Susan Carroll (9 page)

He added, “I don't even know when my real
birthday is.”

“I have always found that hard to understand.
I know our grandfather was bitter over what happened to your mother
but to blot out all traces of your youth, your connection to your
father's family!”

“My damnable French blood,” Mandell said
drily. “There no longer is any connection. My father and all his
family may be dead for all I know.”

“If it distresses you so much, there must be
a way that you could find out.”

“Who said that it distressed me?” Mandell
asked with a haughty lift of his brow.

“Surely you must want to know, at least what
happened to your own father.”

Mandell turned away, disturbed by a memory of
himself as a child, staring up at a laughing young man with hair
and eyes as dark as Mandell's own. He lifted Mandell up to the
pianoforte, patiently guiding his small fingers over the keys.

Mandell blotted out the memory, replacing it
with one of his mother's blood staining the pavement.

“Very likely, my father is dead,” he said. “I
hope he is, and burning in hell.”

“Perhaps he is, but I don't believe you will
ever know any peace until you find out for certain. You ought to go
back to France, Mandell.”

“Leave it alone, Nick,” Mandell growled.

Nick subsided. Neither of them said anything
and tension filled the air until Nick broke it with a shaky
laugh.

“Since it is not in truth your birthday, then
I need not feel obliged to spout for a gift. My pockets are rather
to let at the moment.”

“Your pockets are always to let.” Mandell
turned back to face his cousin, feeling enough in command of his
feelings to assume his usual dry tone. “Besides, I have already
received a gift.”

He drew forth a gaudy gilt-trimmed snuffbox,
the sides decorated with jade dragons, their eyes gleaming with the
fire of red rubies.

“Good lord!” Nick said. “Where did you get
that awful thing? I can scarce believe that our grandfather would
give you such a thing.”

“The old duke is not that sentimental. I
received it from my dear friend Lancelot Briggs.”

“I am surprised that you accepted it.”

“So am I. I was sampling a fine madeira at
the time and feeling unusually gracious.” Mandell stared at the
snuffbox with a slight frown. The scene had been embarrassing. He
had been trying to enjoy his dinner at White's in peace when Briggs
had entered the club and plunked down at Mandell's table. Mumbling
something unintelligible, Briggs had blushed as shyly as a maid and
shoved the snuffbox at Mandell.

Briggs's lips had trembled with a wistful
smile, his eyes full of that doglike adoration. Such a simple man.
Such an irritating one. For the life of him, Mandell did not know
why he put up with Briggs or why he had pocketed the snuffbox.

But now, as he sat turning the absurd thing
in his hands, his mouth creased into an expression that was half
smile, half grimace. He mused aloud to Nick, “You know, it does
tend to grow on one. I may actually learn to like it.”

“There is no accounting for tastes.”

“No, there isn't” Mandell angled a pointed
glance at Nick's waistcoat as he returned the snuffbox to his
pocket.

Nick cleared his throat. “Now about that
dinner tonight—”

Mandell vented a weary sigh. He hoped that
they had worn that subject out, but Nick rushed on doggedly, “I
know you and Grandfather have become estranged in recent
years.”

“We were never close to begin with.”

'The old duke can be very autocratic and
gruff, but beneath it all, Mandell, I believe that he truly loves
you.”

“Likely he does, but if you ever brought your
head out of your law books, you might learn what a burden love can
be. Your efforts at peacemaking have been duly noted, cousin. But
you should stick with your politics and leave the diplomacy
alone.”

“You could not at least make an appearance at
the dinner tonight?” Nick pleaded.

“No. I have other plans.” Mandell allowed his
gaze to drift across the theatre to where the Countess Sumner's
party had returned to the box. Anne was on the verge of taking her
seat when she glanced up. Her eyes locked with Mandell's. Even from
such a distance, he could see her face register both shock and
dismay.

He bent slightly, favoring her with an ironic
bow. She acknowledged the gesture by looking fixedly in the
opposite direction. Her knees appeared to give out beneath her and
she sank into her seat.

