Susan Carroll (26 page)

“Where were you that night, my noble father?”
Mandell grated. “Why weren't you there to save her?”

He slammed his fist down upon the pianoforte
keys with a jarring clang and then stalked away from the
instrument. Why had he and his mother been left alone in Paris? Had
his father truly been that much of a bastard, and did any of it
really matter anymore?

No, it didn't. It was only his grandfather's
visit that had stirred up all these memories, these doubts. It was
only the storm outside making him so edgy, the lightning cracking
and illuminating his windows like a flash of cannon fire.

He could sense the tension building within
him until he felt as dark and dangerous as the night itself. It was
going to be a wild night, a night in which he dared not sleep, for
he knew he would dream. And dreaming was always bad

Anne was fortunate she was not with him now,
for he could never have been merciful enough to let her go. Not
tonight.

“My Lady Sorrow, if you were in my arms at
this moment, I would crush you against me, plunder your sweetness
until I found forgetfulness, I could almost admit that I need—”

But Mandell was quick to check that wayward
thought. He had no need but the most primitive male urge. He had
survived many such nights of torment without Anne Fairhaven. He
would get through this one as well.

Summoning Hastings, he commanded the footman
to fetch his greatcoat and beaver hat. “I shall be dining away from
home this evening,” Mandell informed him.

Hastings ventured a doubtful glance toward
the windows, where the storm raged outside, but all he said was,
“Yes, my lord.”

“And you may tell my valet not to wait up for
me. I do not expect to return until very late.”

“Very good, my lord. Does that mean the rest
of the staff might retire early as well?” There was a hint of
eagerness in Hastings's usual respectful monotone.

Mandell shot his footman a curious glance. He
suddenly recalled the reason for Hastings's introduction into his
household. “You were planning to be married soon, were you not,
Hastings? My parlor maid—er--Agnes.”

“Emily, my lord. You must have forgotten. We
were wed last Tuesday morn. You granted us a half-day holiday.”

“Did I? How unusually gracious of me.”
Mandell drew on his gloves. “So you are a newly wedded man. Yes,
perhaps you should retire to your bed early.”

Mandell was amused to see the stolid Hastings
flush a deep scarlet. The marquis's lips curved into a genuine
smile, which was rare for him. Accepting his hat from the footman,
he said, “Be off with you, John. Hie yourself away to the heaven of
your lady s arms.”

Mandell's smile faded to an expression more
grim. “I intend to seek my comfort tonight in far different
regions.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The storm abated long before the one that
raged within Mandell's soul. The night was still young when he
swept down the steps of White's where he had taken his supper
alone, his forbidding scowl for once keeping even Lancelot Briggs
at a distance.

Mandell had eaten too little and drunk far
too much, but he was sober enough to keep a steady pace as he
stalked along the rain-wet pavement. The amount of brandy he had
consumed had done nothing to dull the pain of old memories. It only
gave a sharper edge to the tension coiling inside him.

The storm had kept many a more prudent person
from venturing abroad tonight. The usually bustling St. James was
thin of traffic. The wind tugged at the flaps of his greatcoat and
disheveled his hair. Mandell shoved back the straying locks and
stepped off the pavement. He was looking to summon a hackney cab
when he heard someone hailing him by name.

He turned to see Lancelot Briggs hastening
down the steps of White's. Mandell's lip curled with disgust.
Briggs's plump frame appeared ridiculous swathed in a cloak with
several capes. It was an exact imitation of the one Mandell had
swirled about Anne's shoulders that night that now seemed too long
ago.

Thoughts of the lady only drove the ache
inside Mandell deeper. He awaited Briggs's approach, fixing an
expression on his face black enough to keep Briggs from bounding up
in his usual exuberant manner.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Briggs said timidly as
he held out a high-crowned beaver hat. “But you forgot this. It's
your hat. You left it back there. At White's, remember? Where you
had supper.”

Mandell yanked the hat from his grasp.

“My lord is making an early evening of it.
You are going home?”

“No!” Turning on his heel, Mandell walked
away. To his irritation Briggs followed. It was difficult for
Briggs to keep pace with Mandell's long legs, but he managed.

