Masquerade

  The crude Sir Norris was the only one present who seemed unimpressed by the marquis. With a sneer, Byram had extended only his small finger by way of greeting. Armande ignored him, flicking open his snuffbox, allowing just a hint of boredom to settle over his features. Byram flushed beet-red.

  Phaedra smothered a laugh, restraining an urge to applaud a most magnificent performance. But her smile faded. Why did she have the feeling that was exactly what it was to Armande-a most deadly clever performance?

  With an uncanny awareness, almost as though he had heard her thoughts, Armande turned. From across the salon, his gaze locked with hers. The meeting of their eyes gave her a jolt Phaedra felt all the way to her toes. He raised a pinch of snuff to his nose, but she realized with surprise that he only affected to take it. He replaced the snuffbox in his pocket, all the while holding her captive with his stare, his eyes both mocking and challenging. A half-smile tipped his lips, as though he acknowledged the fact that he was not fooling her, yet daring her to destroy the illusion he wove.

  She broke the contact first, hastily looking away, ashamed to be caught ogling him like the others. She had scarce seen Armande since the morning she had burst into his bedchamber. He had returned the cloak, but by way of the maidservants, leaving Phaedra to wonder if she had only imagined Armande's reaction to the garment. Had the marquis deliberately kept out of her way since then? Was he avoiding her questions, or merely heightening the effect of his appearance here this evening?

  Phaedra longed to imitate his own expression of lofty indifference, but even with her back to him, she felt his presence in every fiber of her being. His image danced before her eyes, reflected a half-dozen times in the pier glasses set between the salon's rococo panels. Which of those mocking visions, if any, was the real Armande de LeCroix?

  "Phaedra?" Jonathan Burnell's low voice penetrated her consciousness. Phaedra turned to acknowledge the wine merchant, her grandfather's longtime friend. She had the uncomfortable feeling that the poor man had been trying to attract her attention for some time now.

  His dark eyes regarded her sadly. "I beg your pardon, my dear. Have I done something this evening to offend you?"

  "Certainly not." Phaedra bit back a rueful smile at the notion that a man as gentle as Jonathan could ever offend anyone."It is I who should beg your pardon. I have been so preoccupied of late."

  "With your grandfather's guest, no doubt." Jonathan's smile did nothing to relieve the gravity of his expression. The glow from the green cut-glass lamps that illuminated the room only served to heighten his sallow complexion, making him appear more melancholy than ever. "I daresay you are as overwhelmed by the marquis's magnificence as the rest of the ladies."

  "Indeed. Having him here is more enthralling than attending a frost fair." Phaedra half-hoped Armande might hear her sarcastic remark, but although the marquis stood not more than a few yards away, she much doubted he could hear anything but her grandfather's voice booming in his ear.

  "I feared that something troubles you," Jonathan whispered. "I trust it is nothing to do with your writings?"

  Phaedra stole a cautious glance about her. No one else was within earshot except the foppish Lord Arthur Danby, and he had sagged down onto one of the armchairs, already in that befuddled condition that her grandfather described as being half-glazed.

  "No, the writing is going splendidly," she whispered back. "The next issue of the Gazetteer should be circulating amongst the coffeehouses by tomorrow. The contents may disconcert more than a few honorable members of parliament."

  To say nothing, Phaedra added to herself, of a certain marquis. She had a notion Armande de LeCroix would not be pleased to find himself the object of Robin Goodfellow's speculations, the light of public attention fixed upon him.

  Jonathan captured one of her hands. "My dear, if you knew how I worry about you. The things you write border on treason. It could be the ruination of both you and your grandfather. If anyone discovers you are this Robin Goodfellow, it would be assumed that Weylin provided you with your information about the doings of parliament.”

  "And how would anyone guess?" she interrupted. "Not even my publisher knows the identity of Goodfellow. My cousin Gilly is the only other person I have trusted with the truth. Unless you mean to betray me." She meant it as a jest, but she forgot that Jonathan never jested.

  His eyes darkened with reproach. "My dear, however could you think such a thing? I owe my very life to you. Do you think I could ever forget the risk you took for me?"

