Masquerade

  The thrust found its mark. She saw Armande flinch with realization of his mistake. But when he replied, he coolly slipped back into his accent with what Phaedra feared was the ease of long practice.

  "I never supposed that you had, ma petite." He approached her again, and she could see from the longing on his face how badly he wanted to gather her into his arms. Stiffening, she merely shook her head.

  His outstretched arms dropped back to his sides. "And so now come the regrets, despite all your vows and protestations. I feared such would be the case. Only I never expected it to happen quite so soon."

  "Then what did you expect of me?" she cried. "I fear I am far too unsophisticated not to feel awkward, waking up in the bed of a man who has not even told me his true name."

  "We are harking back to that again, are we? Mon dieu, it didn't take you long." He closed the distance between them. Forcing her head up, he traced the sensitive skin beneath her eyes. "You look as though you have lain awake all night. Were you hoping that I'd talk in my sleep? I've had women bed me for many different reasons, but I must admit that this is a new-"

  He got no further for her hand lashed out, cracking across his cheek in response to his hurtful words. She lowered her stinging palm, stunned by what she had done-but not more stunned than Armande, who rubbed the red imprint left by her hand.

  She spun away from him, running toward the threshold between their rooms. She felt she had crossed it a lifetime ago. With several quick strides, he caught her, whipping her around to face him.

  "Let me go!" She struggled uselessly against the iron strength corded in his hands.

  "No, Phaedra. Please." His manner was gentle but urgent as he sought to restrain her. "I deserved your anger. But I cannot let you go this way. Please stay."

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. Armande forced her head against his chest. He rocked her in his arms, saying huskily. "Hush, ma chere. Don't cry. I never wanted to hurt you."

  Phaedra resisted a moment longer, then sagged against him.

  "Forgive me, Phaedra." He pressed his lips against the crown of her head. "I had no right to be resentful of your doubts. You should have doubts about me. God knows, I have done nothing to allay your suspicions."

  "If you would just tell me who you really are. What you want here at the Heath."

  He cradled her head between his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She thought she had never seen such a depth of sadness in anyone's eyes as she saw in Armande's. He put her from him, turning to fetch a square of white linen from the dressing table. He handed her the handkerchief, then almost hesitantly reached for something else.

  Brushing aside the tears blurring her vision, she watched as Armande lifted the same small chest she had once tried, without success, to peer into. It was as though within the confines of that box reposed all the hidden thoughts that tormented him. Phaedra caught her breath as she sensed the struggle raging within him, the urge to unlock those secrets, set them free.

  He spoke at last, his voice taut with anguish. "I cannot. I cannot even ask you to trust me."

  She knew the struggle was lost as he carefully returned the box to its place on the night table. He walked over to stand by the window.

  She could sense his retreat in every rigid line of his body, the sunlight streaming through the window merciless in its illumination of the harsh lines carved on his face, making him look jaded with weariness.

  "The wager is settled," he said. "You have given me my night. I will leave your grandfather's house today."

  His words struck her with dismay. "You will leave? But why? It was not you who lost the wager."

  "We both lost, ma chere. Before we had even begun."

  "Are you doing this as some sort of gallant gesture to protect me?" she asked. "I have looked out for myself any number of years now. It is not as though I were a green girl."

  He laughed softly."You will always be a green girl. It is one of your charms. I think you must be the most vulnerable woman I have ever known, save one."

  She started indignantly to refute his words, then broke off, recalling that her behavior this morning was not calculated to contradict him. She blew her nose into the handkerchief with a defiant sniff. He had not intended to leave the Heath upon awakening this morning. She was sure of that, remembering the glow in his eyes as he had first reached for her, the warmth of his kiss. This change in him was her fault. She had overreacted, to discovering that all her worst suspicions were true, that he was indeed an impostor. Perhaps if she had not slunk about as though she were ashamed, frightened, blubbering all over him, if she had behaved differently ...

