Susan Carroll (42 page)

Phaedra lifted the lid of her jewel case,
studying the contents.

Most of the sparkling gems meant little to
her. Even the diamond aigrette earrings and the emerald brooch were
but part of the image she had been expected to maintain as Lady
Grantham. But she hesitated over the strand of pearls her
grandfather had so recently given her.

Their luster seemed somehow dulled now, as
she thought of the torment on James's face, and of how her
grandfather's silence had helped see him hanged. As though some of
James's bitterness crept into her own soul, she rejected the
pearls, dropping them back into the box. The only object she
removed was an oval gold locket.

The locket was extremely plain. Its beauty
for Phaedra lay in her memory of the giver. Two days before she had
set sail from Ireland to become Ewan Grantham's bride, Gilly had
tossed the locket into her lap, saying, with one of his teasing
grins, "And you can rest easy wearing it, darlin'. 'Tis even paid
for."

Phaedra's hand shook as she fumbled with the
catch, opening the locket to reveal the hollow emptiness. "Damn
you, Patrick Gilhooley Fitzhurst. Why did you never think to put a
likeness of yourself inside?"

She clicked the locket closed, telling
herself it didn't matter. She would carry the image of unruly black
curls and laughing green eyes forever in her heart. It was the most
painful part of her leaving-not being able to bid Gilly farewell.
She had forestalled him with great difficulty these past few days,
sending him notes begging him not to come to the Heath until she
sent for him. She had even gone so far as to lie, writing that
James Lethington had left the Heath, simply disappeared, assuring
Gilly that all was well with her.

She feared seeing her cousin, knowing she
might break down and reveal her plans. She could well imagine what
Gilly's reaction would be. He would attempt to kill James rather
than let her go off with a man he deemed dangerous.

Her only choice was to slip away like this,
leaving behind a letter for Gilly, pleading with him to understand
and not to fear for her, ending with the prayer that, God willing,
they would somehow meet again one day.

Phaedra fastened the locket about her neck.
She took one last glance about her bedchamber, but she felt no
regrets that she had spent her last night here. She had never truly
known happiness in this room or any other of the elegant chambers
of Sawyer Weylin's mansion. Only one part of the house had ever
held any charm for her.

Lighting a candle, Phaedra rustled out of her
bedchamber to take one final peek into her garret. She had not been
up there since the day she had discovered Hester dead. As she
mounted the narrow stairs, she tensed with apprehension. But she
need not have worried. The candle's soft glow revealed her little
sanctuary to be undisturbed even by the ghosts of the past. The
dust gathered silently upon the jumbled assortment of furniture,
which meant nothing to anyone save herself.

Phaedra walked immediately over to the
bookshelf, running her fingers ruefully over the stiff leather
spines. It was impossible to take the volumes with her. How ironic,
she thought, that once more she must lose her treasured books-and
this time because of the very man who had restored them to her.

Her gaze roved about the garret with a kind
of bittersweet nostalgia. She found herself remembering all the
dreams she had woven up here, her plans for independence, the
desire to be free, never to place herself in the power of any man
again.

Of course, she told herself hastily, that had
all been long before she had fallen so desperately in love with
James. A mocking voice inside her reminded her that she had once
fancied herself wildly devoted to Ewan Grantham.

But it was far different this time, she
assured herself. It had to be; the risks were so much greater. She
was flinging herself into a void, with only James’s love to sustain
her. She had to trust him.

Thus resolved, Phaedra had but one more task
to perform before she quit the Heath forever. She walked over to
the oak desk and unlocked it. She intended to make sure all copies
of her Robin Goodfellow writings were burned. But as Phaedra groped
inside the desk, a feeling of panic settled over her. They were
gone-the drafts she had bound up so neatly with the black
ribbon.

She rifled through the drawer, coming up with
nothing but blank sheets of parchment and yellowed issues of the
Gazetteer. Phaedra straightened, willing herself to be calm and
think.

