Susan Carroll (15 page)

His eyes held hers in the darkness. “Now 'tis
truly done, our pact made. And I give you fair warning, Sorrow. I
do not deal kindly with those who break faith with me.”

“I will not. Just get Norrie back for
me.”

By way of acquiescence, he sketched a brief
bow, rife with arrogance and a supreme confidence that filled Anne
with more hope than she had known for a long time. She refused to
dwell on the nature of the bargain she had just made, only thinking
what it would be like to have Norrie back again.

As he resumed escorting her through the
darkened street, he said, “Do me one favor, Sorrow, now that you
have agreed to allow me to handle this matter for you. Curb your
penchant for flitting about the streets alone after sunset. You may
encounter far worse than me in the dark. A gentleman known as the
Hook for example. There has been another murder tonight.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“The latest victim, I believe, is not unknown
to you. Mr. Daniel Keeler.”

Anne frowned in confusion.

“The young gentleman you saved the other
night from disgracing himself at the card table.”

“How dreadful.” For a moment, Anne was deeply
shocked and grieved. But nothing could take precedence over her
anxiety over her daughter, and what Mandell intended to do.

When they arrived back at Lily's gate, Anne
demanded, “My lord, you must give me some idea of what you are
planning. How will you go about rescuing Norrie, if not by
abduction? I have tried everything else. Lucien won't listen to
reason.”

“I believe I can persuade him to listen to
me.” Mandell's smile was not pleasant. He raised her hand to his
mouth, his lips warm and lingering upon her bare flesh.

“But Mandell—”

“Keep safe behind locked doors, Sorrow.”

With this final command, he stalked off,
vanishing into the darkness before Anne could question him further.
She suddenly realized she was still wearing his cloak, the garment
seeming as rife with secrets and mystery as its owner. She huddled
deeper into the heavy folds, torn between hope and fear, a little
awed by the dark force she had just unleashed upon the night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The following evening, the porter at Brooks's
was astonished when he opened the door to admit the marquis of
Mandell. As his lordship swept across the threshold into the
marble-tiled hall of one of the most exclusive gentleman's clubs in
London, the elderly servant moved to ease the greatcoat from
Mandell's shoulders.

“This is a rare privilege, indeed, my lord.
We seldom see you in here these days. We have managed to pry you
away from White's at last”

The porter nodded disdainfully toward the
front window where the lights of the rival establishment could be
seen glowing across the width of bustling St. James's Street.
Mandell was a member of both clubs. He acknowledged that the
interior of Brooks's possessed the elegance and charm of a
gentleman's country manor, but he generally preferred the company
to be found at White's. However, Sir Lucien Fairhaven did not. And
Sir Lucien was Mandell's main reason for venturing abroad tonight.
Mandell had made a pact with a lady and he intended to waste no
time in fulfilling his side of the bargain.

As he handed off his curly-brimmed beaver to
the porter, Mandell inquired casually, 'The club is well filled
this evening? Most of the members present?”

“ 'Twould seem so, my lord. With it being
such a foul night, threatening to rain again and all, most of the
gentlemen seem content to be here warm and dry rather than seeking
other entertainment about the town. It is certainly a deal safer,
my lord, if you take my meaning.” The old servant gave him a
significant look.

Mandell took his meaning quite well, but made
no comment. He allowed the porter, whom Mandell had known since the
days of his youth, more familiarity than most servants. But he was
not about to tolerate any more gossip on the subject of the recent
murders, or tiresome speculation about the Hook.

Mandell crossed the imposing front hall,
already beckoned by the sounds emanating from the Great
Subscription Room. The drone of masculine voices was punctuated by
bursts of unrestrained laughter, the kind gentlemen indulged in
when no ladies were present. A bewigged servant held open the door
and bowed Mandell inside.

He stepped into a chamber vast enough to have
been a ballroom. The Great Subscription Room was done up in the
classical manner, its towering walls left noticeably bare. There
must be nothing to distract one from the club's main and serious
purpose—the pursuit of gaming. Brooks's members crowded round
myriad felt-covered tables. Standing or seated, they played at
hazard, faro or whist. Both the stakes and spirits appeared to be
high tonight, judging from the number of flushed countenances.
Waiters trotted to and fro bearing fresh bottles of port from
Brooks's noted cellars while the croupiers intoned wins and losses
amidst choruses of groans.

