Although his words were light, Phaedra sensed an edge of steel in his voice, another meaning hidden like a dagger beneath a cloaking of velvet. Did he truly perceive her as dangerous? She was stunned to realize she did not want him to do so. She wished he could begin to trust her.
Dipping into a curtsy, she smiled and said, "My apologies, sir."
As she glided away from him, he offered her that smile of his which was all too fleeting. Lost in her thoughts of Armande it took her several moments to realize someone was tugging at her sleeve. She glanced around to find John, looking distressed.
"My lady," the footman whispered, "about that Danby fellow. He wants-"
"More wine?" Phaedra interrupted, grimacing at the bottle of Madeira John balanced upon a silver tray. It seemed the last thing Danby needed, but she shrugged. "I suppose you'd best give it to him. He's over-." She started to indicate the French gilt sofa where she had last seen Danby sprawled. The cushion still bore the imprint of his head, but the sofa was empty.
"That's just it, my lady," John said. "His lordship's gone upstairs. I think he's fancying he's in his own house and is trying to find his bedchamber."
"Well and have you informed my grandfather?"
"Aye, but all master said was to let him pass out wherever he liked."
Phaedra rolled her eyes. Always the perfect host, her grandfather! With her luck, it would likely be her own bedchamber that Danby selected. She sighed. "Thank you, John. I shall take care of the matter."
John looked relieved. "If you would be requiring my help, my lady-"
"No, you are needed here." She rustled away from him, intending to summon another of the servants. It would serve Hester right if Phaedra sent her to deal with Danby. She smiled at the notion, remembering all of Danby's drunken buffoonery at the dinner table, climaxing in his absurd declaration that he knew Armande from Oxford.
Yet exactly how absurd was that statement? She hesitated, temptation beckoning to her. She had no desire to confront Danby herself in his idiotic state, yet might she not be losing a perfect opportunity? If she could find him alone, perhaps she could sober him up enough to find out if he really did remember something about Armande.
A guilty flush spread across her cheeks. She had just been thinking that she wanted Armande to trust her. This was not the way to begin, by continuing to question and pry. She glanced toward Armande, half-fearful of his uncanny knack for guessing her thoughts. But Charles appeared to be keeping him fully occupied.
How much harm could she do by having just a few words with Danby? Obviously the marquis was not concerned about Lord Arthur for he had made no move to seek out the man. Certainly if Danby posed any real threat, Armande would- Phadera shivered. She harbored little doubt as to what Armande would do. With her customary impulsiveness, she snatched up a candle and darted out of the salon.
The marquis continued to sprawl in his chair, his cards held languidly before him. It would have taken someone far more observant than Charles Byng to notice the tension coiled within Armande-although the young man had discerned the manner in which Armande kept stealing glances at Phaedra.
I must have been all too ridiculously obvious, Armande thought, but he was finding it increasingly difficult not to be, harder not to devour Phaedra with his gaze. Never had he been so achingly aware of any woman, the fresh, feminine scent of her skin, the animated lilt of her voice, those candid green eyes that were such mirrors to her thoughts.
Only moments ago he had caught her studying him, but in a softer fashion, far different from her usual suspicious gaze. In her, he read traces of his own loneliness, a longing so keen, she flooded him with regret that he could not suppress the memory of what had happened to Anne, and set aside his dire purpose in coming to London, enjoy at least one sweet night with Phaedra in his arms.
It had been most fortunate for his composure that the footman had come up and spoken to Phaedra. Better still for his peace of mind when the lady abruptly left the room.
For the first time that evening, Armande felt some of his tension ease. Without Phaedra to distract him, he could focus his attention upon his fellow guests. There were others in this room that bore watching far more than Lady Grantham. Without seeming to do so, Armande flicked a glance toward the gold brocade sofa. He froze in the act of drawing a card.
When last he'd checked, Danby had been sagged against the cushions. But now the fop was gone. Had his carriage been summoned, or was the fool still lurking about somewhere?