  But it was of no use to consider that now, she thought, studying the immutable set of Armande's jaw. What could she do? Fling all pride and common sense to the winds and beg him to stay? No, Armande was right. It was far better that they not continue to reside under the same roof. She had known that herself from the very beginning.

  She could only salvage what was left of her pride and exit with dignity. "When will you go?" she asked.

  "As soon as possible, I think. After breakfast."

  So soon! A part of her wanted to protest. Instead, she nodded briskly, replacing his crumpled handkerchief upon the dressing stand. He crossed the room to her side. If only he would hold out his arms to her as he had done before.

  But he did not. Instead he sketched her a formal bow. Raising her hand, he just barely grazed it with his lips. "Farewell, my lady."

  Phaedra stifled a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of it. He,clad only in breeches and shirt, his hair yet tousled from their lovemaking, she with his dressing gown half-falling off her naked shoulder-and they were behaving like mere acquaintances, parting after tea. Yet she had no choice but to see the farce through to its end.

  "Farewell, my lord."

  He didn't release her hand. His eyes traveled over her as though he were trying to memorize every detail of her.

  "You only meant you are leaving the Heath, is that not so?" she asked anxiously. "You are not leaving London, as well."

  A deep sigh escaped him. "No, I cannot leave London as yet. There is something I came to do. But until that task is accomplished, I think it best that we do not meet.”

  She could make little sense of his cryptic words, only understanding one fact. He meant this to be a final farewell. Without realizing what she did, Phaedra's fingers tightened over his. It was as though a huge chasm yawned between them, but only Armande could see what lurked at the bottom. It wasn't fair.

  "And when this task of yours is done-" She could not keep the plea from her voice. "What then?"

  “When my task is done," he said with a conviction that chilled her. “you will never want to see me again."

  Chapter Eleven

  Hours later, Phaedra still could not get Armande’s words out of her mind. Shut away in her garret, she sat at her desk, failing to notice the ink dripping from her quill pen onto the page until it was too late. She made a halfhearted attempt to blot the stain, Armande's grim prophecy echoing in her mind. You won't ever want to see me again.

  What could he intend to do that was so dreadful? The man talked as though he meant to commit a monstrous crime, as though he were thinking of murdering someone.

  Despite the warmth of the late-morning sun streaming through the garret window, Phaedra shivered. She tried to tell herself she was being absurd. Yet although she might wish to deny it, she feared Armande would be capable of anything. For all his tenderness, she had seen the chilling light in his eyes too often. When she had left him, he had already taken refuge behind the icy facade she had learned to dread.

  Phaedra's hand tightened upon the pen, nearly snapping the delicate quill in half as she fought against the despair and fear that beset her. Flinging the pen down upon the desk, she tried to whip up her anger as a defense.

  Blast Armande and all his cursed secrets! She shoved back from the desk, getting to her feet. The violence of the movement caused her ch
air to tip over backwards and clatter to the floor.

  She left it where it had fallen, stalking over to the window. Both segments of glass, like two small latticed doors, were tightly closed. No wonder it was so stuffy in here. Phaedra struggled with the casement, trying to force one side open. The wood resisted her efforts until her face flushed damp with perspiration.

  Swearing, she shoved with all her might, venting her temper upon the frame. When the window finally gave, swinging wide with a mighty slam, she lost her balance, her head and shoulders thrusting out into nothingness.

  For a moment Phaedra had a dizzying view of the Heath's stone gates and the cobbled drive below. Quickly drawing herself back in, she mopped at her brow with the heel of her hand.

  Her heart pounded with fright, but she adjured herself not to be a fool. After all, it was not as though she had actually been in danger of falling the three stories to the ground below. She would have to squeeze her entire body through the window to be in peril of that.

  Phaedra lingered by the window, resentful of the pale blue sky, so indifferent to her misery, and the sun, glinting with appalling cheerfulness off the cobblestones wet from last night's rain. She wished there was some way she could spring from the window ledge and fly like some silver-winged bird, far from the Heath, fleeing these gray stone walls that had never harbored anything for her but unhappiness.