Mandell greeted a few acquaintances while
doing a quick scan of the house. As near as he could tell, the
gentleman he sought was not yet present. But the night was young.
It was barely past one of the clock.

Refusing to be drawn into a game of whist,
Mandell chose to stroll about observing the play. He noticed a
familiar figure in a scarlet frock coat lounging near a settee by
the hearth. He had to give his cousin credit for that much, Mandell
thought with a slight smile. In a world of rather drab and sedate
evening clothing, Nick always managed to stand out

Nick appeared to be engaged with two of his
Whig friends, the betting book spread out on the table before him.
Both Lord Soames and Mr. Watkin were laughing, Nick looking
flustered and annoyed. Chances were good that the other two were
roasting Nick upon some of his reformist policies, his humor on
that subject often lacking.

Since the pleasure of tormenting his cousin
was one Mandell reserved to himself, he went to Nick's rescue.
After the way they had parted at the theatre the other evening,
Mandell expected a little reserve on Nick's part. But his cousin
had never been one to hold a grudge.

His irritation with his companions
momentarily forgotten, Nick glanced up with a half smile at
Mandell's approach. “Hullo! Mandell. Here’s a surprise. What has
lured you away from that blasted Tory stronghold across the
way?”

“White's seemed a little thin of company
tonight,” Mandell replied.

“The place has never been the same since poor
old Brummell was obliged to flee to the continent,” Lord Soames
broke in with a sigh.

Mr. Watkin agreed, both young gentlemen
sobering for a moment in memory of the elegant dandy Beau Brummell,
who had once been London's supreme arbiter of fashion. But Nick
growled, “Brummell fled to escape his debts. These two jackanapes
will be in the same case if they persist in wagering their blunt so
recklessly. Tell them, Mandell.”

“1 can hardly tell them anything unless I
know the nature of the wager.”

Lord Soames's eyes had begun to dance again.
“Perhaps Lord Mandell will care to lay odds of his own.”

Mr. Watkin, the mischevious redhead, spoke up
with a chuckle. “We are hazarding as to who the Hook's next victim
might be.”

“Indeed?” Mandeb asked politely.

“Aye.” Lord Soames giggled. He had likely
consumed too much port. “I regret to say that it is your cousin
Drummond who is the odds-on favorite.”

Mandell stole a glance at the scowling
Nicholas. “The Hook would have to be careless indeed to attack a
gentleman of such noted temper as my cousin.”

“And equally noted for his empty purse.” Mr.
Watkin grinned while Lord Soames picked up the quill pen. Drawing
the betting book closer, he continued to register the wager in a
slightly unsteady hand.

“Temper and poverty notwithstanding,” Watkin
continued, “it has to be Nick. He is positively begging to be
attacked, some of the places he has been poking about of late,
those lightning houses.”

“Flash-houses,” Nick said. “I have been
investigating flash-houses in Bethnal Green.”

At Mandell's inquiring look, he explained.
“Those taverns that are little better than schools for crime, where
street urchins are taught to be thieves, little girls scarce turned
twelve taught to be whores.”

“How very original.” Mandell's lip curled in
disgust. “And progressive. One of the most civilized cities in the
world now offering formal education for pickpockets and
prostitutes.”

Lord Soames snorted a laugh, spattering ink
over the betting book. “That is just what I was telling Drummond
myself”

“Except that Mandell is being sarcastic,”
Nick said. “While you, you great lubbering idiot, are merely acting
the fool.”

Taking exception to this form of address,
Soames flushed bright red. It was the sort of quarrel between young
gentlemen that could easily get out of hand.

Mandell stepped between the two men. “You
must excuse my cousin, Soames. We both know Drummond well enough by
now to realize he waxes a little earnest over such matters. He
offers you his most sincere apologies.”

Soames blinked owlishly and gave a nod of
acceptance, even as Nick was crying out in protest. “No, I
don't.”

