Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  The wine splattered in a splash of dark purple across the table and over the cards. Three of the men jerked back, only the duke remaining unperturbed.

  Sir Lucien cursed, sopping at the mess with his handkerchief while one of Lily's efficient footmen hastened over with a napkin.

  “Anne!” Sir Lucien spluttered, giving her a vicious glare. “You clumsy little—”

  Mandell felt something cold and lethal stir inside him. Sir Lucien had an ugly voice. Mandell did not think he quite liked the tone of it.

  But before he could do or say anything, his grandfather stepped into the breach.

  “It was not Lady Fairhaven's fault,” the duke said. “I fear I jarred her hand. Certainly there is no need for such an ill-bred display of temper, Sir Lucien. I think you should beg the lady's pardon.”

  The man had not been born whom the old duke could not browbeat. Sir Lucien flushed and looked like a sulky schoolboy, but he muttered, “I am sorry, Anne. But must you keep hovering there behind me? You are putting me off my game.”

  The duke rose to his feet, making a bow to the flustered Lady Fairhaven. Mandell had to give the old devil his due. No one could behave in more courtly fashion to a woman.

  “It must be very tedious here for you, my lady,” the duke said. “Allow me to provide you with some amusement. Here is my grandson. Mandell, take Lady Fairhaven in to dance.”

  “Oh, no!” Anne protested, but Mandell stepped forward swiftly.

  “With the greatest of pleasure.”

  “Always so obedient,” the duke said with great irony. For a moment his gaze locked on Mandell's, their eyes clashing with old antagonisms. Then His Grace stepped back to permit Mandell to approach Anne.

  She shrank away, turning in appeal to Sir Lucien, her expression akin to despair. “Forgive me, Lucien. But you know I have been hoping to speak with you. If you could spare me but a moment—”

  “Later,” Sir Lucien snapped. He was already shuffling a new deck of cards.

  Mandell observed this byplay between the two with interest and he wondered if Anne would yield. She had little choice. The incident had already focused every eye in the room upon them. After another hesitation, she permitted Mandell to take her arm.

  As he led her toward the door, he bent down to speak softly in Anne's ear. “I hope he appreciates it.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Whomever you just saved by that little accident.”

  “Then you noticed—” She stopped, biting down upon her lip. “Of course. You would.”

  “I saw the marked card, not who authored it. Sir Lucien perhaps?”

  “No,” she made haste to disclaim. “It was the boy. He is far too young. He should not even be permitted to play.”

  Mandell was not certain he believed her, but all he said was, “I trust your intervention will give the boy pause to reconsider the wisdom of his actions.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  When they passed into the drawing room, Anne tried to wriggle free. “Your grandfather was terribly kind, but of course, you are not obliged to dance with me.”

  “Good. I hate dancing unless it is the waltz”

  “How unfortunate. The orchestra is playing a reel, my lord.” Her gaze skated back toward the card room. Mandell wondered about the nature of her interest in Sir Lucien Fairhaven. He usually had no difficulty in thinking the worst of people. But the suspicion that Anne Fairhaven might be carrying on an intrigue with that underbred oaf was strangely unwelcome. “There is little use lingering about here,” Mandell told her. 'That card game will likely not break up for hours.”

  “I know,” she said. She looked very tired. Signs of fatigue rendered most women rather hag-ridden. Anne only appeared younger, more vulnerable.

  “Perhaps you had better let me take you in to supper,” Mandell said in a gentle tone he rarely used. “You appear as though you need some nourishment”

  “I am not at all hungry, my lord.” She pressed one hand to her brow. “It is only the heat and noise. I fear it is giving me a headache. I am sure I shall feel better if I step outside for a moment. Pray excuse me.”

  She took a step toward the tall French doors that opened onto the terrace leading to the countess's garden. She halted when Mandell moved to accompany her, casting him a look of dismay.

  “There is not the least need for you to accompany me, my lord.”

  “No?” Her wariness amused Mandell. “I begin to get the feeling, Lady Sorrow, you would as soon dispense with my company.”

  “That I would. You are far too likely to plague me with a deal of questions I don't wish to answer.”

  “Then you may tell me to mind my own business. You have already done so once tonight.”

  “But I don't think it would be proper being alone with you in the garden. Not proper or—” She hesitated, biting down on her lip.

  “Or?” he prompted.

  “Or safe!”

  Mandell's lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. He raised her hand lightly to his lips, feeling her fingertips quiver at his caress. “Safe? Decidedly not. But do you truly wish to be?”

  Giving her no chance to protest further, he slipped his arm about her shoulders. Gently, inexorably, he swept her through the doors and into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lily's garden looked different by moonlight. By day, it was a place of serenity, sunlit walks, a springtime wilderness of budding flowers. By night, it was a place of seclusion, seductive fragrances, and threatening shadows that seemed to echo Mandell's words.

  Safe? Decidedly not. But do you truly wish to be?

  Anne Fairhaven shivered. Yes, she wanted to cry out. That was exactly what she longed for, to be safe back in Norfolk, her little daughter Norrie cradled in her arms, to return to the security that had vanished when Gerald had died.

