Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

“Gerald always saw me as a helpless little fool. Although he disliked his brother, he left Lucien in charge of everything. My house, my fortune, even my daughter.”

  Anne sighed. “It was all right at first. Lucien was too preoccupied with assuming Gerald's title to do more than harass me in small ways—withholding funds, dismissing all my servants, replacing them with his own.”

  “Small ways!” Mandell echoed. “Most of the ladies I know would be ready to kill if deprived of their favorite abigail.”

  A sad laugh escaped Anne. “Even that was bearable. It was not until Lucien discovered he could distress me the most by threatening to take Norrie away that—”

  Anne came to an abrupt halt on the pavement, shaking her head. “I cannot believe this wretched tale can hold any interest for you, my lord.”

  “Go on,” Mandell insisted.

  Anne moistened her lips. “I suppose I never believed Lucien would go that far, but one day last autumn ...” Her words trailed away, the glow of the street lamps blurring before her eyes. The memory still had the power to devastate her.

  “I was out visiting in the neighborhood. One of Gerald's tenants had taken ill. Since he had become lord of the manor, Lucien always neglected such things. When I finally returned to the house, I knew at once something was wrong.”

  Anne's voice cracked. “The house was so still, the way a house often seems when someone has died. None of Lucien's servants would meet my eyes. They all avoided speaking to me. But I did not have to ask. Somehow I just knew. I went tearing up to the nursery.

  “The place looked like it had been ransacked by a thief. All the drawers hung open. Norrie's clothes were gone, her books, even her doll. I remember screaming for Norrie, calling her name. Oh, God. I thought I would lose my mind.”

  She could not go on. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks and she was mortified to put on such a display of grief before Mandell. But when she glanced up at him, she was surprised to find his expression not unsympathetic.

  “My regrets, Sorrow,” he said. “But I never seem to have a handkerchief about me.”

  He caught her face between his hands, brushing away her tears with the tips of his fingers. Anne tried to regain control.

  “I was crying that first night you met me. What a perfect fool you must think I am.”

  “This is neither the time nor the place for me to show you what I think of you.”

  His husky words and the feel of his hands upon her skin sent a tingle of heat through her veins. Nervously, Anne put his hands away from her, continuing with her tale.

  “For a long time, I did not even know where Lucien had taken Norrie. Finally, I traced her to London. That night by your gate I was looking for Lucien's house. This evening was the first time I had seen Norrie in months.”

  “And so you have found your daughter at last. Now what?”

  It astonished Anne that he could even ask such a question.

  “I shall take her back from Lucien, of course,” Anne said fiercely.

  “How?”

  “I have a plan. I have already pawned all my jewels at this little shop in Chancery Street.”

  “What! Are you quite insane?” he asked. “That is in Bethnal Green, one of the worst slums in London.”

  “I had no choice. I told you Lucien controls all my funds and there are no pawnshops in Mayfair. I had to sell off all my jewelry, even the locket with Norrie's picture. I thought it wouldn't matter because I expected to have her back with me soon and—”

  Anne swallowed hard, steeling herself. She was not going to start blubbering again. Her plan for recovering Norrie had once seemed so clear, so possible, but as she tried to explain it to Mandell, she realized how ridiculous it sounded, how hopeless.

  “So you bribed this maidservant, and were going to find a way to singlehandedly storm the gates and steal away a sleeping child?” he asked with an incredulous lift of his brow. “All the while holding an entire household at bay with a weapon which, with the way you had loaded it, would be incapable of killing anyone, except perhaps yourself”

  “I didn't want to kill anyone. I didn't even want anyone to be hurt. I just want my daughter back.”

  “Did it never occur to you that you might get hurt making such an attempt?”

  “I don't care,” Anne cried. “Oh, why should I expect you to comprehend? No one else does. I love my daughter. I would willingly die for her. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “No. But you must take my word for this. Your daughter would far rather you live.”

  This remark was as strange as the expression that passed across Mandell's features, the lines of his face for once vulnerable. But as quickly as the look had come, Mandell shuttered it away again.

