Susan Carroll (33 page)

As the full implication of this struck
Mandell, his brow knit in a heavy frown. What manner of villain was
he dealing with here? What kind of a common footpad would carve up
a man to rob him, only to leave his victim still in possession of a
solid gold watch?

The last minutes of daylight faded. Clarion
Way was enveloped in a purple mantle of twilight, the first stars
winking in the sky.

“Seven o'clock and all's well,” Obadiah
called out. But the old watchman no longer intoned the time with
the confidence and serenity he had felt before Bertie Glossop's
murder. Now, if a stray cat so much as brushed against his legs, he
startled half out of his skin.

When he saw the gentleman in the long black
cloak come striding up the street, Obadiah's heart gave a flutter
of fear, although there was nothing furtive about the man's
movements. It was only the marquis of Mandell approaching his own
front gate.

But the haughty marquis had ever made Obadiah
nervous and he was quick to step out of his lordship's path. He
expected Mandell to sweep on past, taking no more notice of Obadiah
than he ever did.

To his astonishment, the marquis came to an
abrupt halt and nodded in his direction. “Good evening.”

Even then, Obadiah glanced about to see whom
his lordship might be addressing.

“I am talking to you, sir,” Lord Mandell said
with a tinge of impatience in his voice. “You are the night
watchman, are you not'?”

“Well, I-I---,” Obadiah babbled. He had
always been in terror of Mandell's fierce dark gaze. But seen close
up, he realized that the marquis's face possessed none of its usual
hauteur. His eyes were dulled with a bone-deep weariness, a feeling
Obadiah knew all too well. It gave him the courage to reply.

“Why, why, yes, milord.” Obadiah managed a
nervous but respectful bow. “I am Obadiah Jones, your lordship. At
your service.”

“You, I believe, are the one that I heard
found Albert Glossop's body. Do you remember the night he was
killed?”

The question astonished Obadiah into blurting
out, “How could I ever forget it, sir? 'Twas the most terrifying
night of my life, finding young Mr. Glossop that way, all bloodied
over and seeing that villian run away, laughing like some pure
devil from hell.”

The marquis's eyes narrowed. “You actually
saw the Hook then?”

“'Deed I did. All garbed in black he was,
like some phantom, that strange hat flopping over his eyes.”

“And his face?”

“I couldn't see that, m'lord. It was a
terrible foggy night.”

“Then what made you so sure it was the
Hook?”

“Why because the rogue has been on the prowl
for months, terrifying honest folks. Who else could it have
been?”

“Who else indeed?” the marquis murmured. He
frowned, but Obadiah had the impression Lord Mandell was not
scowling at him so much as at some disturbing thought of his own.
The marquis's curiosity on this subject surprised Obadiah a little,
but then he had never fully understood the ways of the Quality.

He waited respectfully while the marquis
continued, “After you found Glossop, did he still have his
valuables on him? His watch perhaps, his purse?”

“I don't know, m'lord. After I first touched
Mr. Glossop and saw that he was dead—” Obadiah shuddered,
remembering the sensation of his fingers coming away, warm and
sticky with blood. “I didn't examine the young gentleman too close
after that.”

The marquis seemed so disappointed with his
answer, Obadiah hastened to add, “But the Hook must've taken away
Mr. Glossop's valuables. Stands to reason, don't it? Him being such
a notorious cutpurse and all.”

The marquis did not answer. He regarded
Obadiah and said gravely, 'Thank you, Mr. Jones. You have been most
helpful.”

“Have I?” Obadiah quavered. “I wish I could
think I have been. I still remember how Mr. Glossop screamed that
night. I never had much liking for Master Bertie, but it was a
terrible way for any young fellow to die. I lay awake sometime
wondering if I could've done things any differently that night. If
I might've moved a little faster, done something to save him.”

“Regret is the poison of life, Mr. Jones.”
Lord Mandell said. “But I fear it is a curse that many of us are
doomed to experience.”