  Only dire necessity had forced her back to London, amidst the glittering society she had always hated, thrusting herself into scenes and situations where she did not belong. Never before had she dared steal away from the bright lights of a ballroom to take a midnight stroll. But she found herself doing many things she had never done these past few months, reckless things, frightening things. Desperation did that to one.

  But she was still mistress of herself enough to know she did not want to be in a moonlit garden with any man, especially one as dangerous as the marquis of Mandell. She had hardly exchanged a word with him before tonight, but she knew him well by his reputation, winning fortunes at the gaming tables, winning ladies to his bed, appearing to place no value on either prize. A hard, cruel man, he was reputed to have crippled another man in a duel when Mandell was but sixteen.

  He stood out at any assemblage he attended, his eyes often dark with contempt as he regarded the company. Yet Anne had noted he was always welcome, especially by the foolish women. They clustered in groups, whispering.

  “Mandell. Handsome as ever.”

  “Aye, and never showing a sign of his age. You know, he must be past thirty-five and not a hint of grey in that glossy hair. I swear he must be in league with the devil.”

  “My dear, he is the devil.”

  And though she had never taken any part in this gossip, Anne thought so, too. What was she doing out here alone with him? She was not the sort of woman to draw upon herself the attentions of such a libertine and she could only marvel that she had done so now. Let this be a lesson to her to take greater care in future whose gate she wept upon.

  The ridiculous notion almost caused her to smile, and God knows she had had little enough to smile about since Gerald had died. She rarely entertained such frivolous thoughts and decided Mandell must be to blame.

  The man made her so nervous with his silken voice. His presence seemed to fill the night, dark, overpowering, and undeniably male. She was relieved that he had at least taken his hand away from her shoulder. Yet somehow she still felt his touch, as caressing as the breeze tickling her hair.

  Rubbing her arms, she annou
nced in what she hoped was a firm tone, “There. I am feeling better now. That was all I needed, just a few breaths of air.”

  “Indeed? I had the impression that you have scarce drawn breath since we came out here.”

  Anne was annoyed to realize he was right. She was holding her breath even now as he stalked closer. She expelled it in a long sigh.

  “Small wonder if I am a little edgy,” she said. “All this talk of the Hook and murder. One does not feel safe venturing into one's own garden.”

  “So you prefer wandering through the streets instead?”

  “I did not know you were going to be there,” she retorted without thinking, then stammered, “I am sorry. I did not mean—”

  “Don't apologize. I enjoy a woman who is honest. Now if I could only persuade you to be equally as truthful about why I found you wailing by my gate.”

  “1 was distressed because I had become lost in the dark. I ended up at your doorstep by mistake and now I wish you would simply forget you ever saw me there. I assure you, I was doing nothing wrong.”

  “I never supposed that you were, Lady Sorrow.”

  “Good. That's settled then. We may go back to the house.”

  She started to slip past him, but he caught her wrist, His grip was light but she still had the panicky sensation of some woodland creature hopelessly ensnared.

  “Why are you in such a hurry, my lady? Do I frighten you so much?'

  “Yes! No. That is ...” She faltered, struggling for possession of her hand.

  “Alas, my black reputation. Tell me. What sort of dreadful gossip have you heard?'

  “Nothing. It is not the gossip so much as my own impression of you.”

  “Which is?'

  “That you are a man who has made a career out of wickedness and enjoys it very much,” Anne blurted out, then winced. Excessive candor. Her mother had always said it was her worst fault and the years had done little to cure it.

  But Mandell appeared amused rather than offended. “A career of wickedness,” he mused. “Well, you must admit that is far more diverting than politics or going into the army.”

  “I admit nothing except that it is shameful for a man to waste his time in such a sinful fashion.”

  “Some sins, my lady, are never a waste of time.” He raised her hand to his lips, whispering a kiss across her fingertips. The sensation caused her heart to pound. The intensity of his eyes held her spellbound even as she struggled to be free.

  To her surprise, he released her. She stepped back, clutching her hand to her as though it was a treasure he meant to steal.

  “Flee then, if you must, my virtuous Anne. But are you really sure you want to go back there?” He gestured toward the bright lights of the ballroom. “Back to paste on a smile when your heart is aching, to exchange insincere greetings with people who don't care a whit about you, to allow no hint of your private pain to escape you lest it be reduced to a source of gossip?

  “Nay, Sorrow, you would do far better to linger here in the darkness with a rogue like me. I, at least, would expect nothing of you.”

  “Wouldn't you?”

  “I would even give you my assurance, for the moment, that you will be safe. I'll make no further effort to pry into your secrets.”

  Anne hesitated, stealing a glance back toward the safety of the ballroom, the harsh lights spilling through the French doors. Mandell's uncanny perception unnerved her. How could he possibly understand her feelings so well? Her face ached from smiling and uttering commonplaces, struggling to pretend that nothing was wrong when nothing was right. And all the while she waited upon tenterhooks for her chance to confront Lucien.

  Her brother-in-law was unlikely to leave the card table for hours. The strain of continuing to hide her anxiety was driving her mad. The garden, by contrast, was dark and soothing, the rustling shadows designed for concealment, a place to go with all her misery, her fears, her despairing hope that Lucien might at last be brought to see reason.