“You have another engagement? You are going
somewhere else, my lord? I would be pleased to accompany you.”

Mandell came to an abrupt halt. “I am going
to the devil.”

“Oh.” Briggs looked a little daunted. But he
forced a smile. “What a coincidence,” he jested weakly. “I was just
going there myself.”

“It is not a journey that requires company,
especially not that of a spy.”

“A spy, my lord?”

“That is what you are, is it not? Forever
hovering near me, watching what I do, only to go bruiting my
affairs about half the city.”

“No, my lord. I assure you. I never speak of
anything that you do.”

'The incident between myself and Sir Lucien,”
Mandell reminded him. Even in the darkened street, he could detect
Briggs's guilty flush.

“Oh, that. Perhaps I did tell just a few. It
is only that it was such a noble thing you did, forcing Sir Lucien
to return Lady Anne's daughter. You are too modest to ever speak of
it yourself, so I could not help doing so myself.” Briggs squirmed
beneath Mandell's glare. “I am sorry, my lord. I am a rattlepated
fool,”

“So you are. And a dead bore besides. Good
night, sir.” Mandell set off again. He was annoyed past bearing to
discover Briggs still dogging his steps. He drew in a sharp breath,
but was forestalled by Briggs saying, “It will do you no good, my
lord. You may insult me as you please. But I shan't leave you.”

“Indeed?” Mandell said with a dangerous
softness.

Briggs looked a little frightened, but he
held his ground. “I have been observing you. You do not seem
yourself this evening. I would not be any kind of a friend if I let
you go off alone in this state.”

“You are not my friend, you encroaching
idiot. I don't want your damned friendship.”

“I know that, my lord,” Briggs said quietly.
“But the choice is not yours. I would not presume to ask what is
troubling you—”

“How very wise of you.”

“But I do not think you should be wandering
the streets this way when you are so distracted. It is not safe.
The Hook was seen abroad again last night. He robbed two men near
the Temple Bar.”

“And you mean to protect me from him and
other such brigands. How touching.”

“I would do my best, my lord.”

“Go back to your club, Briggs, or go home or
anywhere else you damn well choose. Just get the devil away from
me.”

Mandell was thunderstruck when Briggs shook
his head. “You may curse me or mill me down, but there is nothing
you can do to prevent me following you.”

Briggs's plump chin set into an attitude of
amazing stubbornness, his brown eyes filled with unwavering
devotion. Mandell took a menacing step forward, but Briggs did not
flinch from the expected blow.

Mandell heaved an exasperated sigh, but was
unable to proceed further. He turned away with an angry shrug.

“Very well,” he snarled. “Follow me to hell
if you choose. But I give you fair warning. You'd best be able to
look out for yourself when we get there.”

Mandell strode away without another backward
glance.

The Running Cat tavern near Covent Garden was
not precisely hell, but close enough. A haze of smoke blanketed the
dingy taproom, half obscuring the group of coarse men dicing at one
of the tables. A buxom serving wench slapped away the hand of a
bold customer while an old sailor slumped in a corner over his
bottle of gin. The pipe falling from his slack lips seemed in
danger of setting the entire place afire.

But the den of noise, stifling heat, and
stale beer made little impression upon Mandell, no more than did
the scantily clad woman who had settled herself upon his knee. She
possessed a hardened kind of prettiness, her long black hair
spilling about her half-bare shoulders, her expression as weary and
jaded as Mandell himself. She pressed kisses against his neck with
a practiced skill and nibbled at his ear, but Mandell struggled to
focus on the murky darkness beyond one of the tavern's narrow
windows. How many more hours would it be until dawn, he wondered.
How long until he was exhausted or drunk enough to find the
oblivion of dreamless sleep?

He sought to reach past the wench nuzzling
him, groping toward the table to find his glass of whiskey again,
but she stopped him, murmuring, “I've got a little room upstairs,
m'lord, an' it would please you to bear me company there.”

