Susan Carroll (3 page)

“Oh, madam, he is here,” the flustered maid
squeaked. “Round by the back door.”

Sara did not have to ask whom the woman
meant. Her heart gave a sick thud of fear and anger.

“I will be down at once,” Sara said grimly.
She had a great deal to say to that brother of hers.

She paused only long enough to change her
wrapper for another dressing gown less revealing. Flinging a shawl
about her shoulders, she crept through the house to the cold and
silent kitchen, only glowing ashes left on the hearth of the
massive bake oven.

Gideon Palmer lounged just inside the
doorway. Despite the jagged scar that creased his chin, he was a
handsome young man in scarlet regimentals. His rakish smile had
been more than one poor maid's undoing.

“Sara,” he said, with a lazy grin. “My dear
sister.”

But she was not about to be charmed by him,
not this time. She launched into him without preamble.

“Albert Glossop is dead!” she hissed. “Damn
it, Gideon! What have you been doing?”

Mandell had the hackney cab set him down at
the end of Clarion Way. With such a press of carriages depositing
people at the Countess Sumner's door, the entire thoroughfare was
clogged. Mandell found it far easier to proceed on foot.

He had no intention of stepping round to
Sumner House himself until he had changed his attire. Fortunately
his townhouse lay just at the end of the street.

Lily's ball was certainly gaining the lion's
share of the attention tonight, for the rest of Clarion Way
remained shadowed and silent. As Mandell progressed farther along
the pavement, he felt as though he had stepped out of a circle of
light and confusion into the soothing quiet that night was meant to
be.

Not even a footman was to be seen lingering
about the square, not since Glossop's murder. Away from the
excitement at the opposite end of Clarion Way, Mandell was quite
alone, except for the cloaked individual who stood outside of his
house.

Mandell tensed and might have reached for the
sword-stick hidden in the handle of his walking cane, except that
hooded figure was slight, obviously a woman.

She leaned up against his wrought iron fence,
blocking the short path that led up to the stairs of the house. As
Mandell drew closer, he saw the woman shudder and heard a muffled
sob.

He rolled his eyes. He never had much
patience for a weeping female, certainly not one who chose to
snuffle over his fence at this time of night.

Stalking up behind her, he said, “I beg your
pardon, madam.”

He had spoken quietly, but even that caused
her to gasp. She whirled around, clutching her hand to the region
of her heart.

Mandell had entertained the notion that this
must be some maid from one of the houses, likely disappointed in a
rendezvous with a lover. But the richness of the woman's satin
cloak dispelled that idea.

She was clearly a lady. But what the deuce
was she doing in the street at this hour, and why did she have to
be doing it upon his doorstep?

As she recovered her breath, she said, “Oh,
it is you, Lord Mandell. You startled me.”

So she knew him. But he didn't think he knew
her. The voice was not familiar. As she took a wary step back, her
hood fell back a little revealing a pale, heart-shaped face, and
delicate features that conveyed an impression of haunting
sadness.

She was young, but not a chit just out of the
schoolroom. She might have been pretty, but it was difficult to
tell, her eyes being so swollen with her tears. Her hair certainly
was beautiful, tumbling to her shoulders in a cascade of honey
gold. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but Mandell
could not quite place it.

After assessing her appearance, he asked,
“Have we met before, madam? You are?”

He waited for her to fill in the blank, but
she only retreated deeper into the shelter of her hood.

“That is none of your concern, my lord. Be
pleased to pass on your way.”

“Well, my Lady Sorrow, I would be happy to do
so,” he said drily, “but that is a little difficult when you bar my
path, rusting out my gatepost with your tears.”

“Your gate?” she faltered. “You live
here?”

“To the best of my recollection.”

She choked on a bitter laugh. “Is this not
typical of my fortune? I do not even have the right house.”

She mopped at her eyes with the back of her
hand. Even in the dim light of the street, Mandell could see that
her eyes were very blue, like violets from those long ago
springtimes he had spent in the country instead of walled up in the
stone and grit of London.

“Do forgive me, my lord, for being such a
fool.”

