Susan Carroll (24 page)

He should be glad that his conscience, his
better self, or whatever it was, had emerged to intervene. He
should be glad to be quit of his Lady Sorrow before things had gone
any further, become even more complicated. And he was glad, so long
as he did not dwell too long over the way Anne's hair had looked
tumbled across his pillow, moonlight outlining the soft whiteness
of her breasts.

Slamming the window closed, he stalked over
to the corner cabinet and poured himself a large brandy. He raised
his glass briefly, his lips curling into a self-mocking sneer.

“Here's to the resurrection of my nobler
self,” he muttered. “And may it henceforth be buried six fathoms
deep where it belongs.”

He tossed down the brandy in a single gulp
and it burned like fire in his empty stomach. It occurred to him
that he had never gotten around to eating anything yet today. But
at the moment another brandy seemed far more appealing.

He was reaching for the decanter to refill
his glass when a light rap came at his study door. Composing his
features into more implacable lines, he issued a command to
enter.

John Hastings stepped into the room. With a
solemn bow, the footman presented Mandell with a packet of
letters.

“Forgive me, my lord. But I noticed these
left lying upon the hall table. They must have arrived by the
morning post.”

“You certainly took your time about bringing
them to my attention?”

“Yes, milord.” Hastings did not flinch
beneath Mandell's icy regard.

Most likely the fault lay with the butler or
the timid parlormaid, but Hastings was not a man to offer any
excuses. Mandell accepted the letters and tossed them upon his
desk.

“Thank you, Hastings. You may go.”

The young footman apparently took the “may”
in his command quite literally. Instead of quitting the room,
Hastings began stacking logs on the hearth, bending down to kindle
the fire. The man was obviously too new to Mandell's employ to
gauge the danger in the marquis's temper, or else was possessed of
the most stolid nerve.

Mandell was inclined to believe the latter.
Instead of voicing the acid rebuke that sprang to his lips, he
watched Hastings in silence, observing the man's movements with the
poker and bellows.

He had not exchanged a word with Hastings
since he had summoned the footman to convey Anne home last night.
Though he despised himself for doing so, Mandell asked, “The lady
you escorted to her house yesterday evening. You made certain she
arrived safely?”

“Yes, milord.”

Of course he had. Hastings was as dependable
as the sun rising in the east. Otherwise Mandell would never have
trusted him with such a delicate commission as looking after Anne.
After an awkward pause, Mandell asked, “How did the lady seem when
you left her?”

“Seem, my lord?”

“Was she calm? Distressed? Did she say
anything?”

Hastings paused in his task, bellows still in
hand. He frowned as though in effort of memory. “Well, she bade me
good night and offered me a most generous vail.” Hastings
brightened. “And then her lips sort of trembled and she
smiled.”

Anne must have been most relieved to be quit
of her pact with the wicked Lord Mandell. An unexpected pain
twisted somewhere inside him.

“Your lady has a passing sweet smile, my
lord,” Hastings ventured.

“The fire waxes hot enough. Have done and get
out.”

Hastings rose to his feet, dusting off his
hands on his breeches and started to leave the room. When he had
reached the threshold, Mandell brought him up short by adding
tersely, “And Hastings.”

“Yes milord?”

“She is not my lady.”

“No, milord,” the footman said quietly,
easing the door shut behind him.

When Hastings had left, Mandell let fly an
oath. When had he become reduced to holding conversations with his
footman, especially about a woman? Irritated beyond measure,
Mandell poured himself another brandy. He did not know what the
devil had come over him of late, but he knew the cure for it.

Diversion. Fortunately, he was in a city that
could provide amusement in abundance for a gentleman of his wealth
and tastes. Anything from an evening at the opera to a night at a
most discreet and exclusive bordello.

He was in no mood for Mozart. What he needed
was a woman, and not one with soft trembling lips and vulnerable
blue eyes, but a practical woman skilled in the arts of pleasing a
man and grateful for nothing more than the size of his purse. Yet
the thought left him strangely cold.

