Susan Carroll (25 page)

He scowled. “I have recently heard some
gossip about you from Sir Lancelot Briggs which I find
disturbing.”

“Indeed? 1 was not aware that Your Grace and
Briggs had become such boon companions.”

“Do not trifle with me, sir. Briggs is a
blithering fool and your association with the man does you no
credit. But he did serve one useful purpose. If not for his idiotic
chatter, I should never have known how close you came to fighting a
duel with Lucien Fairhaven.”

Mandell tensed. So that was what had brought
the duke descending upon him. Damn Briggs, he thought grimly.

“I await your explanation, sir,” the duke
said.

Mandell gave him an icy smile. “You raised me
to believe the marquis of Mandell is not required to give an
accounting of his actions to anyone.”

“You are to me! I despise Fairhaven myself.
He comes from a family of country upstarts. But I will not have my
heir risking scandal and possibly death by challenging such an
underbred boor.”

“Such considerations did not seem to trouble
you when you thrust me into a duel when I was only sixteen,”
Mandell reminded him coldly. “You did everything but load the
pistol for me.”

“The dispute with Constable was an affair
among gentlemen. You had been insulted. It was a matter of
honor.”

“Or at least the appearance of honor.”

“Do not seek to change the subject, sir. You
threatened Sir Lucien over a matter that was none of your concern.
You forced him into turning the guardianship of his niece back to
her mother, Anne Fairhaven.”

“Your Grace is remarkably well informed. So
why come questioning me?”

“Because while I know what you did, I have no
notion why you did it. I can only presume your extraordinary
behavior has something to do with Lady Anne Fairhaven.”

Mandell gritted his teeth. If it had been
anyone but his grandfather daring to question him about Anne,
Mandell would have told them to go to the devil. But His Grace of
Windermere possessed enough icy hauteur to freeze the depths of
hell.

“Is she one of your light-o'-loves?” the duke
asked.

“The virtuous Lady Anne?” Mandell arched one
brow after his own haughty fashion. “That is hardly likely.”

It was illogical. He had done his best to
seduce Anne and yet to hear his grandfather speak of her thus
stirred an inexplicable anger in Mandell.

The duke regarded Mandell through narrowed
eyes. “Then you must have a more serious motive for currying the
lady's favor. It is just as I feared.”

“Feared?”

“If you are thinking of marriage, she will
not do, Mandell.”

No thought of marriage had ever entered
Mandell's head, but his grandfather's words brought him up
short.

“What does Your Grace find so objectionable
about the lady?'

“Nothing personally. She is gently bred and
from an old, respectable family. But she lowered herself by
marrying with a Fairhaven, had a child by him. If you wed the lady
Anne, this girl would become your stepdaughter, a child tainted
with the Fairhaven blood.”

“Then little Eleanor Fairhaven and I would
have something in common. My own blood is far from pure according
to you.”

The duke flinched as though Mandell had
struck a raw nerve. But he said levelly enough, “I trust a sound
English education has cured any unfortunate traits you might have
inherited from— And we decided long ago never to discuss that
unfortunate part of your background, to simply forget.”

“You decided. I don't recall ever being given
a choice.” Mandell stared into the fire, carried back to that long
ago night when he had watched his grandfather burn up the papers
proclaiming his French heritage. “Perhaps the past cannot be so
easily ignored, Your Grace. Nick has always thought I should seek
to know more about those first years of my life.”

“What does Drummond know of anything?” the
duke growled. “That young idiot, that wild-eyed radical, that Whig!
Half the time I am ashamed to acknowledge him as my
grandchild.”

“Nonetheless, Nick does have an uncanny habit
of being right.” Some devil in Mandell prompted him to continue
goading. “I have been feeling remarkably restless of late. “Perhaps
it is time I returned to France and sought some answers.”

The duke leaned on his cane, shoving himself
to his feet. His face had gone ice white. “I absolutely forbid
it!”