  But what made her longing to escape so keen this particular morning?, Perhaps it was the memory of a night that would never come again, of blue eyes whose longing and despair tore at her heart, then froze her with the menace of secrets she was not permitted to understand. Perhaps it was merely a wish to avoid the pain of watching Armande ride away.

  "I'm glad he's going. Glad!" she whispered fiercely.

  But her heart condemned her for a liar. She blinked hard, staring out at the summer-blue sky dotted with fleecy clouds. No, she would not weep again. For the truth was, no matter how much Armande desired or needed her, it made no difference. Nothing could change the fact he was a man caught up in some dangerous intrigue. She would not make the mistake of being ensnared in those silken bindings, of once more becoming enamored of a man whose life held no place for her.

  She had a life of her own to live, and it was time to get on with it. Her resolve taken, Phaedra squared her shoulders, determined to think no more of Armande, at least not this day. Stalking away from the window, she uprighted the chair and resumed her place at the desk. Reaching for her quill pen, she dipped the tip in the ink, forcing herself to concentrate on finishing her composition.

  ... and how can a nation which declares itself to be enlightened continue to cower behind the ancient cry of "No Popery," like children howling in terror of bugbears in the night? Too long have Catholics been denied their rights to vote and hold office simply because of the bigoted fears of king and parliament.

  She continued in the same strain for a few more terse paragraphs before signing the name of Robin Goodfellow with a large flourish. There. Although the writing was done in haste, her message was clear. Freedom! Freedom from English rule and emancipation for the Catholics who made up the suppressed majority in Ireland. Honest folk martyred for the sake of their religion, like her own cousin. At this thought, a reluctant smile curved Phaedra's lips. Truthfully, she could not picture a less likely candidate for sainthood than Gilly. But for all his nonchalance, she knew there was a serious side to his nature, one that had often been angered by the persecution of his countrymen. Perhaps this essay of hers would merit more of Gilly's approval than her ill-conceived piece about Armande had done.

  And perhaps Gilly would be more inclined to forgive her for the fact that he had gone on a fool's errand. She suffered a pang of conscience when she thought of her cousin wasting time and money in France to discover what she already knew, that Armande was not the Marquis de Varnais. It didn’t matter, anyway. After today she would likely never see Armande again.

  Phaedra briskly sanded the parchment to dry the ink, trying to keep her mind busy with matters other than Armande's departure. She thought of the considerable sum of money Jessym had promised for her next essay. The difficulty would be, with Gilly away, in finding a way to get the writing to her publisher. She trusted no one else, with the exception of Jonathan, to act as courier for her. But she could not bring herself to take advantage of her old friend's devotion, knowing full well how such an errand would distress the nervous man. She might well be forced to await Gilly's return-but who knew when that might be?

  Her reflections were interrupted by the sound of the ormolu clock chiming the hour of eleven. Her gaze traveled to where the timepiece sat. It was the only ornament on the shelves that had remained empty since the day Ewan had destroyed her books. She supposed Armande would be packed, preparing to leave.

  Phaedra folded the essay and locked it inside the desk drawer. She suddenly knew she could not endure being in the house when Armande left. Her grandfather was sure to rage at her for not exerting enough charm to make Armande wish to stay. Her lips twisted into a bitter expression when she thought of exactly how much charm she had exerted. But it had not been enough.

  She could not face Sawyer Weylin's wrath just now, could not endure bidding farewell to Armande as though he were but the merest acquaintance passing through her life. Her only hope of maintaining her composure lay in losing herself on the grounds until she was certain Armande had gone.

  Fearful of encountering him, she did not even risk returning to her room to fetch her bonnet. She crept down the backstairs, drawing a sharp-eyed glance from Hester Searle as she skirted through the kitchens. Ignoring the woman, Phaedra let herself out the kitchen door, making her way through the rose garden at the back of the house, and headed for the gravel walks beyond.

