Masquerade

  Jonathan hovered over her. "My dear, you look so pale. Have you not been eating?"

  She gave a tiny shrug, the hopelessness of her situation weighing heavy upon her. "What does it matter?"

  "It matters a great deal to me." Jonathan turned to peek inside the contents of her soup bowl. He pulled a face. "I know the food here is not the most palatable, but you must keep up your strength."

  When she made no response, he clasped one of her hands between his own. "Please, Phaedra. For me."

  She returned his squeeze, favored him with a wan smile. "Very well, Jonathan. For you, I will try not to lose heart. I believe you are the only living soul who cares in the least what has become of me."

  Instantly, she regretted her words when he dropped to one knee beside her, the severe angles of his face softened by the glow of his eyes. He pressed a kiss into her palm. His voice thickened as he said, "You know I would do anything to bring you happiness."

  Phaedra squirmed; even under these dire circumstances, she was discomfited by Jonathan's expressions of devotion. She carefully disengaged her hand. "Just get me away from this place. That is all that you can do for me."

  He bowed his head, concealing whatever hurt her blunt statement may have given him. Phaedra tried to take the sting from her words by stroking aside the strands of graying hair that drooped over his brow. He rose awkwardly to his feet.

  "I know what you must be suffering," he said, "but when you are free, I shall make you forget all this ever happened. If you could but keep your courage awhile longer."

  Jonathan gave a nervous cough. "One thought did occur to me. I wondered if the father of your child might be a man of enough influence to help you. I do not wish to pry but, if you would trust me enough to tell me the name."

  Phaedra broke into a mirthless peal of laughter. "You think I should appeal to the father of my child?"

  "Please, Phaedra. I am sorry. I did not mean to make you overwrought. Please don't laugh like that. It frightens me."

  "That is only because you do not know. Maybe I should tell you his name. Then you could share my amusement."

  Jonathan drew back with a flurried gesture. "No, don't. I regret that I asked. The name is of no consequence. He-"

  "His name is Armande, the most noble Marquis de Varnais." She watched as the color drained from Jonathan's face; but she felt relief that someone else should at last share the burden of her dreadful secret.

  "Varnais," Jonathan said hoarsely. "I feared it but I never thought it possible. He seems so dispassionate, so cold."

  "Aye, as cold as a drift of snow." But even as she spoke, Phaedra envisioned a pair of icy blue eyes, burning with the blazing intensity of the blue core in the midst of flames. She saw sternly set lips that could be tender; his hard-muscled limbs that, when devoid of their cool satin, were bronzed like a sun god's, his passion just as warm.

  "And you!" Jonathan's tone was vaguely accusing. "I always believed you hated him."

  Phaedra shook her head to dispel the sensation of Armande's presence that was all too real, all too vivid in the midst of this hell where she now resided.

  "I wish that I did hate him. It would make everything so much easier.” She had always thought hate such a fiery emotion until she met Armande. Now she knew that it was a chilling, numbing thing. She felt so cold, so empty.

  Jonathan clumsily patted her shoulder, mumbling some words of comfort, adjuring her to rest and to eat. All would turn out for the best. Then he was gone, leaving her with the feeling she had lost her last contact with the world of sanity.

  Phaedra reached listlessly for the bowl of unappetizing stew. One thought alone sustained her: the child inside her. She would let nothing else matter. Damn Armande and his quest for vengeance. Let him destroy himself in his vast wasteland of hate. Such an emotion would never touch her life or her babe's. It had been love that had driven her into Armande's embrace, love that would sustain her and the child. She would love enough for both of them.

  Holding fast to that thought, she raised the spoon to her lips, averting her eyes from the grayish lumps of meat. She managed to swallow a few quick bites before she gagged. Belda's cooking was worse than ever. For the sake of her child, Phaedra choked down half the contents of the bowl before setting the spoon aside. One more mouthful, and she feared she would be sick.

  Burrowing deep into the thin cot, she pulled the ragged blanket tightly over her arms, seeking whatever warmth and rest she could find. She had scarce closed her eyes when the first pain struck.

