Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  “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.”

  The more Nick warmed to his subject, the more heated his voice became. “Now perhaps the good citizens of Mayfair will understand some of the terrors the West End poor have faced for years. Parliament will understand the need to do away with our outmoded police force. The time has come to organize one efficient central unit—”

  “My dear Nick,” Mandell interrupted as soon as he could get a word in. “If you are going to start addressing me as though I were a public meeting, I fear I will be obliged to eschew the pleasure of your company.”

  “But—”

  “And besides, you know I am the last person likely to sympathize with your notion of an efficient police.”

  Their eyes locked and Nick apparently took his meaning, for he spoke in milder tones. “What happened to your mother in Paris took place a very long time ago, Mandell, and it was a different thing altogether.”

  “Was it?” Mandell said, his voice going cold and hard. He was on the verge of leaving when Nick flung up one hand.

  “No, I am sorry. Come back. I promise I have done with my speeches about the police. This was not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”

  Mandell returned, but he eyed his cousin with wariness, wondering about the nature of the favor Nick required. Nick was not often beforehand with the world, yet he seldom asked to borrow money, at least not for himself.

  Mandell had a dread that Nick's forthcoming request must have something to do with one of his infernal causes.

  Nick cleared his throat, a bad sign. “Of course, you know John Hastings.”

  “No, I cannot say that I do.”

  “He is my footman, the one who usually answers the front door.”

  Mandell's brows rose a fraction. “I have a vague recollection of some burly youth, but I have not as yet had opportunity to strike up an intimacy with him.”

  “Don't go all haughty on me, Mandell,” Nick implored. “The thing is, John wants to marry Emily.”

  Mandell regarded him blankly.

  “Emily, your downstairs maid.”

  “I was not aware that I had a downstairs maid, let alone one named Emily, but I will take your word for it,” Mandell said. “Now what is all of this to do with me? I am not the girl's father to be giving my blessing.”

  “No, but it would be much more convenient for John to be part of the same household as his bride. Alas, I am not in a financial position to take on any more servants. So I thought, that is I hoped, you might be persuaded to employ John.”

  Mandell frowned. “Sometimes, Nicholas, the interest you take in the affairs of your servants borders on madness.”

  “Then you refuse?”

  Mandell knew he certainly should. He kept only a small staff at his London house. Nor did he think that Nick's tendency to meddle with the lower orders should be encouraged. This incident was a minor one, but as a member of the House of Commons, Nick was forever pressing for reforms to alleviate what he deemed the misery of the working class.

  “What the boy does not understand,” Mandell's grandfather would frequently growl, “is that reform only leads to idleness and dissatisfaction amongst the poor. From there it is but a step away to revolution.”

  The danger of revolution was one of the few points that Mandell and the Duke of Windermere agreed upon, born of a shared pain. The old man grieved for the loss of a beloved daughter, Mandell for the mother he had barely known.

  Mandell started to refuse Nick's request, but his cousin looked so hopeful. It seemed churlish to disappoint Nick over such a trivial thing. The fate of the nation could hardly be affected by permitting the marriage of one insignificant servant.

  Mandell vented an exasperated sigh. “Oh, the devil! What is another footman more or less?”

  Nick brightened. He leapt up to shake Mandell's hand. “Damme, Mandell. You're a capital fellow.”

  “Now is there anything else you think I should do?” Mandell grumbled. “Perhaps arrange a wedding breakfast for the happy couple?”

  “You needn't go as far as that, but a small gift might be nice.”

  At Mandell's dark look, Nick grinned. “Only jesting,” he said.

  Their business concluded, Mandell and he stepped past the curtain, returning to the ballroom. If anything, the gallery seemed more crowded than before.

  “What a damned crush this is,” Mandell said. “Is there anyone interesting present tonight?'

  'The Prince Regent is here, and your grandfather.”

  “I said interesting.”

  “Oh, you mean ladies,” Nick chuckled. “Well, the Beaufort heiress is here and the Countess Sumner's sister is back in town, having set aside her mourning at last,”

  “And who might she be?”

  “You remember. Lady Anne Fairhaven, Sir Gerald's widow.”

  “Oh, yes, the deadly proper Sir Gerald Fairhaven. I did not even know that he was dead, but given how dull he was, it would have been d
ifficult to tell.”

  “You knew his brother Lucien had inherited the baronetcy. How did you think he got it if Sir Gerald was still alive?”

