Page 11 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“And he as good as threatened to kill me if I asked any more questions about him,” she concluded.
To her disappointment, Gilly looked unimpressed. He perched atop one corner of the library’s heavy desk, tapping a boot against the claw-foot leg in negligent fashion.
“Astonishing.” He exuded his breath in a long low whistle.
“Not back in town but one night, and already after picking a quarrel with someone. It must be the Irish in you, my dear.”
“It was far more than a quarrel. There is something sinister about the marquis. The man is plotting some mischief, and I have an intuition that it concerns both Grandfather and myself.”
“And you intend to make sure that it does.”
She glared at her cousin, but he disarmed her with a smile.
“Admit it, Fae. You were piqued by this meddling marquis, so you sought out the fellow and provoked him. You’ve a devilish sharp tongue, enough to rouse a saint to murder.”
“It was nothing of the kind. But I cannot expect you to comprehend. You were not there. You didn’t dance with him.”
“Aye, and I don’t suppose there’s much likelihood of his ever asking me to do so, either,” was Gilly’s cheerful reply. “I think your marquis is simply too top lofty to give an account of himself to anyone. My advice is to leave the man alone. But I see from the mulish look on your face that you’re not about to do that.”
“No, I’m not. I do not like those who intrude themselves in my family. Nor do I like being threatened.” Phaedra stalked over to where Gilly perched upon the desk. “Despite your marked lack of sympathy, I am glad you happened by this morning.”
“Happened by, is it? You had me summoned from my bed at the crack of dawn.”
Phaedra ignored this grumbling remark. Instead, she leaned past her cousin, indicating the sheets of parchment stacked on the desk behind him. “I have another delivery for you.”
Gilly glanced over his shoulder. The next instant he leaped off the desk as though it had caught fire. His air of nonchalance vanished, and he paled beneath his tanned skin.
“Mother of God! Are you daft, woman, to be leaving this about where any dim-witted housemaid might chance upon it!”
Phaedra proceeded to gather up the sheets. “I assure you, no one has been in here this morning but myself. I just wrote it last night.” She didn’t add that the pages had been scratched out here in the dismal hours before the dawn, when her garret room was too hot and her bedchamber far too confined, far too full of the Marquis de Varnais.
She ran a hasty eye over some of the paragraphs, pleased to see that at least she had been coherent at that hour. But she drew up short at the last page.
“Lud! I almost forgot my signature.” She reached for a quill pen, dipping it into the pot of ink. At the bottom of the final sheet, she hastily scrawled the name, Robin Goodfellow. The signature looked bold and masculine enough to fool anyone, even her sharp-eyed publisher, Jessym. As she proceeded to sprinkle sand to dry the fresh ink, Gilly peered over her shoulder.
“What the deuce have you been writing about this time?”
“Read it and see.”
While Gilly edged himself atop the desk once more and began his perusal, Phaedra picked up a blank sheet of parchment and fanned herself with it. The front of her loose-fitting sacque-style gown already felt uncomfortably damp and clinging. She stalked over to one of the narrow window casements to see if she could force it open further.
Sawyer Weylin’s estate lay far north of Piccadilly. The sprawling Palladian-style mansion was nestled in a parklike setting, simulating a country gentleman’s estate. But one never quite escaped the reminders that the bustling city of London was not far away. Phaedra crinkled her nose. Even out here, one occasionally caught a whiff of the coal-smoke and that pungent odor peculiar to the River Thames.
“Sweet Jesus!”
Gilly’s exclamation drew Phaedra away from the window. She turned around to find her cousin gripping her manuscript, looking far from pleased.
“My essay doesn’t meet with your approval?” she asked.
“The parts about the navy’s ships being filled with dry rot, and the bit about the king and parliament being negligent are excellent.” Gilly raked one hand back through his dark hair, further disordering his unruly curls. “But these passages about the Marquis de Varnais! It sounds as though you are implying he could be anything from a low-born impostor to a French spy.”
“I only hinted at a few reasons why he might be so prickly about his background.”
“This borders on libel, Phaedra, and well you know it! Jessym will never print it.”
“Jessym prints anything he thinks will sell.” But inwardly Phaedra squirmed in the face of Gilly’s disapproval. Maybe she had gone too far in her remarks about Varnais. But she hoped that her writing would make society, and especially her own grandfather, regard the man a little more warily.
Gilly tossed the sheets back down upon the desk. “I’m surprised at you, Fae, that’s all. Your pamphlets have been full of masterful writing, about fine, important issues. It’s that proud of you, I’ve been. This is common gossip.”