Forcing himself to behave as though he had no thought but for his cards, Armande inwardly swore at his own carelessness in losing sight of Danby. He needed to know that the drunk was safely on his way home and no longer sharing any more reminiscences about Oxford. That was exactly the sort of thing to excite Phaedra's suspicions all over again.
Armande's mind was suddenly filled with a vision of Phaedra as she had quit the room. Had she left a shade too abruptly? Was her manner a trifle furtive? He drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.
"Is anything amiss, my lord?" Charles asked.
"Non. Nothing, except that it waxes too warm in here." To himself, he murmured Phaedra's name, deploring the reckless obstinacy that made her ignore his warnings, yet at the same he admired her courage. His heart wrenched with anger and bitter sorrow, but most of all regret for what might have been.
With a most deadly calm, Armande folded his cards upon the table and rose to his feet.
Phaedra hastened up the sweeping stair to the second floor. Once on the upper landing, she paused, considering which way to turn next. Blackheath Hall was a veritable maze of spare bedchambers, a fact which made it all the more perverse of her grandfather to lodge Armande in Ewan's room.
She saw no sign of Danby stumbling about the halls. Directing her footsteps toward the wing of the mansion that housed Weylin's prized picture gallery, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Searle conducting her nightly inspection, making sure all the windows were locked. Phaedra ducked into the shadows until the housekeeper passed. She was not about to stop that sly old witch to inquire after Danby's whereabouts.
When she was certain Hester had gone, Phaedra resumed her search. She had reached the last bedchamber before she met with any success. The door to the Gold Room stood ajar. Phaedra was certain the vulture-eyed Searle would never have left it so.
Tiptoeing forward, she eased the door open. Barely inching her toe over the threshold, she called softly, "Lord Danby?"
She was greeted by a silence in which she could have heard the dust settling. The white bedhangings shifted slightly from the draft of the open door, the gossamer fabric stirring ghostlike against the lumbering shadow of the bed frame.
Phaedra retreated. But just as she began to close the door, she spotted what looked like a dark bundle of cloth dumped on the carpet before the window.
"Lord Danby?" Phaedra repeated uncertainly. She crept farther into the room. She lowered her hand, guiding the candle's unsteady light toward the floor.
The figure slumped by the window was indeed Arthur Danby. His arms sprawled out, his head lolling at an awkward angle, he looked so still, the man might well have been-
Dead.
The thought jolted Phaedra. She tipped the candle, splashing hot wax upon her hand. As she steadied the candlestick, she tried to steady her nerves, as well. Rubbing the congealing wax from her hand, she massaged her sore skin.
She crept nearer to Danby. His mouth lolled upon, his eyes closed, his face as waxen as her candle. She leaned over him, stretching out one tentative finger and poked him.
He was dead all right-dead drunk. She might have guessed as much. Phaedra drew back, disgusted by the sour smell reeking from Danby. She straightened, glowered down at Danby. Useless creature, unless she could find some way of reviving him.
Her gaze roved about the darkened room until she caught the gleam of the ewer and basin. She hurried over to the washstand and set the candle down. The possibility of some of the guests lingering overnight mus
t have occurred to her grandfather for the room had obviously been readied. The pitcher was filled with water, some thick towels draped nearby.
Phaedra’s fingers crooked about the pitcher’s white porcelain handle. She hesitated, recalling Armande asking her if she would continue to mistrust him and pry into his past. She had not exactly promised him she would not.
Why, then, did she feel as though she were about to betray him? Simply because he had defended her from ridicule when she had dared to voice her opinions, something no one had ever done? Or because he had saved her grandfather's life?
She thought of the gentle kiss he had pressed against her forehead, the look of sadness shading his eyes. Maybe she was playing the role of Pandora; maybe her curiosity would let loose all manner of evil. Yet if Armande did harbor a dangerous secret, surely she had a duty to discover it.
She carried the pitcher across the room and stood gazing down at Danby. She thought briefly of wetting one of the towels and dabbing the cool water over his face. Then she shrugged and poured the entire jugful over his head.
