Page 18 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
When her grandfather refused to allow anyone into his private dressing room, Phaedra knew, he was usually in a vilehumor. Otherwise, a privileged few were generally permitted into that inner sanctum, to wheedle and flatter while the old man donned his wig. Phaedra elbowed her way out of the circle of anxious place-seekers and tradesmen, squaring her shoulders for the battle to come.
Slipping through the door at the end of the anteroom, she shut it firmly in the faces of the disappointed throng. Although designated as a dressing room, this inner chamber was fully as large and ostentatious as the anteroom, with gilt chairs placed as though for a performance. But the chief actor was obviously in too surly a humor to ring up the curtain today.
One gout-ridden foot propped up on a pile of feather-tic pillows, Sawyer Weylin shifted his not inconsiderable bulk upon cushions of Italian velvet, resting his large-knuckled hands along arm rails carved into the shape of snarling lions. The chair resembled a throne that might have been found in the palace of the Venetian Doges. Her grandfather could easily have passed for an Italian despot, with his impressive jowls, his heavy-lidded eyes, and a powdering jacket drawn about his bull-like neck.
He took no note of Phaedra’s entrance, his features florid with a rage directed at the barber trembling before him.
The man timidly held up a gray bagwig. “I assure you, sir, ‘tis designed in the latest fashion.”
“Bah! I can’t abide gray.” Weylin slapped his own bald pate.”Think that I shaved off the remnants of my own hair for you to trick me out like some old woman. And charge me thirty guineas into the bargain.”
“The price is more than fair, and gray is most becoming to you. Surely my lady agrees.”
The barber’s remark and his hopeful glance at Phaedra alerted her grandfather to her presence. He twisted round upon his throne as far as his size would allow him, and glared.
Phaedra curtsied. “Good morrow, Grandfather.”
“Good morrow is it?” Weylin roared. “Disobedient chit. Get over here and account for yourself at once. What d’ye mean—” He broke off to snarl at the barber. “Don’t stand there gawking. Be on your way, rascal.”
“But your wig, sir- “
Weylin snatched it from him. “Be off with you and send me the reckoning. Fifteen guineas, mind you, and not a penny more.”
“Sir!” The man’s wail turned into a gasp as Sawyer Weylin groped for his gold-tipped cane, poking it at the man. As the barber scrambled for the door, her grandfather managed to deliver a well-placed thrust at the man’s plump buttocks. Weylin grunted in satisfaction before turning to rail at Phaedra.
“Stap me, if I ain’t beset upon all sides by highwaymen and robbers. There’s not an honest tradesmen left in all of London.” Weylin jammed the wig upon his head.
“Now, missy, over here!” He tapped a spot near his chair with the cane. “What d’ye mean by sneaking back from Bath, filling my house with Irish papists? Searle told me you received that rascal cousin of yours. I won’t have it! Foreign villains creeping about under my roof.”
Phaedra gasped with indignation. “You’re a fine one to talk about foreign villains. What about your French friend ensconced in Ewan’s room? I daresay he is as Catholic as Gilly.”
“I’d trust a Frenchman a deal further than I would an Irish or a Scots. At least Armande is not a pauper.”
“I’ll wager you have no notion who the marquis might be, any more than anyone else does.” Phaedra advanced upon her grandfather. Ignoring the manner in which his chin quivered with anger, she proceeded to straighten his wig, which looked ridiculously askew. The old man thrust her aside.
“And so you’ve already presented yourself to the marquis, looking like a raggle-taggle gypsy, I suppose.” He jerked on oneof her red curls. “Od’s lights, girl, why can’t you ever powder that carroty hair of yours? ‘Tis damned hard upon a man’s eyes this hour of the day.”
“We have more important matters to discuss than my hair.” Phaedra flicked her tresses out of his reach.
“So we have. Why the deuce you couldn’t stay put in Bath until I sent for you? You’ve likely ruined everything.”
Phaedra started to snap out her reason for returning to London, but her grandfather’s last remark brought her up short. What did he mean, she’d ruined everything? Before she could question him, the old man gasped a flood of curses as the pillows shifted out from under his leg, jarring his gouty foot.
“Damnation. God curse it!”
Phaedra bent down to rearrange the pillows beneath the limb, which was swathed in a linen bandage. “Stop thumping about like that. You are only making it worse.” She wondered when the stubborn old man had last been seen by his physician.
When she’d managed to ease the foot into a more comfortable position, Weylin sagged back in his chair, mopping at his sweating brow with a large handkerchief.
“Ah, that’s better.” He glanced down at Phaedra with a look approaching fondness. “Foolish, headstrong girl. If only you knew how I have your best interests at heart.”
The layers of flesh on his face crinkled, his lips stretching into a bland smile, revealing a row of even white teeth, remarkably unblemished for a man of his years. He was inordinately proud of them.
Her fingers still curled about a pillow, Phaedra stared up at him, her mouth hardening into a line of suspicion. It struck her that something was wrong here. She had expected her grandfather to be furious at her unannounced return from Bath. Despite his grousing, she had the feeling he was not altogether displeased to have her back. Smiling down at her, Sawyerreminded her of a fat, lazy crocodile, sunning itself on the banks of a river. But Phaedra had seen too many fools snapped up in her grandfather’s jaws to be taken in.
“What did you mean a moment ago,” she demanded, “when you said I’d ruined everything?”
“Only that I’d hoped eventually to present you to Armande in style, once I’d brought him around to the notion.”