Mandell felt the color drain from his own
face. It had been many years since the duke had presumed to say
such a thing to him. Compressing his lips, he turned away. “I
believe the storm is likely to break soon. I should summon Your
Grace's carriage.”

But the duke caught him by the arm. The old
man's grasp was surprisingly strong. “You will not go to France,
Mandell. What possible reason could you have for doing so?'

“Is it so unnatural that I might wish to
learn more of my French heritage, perhaps even my father?”

“The chevalier de Valmiere was a coward. He
took my daughter away from her family, carried her off to France.
He eventually abandoned her there to die. And you. He made no
effort to seek you out for twenty-five years. Is there anything
more you need to know about such a man?”

With a great deal of self-control, Mandell
forced the duke's grip from his sleeve. “Perhaps not, but I cannot
deny that he existed.”

“So you would seek him out, return to the
land of your mother's murderers. It is unworthy of you, Mandell. An
insult to her memory. Can you have forgotten how she died?”

“No, I have not.”

“The Parisian police broke down the door of
the apartment. They arrested her. They dragged her out, terrified
and screaming.”

“I remember. I was there.”

“They intended to put her on trial. She would
have faced the guillotine.” The old man's eyes glittered. “But the
mob was waiting in the streets. They put their filthy hands upon my
proud, beautiful Celine, suffocating her with their vile stench.
Clawed and tore at her like savage beasts, smearing themselves with
her blood.”

“I remember,” Mandell repeated tersely.

“And when they had done, they paraded her
head on a pike—”

“I remember, damn you!

Mandell strode away to the window, struggling
to regain his composure. The sky beyond the glass was so black,
like the suffocating darkness of being shut up in a closet. Mandell
had seen nothing that long ago night, only felt the terror. It had
always been the visions that the duke conjured that made him feel
as though he had actually witnessed his mother's death, the old
man's words splashing the night sky with vivid hues of red.

Mandell pressed unsteady fingers to his brow.
When he turned back, the duke looked ashen and as shaken as he. But
it had been ever thus between them, circling each other like two
duelists seeking their mark, only to succeed in reopening the one
old wound that gave pain to them both.

It was his grandfather who recovered enough
to speak first. “You were brought to me as a boy, Mandell,
frightened, confused, as ragged and shivering as any peasant. I
gave everything back to you, your courage, your place as my
grandson, the dignity of my own name. I never expected gratitude
from you, but I at least thought to have your loyalty.”

“And so you have had, Your Grace, beyond
question.”

“Then you will not go to France?” his
grandfather asked. It was as close as the proud duke of Windermere
would ever come to a plea. Mandell looked deep into the old man's
hooded eyes and was astonished to find fear there. It had never
occurred to him that his iron-willed grandfather carried with him
his own nightmares and terror of Paris.

“No, I will not go,” Mandell said. “I never
had any intention of doing so.”

He half expected his grandfather might
require his oath on that, but the duke appeared satisfied with
those few brief words. Leaning on his cane, he stumped over to
summon the footman and order up his carriage himself.

It was strange, Mandell thought. As a boy,
his grandfather had seemed such a looming figure in his life. When
he had grown to manhood, it had come as quite a jolt to realize the
duke was not that tall. What he lacked in stature, His Grace made
up for in his regal bearing.

But as Mandell studied his grandfather more
closely, he saw the first signs of stooping shoulders. When the
candlelight played full upon the duke's age-lined features, he
looked drained.

The old man was clearly no longer up to these
little bouts of theirs. Mandell experienced a genuine regret that
he had goaded him so. He was moved to apologize, but knew it would
do no good. The duke would only perceive that as a sign of
weakness.

While they waited for the duke's carriage to
be brought round, Mandell sought to introduce more neutral topics
and was grateful when his grandfather followed his lead. They
discussed the spirited team of horses Mandell had recently acquired
and His Grace's plans to dine at Devonshire House that evening.

“The countess has been pressing me to do so
and I shall be retiring to the country soon,” the duke said.

“In the midst of the season?”