  Her mouth flew open in a startled gasp at the intensity of it. She had no time to recover before the next one struck and the next, like waves of a storm-tossed winter sea washing over her, shards of ice in the water piercing her. She flung her arms over her stomach as if she could somehow protect herself from this unseen assailant.

  The pain intensified, waves no longer, but a steady agony, a knife twisting and turning inside her. Her body jerked in a series of bone-wrenching spasms as she tumbled off the cot, clawing at the floor, her hand clattering against the food tray, sending clumps of stew flying against the walls. Even through the mists of her pain, the terrifying thought penetrated her consciousness. Poison! She had been poisoned! Then she was lost in the sound of her own screams.

  An eternity passed before distant figures bent over her, shrouded by her pain-filled gaze . . . Belda, a leering goblin amidst this nightmare of agony, the ghost-white face of the doctor, hands wrenching her from the floor. No, dear God, no. Don't touch me!

  Ahead of her loomed the blessed darkness, if she could only reach it. But her limbs shook so. The darkness came and receded before the glaring white light of pain. How cold she was! But at least the cold dulled the merciless ache inside of her. She was freezing to death, and she did not care. It was such a relief to be done with the pain.

  Eventually even the cold ceased to bother her. She felt her eyelids growing heavy as the frigid walls of her cell faded. For the first time in weeks, she felt warm. It was no longer autumn, but the last days of spring. Phaedra's eyes fluttered closed, allowing herself to be enveloped by the heat, the glowing lights of the ballroom. It was spring again, and she was seeing Armande de LeCroix for the first time...

  Chapter Two

  The heat of Lady Porterfield’s ballroom assaulted Phaedra’s senses in one great wave. Through the slits of her velvet mask, she stared up at her ladyship's famed chandelier, tier upon tier of crystalline ice set ablaze by no fewer than five hundred candles. For a moment, her eyes were so bedazzled that the ballroom became a blur of color, an array of silk-clad forms that flashed with diamonds and other gemstones.

  She blinked, accustoming herself to the brilliant scene. A sea of white-powdered heads inclined toward where she had paused beneath the archway. Even the profusion of spangled masks could not disguise the malicious speculation in the eyes that had turned her way. Above the scrape of violins, Phaedra heard the whispers. "Phaedra Grantham. I thought she was still in Bath. Imagine! Attending a masked ball unescorted! Who would bring her, my dear? Her husband?" Titters of laughter, then indignation. "Shocking, I call it. Not so much as black ribbon on her petticoats, and the poor man not dead a year."

  Phaedra moved her hand upward to adjust her own mask. Of course, she need not wonder how her identity had been so easily guessed. Self-consciously, she touched one of the shining red curls that gleamed against the gold-figured silk domino she wore over her gown. As always, she wore her locks unpowdered, in defiance of fashion or perhaps only in defiance of her grandfather, who claimed he detested red hair.

  As she met the room full of hostile stares, she felt as though time had reversed itself. Suddenly she was seventeen again, stepping into this same ballroom for the very first time, only not alone. Then her husband had stood by her side, and the strange faces had surged nearer for a closer inspection of Lord Ewan Grantham's bride. She remembered clinging to Ewan's elbow and being ruthlessly shaken off. Trembling, she had forced a smile to her lips, wan
ting so badly to make a good impression; wanting to make Ewan proud of her. But her husband's well-modulated voice had cut through whatever self-possession she had maintained. "Ah, Lady Porterfield, this is my bride, Phaedra, fresh from the wilds of Donegal. You must excuse her appearance. I had not thought it necessary to tell her hoops were always worn for evening functions. One would have imagined that even in Ireland- Ah, well. Phaedra, make your curtsy."

  She felt his hand in the small of her back, shoving her off-balance. "And don't mumble, dearest. Her ladyship will think you unacquainted with English, and I assure you no one here speaks Gaelic any more than they do Hindi." Ewan had joined in the laughter at his own wit. Her eyes brimming with tears, Phaedra had stared at her handsome husband as if seeing him for the first time. Cruel, petty, mean-spirited, he would never love her. She had realized, more painfully still, that she did not love him; she had realized this in a room full of heartless, uncaring strangers. The knowledge left her soul stripped bare. She felt set adrift, alone.