The last she had seen of the papers had been
the day she had showed them to James. He had flung them back at
her. She had gathered up the parchment in great distress. And then
...

She pressed her fingertips to her temples in
frustration, her mind drawing a blank. She simply couldn't
remember. She thought she had brought the papers back up here,
stuffed them into the desk. Phaedra rummaged through the drawer one
more time, but with no result. She supposed she might have
temporarily placed the drafts in her dressing table.

Snatching up the candle, she raced down to
her bedchamber, but although she fairly tore the room apart, she
turned up no sign of the missing papers. When Lucy came upstairs
for the second time to report that Sawyer Weylin was growing
impatient, Phaedra reluctantly had to abandon her search.

But as she flung her cloak over her arm, she
fretted, "What could have happened to those accursed things?"

A thought occurred to her. Not a thought so
much as a name-James. But she would not allow herself to pursue the
fear. Instead she tried to tell herself that it truly did not
matter. She was leaving London and her days as Robin Goodfellow far
behind. If the papers came to light after the departure, she could
rest assured her grandfather would be quick to destroy them.

Still striving to stifle her uneasiness,
Phaedra descended the main stair to find her grandfather awaiting
her in the hall below. James had not yet come down either, and the
old man was fuming.

Leaning upon his cane, Sawyer Weylin hobbled
past the suits of armor, his elaborately curled white wig and
purple satin waistcoat straining over his huge middle, making a
strange contrast to those lean men of iron.

Phaedra tensed at the sight of him. Ever
since hearing James's story, it had been difficult for her to meet
Sawyer with any degree of composure. She had adjured James to
forget the past, but discovered she had a hard time doing so
herself.

Each time she regarded the stubborn set of
her grandfather's lips, the shrewd eyes set beneath heavy lids, she
was unable to think of anything but the misery her grandfather had
brought to both herself and James. How different things might have
been if Weylin's first concern had been for his granddaughter's
happiness! But he had thrown it all away, for the dream of enabling
a great-grandchild to wear a coronet.

Phaedra feared that her face revealed some of
what she felt. Her grandfather had seemed uneasy in her presence of
late, and had grown more belligerent than ever. After growling his
usual dissatisfaction with her unpowdered hair, he barked, "Why the
deuce do you keep staring at me in that addle-witted fashion?
Sometimes I think you've not been right in the head since the death
of that Searle woman."

"Hester's violent death came as a shock to
me," Phaedra said quietly, lowering her eyes. "Despite the fact
that I never liked her. She was a most unpleasant woman."

"But a damned efficient housekeeper. I shall
ne'er come by another so cheaply."

Phaedra choked back a bitter laugh. Hester's
presence at the Heath had proved far more costly than her
grandfather could ever imagine. The woman's death had forced
Phaedra to open her eyes, to seek answers about Armande. Those
answers had led to her plans for this night. But thinking of the
manner of Hester's death, Phaedra shuddered. That was one mystery
that must remain unsolved, although it would continue to trouble
her long after she had left this place.

Phaedra's eyes traveled unwillingly toward
the iron-spiked mace. There was more than one matter she should be
content to let rest, but she could not seem to do so. She would
never see her grandfather again after tonight, never have the
chance to demand an accounting of his exact part in James's
tragedy.

She asked, "Did you ever hear how Hester used
to terrify cook's children with the story of James Lethington?"

Her grandfather appeared absorbed in
consulting his pocket watch, shaking the timepiece as though it had
stopped running. He grunted. "Fool woman would've done better to
tend to her dusting instead of blathering about what was none of
her concern."

"But I often have wondered about the murder
myself," Phaedra continued, studying her grandfather through her
lashes. "Ewan sometimes spoke of it, of how he testified at
Lethington's trial. But something never quite rang true. Do you
suppose Ewan truly did witness his uncle's death?"

Weylin's florid countenance seemed to darken
a shade. "'Course he did." Then after a lengthy pause, he added,
"And even if he hadn't, it would not have mattered."

"Not have mattered!" Phaedra trembled with
outrage, tortured by a vision of the rope crushing James's neck.
"When a man's very life was at stake!"