“London is not what it was. It gets worse
every year. So many of my acquaintances have passed on and one
scarce knows what manner of person one might meet these days, even
in the best houses. This modern world of yours, Mandell, has no
proper regard for rank and breeding.”

“Not my world, Your Grace, so much as Nick's.
He believes it is high time that men should be judged more for
their own merit than who their fathers were.”

“Your cousin is becoming a most alarming
young man. I fear that one of these days Nicholas will carry these
mad ideas of his too far” A troubled frown creased the duke's
brow.

But Mandell was accustomed to his
grandfather's complaints about Nick. Having no desire to set the
duke off into another of his tirades, Mandell found it more politic
to ignore the remark.

After Hastings had helped His Grace into his
cloak and tricorne hat, Mandell escorted the duke to the waiting
carriage himself.

Going down the walk, he attempted to use his
tall frame to shield the old man from the bite of the wind. It had
not yet begun to rain, but the thunder edged closer, causing the
team of bays hitched to the duke's brougham to paw restively.

“Take care, sir,” Mandell said. “It is going
to be a bad night and Nick seems to be correct about one thing.
Given recent events, perhaps this city does stand in need of a
little more protection.”

“Bah! I suppose you mean that Hook business.
I am no fool like young Albert Glossop. I have always known how to
take care of myself.”

One of the duke's own postilions snapped to
open the coach door for him. But Mandell put his hand beneath the
duke's elbow to help him up the steps. It was the only touch his
grandfather had ever been willing to accept from him.

As the duke settled back against the squabs,
Mandell closed the door. His Grace thrust his head forward to peer
out the coach window. “One more thing, Mandell. Think about what I
have said regarding your dealings with Lady Fairhaven.”

Mandell had hoped his grandfather had
forgotten or else decided to let the matter die. But that was too
much to have expected. His Grace was nothing if not persistent.

“Set your mind at rest,” Mandell said. “I
have no intention of marrying anyone at present.”

“But I want you to think of marriage. It is
time you were producing an heir. All I ask is that when you are
choosing a bride, remember your station in life—you are my
grandson, the marquis of Mandell.”

“When would you ever allow me to forget?”
Mandell murmured somewhat bitterly. But his remark was lost as the
coachman whipped up the team and his grandfather's ancient carriage
clattered off down the street,

Mandell felt the first dash of rain against
his cheek and did not linger by the gate. He returned to the
relative warmth and comfort of his drawing room. But if he had been
restless before his grandfather's visit, he now felt tenfold more
so.

He applied the poker to the fire, causing the
flames to crackle and flare higher about the half-burned logs. It
was ironic. His grandfather had striven to burn away his past,
commanded him to forget. Yet it was the old man who constantly
stirred the ashes of remembrance.

The bitter words he had exchanged with the
duke had set ghosts loose upon this chamber. It was a perfect night
for such spectres with the rain now lashing the panes, the wind
howling like some thrice-damned soul.

One such phantom was waiting for him as he
approached the pianoforte, lightly trailing his fingers over the
keys. After such a passage of time, Mandell had no clear memory of
his father, other than he had been tall and handsome, his eyes
brilliantly dark.

But his recollection of the chevalier's hands
was crystal clear, those long, sensitive fingers moving as deftly
down the keys as a man might caress a mistress he has known long
and loved well. His father's voice had been as rich and lilting as
the music he played.

“
Attend-moi, mon petit gentilhomme, if you
seek the fire and fury of a man's soul, look to Monsieur Beethoven.
But if you want something light and romantic to charm the ladies,
it must be Mozart.”

Mandell recollected heeding his words most
solemnly, for it had seemed his father was right. When his father
had played out the strains of a minuet, his mother leaned across
the pianoforte, sighed, and smiled. Mandell's memory of the Lady
Celine was that she had hardly ever smiled. She had always been so
stern and distant. She only seemed to come alive when his father
was present.

Mandell scowled, the softer vision fading as
it always did to be replaced by the darker one, that night of black
closets, splintering wood, and terrifying screams. Valmiere had
given his mother love and life, only to abandon her to death.