  Alone ... even as she was tonight. Phaedra shook out her skirts, dispelling the hurtful images of the past. She was no longer seventeen, but six and twenty, no longer a bride, but a widow. Ewan was dead. These people, his shallow friends, no longer had the power to wound her, nor could they force her to observe the hypocrisy of a mourning she did not feel. Lifting her chin, she placed one silk-shod foot after the other, stepping with measured tread into the ballroom, her fingers tightening around the ivory handle of her fan.

  Phaedra had not gone far when she was accosted by a set of wide hoops swirling under the rustle of a blue silk domino. The lady's rows of white-dusted curls were adorned with ostrich feathers, the outline of her mask emphasizing the pert tilt of her chin and the black silk patch expertly placed at the corner of her pouting red lips.

  "My dearest Phaedra," the young woman trilled. "So unexpected a pleasure."

  "Good evening, Muriel," Phaedra said.

  The woman started, disconcerted to have her disguise so easily penetrated. But Miss Muriel Porterfield's high-pitched voice was easily as distinctive as Phaedra's red hair.

  "I simply never dreamed to find you returned to London, let alone as a guest at my ball. And so charmingly late, as usual."

  Phaedra gave her a brittle smile. "You are looking well, Muriel. But if you will excuse me, I believe I must offer my respects to your esteemed mother.”

  She gestured toward where a formidable dame stood, her hollow cheeks puffed out with cork plumpers. She held court amidst a circle of clucking dowagers, all of them unmasked, all of them haughtily aloof from the ball's proceedings.

  Muriel caught Phaedra firmly by the elbow, steering her in the opposite direction. "Most unwise. Dearest Mama is already in a high tweak. She disapproves of masked balls. It took endless coaxing to persuade her to allow me to have this one. And now your arrival!"

  Muriel rolled her eyes. "Frankly, she is less than enchanted. So old-fashioned, you know, in her notions of propriety, especially with regard to widows-being such a notable one herself. She still wears weepers upon her sleeves, and Papa has been dead an age."

  Phaedra attempted to disengage her arm. "I did not come here to be intimidated and skulk around as if-"

  "But she is, at this very moment, attempting to decide if she should have you discreetly evicted. Far better to avoid Mama until she has time to reflect upon the rashness of such a decision." Muriel smiled demurely. "I have always found it so."

  Phaedra hesitated, risking one more look at Lady Porterfield. Both plump cheeks shook with outrage. Phaedra opted for the better part of valor. It was no part of her plan to find herself escorted to the door before she had achieved her purpose in coming here this evening. She hoped that would not take long. The heat was oppressive. Already she could feel beads of moisture gathering upon her brow beneath the mask.

  "Very well," she conceded, allowing Muriel to lead her through the press of guests.

  "Is it not the most infamous crush?" Muriel sighed. "My ball shall be acclaimed a roaring success, though I was most distressed earlier. Parliament sat so late, we were dreadfully thin of masculine company. All the men are such selfish beasts these days. They talk of nothing but the American war and that scurrilous rogue writing those horrid pamphlets. I wish they might hang this tiresome Robin Goodfellow and be done with it."

  "They would have to discover who he is first." Phaedra's lips tilted into a smile that she quickly suppressed. It would not do to look as though she knew more than she ought.

  But Muriel was too taken up with enumerating the triumphs of her ball to take notice of much else. "Three young women have swooned from the heat already. We've done far better than Lady Hartford's rout. She can boast but two casualties."

  "You may have a fourth victim upon your hands if I do not soon get a breath of air." Phaedra fanned herself more vigorously, an unpleasant thrumming starting inside her head in tempo with the scrape of the bows against the violin strings. The sensation grew worse as the crowd surged backward to make room for the dancers in the center of the marbled floor. But Muriel found them a spot near one of the massive white pillars that supported the cherub-bedecked ceiling of the ballroom, and sent one of the liveried footmen to procure Phaedra a glass of lemonade.