  The garden would have been perfect if not for Mandell. And yet at the moment he did not appear so threatening. He seemed almost kind. The subtle mockery that shaded his features was missing, the expression in his eyes merely thoughtful.

  “Well,” she said at last, “I might walk with you as far as the gate and back.”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips. With a courtly bow, he offered her his arm. After the barest hesitation, Anne took it, resting her fingers on the crisp fabric of his sleeve.

  He led her along the gravel walkway in silence, the glitter and noise of the ballroom fading into insignificance. From the way he escorted her, with such an air of distant politeness, they might have been taking a very proper stroll through St. James's Park at the fashionable hour.

  Anne could only marvel at the situation she found herself in, going for a midnight walk with one of the most notorious rakes in London. Her late husband would have been scandalized. So would her mother.

  What was it Mama had always said? “Lily has beauty, Camilla has wit, but you, my Anne, have neither. That is why you must always strive to be a perfect lady, correct in all things. The gentlemen will never come flocking to your side, but at least you may obtain a worthy husband”

  And Mama had been right—to a certain degree. Anne's proper manner had won for her marriage to the handsome and estimable Sir Gerald Fairhaven. But being good and meek had not been enough to secure her future. Not enough to prevent her world from shattering, not enough to keep her from losing what she treasured most. Norrie.

  Anne was roused from her unhappy musings by a tickling sensation against her cheek. Startled, she glanced up to discover Mandell staring down at her. He had plucked a white blossom and brushed it against her face, to regain her attention.

  “For you, milady,” he said, offering her the flower with a gesture of exaggerated gallantry. `This—whatever it is. I am afraid that, beyond roses, I cannot identify one bloom from another.”

  Anne accepted the blossom, but it discomfited her to think that he must have been studying her face while she had been lost in her gloom-ridden thoughts. Those intense eyes of his saw far too much. To cover her unease, she rushed into breathless speech.

  “I cannot identify all of Lily's flowers, either. She has so many strange ones. Her garden is quite exotic.”

  “Rather like the countess herself.”

  “I would have planted only primroses or marigolds. So unimaginative.” Anne plucked at the blossom he had given her, sending a shower of petals cascading to her feet. “Do you have a garden, my lord?”

  “Oh, yes. Just what you would expect. Weeds, thorns, briars, some deadly nightshade.”

  “Perhaps you should engage a new gardener,” Anne began seriously, then caught the twitch of his lips and realized he was teasing her. She almost relaxed enough to return his smile.

  Moonlight bathed his proud aristocratic features, accenting the planes and hollows beneath his high cheekbones. Anne eyed him with fascination. She felt rather like a moth, risking a flutter near a bright flame, but keeping back far enough so there was no danger of singeing her wings.

  She had always sworn to Lily that she did not perceive the attraction of the rakish marquis, but Anne saw it well enough. He was handsome, despite his look of a man who had experienced far too much of the world.

  A fallen angel, the romantic Lily would sigh. But the term did not fit. No, Mandell had never been cast out, Anne decided. He had with deliberate arrogance turned his back on heaven.

  “If you keep staring at me like that,” Mandell said, “you will put me to the blush, my lady.”

  “Oh! I'm sorry.” Anne lowered her eyes, aware that she was the one who was blushing. “It is just that we have never been well acquainted before. I never had the opportunity to—”

  “To study wickedness up so close?”

  “No. That is, you are not the only wicked man I have ever known. There is also my brother-in-law, Lucien,” she added dully.

  “Lucien? You woun
d me by the comparison, Sorrow. Your esteemed brother-in-law, and you will forgive my saying so, is an underbred boor. He is taking himself to the brink of ruin and doing it with no originality. Whereas I flatter myself that at least I am going to the devil with a little style.”

  “Are you?” Anne regarded him with grave curiosity. She had spent so many of her days striving always to do what was right, what was proper. She could not help but be intrigued by someone who lived as he pleased, not giving a damn for the consequences or the world's opinion.

  “Surely you cannot be satisfied with your life,” she said. “Pursuing such a reckless course. Has it made you happy?”

  “Ah, now I have the feeling you are trying to learn my secrets, my lady. You would not like them.” He was still smiling but his voice held an edge of warning.

  “I did not mean to pry. It is only that I have noticed you before at other gatherings. You seem solitary, alone even in the midst of a crowd.”

  “So you have noticed me before? I am flattered. I wish I could return the compliment, but I feel as though tonight I am seeing you for the first time.”

  “You are not. I was always there.” Anne was surprised by the trace of bitterness in her voice. Yes, she had always been there, fading into the woodwork. “I daresay you just don't remember me very well. I have not been to London for the past two years.”

  “Two years? Has it been as long as that? I never really knew you before. But you have changed. You are not nearly as mild as I recalled.”

  “I suppose I am different. It is owing in some part to being widowed.”

  “You miss your husband a great deal?”

  “Naturally.” Anne moved automatically into the expected response. She had had enough times to perform it since Gerald's funeral. “Of course one would. Miss one's husband or any close acquaintance. Any death diminishes one. 'Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.' “