  But she had not gotten as far as the dense shrubbery when a voice, barely audible, pronounced her name. "Phaedra?"

  She bit down upon her lip, despising herself for the hope that flared in her heart, but she could not suppress it all the same. She held her breath as she turned around. Her heart sank.

  It was not Armande rising from the stone bench, the morning breeze riffling the dark strands of his hair. Phaedra watched as Jonathan crossed the garden to her side, wondering what on earth he was doing at the Heath so early. She had no desire for the comfort of Jonathan's solemn smiles this morning, and regretted she hadn't walked on, pretending not to have heard him. But she felt immediately ashamed of her impulse to avoid her old friend, who had always been so kind to her. Concealing her impatience, she managed to greet him in cheerful tones. "Why, Jonathan. What a surprise. What brings you out to the Heath at such an hour?"

  He blinked at her, his smile fading in confusion. "Don't you remember? I spent the night at the Heath because of the storm. I told you I meant to do so."

  "Oh." She bore but vague recollection of parting from Jonathan. She had thought he'd summoned his carriage to return to the city-but then she had been absorbed in her card game with Armande.

  Quickly she attempted to recover her error lest she hurt Jonathan's feelings. "Aye, of course. What I meant was, it is such a surprise to see you sitting alone in the garden. Why are you not breakfasting with Grandfather?"

  "I never eat much in the mornings." He regarded her eagerly. "Were you going out walking, my dear? I should be only too pleased to accompany you."

  Phaedra heard his suggestion with dismay. She needed solitude now, needed it like a drowning man needs air. But how could she spurn his offer without wounding him? Only one reason occurred to her.

  "To own the truth, it is already so warm and sticky I was not planning on a walk." She fingered the high neckline of her saffron morning gown in what she hoped was a convincing manner. "I should rather pay a visit to the pond instead."

  "The pond! You are not thinking of going swimming again." Jonathan looked as horrified, as though she had proposed leaping from London Bridge into the treacherous depths of the Thames.

  "I have been swimming since I was a w
ee girl," she said. "My cousin taught me. I could likely swim the channel if I chose."

  "I know that well, but ... " Jonathon faltered, his pockmarked cheeks flushing beet-red with embarrassment.

  Phaedra guessed he must be recalling the day he had come upon her enjoying the waters of the pond in quite her natural state. The incident had occasioned poor priggish Jonathan far more distress than it had herself. Although he could not meet her eye, he continued, "But I always worry so about currents or intruders."

  "Pooh, what could happen to me on my grandfather's own land? And as for a current, that would be an astonishing thing to find in any pond, let alone a man-made one." Her unhappiness caused her to add with a shrug. “So if I did drown, it would be entirely my own fault. Not that my death would be of any great loss."

  "Don't ever say that!" Jonathan seized her hands. “You cannot imagine what it would mean to me if I lost you. I would as soon be dead myself."

  "I only spoke in jest, a poor one, I admit. I am sorry."

  Recovering from her surprise at his outburst, she tried to withdraw her hands, but he clung to her.

  “You simply do not realize how I worry about you. All I have ever wanted is to see you protected."

  “I know that, Jonathan and I thank you. I do not know what I would have done without your friendship.” Phaedra had always been touched by his devotion but his earnest avowals made her feel uncomfortable. Smiling at him, she managed to disengage her hands.

  "My! How- maudlin we have become. And on such a beautiful day, too. If I mean to have my swim, I'd best be going. Pray excuse me, Jonathan."

  Feeling somewhat guilty for thus abandoning him, Phaedra slipped past the hedge, affording him no opportunity to speak again. She was aware of how his eyes followed her: He reminded her of a faithful hound being forbidden to accompany his mistress.

  "Forgive me, dear friend," she murmured. Since he was still watching her, she had no choice but to continue on toward the pond as she had stated. In truth, as the sun rose higher, becoming a fierce blaze in the sky, swimming began to seem not a bad notion. It had been a long time since she had done so.