with fanciful
figures like those found in the Book of Kells. Within its locked
drawers resided her notes, first drafts of the pieces she had
written under the name of Robin Goodfellow and the copies of the
Gazetteer, the newspaper that printed her essays.
Reassuring herself that the cabinet had not
been tampered with, she resolved to take even greater precautions
in future to keep Hester Searle out of her rooms. She'd endure no
more of the woman's prying and malicious tricks.
Phaedra's gaze dropped to the garment she yet
clutched in her hands. She wanted to fling the cloak from her, but
instead she smoothed it out, the cloth exercising the same terrible
fascination for her it always had. Fashioned of dove-colored
cassimere, it had a folding hood that expanded to frame the
wearer's face in layers of ruffles. Phaedra hugged the cloak close
to her body, the inches of fabric falling far short upon her. The
garment had been designed for someone daintier than herself.
Her eyes misted over when she recalled the
first time she had ever seen the cloak. It had been lying draped
over that very same indigo-blue velvet wing chair, nestled so close
to the fire screen. Of course, then the wing chair had been new,
part of the elegant bedroom furnishings downstairs. The velvet was
faded now, but not so her memory. Sinking down upon the daybed's
stiff brocade covering, Phaedra stroked the soft wool of the cloak,
her mind drifting back to her wedding day.
She had returned, exhausted from the
celebration of the rites in Hanover Square, to the rooms Sawyer
Weylin had had prepared for her and Ewan. Exhausted, yes, but happy
and full of plans for the future. She had not been pleased to begin
her married life under her tyrannical grandfather's roof, but was
sure it would not be long until Ewan whisked her off to his own
estate in Yorkshire. Scrambling into her linen shift, she had sent
her maid away, then snuggled beneath the coverlets to await Ewan.
Her handsome, charming, husband.
Phaedra's heart had skipped a beat, her
youthful body wriggling in anticipation. She was not totally
ignorant of what to expect. Although she was still a maiden,
Phaedra had learned much from a muscular Irish stableboy, whom she
had once fancied. Learned far more than her parents would have
wished. It was at that time the decision had been made to find her
a husband. Phaedra had giggled as she remembered how forcefully her
mother had put the case to Papa.
“By my faith,” Lady Siobhan had snorted, “the
girl is overripe, George. Delay much longer, and we shall see her
fruit plucked by the wrong hands."
Strangely, Sawyer Weylin had chosen that time
to heal the breach between himself and his son. Although Weylin
still had refused to receive his Irish daughter-in-law, he had
showed an interest in producing a suitable candidate for his
granddaughter's hand. At first Phaedra had rebelled, wanting
nothing to do with the grandfather who so snubbed her beloved
mother. But Lady Siobhan herself had insisted that Phaedra accept
Weylin's offer, seeing better prospects for her daughter in England
than in Ireland. Phaedra's own objections had lessened when she saw
the portrait of the man Sawyer Weylin had selected. Lord Ewan
Grantham was decidedly a fine figure of a man.
The betrothal was delayed for another year by
the untimely death of her mother. Most willingly would Phaedra have
remained with her father, but George Weylin seemed to have no heart
left for anything but his grief. He had bundled Phaedra off to
England at the earliest opportunity. Banished to a strange country,
her mother gone, her Papa far away at Abbey Lough, Phaedra had
received a cold welcome from Sawyer Weylin, who from the outset
regarded this half-Irish grandchild critically. But Lord Ewan had
turned out to be as handsome as his portrait. Most naturally,
Phaedra had transferred the full fire of her passionate affections
to him, adoring her new husband.
Squirming beneath the sheets on her
figures like those found in the Book of Kells. Within its locked
drawers resided her notes, first drafts of the pieces she had
written under the name of Robin Goodfellow and the copies of the
Gazetteer, the newspaper that printed her essays.
Reassuring herself that the cabinet had not
been tampered with, she resolved to take even greater precautions
in future to keep Hester Searle out of her rooms. She'd endure no
more of the woman's prying and malicious tricks.
Phaedra's gaze dropped to the garment she yet
clutched in her hands. She wanted to fling the cloak from her, but
instead she smoothed it out, the cloth exercising the same terrible
fascination for her it always had. Fashioned of dove-colored
cassimere, it had a folding hood that expanded to frame the
wearer's face in layers of ruffles. Phaedra hugged the cloak close
to her body, the inches of fabric falling far short upon her. The
garment had been designed for someone daintier than herself.
Her eyes misted over when she recalled the
first time she had ever seen the cloak. It had been lying draped
over that very same indigo-blue velvet wing chair, nestled so close
to the fire screen. Of course, then the wing chair had been new,
part of the elegant bedroom furnishings downstairs. The velvet was
faded now, but not so her memory. Sinking down upon the daybed's
stiff brocade covering, Phaedra stroked the soft wool of the cloak,
her mind drifting back to her wedding day.
She had returned, exhausted from the
celebration of the rites in Hanover Square, to the rooms Sawyer
Weylin had had prepared for her and Ewan. Exhausted, yes, but happy
and full of plans for the future. She had not been pleased to begin
her married life under her tyrannical grandfather's roof, but was
sure it would not be long until Ewan whisked her off to his own
estate in Yorkshire. Scrambling into her linen shift, she had sent
her maid away, then snuggled beneath the coverlets to await Ewan.
Her handsome, charming, husband.
Phaedra's heart had skipped a beat, her
youthful body wriggling in anticipation. She was not totally
ignorant of what to expect. Although she was still a maiden,
Phaedra had learned much from a muscular Irish stableboy, whom she
had once fancied. Learned far more than her parents would have
wished. It was at that time the decision had been made to find her
a husband. Phaedra had giggled as she remembered how forcefully her
mother had put the case to Papa.
“By my faith,” Lady Siobhan had snorted, “the
girl is overripe, George. Delay much longer, and we shall see her
fruit plucked by the wrong hands."
Strangely, Sawyer Weylin had chosen that time
to heal the breach between himself and his son. Although Weylin
still had refused to receive his Irish daughter-in-law, he had
showed an interest in producing a suitable candidate for his
granddaughter's hand. At first Phaedra had rebelled, wanting
nothing to do with the grandfather who so snubbed her beloved
mother. But Lady Siobhan herself had insisted that Phaedra accept
Weylin's offer, seeing better prospects for her daughter in England
than in Ireland. Phaedra's own objections had lessened when she saw
the portrait of the man Sawyer Weylin had selected. Lord Ewan
Grantham was decidedly a fine figure of a man.
The betrothal was delayed for another year by
the untimely death of her mother. Most willingly would Phaedra have
remained with her father, but George Weylin seemed to have no heart
left for anything but his grief. He had bundled Phaedra off to
England at the earliest opportunity. Banished to a strange country,
her mother gone, her Papa far away at Abbey Lough, Phaedra had
received a cold welcome from Sawyer Weylin, who from the outset
regarded this half-Irish grandchild critically. But Lord Ewan had
turned out to be as handsome as his portrait. Most naturally,
Phaedra had transferred the full fire of her passionate affections
to him, adoring her new husband.
Squirming beneath the sheets on her
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