  "Nonsense. What risk? You know my Irish blood is enough to scare off almost everything-including the pox." She averted her face to hide her feelings of embarrassment and guilt. Five years ago she had nursed him through an attack of the smallpox, and Jonathan had been devotedly grateful to her ever since. But it had been no noble gesture on her part. Disillusioned with her marriage to Ewan, she had little cared whether she lived or died.

  She slipped her hand from Jonathan's grasp, his gratitude making her uncomfortable. "Pray, don't look so solemn," she said with forced gaiety. "This supper party promises to be grim enough entertainment. Grandfather has ordered up so many courses, the poor marquis may be obliged to-"

  She broke off, her attention caught by Lucy's timid face peeking inside the salon door. When Phaedra glanced her way, the young girl beckoned frantically and closed the door.

  Phaedra excused herself to Jonathan. She inched her way toward the door as quickly as she could without attracting attention, but the company seemed too absorbed by the marquis to even notice when she slipped from the room.

  She found Lucy in the hall, wringing her hands.

  "Lucy," she asked. "Whatever is the matter?"

  "Oh, milady, I thought you'd want to know. Your cousin is here, trying to see you, and Mrs. Searle won't let him in."

  "Damn that woman." Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. She could not be gone long, or her absence would be noted, Armande's fascination notwithstanding. But Gilly would not have ridden all the way out here at night unless he had something important to tell her. Something he had learned about Varnais.

  Her heart thudding with excitement, she instructed Lucy, "If my grandfather comes looking for me, tell him I have torn the flounce on my petticoat and will return as soon as I've mended it."

  She did not wait for Lucy's solemn nod of agreement before raising her skirts and running toward the front hall. She brushed past the suits of armor, which stood like a row of silent, sentries. The padding of her slippered feet seemed to raise a fearsome echo off the rafters towering overhead. But Phaedra doubted if the two who struggled near the mansion's open front door would have noticed her approach if she'd been wearing iron-heeled boots.

  The pale circle of lantern light spilled across Gilly's cheerful features as he pressed his shoulder up against the door in an effort to keep Mrs. Searle from closing it.

  "Come now, Madam Pester, there's a sweet colleen. Just whisk to the dining room and be telling my cousin I'm here."

  "Out with ye, ye Irish wastrel," Searle screeched as she was inched backward, losing in her struggle to bar the door. "Get out afore I scream for John and Peter to toss ye on yer ear."

  "Mrs. Searle!" At the sound of Phaedra's shout, the woman paused to look back.

  "Admit my cousin at once." But the command was unnecessary, for Gilly had already managed to force the door and slip past her.

  "But yer ladyship, being as ye are now naught but a poor widow, ye ought to have more of a care for yer reputation than to be receiving the likes of him. What would the elegant company in the salon be thinking-"

  "I care no more for their opinion than I do for yours," Phaedra said. "Be about your business."

  The housekeeper dipped into a sullen curtsy, but she made no effort to conceal her resentful glare before disappearing into the shadows beyond the stairway.

  "Whew." Gilly straightened the black solitaire knotted around his neck. "That creature pounced at me like a daft cat. With all his wealth, I s
hould think your grandfather might hire a butler."

  He rolled his eyes toward the collection of halberds and swords mounted upon the walls, their sharp edges glinting in the candlelight. "It is bad enough stepping into this dungeon, without being greeted by a witch at the door."

  "Pay her no heed." Phaedra eagerly embraced him. "Where have you been? I have been expecting you for days "

  Gilly ignored her question, gazing about him with morbid fascination. "What a place this is at night!" He lowered his voice to a sinister pitch. "Can't you half fancy that old Lethe’s ghost yet hovers in the shadows, ready to bash his next victim?”

  Phaedra felt the hairs prickle at the back of her neck. "Gilly, will you stop teasing?" Seizing her cousin by the arm, she dragged him into her grandfather's anteroom. The chamber, now devoid of its morning throng of satin-clad beggars, was as solemn and silent as the hall beyond. Phaedra hastened to light an oil lamp.

  "Now tell me," she demanded, "what have you found out? What did you discover about Varnais?"

  Gilly swept off his cape. "Ah, and to think I had a notion it was myself you were missing, you were so glad to see me at your door."