  “I did not give the matter much consideration. Sir Lucien is not exactly one of my bosom companions. None of the Fairhavens have ever interested me much. As I recall, the lady Anne seemed not much livelier than her late husband.”

  “Lady Fairhaven is certainly quiet, but I never thought her dull,” Nick said. “In fact there is something quite appealing about her. She has the most remarkable sad eyes.”

  “I wouldn't know. The lady never let me get close enough to her to find out. I rather think she has a strong disapproval of men with libertine propensities.”

  “Certainly Lady Fairhaven is a woman of great virtue.”

  “Indeed? I suppose that could be an amusing way to spend an evening, trying to discover exactly how unassailable that virtue might be.”

  “Leave Lady Fairhaven alone, Mandell. She does not need you tormenting her. I hear she has come through a bad time of it since her husband died.”

  “All the more reason she might welcome a little diversion,” Mandell said. “Perhaps I shall seek her out, unless, of course, you've a mind to try your own luck with the lady.”

  “No! You know I am not in the market for a wife.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “That is exactly my objection,” Nick said hotly. “Lady Fairhaven may no longer be a debutante, but I don't think she knows much of the world, certainly nothing of the sort of sport you seek. There is still an innocence about her.”

  “Ah, but that is the trouble with innocence,” Mandell mocked. “For most of us, it is such a temporary state.”

  Not giving his cousin a chance to retort, Mandell sauntered off, leaving Nick glowering after him. But far from harboring any thoughts of seduction, Mandell intended only to pay his respects to his hostess, then escape this den of heat and noise as soon as possible.

  Skirting the edge of the gallery in his search for the countess, Mandell collided with the corpulent form of the Prince Regent. His Majesty's frock coat glittered, overdecorated with the jeweled ribbons of far too many orders. He stared at Mandell, the prince's florid features turning even redder.

  “My apologies, Your Highness,” Mandell murmured. He stepped back a pace and sketched a bow that was correct but still lacking in deference.

  The prince's jowls quivered and he stared straight through Mandell. He ambled past without a word of acknowledgment. The cut was unmistakable, but Mandell's lips creased into a smile. He knew that he had never been a favorite with the Prince of Wales, not since the time George had been named regent due to his father's madness. So many others had crowded around the vain prince, flattering and offering their congratulations, that Mandell had been unable to resist expressing his condolences instead, along with a wish for the old king's speedy recovery. In the midst of his triumph, George had been obliged to look a little ashamed at rejoicing over his father's misfortune. The prince had never forgiven Mandell for that.

  The greeting Mandell received from Lily, the Countess Sumner, was far warmer. Traversing the length of the room, Mandell spotted her, hovering over some young woman seated on a silk-covered chair.

  At the sight of Mandell, Lily closed the distance between them with outstretched hands. A fading beauty, she made far too free use of the paint pots, but her figure retained a voluptuous charm.

  “Mandell,” she cried. “You came after all. I vow you are a most welcome sight”

  “Am I? I had begun to wonder.” He carried her fingertips to his lips.

  She laughed. “Oh, you mean your reception from the Prince Regent. Aye, I saw it all. You must not mind His Grace. The poor man is sadly put out. He was the focus of attention amongst the ladies until you walked in. You must have a dance with me later. I have all manner of interesting gossip to share with you.”

  “Not about Bert Glossop, I trust. I have heard more than enough on that score.”

  “Oh, no, something far more interesting.” She leaned forward to whisper behind her painted chicken-skin fan. “The Prince Regent has left off wearing his stays.”

  “And just how would you be knowing that, my lady?” Mandell asked.

  “Because one can no longer hear him creak when he walks. How else should I know it, you naughty man?” She closed up her fan and rapped his wrist.

  A laugh escaped Mandell, one of genuine amusement. The rest of London might be in an uproar over murder, but trust Lily Rosemoor to be more interested in the regent's stays. Mandell had always been more at ease with the countess than with other women. He liked his mistresses younger and not quite so giddy. She preferred her lovers blonde and more poetic. So their relationship had never been hampered by any sexual tension.

  With the ease of long acquaintance, Lily linked her aim through his. “Come, Mandell, there is someone you must make your leg to. You will never guess who has returned to London. Anne, my darling little sister.”

  She tugged Mandell over to the chair where the young woman sat, staring pensively down at the floor tiles. Mandell had never taken much notice of Anne Fairhaven, but she appeared as he remembered her, pale and prim, her fair hair done up in a crown of braids. The style was perhaps a little too severe, but it drew attention to the slender column of her neck. Clad in a high-waisted lavender gown, she was like a fine pastel lost amidst the brightness of more garish oil paintings.

