Page 70 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“I am worried about this Robin Goodfellow affair,” he said with a sharp edge to his voice. She glanced up at him in surprise.
“Phaedra, it is that last piece you wrote. You have caused riots in the city.”
“I know all about that. Gilly told me.”
“Did he also tell you Jessym’s house was attacked by a mob last night, the windows broken while they howled for the real name of Robin Goodfellow?”
“N-no.” She faltered. “I am sorry to hear that. I trust Jessym was unharmed?”
“Aye, but I hear he would sell his soul to reveal the identity of Goodfellow and deflect the anger from his own door.”
“He can sell away,” Phaedra said. “As long as the only two people who ...” Her words trailed off as she was about to offer Jonathan the familiar assurance only he and Gilly knew her secret. But there was now a third. Armande. But no matter how angry he was with her, surely he would never betray her. Even if he had ceased to love her, what possible reason could he have for doing so?
“Everything will be all right,” she said. “This will all pass. And I have decided never to write as Goodfellow again.”
“Have you, my dear?” Jonathan brightened, his careworn features suffused with relief. At least, she thought wryly, her decision to fling aside her only chance for independence had made someone happy.
He clasped her hand between his own. “Such a wise choice. I am so glad of it.” He immediately sobered. “Of course, I realize what the writing meant to you. Your husband has left you in such dire straits, and Sawyer sometimes can be so difficult.”
Such a mild description of her grandfather’s irascible temper almost made Phaedra laugh aloud, but she became uncomfortably aware of the way Jonathan was stroking her hand.
“A woman as young as yourself,” he said timidly, “must marry again one day.”
Phaedra gently but firmly disengaged her hand. “You are beginning to sound like Grandfather. He has been doing his best to thrust me into the marquis’s path all summer.”
“Varnais? Surely not! Such a strange, cold man.”
Phaedra stiffened, not liking Jonathan’s assessment of the man she loved any more than she had Gilly’s.
All the worry lines returned to Jonathan’s brow. “Blast Sawyer and his ambition. How could he even think of forcing you to marry that-that?—”
“Do stop fretting, Jonathan. No one is forcing me to marry anyone.”
“But I know too well what Sawyer is like when he gets one of these notions in his head. Nothing ever stops him.”
“Jonathan, I assure you,” Phaedra said wearily. “I will never be the Marchioness de Varnais.”
She regretted she had ever mentioned the matter, only seeking to divert Jonathan’s thoughts from the Robin Goodfellow affair. Now she had given him something else to worry about. At times his concern for her could be almost oppressive.
“I am sorry, Phaedra,” he said. “I do not mean to annoy you. But I would do anything in the world to protect you.”
“I know that, Jonathan,” she said, making one last effort to dispel his anxiety and coax a smile from the solemn man. “Long before Grandfather bullies me into marrying anyone, I will have run off to become a highwayman, just as my cousin and I have always planned.” She nodded to where Gilly played at ninepins.
Where Gilly should have been playing. Her cousin’s place had been taken by a chubby boy with a jam-smeared face. Phaedra jerked to her feet, glancing wildly about her. But her desperate gaze encountered nothing but a sea of boys, hergrandfather urging them on in a tug of war, the servants bringing forth more cakes and ices. Gilly was nowhere in sight. Nor could she see Armande.
“Damn him!” she said through clenched teeth, although she was not certain which man she cursed. Perhaps both of them. Not taking the time to offer an explanation to the startled Jonathan, Phaedra tore off running toward the house. She heard him calling her name, but she dared not stop.
She was out of breath when she reached the set of long doors that brought her in at the back of the Green Salon. Clutching her aching side, she hastened into the front hall.
The house was silent except for the sound of her ragged breathing. She might have fancied herself in some abandoned castle with all the grim accoutrements of war gathering dust upon the walls above her. So quiet was the vast stone chamber, as still as that long ago night when James Lethington must have hidden behind the armor, the mace clutched in his sweating palms.
Phaedra darted up the stairs as though the armored suit itself could come to life and pursue her. She buried her fear beneath angry muttering. “It is I who shall be doing the murdering this time. I will kill Gilly when I find him.”
That is, if Armande had not already done so. She suppressed the thought, hating herself for even imagining her love capable of such a thing.
The deathlike silence pervaded the landing as well. Had not one servant remained behind to guard the place? Any other time that wretched Hester Searle would be lurking about to intercept her cousin. Where was the blasted woman the one time Phaedra needed her?
Phaedra crept toward Armande’s bedchamber and pressed her ear to the door. She did not know whether to feel relieved or more alarmed when she detected not a single sound. She triedthe door and found it unlocked. Inching it open a crack, she risked a peek inside.
