Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  “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. Ce
rtainly 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.

  She dare not allow him to look too deep into her eyes. If she did, she would be lost. He would know everything. He would—

  With great difficulty, Anne checked her panicky thoughts. She ran her fingers over her neck, telling herself she was being ridiculous. Mandell was not omniscient. Mandell would not be looking into her eyes. He had not even attempted to approach her, content to mock her from a distance with a bow and that quizzing smile. He had likely forgotten her existence and was absorbed in enjoying the play.

  She had enough real fears to contend with without inventing new ones. With the back of her glove, she mopped a bead of perspiration from her brow. She was not at all formed for this sort of dangerous intrigue.

  She felt as guilty as if she really were plotting to murder someone. Despite her fierce vow to Lucien, Anne had not bought the pistol to harm him, only to threaten him if necessary. Indeed, she hoped she would not have to confront him at all, but would find some way to snatch her daughter from his house when he was away.

  Norrie ... in a few short hours, if all went well, Anne might actually be gazing upon her little girl again, caressing her curls while she slept. Crushed inside the reticule beneath the pistol was a note.

  Midnight. The back gate.

  L.

  The lettering was rough and had obviously been carefully labored over. It was the script of a servant who had been taught only the bare rudiments of printing. Louisa Douglas, apple-cheeked, fresh from Yorkshire, was little more than a child herself.

  Anne had patiently studied the comings and goings of Lucien's household for nearly two days. She had hoped for a glimpse of Norrie and been disappointed. But she had managed to assess many of the servants, trying to decide who might be useful for her purpose.

  In the end, Anne had settled upon Louisa, a homely young woman who, despite her crooked teeth, possessed a warm smile. The little maid was sent out on frequent marketing errands and Anne had found no difficulty approaching her in the street.

  Louisa had been wary, sympathetic, and intrigued by turns over Anne's plight. Yes indeed, she saw Miss Eleanor every day. It was Louisa's task to carry the breakfast tray up to the nursery. The poor little mite always looked so pale. Pining for her mama, Louisa expected. Louisa would be only too happy to try to slip Norrie a message or a small present from Anne.

  But when Anne had explained what she really wanted, Louisa's eyes had gone round with terror. Smuggling a message was one thing, but sneaking Anne into the house to actually see the child quite another. If they were caught! Sir Lucien had the most formidable temper,

  “Then we will pick a time when Sir Lucien is gone,” Anne had said smoothly.

  “He hardly ever is during the day, ma'am. Mostly just late at night.”

  “Late at night would be perfect,” Anne had said. “The rest of the household would be asleep.”

  Louisa had allowed that even the governess, Mrs. Ansley, was a heavy sleeper, but she had continued to shake her head. It had taken a great deal of persuasion and coin to convince the girl to help Anne in such a risky undertaking. Even then, Anne was not sure she had succeeded until she had found the note tucked, as prearranged, in the chink of the garden wall. The simple note that was somehow touching printed in that childlike hand

  What troubled Anne most about all her plotting was the deception she practiced upon Louisa. Contrary to what she had told the girl, Anne wanted to do far more than just see her child tonight. She meant to remark the layout of the interior of Lucien's house, the position of windows and doors, and the exact location of Norrie's room.

  For the next time Anne entered Lucien's house, she had to do it without Louisa's aid. She could not have an innocent serving girl implicated in Norrie's abduction, Abduction? No! Anne's lips thinned at the word. It was not abduction to take back one's own child. Norrie was rightfully hers no matter what Lucien and the law decreed.

  Lost in her contemplations, Anne did not realize how far the performance had progressed. When she managed to focus on the stage, she realized the actress playing Lady Macbeth was drifting through the paces of the sleepwalking scene.

/>   Soon the curtain would ring down for the intermission between the main bill and the farce. Anne determined to resist Lily's efforts to drag her along to the foyer again. She could not face greeting more acquaintances, trying to keep her worries and apprehensions to herself.

  She still had so many arrangements to make in the days to come. She needed to hire a coach to get her and Norrie out of London, and then find some way to gain passage out of the country, far from Lucien. Anne did not as yet have the least idea how to go about such a thing.

  She tensed, thinking of the difficulties ahead, her fingers moving back to fidget with her purse. Lily reached out to stop the movement with a tiny smile, an admonishing shake of the head.

  That was Lily, forever playing the older sister, trying to curb Anne's inelegant tendency to fiddle with her purses, fans, jewelry, or to nibble her nails. Often Lily's playful reproofs irritated Anne, but tonight the gesture brought an unexpected lump to her throat. It occurred to her that if the plan she had formed succeeded, she might never see Lily again. She would have to flee without even bidding her sister farewell.

  She wished she could take Lily into her confidence, but no one would be less likely to understand the rash action Anne contemplated, an action that would put her forever beyond the pale of the society Lily so cherished.

  Certainly when Anne had first come to London in search of her daughter, Lily had patted Anne's shoulder and commiserated. “It is a deal too bad of Lucien not to allow you to see the child. But I heard he has engaged for her one of the best governesses in England. Mrs. Ansley tutored the Duchess of Biltmore's girls. Do you think that Norrie will be neglected?”

  Anne could not precisely say that. In his own way, Lucien was fond of Norrie. All of her sensitive, dreamy-eyed little daughter's physical needs would be met, but Norrie required more affection than any governess could give. Norrie needed her mother.

  Anne had tried to explain that to Lily, but her sister had only given her cheek an indulgent pat.