Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  “I don't suppose,” she said, “that you would consider taking me with you tonight?”

  “To Lily Rosemoor's ball? I doubt you would find it very interesting.”

  “Why don't you give me chance to find out?”

  “We have been through this before, Sara,” he said, shooting her an impatient glance. “There are certain times and places that a man does not flaunt his mistress.”

  “But I have heard that the countess is very open-minded, not so particular as some about whom she admits into her house.”

  “The decision in this instance is mine, not Lily's, my dear,”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Sara's features. “You express such contempt for your society, yet you are so careful to follow the niceties of its code. Sometimes I think it is you who is the hypocrite, my lord.”

  “I never pretended to be otherwise,” he drawled, but with a slightly bitter set of his lips. He stepped in front of the oval mirror that hung over her dressing table, in order to achieve what he could with a neckcloth that had become rumpled during their earlier loveplay.

  Sara was one of the few women he had ever known who did not load her dressing table down with bottles, jars of scent, and other useless paraphernalia. The cherrywood surface was bare except for a silver-handled brush and the vial of laudanum Sara took for her headaches.

  As he leaned closer to the mirror, folding the cravat, he attempted to mollify his refusal to take her to the ball. “I only mean to stay at Lily's an hour or more. I could return then, if you like.”

  “I fear I won't be here. Not tonight. Nor tomorrow. Nor any other night.”

  The words were pronounced without rancor, in a tone that was merely matter-of-fact Mandell glanced up to see her arms folded across her breasts, her face steeled with determination.

  Her announcement was not entirely unexpected to Mandell. After the briefest pause, he went on tying his cravat.

  “So I am to understand the arrangements I have made for you are no longer satisfactory?'

  “Oh, as to that, Mandell, you have been generous with your money. And with other things.” She touched him, her fingertips running up his arm, the caress light, suggestive.

  Then she sighed, dropping her hand back to her side. “But I have realized for some time now that the thing I want most you are never going to give me.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your name.”

  “I believe I made that clear from the outset—”

  “You did,” she interrupted. “Abundantly clear. You could never marry a woman of such dubious social background. Although my father was a gentleman, a sea captain, and my late husband a man of good family and property in Yorkshire.”

  Mandell said nothing. He had never believed in the existence of the sea captain or the dead husband. He had no idea where Sara had really come from and he had never cared. She was entitled to her secrets. The devil knew, he had plenty of his own.

  “There is no way of making you understand, Sara,” he said “I possess few scruples, but I do have some sense of what I owe to my grandfather, the honor of his house. I would have to be madly in love with you to forget all that.”

  “Which you never will be. You and I, my dear Mandell, are practical people. We are not the kind to fall madly in love with anyone.”

  “That is precisely why we are so well suited to one another.”

  “We would be, were I not so ambitious. I know that there are plenty of other titled fools out there who would not be troubled by your scruples.” A spark lit Sara's eyes, like the green fire of an emerald. “I want to be 'my lady somebody.' I want to take my place in your world, the society you so scorn. I want to attend all those routs and balls, receive vouchers to Almack's, perhaps even make my curtsy to the king.”

  “The king is as mad as you are.”

  “Well, the Prince Regent then! Go ahead and sneer if you like, Mandell. But this is what I want.”

  “I was not sneering at you, my dear. You may well achieve your ambition. I don't doubt but what you are clever enough to do so. But after you have it all, the title, Almack's, a place in society, I wonder if you are going to want it. You have a certain freedom now that you don't quite appreciate, unlike myself, a prisoner to all the trappings of an ancient family name.”

  “From where I stand, the gilt bars of your prison look mighty good.”

  He smiled and shook his head, but he made no effort to sway her decision. In truth, when he had begun the liaison with Sara, he had known it would end this way. No recriminations, no repinings, a blazing affair that had burnt itself out like so many others. To give Sara her due, she was a little better than the rest, not quite in the common way.

  He finished knotting his cravat. It was a shambles but it would do to see him home. Searching for his boots, he completed his dressing in silence.

  Rubbing her arms and shivering, Sara rustled over to the hearth. She put another log on the fire, then poked at the embers to stir up the flames.

  When he had eased himself into his frock coat, Mandell turned to her. He held out his arms and quoted, “Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.”

  She might have been justified in flinging the next line of Drayton's sonnet at him, “Nay, I have done, you get no more of me.”

  But Sara never read poetry. Dusting off her hands, she moved into his embrace, raising her mouth to his. Even now her lips were generous, her tongue fiery hot against his. Drawing back, she gazed up at him, her eyes soft.

  “You have been my lover all these weeks, and I suddenly realize I don't even know your Christian name.”

  “I don't have one,” Mandell said. A memory intruded upon him—the lordly figure of his grandfather looming over him, a shivering child of ten, the old duke of Windermere flinging the certificate of Mandell's baptism and his French passport into the fire.

  “And so dies the past, boy. You have but one thing to remember now and that is that you are the marquis of Mandell, my heir.”

  And the flames had leapt up, consuming the papers in one greedy lick. If only memories could be burnt away as easily.

  Shaking off the troubling reminiscence, Mandell pulled Sara close for one last kiss, then eased her out of his arms.

  “Farewell, my dear. If the respectable life is what you want so much, I hope you find it.”

  She stroked his cheek, an unusually tender gesture for Sara. “And you, Mandell. My wish for you is that just once in your life, you desire something strong enough to risk everything for it—your life, your soul, even the honor of your precious family name.”

  “Regrettably, madam, I cannot think of anything I would ever want that badly.” Upturning her hand, he brushed his lips against her palm.

  Releasing her, he moved toward the door with his usual pantherlike grace. Sara stared at him, taking one last look at that tautly honed male form she had known so intimately. One last look at the darkness, the danger to be found in that lean face whose latent sensuality never failed to arouse her.

  She felt a curling of heat, a mad impulse to call him back to her bed one last time. But if she did so, it would only be harder to let Mandell go while her dreams drifted further away.

  So she remained where she was until the door clicked behind him. The she heaved a deep sigh at her own folly. She must be mad to fling off her protector, possibly the most magnificent lover she had ever had, and this while she was still uncertain of what she meant to do next. She had no immediate prospects, only vague ambitions.

  Yet she could not summon the energy to do any more thinking tonight. Pressing her hand to her brow, she could already feel the nigglings of one of her infamous headaches. She wanted to flop back into bed, but the tangled sheets were a reminder of Mandell, redolent with his musky scent. She would find no repose there until she called Agnes to change the linens.

  But Sara had no need to summon her maid, for the next moment the woman, in her starched apron and cap, burst into the room. The tidings Agnes brought drov
e all thoughts of Mandell out of Sara's head.

  “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 roami
ng 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.”