Danby spluttered, and floundered about like a fish dragged up into the air. After much blinking, he raised himself up onto one elbow. "Stap me," he groaned. Then he rolled over and muttered, "Bargeman, bargeman. Thish boat has a leak."
His head thunked down as though he were fading back into another stupor.
"No, you shan't," Phaedra cried. She seized him by the collar and after much struggle, managed to flop him on his back. Shaking him, she called, “Wake up, my lord.”
His lids fluttered open and he regarded her fuzzily. "Ish time to go to Dushess's rid-riditto?"
"No. It is time to sober up so we may have a little talk." "Never good time be shober." He squinted toward the window. "Very dark. Time for bed."
To Phaedra's horror, Danby fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. He apparently had acquired much skill in the art of undressing himself while roaring drunk, for he managed to undo several of them.
"Stop that!" She grabbed his hands.
He peered up at her, a sickening leer crossing his foolish countenance. "Charmelle, that you, m'pet? C'mere."
Danby tugged Phaedra down, his mouth trailing a line of sloppy kisses along her neck, his hands tangling with her hair. With an oath of disgust, Phaedra wrenched herself free. But at the same moment, Danby's fingers hooked around the neckline of her gown, tearing it down one shoulder.
Phaedra shoved Danby away with such force, his head bounced against the floor. In his current state, she doubted he even felt the jolt. He smiled at her beatifically and passed out again.
Phaedra struggled to her feet, making a futile attempt to pull the silk fabric up over her bare shoulder. She glared at Danby in frustration, resisting the urge to give him a swift kick. What,if anything, the idiot knew about Armande, the secret was safe from her this night. She would have to sink Arthur Danby in the Thames before rousing him to his senses-if the man had any, which she had begun to doubt.
But there was little use railing at an unconscious man. She would have to wait until tomorrow. Retrieving her candle, she prepared to seek out her own bedchamber and have Lucy repair the damage to her gown.
When she crossed to the other side of the room, she was surprised to find the door closed. She had no memory of having shut it. Reaching for the handle, she turned it. But nothing happened.
Phaedra tried again. It seemed to be stuck. She set down the candle and rattled the knob with both hands. She tried twisting and pulling with both feet braced at the same time.
Not stuck- locked. Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. Somehow she had managed to lock herself in with Arthur Danby. She had little choice but to hammer on the door and shout until one of the servants heard her.
She started to raise her fist when the full force of her predicament struck her. She would have some pretty explanations to offer when the door was unlocked. Herself with her hair all disheveled, her gown falling off her shoulder, Danby lying there with his breeches half undone. No one would be certain as to who had been attacking whom. There was only one certainty. Her grandfather would be sure to believe whatever put her in the worst possible light.
Phaedra lowered her arm. Then what was she going to do? She started to curse herself for being so careless when she froze, startled by a sudden recollection. She had seen no key in the lock. She could not possibly have trapped herself. That could only mean that someone else had. A trickle of foreboding iced its way along Phaedra's spine.
The entire time she had bent over Arthur Danby, she must have been watched by a pair of eyes peering out of the darkness, an unseen presence observing her every movement, before quietly closing the door and locking it.
So then someone must be playing a malicious jest. Phaedra tensed and placed her ear to the door, catching the unmistakable sound of voices coming from the hallway beyond. She held her breath. With luck it would be Lucy or one of the servants she could trust.
Her heart sank when she distinguished her grandfather's booming voice. "I've got one of the best picture collections in London, gentlemen. Most are in the gallery, but a few of the better ones are scattered throughout the house."
Someone else growled a reply. Sir Norris Byram, she guessed. But it required no guessing on her part to identify the next speaker.
"Tres bien. I am most interested in seeing the Titian you said lodges in the Chambre d' Or."
Phaedra froze in horror, at the same time, everything clicking into place for her with bitter clarity. Armande. She had not given the man enough credit for ingenuity. Somehow he must have extricated himself from Charles Byng in order to follow her. It would have been such an easy matter for him to lock her in with Danby.