  “Did it never occur to you, milady,” he asked, “that you needed someone to help you in such a desperate undertaking?”

  “Who would help me? Lucien has the law on his side. I could not imagine any honorable gentleman of my acquaintance deigning to interfere.”

  “You don't need an honorable gentleman. You need me.”

  “You!”

  “Yes. I believe I could devise a better way of recovering your daughter than wandering through the streets at midnight with a half-loaded pistol.”

  “Then tell me what it is!”

  “Your pardon, Lady Fairhaven, but your skills at intrigue leave a little to be desired. You had best leave the details to me.”

  Anne gaped at him. Either he had run mad or she had “You are really planning to help me?”

  “Yes.” Mandell gave her a slightly bemused smile. “I rather believe that I am.”

  “You astonish me, sir.”

  “I astonish myself, madam.”

  Wild unreasoning hope stirred to life inside of Anne, but she fought to quell it. She still regarded Mandell's offer with suspicion. “And what would you ask in return for your services?'

  Her question seemed to give him pause. “In return?” he repeated softly. “Oh, yes, of course, I could hardly be expected to act merely out of the goodness of my heart.” Whether he mocked her or himself Anne could not tell.

  She wrung her hands together beneath the cloak, saying with a passionate desperation, “I would give anything, do anything to get my daughter back. I would sell my soul to the devil if I had to.”

  “Careful, Sorrow. The devil just might take you up on that offer”

  The look he fired her way made his meaning clear. “Name your price.”

  “We both know what I want from you.”

  For one dizzying moment, it was like standing on the brink of some cliff, dark and fathomless. Anne stared deep into Mandell's eyes and plunged.

  “Done!” she said, holding out her hand. “You get Norrie back for me and I pledge that I will come to your bed.”

  Mandell glanced down at her hand. “This strikes me as an odd sort of bargain to be sealed with nothing but a handshake.” His lips curved into a sultry smile which should have warned her.

  He seized the ends of the cloak. He dragged her toward him, his mouth closing over hers, hot and hungry.

  A faint protest escaped her, but was lost in the fierce sensations his kiss aroused. Her lips parted before the fury of his embrace, his tongue delving into her mouth, sending a rush of heat through her veins that left her weak and shivering by the time he released her.

  His eyes held hers in the darkness. “Now 'tis truly done, our pact made. And I give you fair warning, Sorrow. I do not deal kindly with those who break faith with me.”

  “I will not. Just get Norrie back for me.”

  By way of acquiescence, he sketched a brief bow, rife with arrogance and a supreme confidence that filled Anne with more hope than she had known for a long time. She refused to dwell on the nature of the bargain she had just made, only thinking what it would be like to have Norrie back again.

  As he resumed escorting her through the darkened street, he said, “Do me one favor, Sorrow, now that you have agreed to allow me to handle this ma
tter for you. Curb your penchant for flitting about the streets alone after sunset. You may encounter far worse than me in the dark. A gentleman known as the Hook for example. There has been another murder tonight.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “The latest victim, I believe, is not unknown to you. Mr. Daniel Keeler.”

  Anne frowned in confusion.

  “The young gentleman you saved the other night from disgracing himself at the card table.”

  “How dreadful.” For a moment, Anne was deeply shocked and grieved. But nothing could take precedence over her anxiety over her daughter, and what Mandell intended to do.

  When they arrived back at Lily's gate, Anne demanded, “My lord, you must give me some idea of what you are planning. How will you go about rescuing Norrie, if not by abduction? I have tried everything else. Lucien won't listen to reason.”

  “I believe I can persuade him to listen to me.” Mandell's smile was not pleasant. He raised her hand to his mouth, his lips warm and lingering upon her bare flesh.

  “But Mandell—”

  “Keep safe behind locked doors, Sorrow.”