Perhaps what he really required was supper
and cards at White's, that all-male bastion that had the good sense
to ban any woman from so much as peering across the threshold. He
might bid Drummond to come and dine with him. It could be
entertaining to discover what Nick had been up to this past week,
to torment him over the doings in Parliament. But Nick might be
inclined to ask some awkward questions about the lady Anne,
questions Mandell felt unequal to parrying.

Frowning into his glass, Mandell drained it.
He had fallen into one of those damnable moods when every
distraction he could think of seemed stale and meaningless. He
would end by spending the evening at his own fireside.

But to do what? To discard books the first
page barely read, to rise from the pianoforte, the melody half
finished, to begin a letter only to leave the sheet blank? To pace
this great empty house like a caged beast, tormented by his dark
memories, questioning everything from the folly of the world to the
meaning of his own existence?

Anne was right to have been relieved to have
escaped him. He frequently found his own society quiet intolerable.
Mandell started to reach for the brandy again only to check the
movement. He was already entertaining enough morbid notions and he
wasn't even drunk yet. Instead he forced himself to settle behind
his desk, attempting to concentrate on the letters he had
received.

The cards of invitation he thrust aside
without hesitation to be examined later. The rest were bills, many
of them still from when he had had Sara Palmer in his keeping. One
from a dressmaker looked surprisingly recent. He wondered if Sara
had been desperate enough to attempt to foist one final purchase
off on him. Mandell would not have put it past her.

He had never known any female to be bolder or
more shrewdly calculating. She would likely one day get her hooks
into some noble fool and trick him into wedding her.

Mandell could imagine himself being
introduced to her in a crowded ballroom, hearing her styled as my
lady something or other, Sara looking as haughty as a grand
duchess. That at least was one thing to look forward to, Mandell
thought cynically. It would be amusing to utter some wicked
greeting only Sara would understand, to flirt with his former
mistress under the nose of her unsuspecting and no doubt oaf of a
husband, more amusing still if she were wearing a gown Mandell had
purchased.

Smiling a little at the thought, Mandell
dipped his quill into the ink, preparing to write out a draft to
settle the account. He was interrupted by another knock at the
door. Hastings again.

This time Mandell did not even trouble
himself to look up.

“Yes? What is it now? More mail that has been
left lying about for the past few days?”

“No, my lord. You have a caller.”

“Tell whoever it is to go to the devil. I am
not receiving.”

When Hastings made no move to comply, Mandell
glanced up impatiently. “Are you hard of hearing, man? I said I am
not at home to any visitors.”

“Yes, my lord. But it is your grandfather,
the Duke of Windermere.”

Mandell's brows arched in mild surprise. His
grandfather calling upon him and at such an hour?

Hastings gave a delicate cough. “I am not
sure you would really wish me to deliver His Grace such a
message.”

Mandell flung down his quill with an
expressive grimace. “You are quite right, Hastings. One is always
at home to His Grace of Windermere. Show him in—”

Mandell broke off, glancing down at his
attire. It would hardly do to receive the old gentleman in his
shirtsleeves and breeches.

“Place him in the drawing room,” Mandell
finished. “And express my regrets for the delay, I shall be there
directly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hastings rushed off to obey his command while
Mandell retired to his bedchamber to make himself more presentable.
Some fifteen minutes later he descended the stairs, smoothing out
the sleeve of a dark navy frock coat, his cravat arranged to a
modest perfection.

He doubted any fault could be found with his
appearance, but if there was, His Grace would be quick to point it
out. Mandell had long ago abandoned the quest to win his
grandfather's approbation. A most useless struggle.

He and the old man rarely spent time in each
other's company these days. Mandell had no notion what could have
prompted the duke to call upon him this evening. He was certain
only of one thing. The visit was unlikely to afford pleasure to
either of them.

Shoving open the door, he stepped into the
drawing mom, a chamber that was at once both somber and elegant
with its heavy curtains, mahogany furniture, and thick Aubusson
carpet. The duke stood at the far corner by the pianoforte.
Oblivious to Mandell's arrival, he leaned upon his silver-handled
cane, staring up at the small painting that had been a gift to
Mandell from his cousin Drummond. It was by a Dutch artist after
Rembrandt's style of light and shadow, and depicted a cavalier with
flowing black locks and pointed beard, an arrogant youth of another
time and place.