  “Anne,” Lily called gaily. “Do but look who has arrived.”

  Lady Fairhaven glanced up. Mandell experienced the shock of more recent recognition as the candleshine played fully over her delicate features. Impossible that it should be so, but Anne Fairhaven was the woman who had been weeping by his gate. She had been half lost in shadow then. Her hair tumbling free had made quite a difference from her usual prim style. But there was no mistaking those violet-hued eyes. They were clear now, only the shadows beneath bearing testimony to her former unhappiness.

  Before Mandell could move or speak, Anne shot to her feet, a blush staining her cheeks.

  “My lord,” Lily said. “You do remember my sister, I trust?”

  “Of course,” he said, managing to gain possession of Anne's hand. “The virtuous Lady Fairhaven.”

  “The wicked Lord Mandell,” Anne countered, snatching her fingers free of his grasp. “Excuse me, Lily, my lord. I was on the verge of retiring to the card room. There is someone I must speak to.”

  For the second time that night, she fled from Mandell without a backward glance. Her gown, demure as it was, clung to the willowy curves of her hips. She moved with a grace that was somehow far more alluring than the exaggerated sway of bolder women.

  “I declare,” Lily exclaimed. “Whatever got into her? Mandell, what have you done to frighten my poor Anne?”

  “Nothing.” Mandell smiled. “Yet.”

  The countess wagged her finger at him. “I dislike that gleam in your eye, my lord. You must form no designs upon my little sister. It would do her a world of good to take a lover. But you are far too wicked for her, I fear”

  “Do you know,” Mandell said pleasantly, “I have been warned away from the lady enough times, it is beginning to arouse the devil in me.”

  Lily clucked her tongue at him and would have said more, but her attention was caught by the arrival of some other latecomers. She fluttered away to greet them like the distractible butterfly that she was.

  That left Mandell free to wonder about Anne Fairhaven's strange behavior. What had induced such a proper lady to roam the streets unescorted, weeping as though her heart would break? Mandell's curiosity was aroused enough this time to pursue her—at least as far as the next room.

  She had ducked into a small adjoining parlor set aside for those wishing for cards instead of dancing. When Mandell crossed the threshold, he found her standing near the hearth, observing the play at one table. Mandell saw nothing in this particular foursome to attract her interest.

  The group consi
sted in part of a callow youth and Sir Lancelot Briggs. Briggs gave Mandell a hopeful smile, but Mandell ignored him, more struck by the other two players. One was the Lady Anne's brother-in-law, Sir Lucien Fairhaven. A large man with sun-streaked blond hair, his face was deeply carved with lines of dissipation.

  But most surprising was the fourth man at the table, Mandell's grandfather, the august duke of Windermere. His Grace rarely tolerated the company of fools, so it was a mystery to Mandell why he would play at whist with any of these men. His white hair swept back in a queue, his close-set eyes were shadowed beneath bushy brows. He acknowledged Mandell's presence with a curt nod.

  Although Anne did not look Mandell's way, she was obviously aware of his approach. She stiffened as he came up to her.

  “How fortunate,” he said in low tones. “It would seem we meet again, my Lady Sorrow.”

  “Don't call me that,” she whispered, trying to sidle away. “I had hoped you would not recognize me.”

  “I would have had to have been drunk not to. I liked your hair better down. It looked more golden in the moonlight.”

  “Do go away,” she said. “I am trying to concentrate on the game.”

  Mandell glanced idly at the table, when suddenly he realized what held her attention. Someone at the table was cheating and doing it badly. The card being dealt by the youth was scratched, a botched attempt to mark the deck. It must come to the notice of the entire table in a moment.

  The question was who was responsible. Briggs? No, the fellow lacked the wit to be other than honest. The spotted youth? He had obviously been losing badly, trickles of sweat mingling with the blemishes on his brow. As for the jaded Sir Lucien, he had accumulated an impressive pile of paper and coins in front of him.

  Whoever was guilty, Mandell knew his grandfather would not take kindly to the discovery he was playing with a cheat. Disgrace for one of these men was imminent. The marked card had been shuffled his grandfather's way. The old man's eyes were far too keen to miss it. But just as the duke reached for the card, Anne overturned a glass of wine perched on the table. The gesture was awkward, and Mandell could tell, quite deliberate.