Page 80 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Perhaps I don’t believe he would, either,” was her cousin’s last admonishment, “but all the same, you keep your door locked.”
Alighting from the curricle, he saw her safely back up the lane to the house, not parting from her until she slipped in through the front door.
Despite the fact that it was not yet midnight, the Heath seemed oppressively silent. None of the footmen were in attendance, nor did she see any of the other servants as she stepped into the front hall. Without Hester’s grim presence, the household had already grown a bit lax.
She supposed she should count herself fortunate that someone had remembered to leave an oil lamp burning upon the hall table. She found a candle end in one of the drawers and touched it to a lamp’s wick to light her way up to bed. She should have been grateful to find no one abroad, for her return would go unremarked. But the house’s relentless silence preyed upon nerves already stretched taut from the shock she had received at Glencoe’s cottage.
The candle trembled in her grasp as she glided through the hall. The stone walls loomed above her, the candle flame sparked glints of illumination upon the collection of medieval weaponry. She averted her eyes, trying to avoid the sight of wicked curving hooks and sharp blades.
She loathed the hall even in the daytime. Why now, of all nights, was she lingering here instead of bolting up to the security of her bedchamber? Perhaps she sought to prove to herself that she was not afraid. Sometime in the hours between now and dawn she would have to come to terms with the truth of Armande’s identity as James Lethington. Perhaps that was best done here in the hall, where it had all begun seven years ago-the chain of tragedy that reached out from the past to threaten her.
Drawing in a deep breath, she forced her feet past that one part of the hall she had always avoided. The suit of armor stood cloaked in shadow, the lifeless man of iron menacing her with the weapon in its upraised gauntlet. Mocking eyes seemed to regard her through the slits in the plumed helmet, the lower joining of the visor appearing curved into a taunting smile.
She attempted to confront the worst of her fears, picturing Armande’s face distorted with the fury to kill, his strong, supple fingers replacing that fist of tarnished iron, grasping the mace. Her heart rebelled, refusing to allow such an image to linger even in the darkest recesses of her thoughts.
“So you have returned at last.”
The familiar silken voice sliced at Phaedra out of the darkness, terrifying her with its sudden proximity. She cried out, whirling to look behind her, stumbling and clattering against the armor. The candle dropped from her hand and rolled across the floor, sending wild arcs of light through the chamber. She caught a glimpse of the hard angles of Armande’s face set beneath his thick mane of dark hair, his eyes like blue flame, his shadow falling across her as the candle spun away.
She cowered against the suit of armor, unable to speak. Miraculously the candle did not snuff itself out, but came to rest against the wall, dripping wax upon the stone floor.
Armande turned aside long enough to retrieve it. He held the taper so that the light fell fully across her face. She flung her hand before her eyes in a defensive gesture.
“I am sorry if I frightened you,” he said. “You needn’t tremble so. There are no windows here.”
His sarcastic reference to her suspicions regarding Hester’s death did nothing to calm Phaedra’s racing heart. Armande’s lips curved in a bitter half-smile, his frozen look not quite concealing some darker emotion that raged within him. His wintry eyes never left her face as he snuffed out the candle, the smoke curling in wisps between them, the hall entombed in darkness except for the glow of the oil lamp by the door.
Phaedra inched away from the lamplight toward the marble stairway, the concealing blackness of the landing above them. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be awake,” she said.
With one deft stride, Armande placed himself in front of her.
He made no move to touch her, but the breadth of his shoulders formed an impassable barrier between her and the stairs.
“I looked into your room this morning, but you were gone,” he said. “I have been watching for your return all day. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
The accusation was couched in the softest of accents, yet Phaedra detected the anger beneath. Unable to meet his stare, she lowered her eyes to the cravat knotted with precision about his neck, the lace-trimmed linen concealing that familiar small scar.
She moistened her lips. “I-I don’t understand.”
He took a step closer, the movement rife with an impatience barely held in check. “The figurine is missing from the woodenchest in my room. It was taken either by your hand or your cousin’s. I don’t care who took it. I want it returned.”
Phaedra’s hands fluttered to the joining of her cloak, but she abandoned any further attempt to deceive him. Fumbling beneath the mantle’s dark folds, she produced the small parcel from one of the voluminous pockets. Silently she handed Armande the shepherd without unwrapping it. He pocketed it, his mouth pinching into a tight white line. After a moment’s hesitation, Phaedra drew forth the shepherdess. Slowly she peeled away the cotton batting. She raised the diminutive statue so that it was outlined by the lamp’s glow.
She heard the quick intake of Armande’s breath. He stared for a long moment. In a constricted tone he asked, “And how did you come by that?”
“I found it a long time ago in my garret. I didn’t know the significance of it until I saw yours.” Rather clumsily she held out the statue. “Take it. By rights it belongs to you.”
He made no move to accept it, his gaze raking her, the lean planes of his face flushing dark with suspicion and uncertainty.
She retreated a step, essaying a shaky laugh that was but a whisper away from a sob. “You were right about me all along. I never know when to stop asking questions. Today I asked one too many.” She swallowed. “I-I went to see a doctor named Glencoe.”
The name seemed to thud between them with all the force of a hammer’s blow. When she fell silent, Armande prodded harshly, “And? What then?”
“I know everything, Armande,” she said. “Or perhaps I should call you James.”
“You may call me anything you damn well please!”
The release of his anger caused Phaedra to shrink back further. Yet she pleaded, clinging desperately to one last hope.“If you told me that none of it was true, even now I would believe you.”