But Mandell seized his arm in an iron grip,
hustling Nick away. Nick wrenched himself free, glaring. “Damn it,
Mandell,” he said. “Why did you interfere? I had no wish to
apologize to that ass. It is men like Soames who make me ashamed to
be considered a Whig.”

“Nicholas, the fellow is half foxed. You
cannot attack someone merely for possessing a dull wit.”

“Oh, yes I can.”

“I cannot risk you engaging yourself to fight
a duel at present. That would be most inconvenient.”

“Why should you care?'

“Because for once, you may have to act as my
second. So do us both a favor. Bespeak a glass of chilled wine and
hie yourself off to cool that temper.”

With his cousin gaping at him, Mandell
started to walk away. But Nick was hard after him. “Second you in a
duel! Damnation, Mandell, you cannot simply toss out a remark like
that and then not explain yourself”

“There is nothing to explain at the moment.”
Mandell peered toward the door and frowned. Half past one and no
sign of Sir Lucien. He asked Nicholas, “Sir Lucien Fairhaven is
still a member of Brooks's, is he not?”

“Yes, he is, but what does that have to—”
Nick broke off, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “This doesn't
have anything to do with Lady Fairhaven, does it?”

Before Mandell could answer, Nick went on,
“It was Sir Lucien that you meant when you said—My God! You are
planning to challenge Fairhaven to a duel over Anne. I know you
made that remark about getting rid of your rivals, but I cannot
believe it. You have not fought a duel over any woman since that
time you were seventeen and you damn near killed Cecily Constable's
brother because ...”

Mandell shot Nick a warning look. His cousin
trailed off, possessing enough sense not to pursue that
particularly ugly incident any further.

“Calm yourself, Nicholas, and for heaven's
sake, keep your voice down.” Even in a place as devoted to faro as
Brooks's, Nick's agitated manner would soon attract attention. “As
usual, your imagination runs away with you. I never said a word
about challenging Sir Lucien. I merely want to talk to him.”

“You intend to warn him to stay away from
Anne,” Nick continued, shaking his head. “I just don't understand
it. I have implored you more than once to leave her alone. She is
no dasher, no Helen of Troy, not at all the sort to inspire this
degree of obsession.”

Mandell frowned at Nick's choice of words. It
was not obsession to desire a woman, to find it pleasant to conjure
her image in those long bleak hours before dawn when he often could
not sleep—an image of an angel's face, framed by a fall of honey
gold hair, with sorrowing blue eyes that sometimes had the power to
banish the familiar nightmare and keep his night demons locked
away. But Mandell was not about to try explaining such a fanciful
thing to Nick. It might make it sound too much like he actually
needed Anne Fairhaven. And the marquis of Mandell needed no
one.

“Let us just say I find the lady's charms
unique, well worth fighting for.”

“You ought not to be stirring up any trouble
here at Brooks's. You will lose your membership. I should know. I
have been nearly expulsed myself on several occasions.”

“Credit me with a little more subtlety than
you possess.”

“It little matters if you are infernally
polite when you are offering to shoot some fellow's brains out in a
duel. And if you do challenge Sir Lucien, I daresay that is what it
will come to.”

“And since when did you become so squeamish
about dueling?”

“It is different with me. I never hit anyone
when I shoot. Quite the contrary.” Nick rubbed the scar on the back
of his hand. “I never have regained the full use of my fingers
since my last disastrous engagement. But you—everyone knows you are
a dead shot.”

“Let us hope Sir Lucien knows it, too.”

“If he doesn't, I'll tell him.” Nick regarded
Mandell unhappily. “You have got the most damnable look in your
eye. I feel like I am standing near a powder keg about to
ignite.”

“You have always been the powder keg,
cousin.”

“And you are more like a block of ice. But
ice still burns. I wish you would reconsider this. I have no
fondness for Sir Lucien, but if Lady Fairhaven does, she will not
thank you for scaring him off. She will likely never speak to you
again.”

“On the contrary,” Mandell murmured, thinking
of Anne's passionate vow. “I expect the lady to be excessively
grateful.”

“You will create the deuce of a scandal. You
might have to flee the country.”