Page 31 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Not stuck- locked. Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. Somehow she had managed to lock herself in with Arthur Danby. She had little choice but to hammer on the door and shout until one of the servants heard her.
She started to raise her fist when the full force of her predicament struck her. She would have some pretty explanations to offer when the door was unlocked. Herself with her hair all disheveled, her gown falling off her shoulder, Danby lying there with his breeches half undone. No one would be certain as to who had been attacking whom. There was only one certainty. Her grandfather would be sure to believe whatever put her in the worst possible light.
Phaedra lowered her arm. Then what was she going to do? She started to curse herself for being so careless when she froze, startled by a sudden recollection. She had seen no key in the lock. She could not possibly have trapped herself. That could only mean that someone else had. A trickle of foreboding iced its way along Phaedra’s spine.
The entire time she had bent over Arthur Danby, she must have been watched by a pair of eyes peering out of the darkness, an unseen presence observing her every movement, before quietly closing the door and locking it.
So then someone must be playing a malicious jest. Phaedra tensed and placed her ear to the door, catching the unmistakablesound of voices coming from the hallway beyond. She held her breath. With luck it would be Lucy or one of the servants she could trust.
Her heart sank when she distinguished her grandfather’s booming voice. “I’ve got one of the best picture collections in London, gentlemen. Most are in the gallery, but a few of the better ones are scattered throughout the house.”
Someone else growled a reply. Sir Norris Byram, she guessed. But it required no guessing on her part to identify the next speaker.
“Tres bien. I am most interested in seeing the Titian you said lodges in theChambre d’ Or.”
Phaedra froze in horror, at the same time, everything clicking into place for her with bitter clarity. Armande. She had not given the man enough credit for ingenuity. Somehow he must have extricated himself from Charles Byng in order to follow her. It would have been such an easy matter for him to lock her in with Danby.
It was not a malicious jest, but a well conceived plan to ruin her. Armande’s quick mind had taken advantage of her own recklessness. She did not attempt to fool herself; it would be ruin if she were found thus. Her prudish grandfather would fling her into the streets this very night.
As she heard the men drawing closer, Phaedra looked about frantically for a place to hide. No, that would not serve. If Armande guided her grandfather here on purpose, the marquis would not rest until she was found and dragged out from behind the wardrobe or from beneath the bed. It made no odds which. She would appear all the more guilty.
Only one recourse was left to her. Phaedra raced over to the window. Blowing out her candle, she struggled to fling open the casement before her eyes had even time to adjust to the dark. The moon, drifting behind the clouds provided her just enoughlight to see what a deadly drop it was to the ground below. The rough stone wall might have been as smooth as glass for all the toeholds it looked capable of providing.
Even the ivy seemed to cling precariously, its green tendrils but slender threads unable to support her weight.
Phaedra’s courage failed her for a moment. Then she heard someone just outside the door. She sucked in her breath. Better to risk breaking her neck than be caught in such humiliating circumstances. Giving herself not another moment to think, she plucked off her slippers and flung them out the window.
Scooping in her skirts as best she could, she quickly followed. Thrusting her legs out first, she eased her stomach across the sill until she dangled by her hands. It was still a perilous long way to the ground.
Yet she could not hang forever. Her palms already felt slick with sweat and she could hear the bedchamber door opening. Uttering a silent prayer, she let go, risking a grab for the vines, trying to find even the hint of a holding for her feet. Her legs tangled in her skirts, her silk stockings more slippery than her shoes of velvet might have been. The vines tore free beneath her clawing fingers, scratching her arms, scraping her shoulder on the way down. She broke her fall by clutching at the wooden casement of one of the lower windows, then she dropped hard, landing upon her side.
Momentarily stunned, Phaedra lay still. Then she rolled over, drawing in a painful breath. She barely had time to ascertain she was still alive, her bones miraculously intact, before a light appeared at the window above her.
Stifling a low groan, Phaedra crouched in the grass. There was not so much as a shrub to hide behind. All she could do was to creep backward, drawing herself into the shadows thrown by the massive house itself.
Long, painful moments passed before Phaedra saw the tall graceful silhouette of a man at the window. Candle shine haloed Armande’s white-powdered hair, his features lost in shadow so that he appeared like some pale phantom staring into the night. Searching for something? Phaedra wagered bitterly that he was and hoped that he was feeling most keenly disappointed.
She remained flattened upon the damp grass until Armande vanished. The light went out, returning that portion of the house to darkness.
Phaedra sat up slowly, not so much conscious of the scrapes and scratches stinging her flesh as she was of the nettles that seemed to have been driven deep into her heart. Well, at least now she understood more about Armande and that tender kiss, that look of regret she had surprised upon his hard features earlier. Even then, he had been but biding his time. Had he not sworn from the beginning that he would find a way to be rid of her if she didn’t stop questioning?
Yet he had nearly lulled her into doing just that, with all his feigned admiration, his deceitful way of appearing gentle when she least expected it. It was almost as if he knew how starved she felt for someone to show her even a small modicum of kindness.
She drew her lips so tightly together it almost hurt. He had been quick to take advantage of the opportunity to ruin her reputation, to see her driven out from the only home she had. But she felt more astonished at her own reaction than by what he had done. Why should she feel pierced with this sense of betrayal?
She had suspected all along how ruthless Armande could be. A most clever man, the marquis, subtle and cruel. Dear God! She had almost felt guilty for prying, actually indebted to the man. Well, no more! Now that he had taken the tip off his foil, she would no longer fight with a blunted weapon, either. She also knew how to bide her time, finding the moment to strike back.Phaedra gritted her teeth. She could be every bit as hard and cold as Armande de LeCroix.
Eight
Morning sunlight flooded past the brocade curtains, almost merciless in its cheerfulness, the frolicsome song of a lark invading the heavy silence of Phaedra’s bedchamber. The only sound from within the room was the whisper of a brush as Lucy quietly feathered the tangles from Phaedra’s red curls.
Phaedra hardly noticed the bright promise of the day or her maid’s efforts. She stared deep into the mirror that folded out from the top of her dressing table. Despite the elegance of her yellow figured silk gown, she looked exactly like what Gilly often called her, “Fey.” Her green eyes glittered, huge in the pale oval of her face.
How old would she have to be, she wondered bitterly, before she lost that look of vulnerability, that wounded little-girl expression? Phaedra slammed the mirror down with a sudden violence that nearly toppled her porcelain shepherdess off the dressing table’s edge. Moving the figurine to a more secure position, Phaedra said curtly to her maid, “Send down to the stables and tell them I will want the carriage today.”
“Yes, my lady.” Lucy ducked into a quick curtsy. Phaedra was aware that the girl studied the scratches and angry red scrapesthat crisscrossed Phaedra’s hands and arms. But the girl said nothing, merely handing Phaedra her bonnet and a pair of kid gloves before hastening to carry out Phaedra’s command.
When the door had closed behind Lucy, Phaedra slowly raised herself from the cushioned stool, wincing as she did so, her body painfully stiff from the bruises battering her hip and side. She felt the familiar fog of depression about to creep over her, and fought it with the only weapon she had, her anger. Her gaze turned balefully toward the connecting door that led to Armande’s bedchamber. She burned with a desire to confront him outright with the villainy he had practiced upon her last night.
