Susan Carroll (21 page)

Reaching for a letter opener, Anne broke the
seal on the first invitation while Lily flitted about, examining
some of Anne's gowns. “You know this lilac silk might still do for
a casual evening at home if the frock were furbished with some new
trimmings.”

“Hmmm?” Scarce heeding her sister's sartorial
advice, Anne shifted through the stack of invitations. Mrs. Cardiff
begged the Lady Fairhaven's appearance at a small supper party. The
Duchess of Devonshire was holding a rout. The Renfrew's eldest
daughter was about to be presented to society. If the weather
improved, my lord and lady Benton proposed an al fresco
breakfast.

None of these invitations produced any
reaction from Anne other than a weary sigh. She experienced not the
flickering of an interest until she reached a note that had been
buried amidst the stack of gilt-edged cards.

A small, plain sheet of vellum, folded over
and sealed; it had not been franked so it obviously had been
delivered by hand. The script bearing her name was elegant, but
most definitely the product of a masculine hand.

Somehow before she broke the seal, she knew.
Her heart set up an unsteady beat as she unfolded the single
sheet.

My lady Sorrow,

Tonight. At ten o'clock Make your excuses to
your sister. I shall have a coach waiting by the front gate.

Mandell.

The signature leapt out at her, dark and
bold. Anne tried not to panic. She still had enough time to pack
her trunks and Norrie's, to order up the carriage, to convince Lily
that she had to leave today, this very afternoon.

Except that she knew she would do none of
those things. Mandell had brought Norrie back to her, and at great
personal risk to himself. No matter how selfish his reason, how
wicked his motives, Anne was vastly in his debt, a debt she had to
find the courage to pay.

She sat staring at the note until she was
interrupted by the sound of Lily's voice. “Well, Anne? Do none of
those invitations appeal to you?”

Anne concealed Mandell's note beneath the
test of the stack.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “There is one here
that I am obliged to accept.”

Hours later as the mantel clock ticked onward
to the hour of ten, Anne took one last look at her uninspiring
reflection in the mirror. She had woven her hair in the familiar
tight crown of braids and selected one of the most demure gowns she
owned, a plain muslin whose pale pink shade seemed to wash out what
color remained in her fair skin.

Over it she donned a cottage vest of green
sarcenet, lacing it so tightly across her bosom that she flattened
her breasts, making it difficult to breathe. The ensemble was not
likely to please Mandell, but then he knew that he was getting no
sultry beauty in Anne Fairhaven. He could hardly expect any
miraculous transformation tonight.

Perhaps Mandell would take one look at her
and decide to send her right back home again. She touched one hand
to her bare neck. Her little gold locket would have gone perfectly
with the outfit, but it was still gracing the pawnbroker's dusty
shelf. Anne pored over the few pieces of her jewelry that remained,
but in the end opted to wear none. It would only be one more thing
that she would have to remove when—

She swallowed hard, suppressing the thought.
She was already nervous enough. Her gaze flicked to the mantel
clock, the hands moving inexorably toward ten.

She had never known a day to go by so swiftly
and she wondered if this was how condemned prisoners felt during
their last hours. She had bitten her nails down to the nubs and her
hands looked hideous. Was it considered acceptable to engage in
intimate relations with a man while wearing gloves?

The thought almost caused her to break into
hysterical giggles. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
Tugging on her kid gloves, she reached for her brown velvet mantle,
the one with the hood.

She had never looked more proper in her life.
She appeared as though she was going to do exactly what she had
told Lily earlier that day—have a quiet supper with her elderly
godmother, Lady Bennington. She had even had the forethought to
announce that her ladyship would send her own coach to fetch
her.

How adept she was becoming at telling these
lies Anne thought sadly.

Lily had been annoyed with her, of course.
Out of all the invitations Anne had had to choose from, she did not
see why Anne had to elect to spend her evening with an elderly
recluse. But, Lily had remarked sourly, she supposed it was better
than Anne wasting another night at home.