He smiled sadly and passed on his way,
leaving Obadiah staring after him. This surely had to be one of the
strangest encounters Obadiah had ever had on Clarion Way and yet,
for a moment he had felt an odd kinship with Lord Mandell. It was
almost as if the marquis really understood Obadiah's feelings of
guilt and remorse over what had happened to Mr. Glossop.

And to think he had once fancied the marquis
such a hard, cold man. He had much more of a liking for Lord
Mandell's cousin. But lately it was Mr. Drummond who seemed less
than kind, distant and curt. The last time they had met, Mr. Nick
had actually snapped at Obadiah to get out of his way.

Obadiah meandered on his way up the street,
slowly shaking his head. It only went to show. One never knew any
man as well as one thought one did.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Twilight had faded into darkness by the time
Anne approached the marquis of Mandell's gate. Clutching the heavy
bundle of cloth to her chest, she eased back her hood, peering up
at his house. A faint glow of light shone through one of the lower
story windows, but the rest of the stone structure appeared dark
and forbidding.

She wondered what madness had compelled her
to come. Their parting earlier today had been so abrupt. He might
not want to see her. He might not even be at home. It was absurd,
her conviction that he paced the shadows of this vast and lonely
house, just as she had been pacing her empty bedchamber these past
hours.

Yet the conviction was strong enough to carry
her past his gate, up the steps to his front door. He needed her
tonight. She was as certain of that as of her own aching need, a
longing that she finally dared acknowledge.

Before her courage could desert her, she
shifted her bundle under one arm, lifted her hand to the brass
knocker and sounded it. Only then did it occur to her to wonder
what she would say when her summons was answered, especially if by
a shocked and disapproving butler like Firken. Yet she could not
imagine any of Mandell's servants being easily scandalized.

All the same, she felt relieved when the door
swung open, revealing the familiar and reliable figure of John
Hastings.

“My lady Fairhaven!” The young man's eyes
widened in surprise, but he struggled to conceal it.

“Is his lordship at home?” she asked.

“Yes, milady.”

“I need to see him.”

Hastings cast a doubtful glance toward the
darkened regions of the house behind him. “It is very late, milady.
I don't know if the master would be—”

“Please,” Anne said, raising her eyes to
his.

Hastings hesitated a moment more, then
stepped aside to allow her to enter. “My lord is in the drawing
room,” he said with a solemn bow. “Will it please you to wait here
while I announce you?”

“No! I think it would be better if I just
went in.” She dreaded Mandell having opportunity to fix his mask of
hauteur in place, or worse still, simply refuse to see her.

Hastings nodded in silent understanding. “The
drawing room is through that door at the end of the hall.”

Drawing a steadying breath, Anne stepped
forward. Mandell's entrance hall was as austere and unwelcoming as
she remembered it. But as she crept farther into the house, the
silence was broken by the distant sound of music. Someone was
playing upon the pianoforte and with a great deal of mastery.

She glanced back to Hastings who stood behind
her in the shadows. “Is Lord Mandell alone?”

“Always, milady,” the footman said with a sad
smile.

Anne continued on her way, her heart
hammering with every step. When she opened the door, the music
seemed to assault her in a great wave, echoing off the rafters with
all the power and majesty of thunder. The velvet draperies were
drawn, the room dark except for the fire blazing on the hearth and
the branch of candlesticks atop the piano-forte, their glow
reflecting upon the glossy rosewood surface. Absorbed by his
playing, Mandell did not even look up when she entered.

His hands rippled over the keys, the notes
ringing out with a hard, angry brilliance. It was as though all the
passion, the torment, the longing he kept guarded in his soul
flowed out through his fingertips, finding expression in a storm of
music that took Anne's breath away.

Closing the door quietly behind her, she
crept forward. The candles illuminated his profile and the sheen of
his midnight satin dressing gown. He wore nothing else but his
breeches, the robe parted to reveal a glimpse of his hair-darkened
chest, the strong cords of his neck. His face was a study in
intensity, his lashes lowered to veil his eyes, a flush staining
his high cheekbones, his lips half parted.

She walked toward him, captured by the fury
of his music as much as if he had seized her in a fierce embrace.
She stood beside him and still he did not look up until he reached
a place where his fingers faltered.