Behind him, Mandell heard Nick groan. “Oh,
no, Mandell! You are not still bent upon tormenting Anne Fairhaven.
I hoped that after what happened at the Countess Sumner's ball you
would leave her alone.”

“And what would you know of that?” Mandell
turned to state at his cousin. “Have you been spying upon me?”

Nick looked a little uncomfortable. “No, but
I did see you escort her into the garden. I don't know what you did
to upset her, but when she returned, she was flustered and
blushing.”

“The woman needs to blush occasionally. She
is far too pale.”

Nick swore softly. “Mandell, you've got that
look in your eye. I know it well. You have set your sights upon
seducing Anne Fairhaven. Why, Mandell? Out of all the willing
trollops in London, why must you meddle with a lady like her?
Sometimes I don't understand you at all.”

“That is hardly surprising. I rarely
understand myself.” Plucking a piece of lint from his sleeve, he
said casually, “By the by, I am indebted to you for drawing my
attention to the lady that night at Lily's. I might not have
noticed her otherwise. You were quite right about the lady's eyes.
They are a most haunting blue.”

Nick's eyes flashed with the beginnings of
his infamous temper. “Curse you, Mandell. The lady is obviously
already suffering from some sort of heartbreak.”

“Women's hearts rarely break. The gentler sex
is far more resilient than you would suppose. I will admit there is
something troubling Anne, but I daresay it will prove to be quite
mundane. She will recover in my arms.”

“You are damned confident, but there is the
possibility the lady will have none of you. I despise gossip, but
there has been talk that there may be something between Lady
Fairhaven and her brother-in-law Lucien.”

Mandell's jaw tightened for a moment, even
the suggestion of such a thing enough to send a strange feeling
coursing through his veins that was both ice and fire. He forced
himself to shrug. “And so? I have ousted far better rivals than Sir
Lucien.”

“And what if I were to appoint myself the
lady's champion?”

“Oh, I don't believe you would do that. You
have more entertaining causes to fight for than a lady's
virtue.”

Nick jerked to his feet, his hands clenching
into fists. Mandell remained as he was, leaning indolently back in
his chair. His eyes held Nick's steadily until the young man looked
away.

Nick slowly relaxed his hands and drew in a
cleansing breath. “Damn it, Mandell, why do you do this to me? You
know my lamentable temper. I would never want us to come to
blows.”

“We won't. At least not over a lady's honor.
Your choice of waistcoats perhaps, but never anything so
insignificant as a woman.”

Nick shook his head darkly. “Talking to you
is as much a waste of time as addressing Parliament.” He bent to
retrieve his hat.

“Leaving so soon?” Mandell inquired amicably.
“Ah, I forgot. Your distaste for murder, and I fear Macbeth is only
getting started.”

Nick sketched him a tight-lipped bow. “Your
servant, sir,” he said, and stalked out of the box just as the next
act was about to begin.

Mandell experienced a flicker of regret. If
he valued any man's good opinion, it was Nick's. Some ten years his
junior, his cousin was like the brother he had never had and
perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend. But Nick's head was
stuffed full of ideals; a belief in the possibility of a perfect
world, that eventually reason would triumph and all men attain a
level of goodness, even Mandell. Mandell could not allow his cousin
to entertain such mistaken notions.

It was astonishing that Nick did not resent
him. Mandell would not have blamed Nick if he had, and for reasons
other than Mandell's penchant for goading him. If not for Mandell,
Nick would have become the next Duke of Windermere.

Of course, when his grandfather had rescued
Mandell from France, Nick had not even been born. But the fact
remained. Mandell's arrival in England had cut Nick out of a
considerable inheritance. Nick had never shown any sign that he
minded. Despite his hot temper, he really was a good-natured
fellow.

It surprised Mandell that Nick should wax so
fierce in Lady Fairhaven's defense. He had never known his cousin
to take particular notice of any woman before. But if there ever
was a lady calculated to rouse a man's protective instincts, it was
Anne. There was something about the lady that even stirred some
noble feelings within him.

But not very many, Mandell conceded. The
second act was well in progress, but once again all the drama he
desired came from the box opposite.