Lily had already gone out herself to attend a
lively musical soiree to be given at the home of some countess Anne
could not remember. Her sister's absence made things easier. As
easy as this night was going to get, Anne thought as she prepared
to descend to the front parlor. She could pace better there until
her hour of doom. The room was much more spacious than the confines
of her bedchamber.

But as Anne opened her door, she was startled
by the small figure that appeared on the other side—a golden-haired
sprite, with bare toes peeking out from beneath a white nightgown,
a doll clutched beneath her arm.

“Norrie, Anne gasped.

Her daughter skittered across the threshold.
Norrie held up the china doll, whose tangled tresses had seen
better days. She announced solemnly, “Lady Persifee couldn't sleep
again, Mama.”

Anne cast an anxious glance at the clock. Any
other time, she would have welcomed the prospect of cuddling Norrie
and rocking her back to sleep. But for once Anne did not feel equal
to dealing with her small daughter.

She attempted to summon up her sternest
expression, but Norrie skipped about Anne, eyeing her gown. “You
look beautiful, Mama. Just like a fairy princess.”

“More like the wicked stepmama.” Anne scooped
her daughter up in her arms. “Eleanor Rose Fairhaven, you and Lady
Persephone belong back in bed.”

Norrie laid her head upon Anne's shoulder,
regarding her with wide pleading eyes, giving her most enchanting
dimpled smile. But her smile faded as her small frame shook with
the cough she tried to repress.

“Oh, child,” Anne murmured. “Come, we must
get you tucked back up all warm again. This is no good for you,
being up so late.”

As Anne carried her daughter out into the
hall, Norrie protested, “But, Mama, I'm accustomed to being waked
up at night. It was awful noisy at Uncle Lucien's.”

“That is because your bedroom must have been
too near the street. But you have no such excuse here at Aunt
Lily's, young lady.” Anne took the firmness from her words by
giving Norrie’s smooth pink cheek a kiss.

“But I like the sound of horses and wheels
and people laughing. And it wasn't the street noises that waked me,
it was Uncle Lucien. He got angry at night and broke things.”

“Oh, Norrie, darling. I am sure Uncle Lucien
was seldom at home after you went to bed. You must have been
dreaming.”

Norrie stubbornly shook her head. “I peeked
out my door and saw him. But I was careful. Uncle Lucien didn't
like anybody but him to be awake at night. And one time he hurt
himself, Mama. He had blood on his sleeve and he kept falling down.
And he smelled bad.”

Anne strained her daughter close lest Norrie
see her horrified expression. Anne had always known Lucien to be
something of a rake, a heavy drinker, but alas, so were many
gentlemen of the ton. Only recently had Anne begun to suspect how
far gone in debauchery Lucien might be, how close to the edge of
sanity. She could only thank the heavens she had Norrie safely away
from him.

No, not the heavens, she reminded
herself.

Mandell.

It took her some little while to bundle
Norrie back to the nursery and coax the child to sleep again. By
the time she saw her daughter resting peacefully, Anne was
horrified to hear the clock strike half past the hour of ten.

Snatching up her cloak, Anne tore down the
stairs to the first floor. But Lily's stern butler attempted to bar
her way. If a coach had been sent for Lady Anne, then it behooved
one of Lady Bennington's footmen to come to the door and announce
the fact.

With great difficulty Anne persuaded Firken
to step aside, the dignified old man scowling with disapproval as
Anne dashed out into the night. She half hoped, half feared that
Mandell would have given up on her by now.

But the outline of a coach and horses
appeared drawn up next to the curb. Giving herself no more time to
think, Anne flung up her hood, concealing her features. She raced
toward the carriage, her heart pounding in tempo with her
footsteps.

A servant melted out of the darkness, a
stocky young man attired in Mandell's distinctive livery of black
and silver.

The footman bowed. “Lady Fairhaven?”

Anne nodded. She wondered if this solemn man
knew why he had been sent to fetch her. Of course he did. Servants
always knew everything. Anne blushed, shrinking deeper into the
shelter of her hood.