Mandell reflected that his grandfather could
have just stepped out of a portrait of another century, an age of
greater elegance. His thick waves of white hair swept back into a
queue, His Grace was attired in a powder blue satin coat and knee
breeches, the richness of the fabric gleaming in the candlelight.
The coat was nudged back slightly to reveal a flowered waistcoat
that Nick would have envied.

His grandfather had never inspired much
affection in Mandell, but he did have to admit the duke had a way
about him, a regal aura that could put a king to shame. One could
not love the old devil, but one did have to admire him.

Mandell pulled the door behind him with a
sharp click. His Grace had to have heard him, but he did not
trouble himself to turn around.

“Good evening, your Grace.”

The duke finished his inspection of the
portrait. “Mandell.” He gave a curt nod, regarding Mandell with his
heavy lidded gaze, those keen eyes that time seemed unable to
dim.

“This is an unlooked for honor.” Mandell
chose his words with deliberate care. “I trust I have not kept you
waiting too long.”

“Only a quarter of an hour. I have
entertained myself by studying your unusual taste in decor. I
notice you yet have that about.” The duke made a sweeping gesture
with his cane, bringing it to rest atop the pianoforte. “Do you
still play?”

“Occasionally, to amuse myself. And you can
hardly have forgotten the pianoforte once belonged to my
mother.”

“She had little use for it. Like most of the
Windermeres, my daughter was not musically inclined.” The due's
thin smile was rife with accusation.

Mandell felt his jaw clench in response. Both
he and the duke knew where Mandell had inherited his ability and
passion for music, and it had not been from Lady Celine. It was a
subject to be avoided. The old man must be in a rare mood to be
seeking to provoke a quarrel this soon. Considering Mandell's own
edgy temper this evening, his grandfather's visit could not have
been more ill timed.

Mandell eased the cane from atop the piano.
“I cannot believe you called upon me to discuss my furnishings.
There is a chill at this end of the room. Will it please you to
return by the fire?”

The duke held his gaze for a moment, then
complied, stalking past Mandell. He settled himself upon a wing
chair. Brushing back the lace from his cuffs, he rested both of his
hands upon his cane in front of him. His fingers were remarkably
smooth and straight for a man of his years.

Mandell knew his grandfather would get to the
reason for this visit in his own good time. Curbing his impatience,
Mandell stood by the fire, resting one arm along the mantel. It
somehow gave him an advantage, and one needed every advantage when
dealing with His Grace of Windermere.

“I hope Hastings looked after you well in my
absence,” Mandell remarked.

“Hastings?” The duke frowned. “Oh, you mean
your footman. An efficient enough fellow, but why will you persist
in garbing your servants in black? It seems the most deplorable
affectation, as though you were perpetually in mourning.”

“So 1 am,” Mandell drawled. “For my lost
innocence.”

“Spare me your wit, sir.”

Mandell acknowledged this rebuke with an
ironic bow. “If you do not care for my wit, perhaps you would
prefer my wine. I have an excellent port in my cellars.”

“No, thank you. I fear my gout has been
flaring up.”

“Then it astonishes me that you would choose
to venture abroad. Especially on such an evening. The weather
promises to turn most foul.”

“I should not have had to come here if you
would be so obliging as to wait upon me. You did not even put in an
appearance last week when I asked you to dine.”

“Commanded me,” Mandell corrected.

“I suppose I may command my own grandson.
That dinner was to have been a special occasion.”

“To mark the anniversary of when you
acknowledged me as your heir. I marvel that Your Grace still thinks
that a cause for celebration.”

His grandfather pursed his lips and said
grudgingly, “For the most part, I have been quite satisfied with
you, Mandell. You exhibit the traits of a man of intelligence and
breeding except for those lapses when the passionate side of your
nature gets the better of you.”