  Phaedra sipped at the tepid liquid, studying the brilliant blur of dancers as they promenaded before her. All the men looked so much alike in their white-powdered wigs, their features obscured by the strips of velvet tied about their eyes. Why of all things did this affair tonight have to be a masquerade? It made the task of locating one particular man nearly hopeless. She had not even any notion what the Marquis de Varnais looked like. Doubtless the fellow would be possessed of a long thin nose, perfectly sized to be poked into other people's affairs. Her temper threatened to get the better of her all over again when she thought of her grandfather's last letter.

  You can cease importuning me, my girl, Sawyer Weylin had written. I absolutely refuse to send my carriage to fetch you as long as my new friend, the Marquis de Varnais, advises against it. Armande believes that Bath is the perfect place for widows.

  If the marquis fancied that, Phaedra thought, clenching her jaw, then it was obvious he had never been there. Bath was no longer fit for anyone but invalids and gout-ridden old men. How could her grandfather listen to such tripe? Beneath her anger lurked her fear that Sawyer Weylin meant to abandon her before she found some other means of independence. Her grandfather had made clear his displeasure that she had not borne a child to Ewan. But that would have been a miraculous feat, considering how rarely her husband had ever touched her.

  Phaedra suppressed that old bitterness, concentrating upon her anger with this Armande person. When she found him, she would give him a blistering set-down he was unlikely to forget. The Marquis de Varnais would think twice before ever attempting to interfere in the life of Lady Phaedra Grantham again.

  Intent upon scanning the crowded room, Phaedra paid but halfhearted attention to the steady stream of gossip Muriel poured into her ears.

  "Lady Lizzie Devon is rumored to be already with child. You can be certain all the old tabbies will be counting the months backward when that babe is born. And did you hear about poor Tony Aackerly? He was caught stealing a gold watch from a jewelry shop, and was flung into Newgate like a common thief. Only fancy! That some shabby shopkeeper could have a gentleman treated thus-"

  "Never mind all that," Phaedra cut her off. Although she was loath to do so, she saw that she would have no choice but to enlist Muriel's aid. "Answer me one question. I am looking for a man. I heard that he was to be present at your ball tonight."

  "Dear me." Muriel simpered. "For one so recently widowed, you seem in a powerful hurry. Though perhaps marriage is not what you have in mind?"

  "What a shocking suggestion from a young unmarried female!" Phaedra said. "But I shall resist the temptation to carry tales to your mama if you point out for me Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais.”

  "Aha!" M
uriel's eyes danced. "You always were a sly one. Not nicknamed the Lady Vixen for nothing! I might have known that even buried in a dreary place like Bath, you would manage to hear about our mysterious marquis."

  "Mysterious?" Phaedra frowned. "Why mysterious?"

  "My dear, he simply seemed to spring up in our midst out of nowhere. No one had ever heard of the man before."

  Phaedra found this intriguing. "But surely the French ambassador would know all the noblemen from his own country."

  "It scarce matters. Lord Varnais is absolutely the sensation of the season. Now if you will excuse me. Mama is scowling at me. I really must pay more heed to the invited guests."

  "But I want you to introduce me to the marquis."

  Muriel's bow-shaped lips puckered into an expression of smug satisfaction. "He is not here yet. Like you, le cher marquis adores making a grand entrance." Lifting her skirts, she prepared to glide away.

  "But how shall I recognize him?" Phaedra asked.

  "When Armande de LeCroix puts in his appearance, even if he is masked, you will know him."

  Phaedra reluctantly let Muriel go. The young woman's casually dropped remarks had changed Phaedra's entire estimation of the man she had come to confront.

  Mysterious. . . never heard of before? But her grandfather trusted few men and liked even fewer, reserving a special antipathy for foreigners. His sudden friendship with this marquis seemed all the more puzzling. The rogue must be possessed of a great deal of charm; she could scarcely contain her impatience to meet him. But, tired from a day's hard journeying, she was in no humor to wait much longer. Thanks to her grandfather's refusal to send his carriage, Phaedra had been obliged to travel upon the common stage, squashed between a fat farmer's wife and a shopkeeper smelling of fish. Her widow's jointure was small, and the cost of her fare had made a considerable dent in her meager savings. This fact only added to the grudge she harbored against the unknown marquis.