he must have spent combing the bookseller's stalls until he
found them all.

She snapped the book closed. And this was the
man she regretted having trusted with her secret, the man she
feared might do some harm to her beloved cousin. Armande had been
right to accuse her of a lack of trust. How quick she always was to
doubt him, to lose her faith in his love.

Even as bitterly betrayed as he was feeling,
he had done this for her, gifted her with the return of all her
childhood fantasies, that and so much more. Yet she knew he would
turn away, not even permitting her to thank him.

Her lips quivered with a determined smile.
She would find him and force him to accept her gratitude, and her
love as well. She leaned out the garret window, allowing a soft
breeze to caress her face. Suddenly the world that had seemed so
dark this morning was bright with promise, as shining as the sun
over her head. She started to pull back in when she glimpsed
something below that brought her to an abrupt halt.

Frowning, she stretched out as far as she
dared, peering downward at the cobbled pavement. How strange! It
looked as though someone had dropped a bundle of black rags. She
strained for a closer look and saw that the rags appeared to be
sopping up a pool of something red. Blood.