She began to undo the buttons of his shirt
with a kind of rough impatience. It was then that Mandell realized
his frock coat and cravat were missing, but he had no notion what
he had done with them over the course of the evening. The girl
slipped her hand inside his shirt and began to knead the
hair-roughened flesh of his chest. Mandell attempted to conjure
some stirring of response, but all he could think of was the gentle
way Anne had touched him last night in his bed, her slender fingers
skimming over him with a kind of wonder. Would he never be able to
get images of that lady out of his head? He gritted his teeth, but
the vision of Anne's blue eyes persisted. The cloying odor of the
black-haired woman's perfume repulsed him. With an oath, he thrust
the doxy off his knee.

She staggered a little, but regained her
balance. Her full lips curved into a sullen pout. “Did I do
something wrong, milord?”

It was a painful echo of the same thing Anne
had said to him.

“No!” Mandell snapped. He groped about for
his purse. In this place, he was astonished he had not already been
relieved of it.

“You aren't the first man who ever got
hisself too drunk to perform,” the girl said. “But there are other
things I could do to—”

Mandell cut off her suggestion by shoving a
handful of guineas at her. “Go upstairs and try sleeping for a
change.”

The girl regarded him with surprise, then
shrugged and took the money. As she sashayed away from him, Mandell
leaned his head back against the rim of his chair and closed his
eyes.

He had no idea how he had got himself to this
place or even what else he had been doing this evening. He had
foggy memories of White's, lurching along in a hackney cab,
frequenting some other gaming hells that all blurred into one. He
had stumbled along some refuse-strewn back street and rousted a
shopkeeper from his bed to ... Mandell believed he had bought
something, but that was absurd. What would he have wanted to
purchase at this hour of night?

Massaging the bridge of his nose with his
fingertips, he frowned, beginning to feel the throbbing effects of
the amount of spirits he had consumed. He was drunk, but not drunk
enough to blot out the things he most wanted to forget—Anne, his
grandfather, the ages-old nightmare that still threatened to claim
him if he dared to sleep.

Mandell forced his eyes open and realized
someone was hovering over him. Lancelot Briggs, wearing that
whipped puppy look that Mandell so despised.

“Damnation,” Mandell growled. “You still
here? I thought I'd finally lost you back ... back in—well,
somewhere.”

“No, my lord.” Briggs perched himself on the
edge of the wooden chair opposite Mandell. He had Mandell's frock
coat and cravat draped over his arm.

Struggling to an upright position, Mandell
demanded, “So what're you about now? Applying for a post as my
valet?”

“No, I am simply trying to make sure you
leave here without misplacing anything.” Briggs regarded him
hopefully. “My lord is ready to go home now, perhaps?”

“And perhaps not,” Mandell said, locating his
whiskey glass. “What's the matter, Briggs? Are you not enjoying
yourself?”

“No, I don't like it here.”

“Surely you are not afraid? The bold Sir
Lancelot who once encountered the Hook himself, who has pledged to
aid in that villain's capture and eventual hanging?”

“Don't taunt me, Mandell. I am frightened and
I am not ashamed to admit it. There are all manner of evil wretches
hanging about this part of town. Especially that soldier over there
by the rum keg. He has a wicked-looking scar on his chin and he has
been staring at us in a most suspicious manner.”

Mandell bestirred himself enough to glance in
that direction. He saw no one but a scullery boy in a greasy
apron.

“You're imagining things, Briggs,” he
scoffed. “Have another whiskey. If you're going to hallucinate, you
might as well be as drunk as I am.”

Briggs declined. He drew forth his pocket
watch. Snapping open the gold case, he consulted it with a weary
sigh. “It is not so very late. Maybe we could leave and go call
upon your cousin Nick. Yes, that would be the very thing. He would
know what to do.”

“What the devil would I want with Drummond? I
am in no mood for any speeches.”

“It only' seemed to me that you are not
finding much amusement here, either. This hardly is the place for a
man of such fastidious tastes as your lordship.”

“Ah, that is because you are unfamiliar with
the darker side of my nature, Briggs.” Mandell took a gulp of the
whiskey. It was vile stuff, but his palate had gone dead so it
didn’t matter. “I have bad blood, y'know.”