It was not a malicious jest, but a well conceived plan to ruin her. Armande's quick mind had taken advantage of her own recklessness. She did not attempt to fool herself; it would be ruin if she were found thus. Her prudish grandfather would fling her into the streets this very night.
As she heard the men drawing closer, Phaedra looked about frantically for a place to hide. No, that would not serve. If Armande guided her grandfather here on purpose, the marquis would not rest until she was found and dragged out from behind the wardrobe or from beneath the bed. It made no odds which. She would appear all the more guilty.
Only one recourse was left to her. Phaedra raced over to the window. Blowing out her candle, she struggled to fling open the casement before her eyes had even time to adjust to the dark. The moon, drifting behind the clouds provided her just enough light to see what a deadly drop it was to the ground below. The rough stone wall might have been as smooth as glass for all the toeholds it looked capable of providing.
Even the ivy seemed to cling precariously, its green tendrils but slender threads unable to support her weight.
Phaedra's courage failed her for a moment. Then she heard someone just outside the door. She sucked in her breath. Better to risk breaking her neck than be caught in such humiliating circumstances. Giving herself not another moment to think, she plucked off her slippers and flung them out the window.
Scooping in her skirts as best she could, she quickly followed. Thrusting her legs out first, she eased her stomach across the sill until she dangled by her hands. It was still a perilous long way to the ground.
Yet she could not hang forever. Her palms already felt slick with sweat and she could hear the bedchamber door opening. Uttering a silent prayer, she let go, risking a grab for the vines, trying to find even the hint of a holding for her feet. Her legs tangled in her skirts, her silk stockings more slippery than her shoes of velvet might have been. The vines tore free beneath her clawing fingers, scratching her arms, scraping her shoulder on the way down. She broke her fall by clutching at the wooden casement of one of the lower windows, then she dropped hard, landing upon her side.
Momentarily stunned, Phaedra lay still. Then she rolled over, drawing in a painful breath. She barely had time to ascertain she was still alive, her bones miraculously i
ntact, before a light appeared at the window above her.
Stifling a low groan, Phaedra crouched in the grass. There was not so much as a shrub to hide behind. All she could do was to creep backward, drawing herself into the shadows thrown by the massive house itself.
Long, painful moments passed before Phaedra saw the tall graceful silhouette of a man at the window. Candle shine haloed Armande’s white-powdered hair, his features lost in shadow so that he appeared like some pale phantom staring into the night. Searching for something? Phaedra wagered bitterly that he was and hoped that he was feeling most keenly disappointed.
She remained flattened upon the damp grass until Armande vanished. The light went out, returning that portion of the house to darkness.
Phaedra sat up slowly, not so much conscious of the scrapes and scratches stinging her flesh as she was of the nettles that seemed to have been driven deep into her heart. Well, at least now she understood more about Armande and that tender kiss, that look of regret she had surprised upon his hard features earlier. Even then, he had been but biding his time. Had he not sworn from the beginning that he would find a way to be rid of her if she didn't stop questioning?
Yet he had nearly lulled her into doing just that, with all his feigned admiration, his deceitful way of appearing gentle when she least expected it. It was almost as if he knew how starved she felt for someone to show her even a small modicum of kindness.
She drew her lips so tightly together it almost hurt. He had been quick to take advantage of the opportunity to ruin her reputation, to see her driven out from the only home she had. But she felt more astonished at her own reaction than by what he had done. Why should she feel pierced with this sense of betrayal?
She had suspected all along how ruthless Armande could be. A most clever man, the marquis, subtle and cruel. Dear God! She had almost felt guilty for prying, actually indebted to the man. Well, no more! Now that he had taken the tip off his foil, she would no longer fight with a blunted weapon, either. She also knew how to bide her time, finding the moment to strike back. Phaedra gritted her teeth. She could be every bit as hard and cold as Armande de LeCroix.