  With this final command, he stalked off, vanishing into the darkness before Anne could question him further. She suddenly realized she was still wearing his cloak, the garment seeming as rife with secrets and mystery as its owner. She huddled deeper into the heavy folds, torn between hope and fear, a little awed by the dark force she had just unleashed upon the night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The following evening, the porter at Brooks's was astonished when he opened the door to admit the marquis of Mandell. As his lordship swept across the threshold into the marble-tiled hall of one of the most exclusive gentleman's clubs in London, the elderly servant moved to ease the greatcoat from Mandell's shoulders.

  “This is a rare privilege, indeed, my lord. We seldom see you in here these days. We have managed to pry you away from White's at last”

  The porter nodded disdainfully toward the front window where the lights of the rival establishment could be seen glowing across the width of bustling St. James's Street. Mandell was a member of both clubs. He acknowledged that the interior of Brooks's possessed the elegance and charm of a gentleman's country manor, but he generally preferred the company to be found at White's. However, Sir Lucien Fairhaven did not. And Sir Lucien was Mandell's main reason for venturing abroad tonight. Mandell had made a pact with a lady and he intended to waste no time in fulfilling his side of the bargain.

  As he handed off his curly-brimmed beaver to the porter, Mandell inquired casually, 'The club is well filled this evening? Most of the members present?”

  “ 'Twould seem so, my lord. With it being such a foul night, threatening to rain again and all, most of the gentlemen seem content to be here warm and dry rather than seeking other entertainment about the town. It is certainly a deal safer, my lord, if you take my meaning.” The old servant gave him a significant look.

  Mandell took his meaning quite well, but made no comment. He allowed the porter, whom Mandell had known since the days of his youth, more familiarity than most servants. But he was not about to tolerate any more gossip on the subject of the recent murders, or tiresome speculation about the Hook.

  Mandell crossed the imposing front hall, already beckoned by the sounds emanating from the Great Subscription Room. The drone of masculine voices was punctuated by bursts of unrestrained laughter, the kind gentlemen indulged in when no ladies were present. A bewigged servant held open the door and bowed Mandell inside.

  He stepped into a chamber vast enough to have been a ballroom. The Great Subscription Room was done up in the classical manner, its towering walls left noticeably bare. There must be nothing to distract one from the club's main and serious purpose—the pursuit of gaming. Brooks's members crowded round myriad felt-covered tables. Standing or seated, they played at hazard, faro or whist. Both the stakes and spirits appeared to be high tonight, judging from the number of flushed countenances. Waiters trotted to and fro bearing fresh bottles of port from Brooks's noted cellars while the croupiers intoned wins and losses amidst choruses of groans.

  Mandell greeted a few acquaintances while doing a quick scan of the house. As near as he could tell, the gentleman he sought was not yet present. But the night was young. It was barely past one of the clock.

  Refusing to be drawn into a game of whist, Mandell chose to stroll about observing the play. He noticed a familiar figure in a scarlet frock coat lounging near a settee by the hearth. He had to give his cousin credit for that much, Mandell thought with a slight smile. In a world of rather drab and sedate evening clothing, Nick always managed to stand out

  Nick appeared to be engaged with two of his Whig friends, the betting book spread out on the table before him. Both Lord Soames and Mr. Watkin were laughing, Nick looking flustered and annoyed. Chances were good that the other two were roasting Nick upon some of his reformist policies, his humor on that subject often lacking.

  Since the pleasure of tormenting his cousin was one Mandell reserved to himself, he went to Nick's rescue. After the way they had parted at the theatre the other evening, Mandell expected a little reserve on Nick's part. But his cousin had never been one to hold a grudge.

  His irritation with his companions momentarily forgotten, Nick glanced up with a half smile at Mandell's approach. “Hullo! Mandell. Here’s a surprise. What has lured you away from that blasted Tory stronghold across the way?”

  “White's seemed a little thin of company tonight,” Mandell replied.

  “The place has never been the same since poor old Brummell was obliged to flee to the continent,” Lord Soames broke in with a sigh.

