Susan Carroll (12 page)

The silence that settled over the anteroom
seemed heavier than one of London's fogs. Phaedra avoided looking
at Varnais. Nervously she moistened her lips. "We'd best hasten to
the dining parlor. I daresay the others will be wanting their
supper."

She took a step forward, but Armande's
outstretched arm barred her path, not roughly, but an immovable
barrier all the same. "My lady, I believe we have need of a
talk."

"Well, if you want to .talk about prying,"
Phaedra blustered, then realized with dismay, it was not he who had
brought up such a thing, but she. She continued doggedly, "How dare
you follow me from the salon!"

"Your grandfather sent me to find you."

"I hadn't realized there was a shortage of
footmen." She tried to slip past him, but he planted himself more
firmly in her path. Never had he seemed more formidable, his
masculine strength thinly veiled beneath the cool exterior of ivory
satin.

"What you should realize, my lady," he said,
"is that I seldom trouble myself to warn anyone a second time."

Phaedra thrust out her chin, seized by an
impulse to deny any knowledge of what he was talking about. But one
look at his eyes glinting like shards of crystal, told her denial
would be useless. She faltered. "And just how did you know that
I-that Gilly-"

A trace of amusement eased the hard lines of
his mouth. "My dear Lady Grantham, you and your cousin are not
exactly the most subtle people I have ever met. But I will admit
that when reports reached my ears of a strange Irishman asking odd,
unconnected questions about me, I neither knew his name nor
associated him with you until ten minutes ago."

"Oh," she said weakly. She retreated a step,
still unable to gauge how annoyed he was. She had a strong fear
that if she ever raised Armande's anger, she might not even know it
until too late.

She affected a careless shrug. ""So now you
know it was I who set Gilly on, what will you do about it? Draw
your sword and run me through?”

He didn't answer her, but his smile unnerved
her. With each step she took backward, he stalked closer, until she
felt the edge of the fireplace pressing against her spine, leaving
her no further room to retreat.

"I suppose you think I owe you an apology,"
she said. "Maybe I do. You might be pleased to know all of Gilly's
questions accomplished nothing, except perhaps to make me feel
somewhat foolish for mistrusting you."

Was it her imagination, or did she sense a
slight relaxing in Armande's whipcord taut frame.

"And does this mean you no longer mistrust
me?" he demanded. "You are now satisfied. There will be no more
questions?"

"I-I-" she stammered. How did he expect her
to reply when his lips drew so near to her own?

"I suppose not," she said. He cradled her
face between his hands. Although she made a faint protest, she felt
strangely unable to resist. Her heart thundering in ears, she half
closed her eyes, fully expecting him to kiss her. His strong
fingers were surprisingly gentle as he stroked back the hair from
her brow.

"No more questions," he murmured. "Ah,
Phaedra, I wish I could believe you, but already I fear I know you
too well."

He brushed his lips against her forehead, and
then abruptly released her. There was something disturbingly final
about the way Armande had embraced her, as though he bade her
farewell. His blue eyes were warm with regret, his smile tinged
with sadness. Somehow the expression frightened her more than any
of his threats had ever done.

The footman, John, held back the chair at the
foot of the long dining table. Phaedra sank into the hostess's
seat, her head swimming a little, although she had not tasted so
much as a drop of wine. For once she could not attribute her
reeling senses to the heat of the room. It all stemmed from the
tangle of emotion generated by the enigmatic man who now seated
himself at her right.

What had happened between herself and Armande
only bare moments ago? She thought if she closed her eyes she would
still be able to feel his hands caressing her face, that gentle
kiss which had somehow seared her more than the most heated
embrace. For a brief space of time, all her mistrust had been swept
away, her defenses lowered. She frowned. Or had it been Armande who
had momentarily dropped his guard?

If that were so, he had it firmly back in
place. As she signaled to the footmen to begin serving the first
course, she covertly studied Armande. If anything, he appeared even
more withdrawn; but Phaedra could not be certain if was she whom he
wished to distance himself from, or the rest of the company
gathered.