  He mournfully shook his head. "Well, if tidings of Varnais is all you are after, my darlin' cousin, I fear you are doomed to disappointment."

  Phaedra frowned. "You've been gone nigh a week. You must have learned something. Who is Armande de LeCroix?"

  "Exactly who he claims to be. The Marquis de Varnais."

  "If such a family and title exist. Did you make inquiries of the French Ambassador?"

  "Ambassador!" Gilly snorted. "My dear, if you truly wish to know any secrets, you don't go asking an ambassador. You speak to his footman or his cook."

  "And so what did his excellency's footman have to say?"

  "That the name of Varnais is well-known in the south of France. Both title and family are as ancient as Notre Dame. The present marquis's parents died when he was but a babe. He had two elder brothers, both of whom are also dead, without issue. Consequently, the title came to de LeCroix."

  "Then he really is the Marquis de Varnais," Phaedra said slowly. She was uncertain whether she felt relieved or disappointed. "And Armande himself? What did you learn of him?"

  "Let me see." Gilly rubbed his chin, staring up at the ceiling. "Well, he orders his snuff from Trebuchets in Oxford Street. He prefers French tailors to English, and has ordered no new clothes while in London."

  "Gilly!" Phaedra was startled by the sharpness of her own voice. Her cousin regarded her with open-mouthed surprise, and, turning aside, she fidgeted with the pole fire screen, the panel done up in her own indifferent needlework-a relic of the manner in which she had filled her days before embarking upon the far more interesting career of Robin Goodfellow.

  "I beg of you to stop tormenting me," she said. "This matter is far too important for jesting. Now did you at least make inquiries about him at his former lodgings?"

  "Aye," Gilly's voice was subdued when he answered her this time. "But I couldn’t get much out of the landlady. The laundry maid, the porter and the scullery girl had nothing but praise for the marquis, no doubt owing to how generous he is with his vails. And the man has no personal servants.”

  “Don’t you find that odd? That a nobleman such as Varnais would not at least have a valet?”

  “According to his laundry maid, the marquis was obliged to dismiss his last manservant for stealing and had yet to find another valet to meet his exacting standards.”

  Phaedra heaved a deep sigh of frustration. This scanty information was not what she had waited a week to hear.

  "Admit it, Fae," Gilly said. “You've got yourself in a dither over nothing. This marquis of yours is a little more aloof than most men. You've allowed your imagination to run riot, conjuring up all sorts of sinister fantasies."

  Phaedra closed her mouth in a tight, stubborn line. No one, not even Gilly, took her suspicions seriously.

  "I suppose you did the best you could," she said stiffly. "Doubtless you are right. I am making a fool of myself as usual."

  "Fae, don't be angry with me. If you want, I could try to follow the man-"

  "I wouldn't dream of wasting any more of your valuable time." She scooped up his cape and folded it across his arm.

  He fetched a deep sigh, but made no move to leave. He lingered by the door, regarding her wistfully, his eyes bearing the soulful expression of a great galumphing puppy, begging to be let in out of the rain. It was the same look that had been getting him out of scrapes ever since he was five. Phaedra was not proof against his charm.

  "It's an ill-tempered shrew I am," she said, hugging him. "Forgive me, Gilly. But you know well how hard it is for me to admit when I am in the wrong. It is doubly embarrassing when I think what I wrote about Varnais for the Gazetteer."

  "There's no sense fretting about that, Fae. Jessym already has that issue at the booksellers by now. All you need do is write something else and stir up a fresh hornet's nest. Whatever you've said about Varnais will be soon forgotten and- bless me! I've nigh forgotten my main purpose in coming out here tonight."

  Gilly fished a well worn leather purse from his waistcoat pocket. "Hold out your hands," he commanded.

  Bewildered, Phaedra complied. He undid the drawstrings of the purse and poured into her upturned palms a handful of golden guineas.

  "Payment, my dear coz," he said gleefully, "wrung out of your clutch-fisted publisher by my persuasive Irish tongue. I told Jessym if he didn't come across with an advance, I'd be like to break his pate."

  "Oh, Gilly, you darling." Phaedra balanced the coins between her cupped palms. "I'm a woman of substance again," she crowed. "Independently wealthy."