“I am John Hastings, my lady,” the footman
said, opening the coach door for her. “My lord Mandell sent me to
insure your safe arrival.”

As he handed her into the darkened interior
of the carriage, Anne asked, “Where are we going?”

But Mandell had obviously trained his
servants to be as enigmatic as himself, for Hastings closed the
door without another word. He scrambled to take his place up on the
box beside the coachman.

Anne was jolted back against the squabs as
the coach lurched into movement. She clenched her hands together in
her lap, trying to still her desire to leap back out of the
carriage.

She supposed it didn’t mattered what their
destination might be. She had placed herself in Mandell's power
that night she had given him her vow, perhaps longer ago still when
she had first permitted him to lead her into a moonlit garden and
steal a kiss.

There was no escaping him now.

CHAPTER TEN

The carriage ride was short. Anne did not
have enough time to compose herself before the silent Hastings was
handing her down into the darkness of a stable yard.

“If it would please you to follow me, my
lady,” he said.

As if Anne had any choice but to do so.
Huddling deeper into her cloak, she stumbled after Hastings through
the inky blackness of a starless night, broken only by the bobbing
light of the lantern he carried. He took such long strides she had
to hasten to keep up with him, having little chance to gain her
bearings other than to realize that she passed beneath the branches
of some trees, through the shadows of what appeared to be a
garden.

It was not until the footman led her across
the threshold of a formidable door, and her feet clattered against
the cold marble tile of an entranceway, that Anne dared ease back
her hood to determine exactly where she was.

She stood in an imposing front hall, cold,
elegant and austere, a stairway with a wrought iron balustrade
sweeping up to a shadowed landing above her. A shock of realization
pierced her and she nearly exclaimed aloud.

Mandell's own London house. She had never
been past his front gate before, but she knew with inexplicable
certainty that she stood in his reception hall. The coach could
have done no more than circle the square a number of times before
bringing her back here, to a house only down the street from her
own sister's.

Feeling more confused and unsettled than
ever, Anne turned to question the footman, but Hastings had
vanished, leaving her alone in the chill silence of the hall, the
house around her a ring of forbidding closed doors.

There was no sign of Mandell or anyone else
for that matter. Now what was she expected to do? Anne wondered
miserably. There was not even a fire kindled upon the hall's
massive stone hearth. Hastings had taken the lantern away, and if
not for the candles flickering in the wall sconces, she would have
been left in darkness.

She stood, shifting from foot to foot. The
front door loomed but yards away. She could fling it open in a
trice. If she ran fast enough, it would be a matter of minutes
before she was back safe in her own bedchamber.

“You are late, Sorrow,” a silky voice echoed
from the regions behind her. Her heart thudding, Anne whipped
around.

The marquis of Mandell stood on the landing
above her, his tall shadow cast down the length of the stairs. The
candlelight accented the hauteur of his features, giving him an
aura of almost satanic male beauty, the glow bringing a sheen to
the dark waves of his hair.

He was clad in a wine-colored dressing gown
of satin, belted at the waist. The rich folds parted enough to
reveal that he wore close-fitting black breeches beneath and a
white shirt opened slightly at the neck. He extended one hand
toward her, his signet ring glinting in the light.

It was not so much a supplication as a silent
command. Anne risked one longing glance toward the front door
before drawing in a steadying breath. She raised her skirts,
beginning the long climb up toward Mandell.

When she came close enough, he caught her
hand, his own fingers strong and steadying as he drew her up to
stand beside him.

“It is nearly eleven of the clock,” he said.
“I have never waited so long for any lady to keep her appointment
with me. I had begun to think you intended to fail me.”

There was an edge to his voice and when she
dared glance up at him, she saw that his eyes were as still and
brooding as his great empty house.

“I had difficulty getting away,” Anne said.
“Norrie woke up and she needed me. I had to soothe her back to
sleep,”

Mandell's face softened. “The important thing
is that you are here now.”

“Yes, but I never expected you would bring me
to your home.”