She tried to rush on, but this time Mandell
blocked her way. He never sought to burden himself with anyone
else's misery and he was not about to do so now. All the same he
felt curiously loathe to let her go.

“You shouldn't be wandering about alone at
night, milady. It is not safe.” He was not about to bring up the
murder. If there was a chance she had not heard of Bert Glossop's
death, there was no sense in terrifying her. Instead he concluded,
“Even here on Clarion Way, them is a danger of footpads.”

“But I have nothing left of value for anyone
to steal.”

She ducked past him and moved off rapidly
down the street, never glancing back. Mandell stood by his gate,
watching her go. There might have been a time in his more
hot-blooded youth when he would have been intrigued enough to
follow her, discover the secret of her tears, perhaps the sweeter
secrets still she kept concealed beneath that cloak.

But he was far too jaded and cynical now to
go pursuing mysterious young women through the streets. As he
observed that proud slender shape vanish into the darkness, for a
fleeting moment Mandell was sorry that this was so.

CHAPTER TWO

It was well past midnight by the time the
marquis of Mandell arrived at the Countess Sumner's ball. He
permitted a servant to remove the black cloak from his broad
shoulders. Without glancing around, Mandell handed off his gloves,
high-crowned hat, and gold-tipped cane to another pasty-faced
footman. Then, straightening his cuffs, the marquis passed between
twin marble pillars into the main drawing room.

It was a long chamber done up with gilt
mirrors and hung with red damask like some opulent Italian palazzo.
Mandell presented a stark contrast in the severe style of his
evening clothes, the unrelenting black relieved only by the snowy
folds of his cravat.

The gallery was already thronged with the
countess's guests. Mandell observed the assembled company through
cynical eyes. Apparently Glossop's murder had done little to
discourage any of the haute ton from venturing abroad in search of
their pleasures. If anything, it added a certain titillation to the
hum of gossip. The well-bred voices could be heard even above the
scrape of the violins.

“
My dear, positively too
dreadful.”

“
That murderous footpad, the
Hook.”

“
Mr. Glossop's throat pierced quite
through.”

“
And it happened right here on the corner
of Clarion Way
.”

Mandell's lip curled with contempt and he
wondered why he had come. He might have done better to have
appeased Sara, lingering in her bed, except that he had been
troubled with a restlessness of late that not even she could
satisfy. He felt as hollow, as empty as this roomful of chattering
fools.

The hour was advanced enough that Lily was no
longer receiving latecomers. Mandell waved aside the servant who
would have announced him. He strolled into the drawing room, but he
had not taken many steps when he was accosted by Sir Lancelot
Briggs.

The man came scrambling to Mandell's side
like a bumbling puppy. Briggs was plump, with shirt collars worn
too high, his hair curled too tight. His eyes lit up with joy at
the sight of Mandell and he clutched at the marquis's sleeve.

“Mandell! Oh, thank God! Thank God you are
unharmed.”

“Which is more than can be said for my coat,”
Mandell complained, prying Briggs's fingers away.

“I am sorry. But I have been so anxious about
you, what with that fiend the Hook still roaming abroad.”

“Oh? Have you seen him tonight?”

“Well, no, but one knows he is still out
there, lurking. After what happened to poor Bertie Glossop, I fear
none of us are safe until that villain is captured.” Briggs added
shyly, “I looked for you at the club earlier. When you did not come
to dine, I confess I was worried.”

Mandell eyed Briggs with distaste. The man
trailed after him so much he was becoming known as “Mandell's
toady.” Perhaps that did not affront Briggs's pride, but it
certainly did Mandell's.

“Your solicitude is touching,” the marquis
said coldly, “but I trust I may alter my schedule without it
becoming a matter of public concern.”

Briggs turned a bright red. “Yes, of course.
That is, I am sorry. I only ...” He allowed his words to trail
away, his cowlike brown eyes welling with hurt. He walked off,
looking crestfallen.

“Why must you always be so cutting, Mandell?”
The quiet voice might have been his conscience except that Mandell
did not believe he possessed one. Turning, he discovered that his
cousin Nicholas Drununond had come up behind him.

