Page 35 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Alack, the Lethington manufactory was forced to close its doors. I procured many of the pieces when the property was sold to pay off debts. But the shepherd and shepherdess were missing.” The merchant added almost too casually, “If your ladyship would like to bring me the figurine, I would be only too pleased to examine it to see if it is genuine Lethington.”
“Is it worth a great deal of money, then? I have heard of Wedgwood china,” she said, “but never Lethington.”
“The Lethington family were well-acquainted with Josiah Wedgwood, I assure you. All of them from Staffordshire, all of them skilled craftsmen. Of course, the Lethington shop was a family concern. The mother and her two sons, James and Jason, as I recall. Also a sister, Julianna. Mrs. Lethington must have had quite a penchant for the letter J.”
When the shopkeeper finished chortling at his own jest, he added, “Most of the actual designing was done by Miss Julianna.”
That information caused Phaedra to examine the candlesticks with renewed interest, admiring Julianna Lethington’s skill. How it would astonish her grandfather, who thought women could do nothing but embroider handkerchiefs. She murmured, “With such artistry, I am astonished that the Lethingtons should ever have been obliged to close their business.”
“It was owing to a tragedy in the family-a scandal far too sordid for your ladyship’s delicate ears.” For all his protestations, Phaedra could tell the man was perishing to tell it to her. “The elder brother James was hanged for murder, and some say his sister committed suicide, flinging herself into the Thames. As for the younger brother and the mother, they simply packed their bags and fled to Scotland, so I’ve heard.”
Although she made a murmur of sympathy, Phaedra’s interest•in the tale had already begun to wane. Mulling everything over in her own mind, she decided that it was highly unlikely that her porcelain shepherdess could be the famous piece designed by Julianna Lethington for an emperor. Phaedra had found the statuette discarded in the attic. She knew her grandfather’s shrewdness too well to think he would miss such aprize. Although Weylin had no appreciation of the arts, he had a canny instinct for anything of value.
Phaedra returned the candlesticks to the counter and thanked the shopkeeper for all of his time. The little man’s chin dropped when he realized she intended to quit the shop without purchasing anything.
He followed her to the door. “Nay, milady, if the candlesticks do not please, let me show you some of my other pieces. I have many other things-wonderful charming.”
But Phaedra put an end to this by frankly admitting she had no extra money for china at the moment. Gathering up her maid, she escaped from the dark shop into the brilliant flood of sunlight. Considering that Phaedra’s avowed intent had been to purchase a wedding gift, Lucy was looking rather puzzled.
To distract the girl as much as anything else, Phaedra entered a milliner’s and made a trifling purchase of some sash ribbons, then sent Lucy to take the parcel back to the carriage, thus giving herself a moment alone. She had espied a bookseller’s stall across the street and intended to secure herself a copy of the Gazetteer, to secret away with the other copies of her writing she kept in the locked desk in her garret.
As soon as she made certain Lucy was a safe distance up the street, Phaedra hiked up her skirts and darted through the traffic, barely escaping having her toes crunched by the wheel of a farm cart. In the next instant she was nearly knocked down by a running footman. The fellow did not even pause, but continued his sprint, waving his white baton in an effort to clear a path for the Duchess of Avalon’s carriage. Phaedra leaped past the posts separating the street from the footpath just in time to save herself from being trampled by her grace’s leaders.
She collided against a hard male chest with a force that nearly sent her sprawling backwards into the mud. A strong pair of arms closed about her, steadying her.
Phaedra took but a moment to catch her breath before mumbling. “Thank you, I beg your pardon.” She struggled to pull free, aware that her rescuer appeared to be taking undue advantage of the situation, holding her longer than was necessary. As she focused on lean, chiseled features and ice-blue eyes, her heart gave a mighty thump instead. She could feel her face turn ashen. It was as well that Armande’s strong arms held her, or she might have fallen.
“Lady Grantham,” Armande said, his lips tipped into that reluctant smile which was so peculiarly his own. The waves of his sable-colored hair captured the sunlight. The reflected warmth shone in the depths of his eyes, as well. How dare he pronounce her name like that, in those low, intimate tones! He almost made it sound like some sort of an endearment. She shoved away from him, the color flooding back into her cheeks.
All the composure with which she had planned to face him- where was it now? She could have cursed him for retaining his. It was not fair, his taking her by surprise this way, but then she already knew that the marquis played by his own rules.
“Lord Varnais. Only fancy encountering you here,” she managed at last. She had meant to be all chilling sweetness, but she could not seem to avoid a flinty, accusing tone. “We do have a habit of meeting at the most unexpected times: One would almost think you had been following me.” She nearly added, “Again.”
“It is equally astonishing for me, but not unpleasant.” He smiled. “I am glad to see you have recovered from your illness of last eve. Are you out here all alone?”
Armande’s silken voice could make the most innocent questions sound sinister. She retreated a step, her eye drawn to the window of the shop from which she realized Varnais must have just emerged. A single black-edged placard proclaimed, FUNERALS FURNISHED HERE.
“No!” she blurted out. “My maid, the coachman, and footman are just at the next corner.”
“I am glad to hear it. It is not safe for you to wander the streets unescorted.”
“I’ll wager I am as safe here as I would be in some of the rooms of my grandfather’s own house.” She stiffened with annoyance when she saw that her pointed remark produced not so much as a twitch of an eyebrow on Armande’s impassive face. What a cool villain he was. Determined to force some guilty reaction from him, she continued, “Oxford Street is no longer what it was like when my grandfather was a boy. He told me this part of the city was but a pit of mud, a likely spot to be set upon by cutthroats. But I imagine such villains are a little more subtle these days-perhaps more after the style of the French.”
“We have villains in France with no more claim to cleverness than your English ones, madame.”
“But I daresay you have some that are masters of the art of calculation.”
“You could encounter such rogues anywhere.” To her outrage, a flicker of amusement shaded his eyes. “It is all the more reason you should be careful,ma chere. Maybe you would permit me to walk you back to your carriage?”
He reached for her hand, but a sudden frown creased his brow.
Phaedra tried to draw away, but he would not let her. She grimaced, realizing she had forgotten to put her gloves back on after examining the candlesticks. Maintaining a firm but gentle clasp on her wrist, he inspected the scratches on her hands.
“Mon Dieu. What have you done to yourself?”
His feigned concern caused her more pain than the knowledge that he was responsible for her injuries.
“A trifling accident,” she said tersely. “I assure you that no such mishap will ever befall me again.”
