Page 72 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
He was right. Her grandfather mopped at the sweat on his brow, yet she felt cold, so very cold. She sipped the golden liquid, which seemed to spread fire through her, but no real warmth. Phaedra peered anxiously up at Armande, but she could read nothing in his winter-blue eyes except concern for her. Her gaze traveled involuntarily to the small table beside the sofa. Atop its glossy surface reposed the dirt-smudged copy ofGulliver’s Travels. Someone, she had no idea who, had retrieved the book from where it had fallen beside Hester.
Her hands shook, nearly spilling the brandy. She felt Armande’s fingers close over hers, their strength helping hersupport the glass and raise it again to her lips. She forced herself to drink.
He settled beside her on the sofa and she had a strong urge to fling herself into his arms, an equally inexplicable urge to shrink away from him. A silence settled over the salon, as oppressive as the heat within the closed-up chamber.
Her grandfather was the first to break it, setting his own glass down with such a sharp sound that Phaedra jumped. Weylin glared at no one in particular. “It is one hell of an end to my fete-day. That wretched woman’s accident could not have been more ill-timed. Now I suppose I must look out for another housekeeper.”
Gilly stopped his pacing long enough to stare at her grandfather, his green eyes sparking with contempt. “Accident! Holy Mary, Mother of God!”
“You watch your nasty papist tongue, m’lad.” Weylin wagged a warning finger at Gilly, his thick finger slightly unsteady owing to the unaccustomed amount of brandy he had consumed. “It was an accident, and I’ll have no one saying any different. Or next I know the rector will be refusing to bury the woman in the churchyard, and there’ll be all manner of scandal. Damn the creature, anyway. If she wanted to kill herself, couldn’t she go fling herself into the Thames like everyone else does?”
“Suicide? Now there’s an interesting theory,” Gilly said. He cocked one eyebrow, his gaze no longer leveled at her grandfather, but at Armande. “I wonder what his lairdship would be thinking. Tell us, me laird, do you believe Madam Pester to be the sort of woman who would take her own life?”
Phaedra could not begin to guess where Armande’s thoughts had been. From the hazed look in his eyes, he had been miles away. Gilly’s question wrenched him back. He regarded her cousin with frowning surprise. “I did not know the woman well enough to say what she was likely to do.”
“Didn’t you? I would have wagered that Madam Pester numbered you amongst her most intimate acquaintances.”
Phaedra saw Armande tense. His eyes blazed at Gilly, the line of his mouth turning white and pinched. Phaedra uttered a faint sound of protest, though what she sought to deny, she hardly dared to think. Feeling ill, She set down her brandy glass before she dropped it.
The only one who did not seem to comprehend Gilly’s insinuation was her grandfather. He glowered at Gilly. “Damnation, boy! What would the marquis be intimate with the housekeeper for? Not even Arthur Danby ever took notice of Searle. And Lord knows when he is drunk enough, that fool would take after anything in petticoats.”
“I was not referring to the carnal sort of intimacy,” Gilly said.
Weylin growled, “Then what the devil are you talking about?”
Armande jerked to his feet. “I am not pleased to understand Mr. Fitzhurst, either.”
Phaedra wanted to beg Gilly to stop, but she was strangely helpless. It was all a nightmare, spinning out of control. She could neither direct its course nor waken from it.
Gilly leaned one arm up against the mantel, the hard set of his jaw belying the casualness of his pose. “I could not help remarking how shaken your lairdship appeared to discover Madam Pester’s untimely end. Of course, it took you the deuce of a long time to arrive. You must have been the last of us all to come gawking.”
“I don’t share your penchant for grim spectacle,” Armande said.
The two men squared off, Gilly’s eyes hard as emeralds, glittering with accusation, Armande’s like frozen flame. Phaedra struggled to her feet to fling herself in front of Gilly, but she wobbled, her legs feeling too weak to hold her.
Her movement had the effect of deflecting Armande’s gaze from Gilly, drawing the full force of it upon herself. As Armande reached out to steady her, she felt Gilly’s arm close about her shoulders, drawing her protectively back against him.
She stared at Armande, trying hard to see the face of the man she loved.•But it was impossible to focus on the present as the fragments of memory whirled through her brain. She heard the echoes of her own voice warning Armande against the housekeeper, and Hester threatening the unseen man in the garden; saw the garret door ajar, finding the books put there by Armande, and the open window, through which she well knew no one could have fallen, not without help.
Phaedra had no idea what her face revealed until she saw her own tormented thoughts reflected in Armande’s eyes. She might just as well have taken a knife and plunged it through his heart.
He turned abruptly away.
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Weylin,” he said, “I will leave this inquest to Fitzhurst and your granddaughter. They appear quite capable of reaching a verdict without any help from me.”
Armande stalked from the room. Phaedra took a hesitant step, wanting to go after him, but Gilly’s arm only tightened about her.
Sawyer Weylin huffed out of his chair, his heavy jowls quivering. “What the deuce is going on here, Fitzhurst? I’ll not have you insulting guests under my roof. I only permitted Phaedra to have you about in the first place as a reward, a small treat.”
Although still pale, Gilly had recovered some of his insouciance. “Mayhap you should have been after giving her one of those little lapdogs instead. Far tamer than an Irish hound.”
“You insolent whelp! I’ll have you thrown out on your ear. These manners might do for Ireland, sir. But in an English drawing—” Weylin broke off with a sharp gasp, doubling over,clutching at the region of his heart. A spasm of pain distorted his features, his flesh turning as gray as his wig.
“Grandfather!” Phaedra reached out to him, Gilly seeking to support the old man from the opposite side. Drawing in several ragged breaths, Weylin straightened, pulling away from them both.
“No need to shriek in my ear, girl. I am all right. Just cannot deal with any more tonight—” He stumbled toward the door. “Been too long a day, far too long. Need my bed.”
When Phaedra tried to accompany him, he waved her aside.