Nick's sartorial magnificence was almost
blinding. He wore a mauve frock coat, lace spilling from his cuffs,
his neckcloth folded in an intricate arrangement. It amused Mandell
that Nick, intensely serious about everything else, should be so
frivolous in matters of dress, loading himself down with fobs and
diamond stickpins. Mandell, on the other hand, who accounted
nothing to be of great importance, wore no jewelry save his gold
signet ring.

Nick asked, “Why do you always treat poor
Briggs so shabbily? He is your friend.”

“I was not aware that I had any friends,”
Mandell replied.

“Briggs apparently thinks otherwise. The man
is devoted to you.”

“So would a dog be, if I had one.” Mandell
drew forth an enameled snuffbox and flicked open the lid with a
careless but practiced gesture. “I don't entertain sycophants.”

“No, you are the last man anyone could accuse
of that. That is why I don't understand what possessed Briggs to
attach himself to you.”

Mandell helped himself to a pinch of snuff,
then returned the box to his pocket. “That is my own fault. We were
both at a gaming hell once and a Captain Sharp was fleecing Briggs
at cards. When Briggs was foolish enough to object, the fellow
threatened him with a pistol. I felt compelled to intervene.”

“Did you, by God.” Nick's eyes warmed with
admiration, but Mandell would have none of it.

“I don't know what comes over me,” he said.
“I am beset by these beneficent impulses from time to time like a
recurrent bout of the brain fever. It is the one great flaw in my
character.”

“Well, flawed or not, I am deuced glad to see
you. I thought you would be otherwise engaged this evening. Have
you tired of the charms of your latest mistress so soon?”

“Why? Would you like me to introduce you to
her?”

“No, thank you,” Nick said, laughing. “I am
far too occupied with my work for such a diversion. I have been
meaning to call upon you. I have a favor to ask.”

Mandell cast his cousin a pained glance. “Not
to second you in another duel! My dear fellow, this is becoming a
tiresome habit. I can sympathize with you in some measure. There
are a good many people I would like to shoot myself; but not over
politics. Now it would be another matter if you fought over a woman
or because someone's waistcoat offended you.”

Mandell flicked his fingers against Nick's
own silk garment, a pattern of bright mauve stripes.

“Damn your eyes, Mandell,” Nick growled,
“there is nothing wrong with my waistcoat, and no, I am not about
to fight another duel. I am still recovering from the effects of my
last meeting with Beresford.”

He rubbed the back of his left hand, which
bore a recent scar from a pistol ball. Mandell had only been
thankful that Beresford, who was a crack shot, had been content to
aim for Nick's hand rather than his hot head.

“It is something else entirely I need to ask
you about,” Nick said. “But perhaps we had better find someplace
more quiet where we will not be interrupted.”

“If you insist, though it is not my habit to
steal off into secluded alcoves with politicians.”

Nick grinned. “And do not all the mamas in
this room know it! As soon as you appeared on the threshold, Lady
Ormsby gathered her girls about her like a flustered hen. I believe
she has sent out for their chastity belts.”

“An unnecessary precaution,” Mandell
murmured. “I have seen her daughters.”

After which quip he permitted Nick to lead
the way through the drawing room. This was not an easy feat, for
the gallery was packed. Couples performing a quadrille had hardly
enough room to pace off their steps. More than one lady present had
recourse to use her fan, the blazing lights of the chamber's four
chandeliers being over brilliant.

The curtained alcove seemed cool and quiet by
comparison. Nick flung himself down at once upon a claw foot sofa,
but Mandell chose to remain standing.

“Is it my imagination,” he said “or are the
voices of the ladies a little more shrill tonight?”

“Oh, I suppose there is still a deal of
excitement owing to Bertie Glossop's death.” Nick shrugged. “Mind
you, I would not have wished Glossop any harm, but in a queer way,
his murder has turned out to be a good thing. I had hoped that the
activities of the Hook might have done so sooner, but it seems to
have taken something this grim to shake certain people out of their
complacency.”