Her gaze traveled past him down the length of
the table, the pristine white linen cloth covered with the glitter
of crystal, china and silver-plate, and the candelabrum of blue
jasper. Only with difficulty had Phaedra kept her grandfather from
displaying every piece of expensive tableware that he owned.

She caught glimpses of Weylin's face framed
between the branches of the candlesticks. His lips pursed with smug
satisfaction as the ladies exclaimed over the table setting. Their
husbands expressed more pleasure at the sight of the steaming soup
tureen and silver platters laden with meat.

A marquis and Wedgwood china, leek soup and
mutton dressed with French sauce. How easily impressed these people
were! Immediately Phaedra felt ashamed of herself for being so
snobbish. Her grandfather's merchant friends were decent folk,
well-mannered and intelligent. It was only that their conversation
was more likely to center about the Royal Exchange rather than
Sheridan's latest play or the witty speech Lord Chatham had made in
the House of Lords today.

Not that Weylin's so-called noble guests
showed any disposition to discuss such interesting topics, either.
Sir Norris Byram slurped his soup with such violent enthusiasm that
he spattered the cuffs of poor Jonathan, who sat opposite him. Lord
Danby had sobered up enough to take his seat at the table. He
plucked out his quizzing glass and proceeded to inspect everyone
with great astonishment as though he had not seen any of them until
just that moment. He paused when his inspections reached Phaedra's
end of the table, focusing on Armande. As much, Phaedra thought
with scorn, as Arthur Danby ever focused on anyone.

"Stap me, sir," Lord Arthur said, "but we've
met before." Armande dismissed Danby with one bored sweep of his
ice-blue eyes. "Aye, in the green salon but a half-hour past."

Danby beamed, looking quite pleased with
himself. "So we did. Never forget a face." He squinted at Armande
for a few moments longer, then shrugged.

Phaedra picked at the food on her plate. She
had little appetite for any of the fancy dishes dressed by her
grandfather's new French chef-one more indication of Armande's
influence. Although the rest of the guests chatted amicably enough,
the first hour of the meal passed for her in a kind of isolated
silence.

She was hardly aware of any of them but the
tall, proud Frenchman seated so close to her. She had but to reach
out for her hand to brush against his. Yet Armande directed his
attention toward the woman seated on the other side of him, his
broad shoulder and his averted profile providing as much a barrier
as if he had erected a wall between himself and Phaedra.

The fluttery Mrs. Eulalie Shelton dropped her
spoon, looking ready to faint when Armande fixed his gaze upon her.
I should have never seated her near the marquis, Phaedra fretted.
The tiny wool draper's wife was a timid soul, easily
overwhelmed.

But to Phaedra's surprise, the lines of
Armande's face relaxed. Even his voice grew gentle as he strove to
make Mrs. Shelton feel at ease, feigning interest in commonplace
topics such as the Wedgwood china.

"I prefer Mr. Josiah's fancier sort myself."
The elderly woman at last became brave enough to venture. "The kind
with the Etruscan ladies dancing in the center."

"Ah, but madame, the china is most
elegante
when the design is kept simple." Armande indicated
the deceptively plain mint-green border that scrolled the rim of
his saucer. He displayed an astonishing knowledge as he went on to
describe the Dysart glazing process, which gave the china its
lighter tints.

Phaedra could only shake her head. She
wondered if the day would ever come when she would know Armande
well enough that he would cease to amaze her. She would have
wagered that most of his pastimes would be far more dangerous than
the collecting of china.

Armande had Mrs. Shelton quite relaxed by the
time the platters of the second course were served. Much to
Phaedra's embarrassment, the conversation veered from the cups and
saucers to herself.

"Poor dear Lady Grantham," Mrs. Shelton
whispered to Armande in a voice meant for his ears alone. "So young
to be a widow. Her husband's death was shockingly sudden. You see,
he was out riding on his estates up north when he suffered the most
horrid accident.”

"So I had heard," Armande said. He did not
seem as eager to discuss Ewan Grantham's death as he had the
china.