His brow furrowed in concentration as his
hands moved back, trying to repeat the phrase. It was at that point
that he sensed her presence. The music died away on a final jarring
note that reverberated about the room, finally echoing to silence.
He stared at her as though gazing at an apparition as she brushed
back her hood.

“Anne!” He shot to his feet, the darkness in
his eyes replaced by an eager light. He reached for her, his own
hands a trifle unsteady, and all Anne's doubts were swept aside.
She knew she had done right to come.

She awaited his touch with breathless
anticipation. But as he recovered from his initial surprise, he
seemed to recollect himself. He drew back, frowning.

“How did you get in?” he asked. “And what the
devil are you doing here?”

“Hastings admitted me,” she replied with more
calm than she felt. “I came to return this to you.”

She thrust toward him the bundle she had
carried tucked under her arm. He appeared puzzled until he shook
out the heavy folds and recognized his own caped greatcoat, the one
he had draped about her shoulders the night they had first made the
pact between them, the pact that had nearly made them lovers. She
wondered if the garment stirred for him the same memories as it did
her. It was difficult to read his expression.

“I have had it hidden in the bottom of my
wardrobe all this time,” she said. “I kept forgetting to give it
back to you.”

He tossed the coat over the back of one of
the chairs. “You came here alone?”

“Yes, it is only a short walk from Lily's to
here and—”

“You little fool!” The sudden flare of anger
in his eyes put an end to her explanation. “There is a murderer on
the loose and you decide to go for a late night stroll?”

“The street lamps are all lit and the
watchman was making his rounds.”

Mandell clenched his hands, looking as though
he wanted to shake her. She hastened to add, “Perhaps I did behave
a little unwisely. But it doesn’t matter. I am in no danger
now.”

“That is a highly debatable point. How long
have you been standing there?”

“Only a few moments. I was listening to you
play. A symphony by Beethoven, wasn't it? You did it so
magnificently. I wish you hadn't stopped.”

“I could not recollect any more. I play by
memory only.”

Her gaze flew back to the pianoforte,
noticing there were no sheets of composition propped in the music
stand. “You don't read music? You play that way by ear?”

He shrugged. “I never took any instruction.
Some musical accomplishment is tolerable, but a gentleman should
hardly perform as though he were obliged to earn a living at it
like some opera-house player.”

The acid words seemed to be an echo of
someone else's sentiments, not his own. He stepped away from the
pianoforte and disconcerted her by asking, “Why did you really come
here tonight, Anne? And don't tell me any more nonsense about
returning that cloak. You could have dispatched a servant to bring
it back days ago.”

Her cheeks heated. If he did not understand
why she was here, she hardly knew how to begin to tell him,
especially when he was fixing her with such a hard stare.

“You left so abruptly today,” she said. “And
you seemed so distraught about your friend. I was worried. I
wondered if you had heard how Sir Lancelot is faring.”

“He may live, but I doubt he'll ever
recover.”

“Do they know yet who is responsible for the
attack?”

“I am,” Mandell said harshly.

When she looked at him, startled, he added,
“I don't mean that I was the one who pierced him through, but I
might as well have done. I allowed him to accompany me last night
and then got so drunk that I forgot all about him. I abandoned him
at that wretched tavern, leaving him to the mercy of some damned
brigand, some murderous phantom , whatever or whoever this accursed
Hook might be.”

Mandell's lips twisted in a bitter smile.
“Briggs hated jaunting about such low places. He only came to try
to protect me from myself. Because I once did him a misplaced
kindness, he conceived this notion that I am somehow worth saving,
a mistaken idea that you seem to share. Is that why you came, Anne?
To be my ministering angel? You cannot minister to the devil, my
dear.”

His words were hard, jeering, inviting her to
share in his self-condemnation. But one look into his eyes was
enough to see how Mandell damned himself.

His face was taut with the strain of the past
hours. A few dark strands of hair drooped over his brow. Anne had
longed to smooth them back ever since she had entered the room.
Closing the distance between them, she gave way to the impulse now,
caressing his forehead.