"Lethington was guilty. I saw enough myself
to be sure of that."

"Truly, Grandfather? Exactly how much did you
see?”

He feigned not to have heard her question. He
stumped over to the bottom of the stair, peering upward. "Where the
deuce is Armande? The man takes his blasted time about everything.
Why hasn't he proposed to you by now?"

Phaedra refused to allow herself to be
diverted. "From what I heard, James Lethington might have had a
reason for attacking Ewan's uncle. Carleton Grantham abducted his
sister. Did you ever hear anything about that, Grandfather?"

His only reply was a grunt.

Phaedra persisted, "Julianna must have been a
great inconvenience. Ewan always said he would have married her
instead of me if she had not died."

Her grandfather dragged forth a handkerchief
to mop at his brow. "Ewan was a fool. From the way your marriage to
him turned out, without even a son to inherit the title, I might as
well have let him indulge his folly and marry some poor
china-maker's chit."

Phaedra sucked in her breath. "You might as
well have let Ewan marry Julianna? Pray tell me, Grandfather, what
you did do prevent it."

Never had Phaedra seen such an expression
upon her grandfather's face. His eyes shifted away from her in
guilty fashion.

"Why, nothing," Weylin blustered. "Except to
offer Ewan Grantham enough money to make sure he forgot about the
Lethington girl. It was the wench's own idea to run off and kill
herself."

In that moment, Phaedra had a sick feeling
that all of James's suspicions were correct. Her grandfather did
know more of what had happened to Julianna Lethington than he ever
would tell. But before she could ask anything further, James
descended the stairs.

He looked magnificent, his powerful thighs
molded by a pair of satin breeches, his rich burgundy frock coat
showing off to perfection the power of his chest and shoulders.
Phaedra was disturbed to see that he had powdered his hair. It was
as though upon this final night as the Marquis de Varnais, he was
determined to play the role to the hilt.

But he was not quite bringing it off. There
was a high color in his face that belied the marquis's cool
indifference, a suppressed excitement in his manner. Phaedra
thought it fortunate that her grandfather had never really obtained
a good view of James Lethington, or surely he would have recognized
him in Armande tonight.

When his gaze met Phaedra's, she forgot all
her doubts. She read nothing upon James's face but the glow of a
man deeply in love, about to realize his heart's desire. Yet when
his eyes shifted to her grandfather, her uneasiness returned.

James's mouth hardened with a contempt he was
no longer at any pains to conceal. "Ah, Monsieur Weylin, garbed in
all the splendor of your customary good taste, I see."

Even her thick-skinned grandfather could not
possibly mistake the sneer behind James's words. Bewildered by his
guest's change in manner, he sought to reply; Phaedra hastened to
interpose herself in between the two men.

"We'd best hurry. I do detest arriving after
the performance has begun." She handed James her cloak with a
nervous smile. He stared hard at her grandfather a moment longer,
then gazed down upon her with a gentle smile.

He eased the cloak about her shoulders with
great tenderness, even daring to press a furtive kiss behind her
ear.

"Soon, my love," he breathed. "Very soon, it
will all be over."

She thought that a most strange way of
expressing their departure, but she nodded in agreement. She felt
relieved when they left the house, James supporting her arm, her
grandfather trailing after them.

The carriage ride into the city passed by in
a haze. She remembered little of it but the warmth of James's hand
clutching hers in the darkness. And yet she could not seem to draw
any comfort from his strength. His fingers were never still,
constantly caressing her palm as though it were the only outlet he
could find for his restless anticipation.

The carriage set them down in the square
outside Covent Garden Theatre, The "Market of Venus," the
magistrate Sir John Fielding had once referred to it. The painted
ladies of the night certainly did seem to outnumber those attending
the opera.

Most of the haut ton no longer lived in
London, preferring to spend the autumn hunting season at their
country estates. And the opera had lost much of its popularity
since the days when the great Handel had been the director at
Covent Garden Theatre.