  Gilly chuckled. "I don't know as I'd go that far. But I did get the old rogue to promise double for your next piece."

  "Double. That's wonderful. I-"

  She broke off at a sharp click, signaling the door handle to the anteroom was being turned. One of the heavy oak portals pushed open.

  "Lady Grantham?" Armande's cool voice slashed through the sudden silence like a saber's blade.

  "Well! Speak of the devil!" Gilly mumbled in Phaedra's ear, but she barely heeded her cousin. She stared at the tall, elegant figure, whose broad shoulders blocked the door. The man moved with the stealth of a stalking leopard.

  "Your pardon, milady," Armande said. "I had not meant to startle you, but I thought I heard your voice in here."

  Heard her voice and how much more? Phaedra wondered, her heart thudding from the shock of his sudden appearance.

  "I had some business to attend. Private business." She tried to present the picture of haughty composure, but her hands trembled as she hastened to slip the coins back into the purse. Faith, she could not have appeared more guilty than if she were the infamous Guy Fawkes caught stacking a powder keg under parliament.

  Gilly, on the other hand, had contrived a smile of the most charming innocence. The rogue probably could have done so even if he stood holding a lighted fuse in his hand, Phaedra thought with some envy.

  In her nervous haste, she dropped one of the guineas. It rolled to a halt by Armande's silver-buckled shoe. He bent and retrieved the coin in one graceful motion.

  "I am sorry if I am intruding," he said. Armande took her hand. He pressed the gold coin into her palm, cupping her fingers about it. His ice-blue eyes delved into hers, seeming to promise that what secrets he had not heard, he would prize from her by force of will. Then his gaze traveled to Gilly. One of the marquis's dark eyebrows arched questioningly.

  Phaedra had no choice but to perform the introduction. "My lord, this is my cousin, Patrick Gilhooley Fitzhurst."

  "A pleasure it is, my lord." Unabashed by Armande's appraising stare, her cousin seized the marquis's hand and wrung it in a hearty shake. Devilish lights danced in Gilly's eyes as he added, "I've heard a great deal about you."

  "I'll wager you have, Mr. Fitzhurst," Armande said.

  "My cousin helps me. With
my investments, from time to time," Phaedra said and then she silently cursed herself. She owed Armande no explanations. "Unfortunately, Gilly was just on the point of leaving."

  "You are not staying for supper, Mr. Fitzhurst?"

  "Nay, my lord." Gilly swung his cape about his shoulders. "I fear most of Mr. Weylin's guests are the sort to take Mr. Swift's Modest Proposal to heart. Not only do they think all Irish children should be devoured-they wouldn't hesitate to serve me up, tough and stringy as I am."

  To Phaedra's surprise, the marquis laughed. It was the first time she had ever heard him do so, the sound rich and, deep-timbered, but also restrained, as though the man dared not find genuine amusement in anything. She found the thought disturbing and somehow sad.

  "Farewell, coz. Your lordship." Gilly bowed to Armande and gave Phaedra an audacious wink as he moved toward the door. "No need for you to summon Madam Pester. I can find my own way out."

  Gilly was nearly across the threshold and Phaedra had just felt herself begin to relax when Armande spoke up. "One word before you go, about your, er-investments, Mr. Fitzhurst."

  Her cousin paused on the threshold, his brow furrowed in an expression of polite inquiry. The marquis shook out the lace at his wrists and continued in completely impassive tones, "Half a crown might do for a laundry maid, but it takes far more to induce a good lodging house keeper to gossip about one of her guests.”

  A gasp escaped Phaedra, and she could feel the color begin to drain from her cheeks. He knew. Dear God, Varnais knew about the questions Gilly had been asking. For a moment, even her cousin looked shaken, but he quickly recovered.

  "I shall bear that in mind, your lordship." Although he flashed the marquis an impudent smile, his gaze swept over Armande as though reappraising the Frenchman. He said to Phaedra, "Maybe I should stay awhile longer-"

  "No, I wouldn't dream of detaining you," Phaedra said. She all but thrust him across the threshold, muttering low enough so that only her cousin could hear. "Please, Gilly. You will only make matters worse. I can deal with the marquis."