  Mr. Watkin agreed, both young gentlemen sobering for a moment in memory of the elegant dandy Beau Brummell, who had once been London's supreme arbiter of fashion. But Nick growled, “Brummell fled to escape his debts. These two jackanapes will be in the same case if they persist in wagering their blunt so recklessly. Tell them, Mandell.”

  “1 can hardly tell them anything unless I know the nature of the wager.”

  Lord Soames's eyes had begun to dance again. “Perhaps Lord Mandell will care to lay odds of his own.”

  Mr. Watkin, the mischevious redhead, spoke up with a chuckle. “We are hazarding as to who the Hook's next victim might be.”

  “Indeed?” Mandeb asked politely.

  “Aye.” Lord Soames giggled. He had likely consumed too much port. “I regret to say that it is your cousin Drummond who is the odds-on favorite.”

  Mandell stole a glance at the scowling Nicholas. “The Hook would have to be careless indeed to attack a gentleman of such noted temper as my cousin.”

  “And equally noted for his empty purse.” Mr. Watkin grinned while Lord Soames picked up the quill pen. Drawing the betting book closer, he continued to register the wager in a slightly unsteady hand.

  “Temper and poverty notwithstanding,” Watkin continued, “it has to be Nick. He is positively begging to be attacked, some of the places he has been poking about of late, those lightning houses.”

  “Flash-houses,” Nick said. “I have been investigating flash-houses in Bethnal Green.”

  At Mandell's inquiring look, he explained. “Those taverns that are little better than schools for crime, where street urchins are taught to be thieves, little girls scarce turned twelve taught to be whores.”

  “How very original.” Mandell's lip curled in disgust. “And progressive. One of the most civilized cities in the world now offering formal education for pickpockets and prostitutes.”

  Lord Soames snorted a laugh, spattering ink over the betting book. “That is just what I was telling Drummond myself”

  “Except that Mandell is being sarcastic,” Nick said. “While you, you great lubbering idiot, are merely acting the fool.”

  Taking exception to this form of address, Soames flushed bright red. It was the sort of quarrel between young gentlemen that could easily get out of hand.

  Mandell s
tepped between the two men. “You must excuse my cousin, Soames. We both know Drummond well enough by now to realize he waxes a little earnest over such matters. He offers you his most sincere apologies.”

  Soames blinked owlishly and gave a nod of acceptance, even as Nick was crying out in protest. “No, I don't.”

  But Mandell seized his arm in an iron grip, hustling Nick away. Nick wrenched himself free, glaring. “Damn it, Mandell,” he said. “Why did you interfere? I had no wish to apologize to that ass. It is men like Soames who make me ashamed to be considered a Whig.”

  “Nicholas, the fellow is half foxed. You cannot attack someone merely for possessing a dull wit.”

  “Oh, yes I can.”

  “I cannot risk you engaging yourself to fight a duel at present. That would be most inconvenient.”

  “Why should you care?'

  “Because for once, you may have to act as my second. So do us both a favor. Bespeak a glass of chilled wine and hie yourself off to cool that temper.”

  With his cousin gaping at him, Mandell started to walk away. But Nick was hard after him. “Second you in a duel! Damnation, Mandell, you cannot simply toss out a remark like that and then not explain yourself”

  “There is nothing to explain at the moment.” Mandell peered toward the door and frowned. Half past one and no sign of Sir Lucien. He asked Nicholas, “Sir Lucien Fairhaven is still a member of Brooks's, is he not?”

  “Yes, he is, but what does that have to—” Nick broke off, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “This doesn't have anything to do with Lady Fairhaven, does it?”

  Before Mandell could answer, Nick went on, “It was Sir Lucien that you meant when you said—My God! You are planning to challenge Fairhaven to a duel over Anne. I know you made that remark about getting rid of your rivals, but I cannot believe it. You have not fought a duel over any woman since that time you were seventeen and you damn near killed Cecily Constable's brother because ...”

  Mandell shot Nick a warning look. His cousin trailed off, possessing enough sense not to pursue that particularly ugly incident any further.