But Mrs. Shelton, made comfortable by
Armande's previous kindness as well as two cups of claret,
persisted. "The Grantham family has seen more than its share of
tragedy. Did you know that Lord Ewan saw his own father murdered in
this very house!"

"Indeed?"

Mrs. Shelton heaved a great sigh. "Poor Lord
Carleton."

"From what I heard about 'poor' Lord
Carleton," Phaedra started to chime in, then stopped herself. It
might sound ill-natured to say that Ewan's father likely had
deserved to be murdered. By all reports, Carleton Grantham had been
a bad-tempered rakehell, likely to rape a maidservant or to whip a
hunting dog to death. As cutting as Ewan's tongue had been at
times, Phaedra had taken some comfort from the fact that he at
least had not been as violent as his father.

Armande in any case showed little interest in
the subject. He drained his crystal goblet, his mouth pursing as
though he found the wine sour. He lapsed into a chilling silence
that left poor Mrs. Shelton looking flustered and confused.

Phaedra was far from enjoying the supper
party herself. She hailed with relief the arrival of the footman to
clear the table for the dessert course. But her relief was
short-lived, for now Sir Norris Byram leaned back in his chair and
belched loudly. He stole a glance at the rest of the company, his
porcine features stretching into the leer of a man contemplating
some mischief. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he produced folded
up pages from a newspaper.

"Look," he said, waving it about. "Another
issue of the Gazetteer. That rascal Goodfellow is at it again."

Phaedra choked in the act of taking a sip of
wine. Armande turned in her direction, his brow furrowed with
concern. He reached toward her, but Phaedra shrank back, muffling
her face behind a napkin. The last thing she wished for right now
was Armande's penetrating gaze upon her. Blast Norris Byram. The
man had a talent for making a nuisance of himself.

Sawyer Weylin reddened to such an extent
Phaedra feared he would have an attack of apoplexy. "How dare you,
sir," he bellowed. "How dare you bring a copy of that rag sheet
under my roof!"

Unperturbed, Byram unfolded the paper, his
gaze shifting toward Armande with an expression of sly malice. "I
thought it might be of interest to one of your guests. His
lordship's name is mentioned not a few times." Byram shifted in his
chair and prepared to hand the paper down the table to Armande.

A flicker of surprise crossed the marquis's
face, but otherwise he extended his hand with a look of
indifference. Phaedra had to restrain a wild urge to snatch the
newspaper. She could not have explained the feeling, but she
suddenly knew she did not want Armande to read what she had written
about him. There was still much about the marquis that disconcerted
her, roused her suspicions, but she now saw that Robin Goodfellow's
insinuations about Armande were both mean-spirited and cowardly.
For the first time, she felt ashamed of her work.

Armande's fingers closed over the paper and
he was about to begin reading the contents. Then suddenly, Sawyer
Weylin's chair scraped back. With a speed astonishing for a man of
his girth, he stormed the length of the dining hall and grabbed the
paper from Armande's hands.

At the haughty look Armande bestowed upon
him, Sawyer Weylin huffed, "Your pardon, my lord. But I am a member
of parliament, the loyal servant of good King George. I can't
permit the works of that treasonous dog Goodfellow to be passed
about under my own roof."

Armande shrugged. "As you wish, sir. I am
sure the matter is of no great import to me."

Weylin proceeded to shred the newspaper to
bits and cast it into the empty fireplace grate. Phaedra expelled a
deep breath of relief as her grandfather resumed his seat.

"Well, I can always tell his lordship what
Goodfellow wrote." Byram sneered.

Weylin's fist pounded against the table with
a force that made the forks jump. "Hold your tongue! I forbid even
the mention of that pernicious rascal's name in my house."

Her grandfather looked so fierce that Byram
had the good sense to close his mouth. The uneasy silence that
settled over the room was broken only by the arrival of dessert.
The rich assortment of creams, sugar puffs, iced cakes, and trifle
topped with pudding did much to sweeten everyone's disposition,
with the exception of Sawyer Weylin.

Her grandfather proceeded to break his own
rule, launching into an invective against Robin Goodfellow that
held the writer responsible for everything from the king's poor
health to inciting the American colonists to revolt against the
crown.