Anne kept her gaze forward, but Mandell
sensed she was taking in no more of the performance than he. Her
hands fluttered from her lap to her pearls and back again. She
appeared almost frightened.

Of what? Mandell did not have to look far to
seek the cause. He wished he were seated beside her now, to still
her hand and raise it to his lips, tell her there was no need for
that much distress. He wanted to inspire many emotions within her,
but fear was not one of them. He could remain content just to hold
her, until she was soothed and reassured.

Mandell abruptly checked these peculiar
thoughts. He had to stop and remind himself of just who he was.
Certainly not the romantic hero of this particular farce. No, never
the hero, always the villain.

While Macbeth schemed to make himself king,
Anne Fairhaven's mind reeled with plots of her own. The sounds of
the players' voices and the murmurs of the audience all faded to
nothing. She was conscious of little more than the unsteady beating
of her own pulse and the pistol tucked inside her reticule.

She clutched the silk purse against the folds
of her gown, the concealed weapon a disturbing weight upon her lap.
The pistol had been purchased only that afternoon when she had
pawned her jewels in a little shop in Bethnal Green.

Hiring a coach to escape from London, bribing
servants, and buying the weapon all required a deal of money. With
Lucien controlling the purse strings of her inheritance from
Gerald, Anne had had no choice but to part with her jewelry. While
the old pawnbroker had pawed over her treasures with his gnarled
fingers, Anne had examined the array of pistols he had laid out for
her inspection upon the dusty countertop.

The weapons had all terrified her, but at
last she had dared pick up the smallest one with the pearl
handle.

“Ah, an excellent choice, milady,” the
pawnbroker had said. “Just the right fit for a woman's hand.”

“It seems rather small,” Anne ventured.

“Oh, 'tis big enough. You'd be surprised at
how little it takes to kill a man.”

The old man's leering words kept echoing
through Anne's head. She was wrenched back to her present
surroundings by a light touch upon her hand. Starting half out of
her chair, she glanced up and was dismayed to find Lily staring at
her and not the stage.

Could Lily read some of Anne's thoughts in
her face? Perhaps the outline of the pistol was even visible
through the silk. It had been foolish to bring the thing to the
theatre tonight, but that had seemed far safer than leaving the
weapon lying about her bedchamber where her maid might find it.

Anne closed her hands over the purse. But
Lily only smiled and whispered, “Is not Mr. Kean as wonderful as I
promised? Are you not glad you came after all?”

“What? Oh. Oh, yes,” Anne stammered. She
couldn’t breathe until Lily turned back to the stage. Her sister's
obtuseness astonished her as did that of everyone else she had met
this evening. Anne was certain no one could be weaving such
desperate plans as she without revealing it by her expression.
There must be a wildness about her eyes tonight.

Yet Lily had noticed nothing except that Anne
was wearing her second-best pearls. As for Lily's two gentlemen
friends, they paid her little heed. Anne supposed people saw only
what they expected to see.

It had been thus all her life. When anyone
looked at her, they had always thought, “There goes meek, proper
little Anne.”

Only one man had ever perceived anything
different. Mandell.

Anne had been trying not to glance his way
all evening. She had hoped to be gone from London without ever
having to encounter him again. His presence in the box opposite
made her wish she had followed her first instinct and pleaded a
headache so that she could remain at home. But she had been doing
her best these past few days to avoid drawing Lily's attention to
herself, to behave as normal and complacent as possible.

Mandell's unexpected appearance had all but
shattered what remained of her calm facade. Anne thought she had
recovered from that episode in the garden, but one sight of that
lean, aristocratic profile was enough to bring it all back with an
overwhelming intensity—the moonlight and rustling shadows, the
fragrance of the flowers, Mandell's mouth hot against her own.

What perverse fate had brought him to the
theatre tonight of all nights? If anyone could guess there was
something amiss with her, it would be Mandell with that uncanny way
of his. She fancied him staring at her across the theatre, that
dark gaze closing the distance between them, stripping her to the
soul. She could feel his presence like the charge of lightning that
hung in the air before a storm.