“Very well,” he snarled. “Follow me to hell if you choose. But I give you fair warning. You'd best be able to look out for yourself when we get there.”
Mandell strode away without another backward glance.
The Running Cat tavern near Covent Garden was not precisely hell, but close enough. A haze of smoke blanketed the dingy taproom, half obscuring the group of coarse men dicing at one of the tables. A buxom serving wench slapped away the hand of a bold customer while an old sailor slumped in a corner over his bottle of gin. The pipe falling from his slack lips seemed in danger of setting the entire place afire.
But the den of noise, stifling heat, and stale beer made little impression upon Mandell, no more than did the scantily clad woman who had settled herself upon his knee. She possessed a hardened kind of prettiness, her long black hair spilling about her half-bare shoulders, her expression as weary and jaded as Mandell himself. She pressed kisses against his neck with a practiced skill and nibbled at his ear, but Mandell struggled to focus on the murky darkness beyond one of the tavern's narrow windows. How many more hours would it be until dawn, he wondered. How long until he was exhausted or drunk enough to find the oblivion of dreamless sleep?
He sought to reach past the wench nuzzling him, groping toward the table to find his glass of whiskey again, but she stopped him, murmuring, “I've got a little room upstairs, m'lord, an' it would please you to bear me company there.”
She began to undo the buttons of his shirt with a kind of rough impatience. It was then that Mandell realized his frock coat and cravat were missing, but he had no notion what he had done with them over the course of the evening. The girl slipped her hand inside his shirt and began to knead the hair-roughened flesh of his chest. Mandell attempted to conjure some stirring of response, but all he could think of was the gentle way Anne had touched him last night in his bed, her slender fingers skimming over him with a kind of wonder. Would he never be able to get images of that lady out of his head? He gritted his teeth, but the vision of Anne's blue eyes persisted. The cloying odor of the black-haired woman's perfume repulsed him. With an oath, he thrust the doxy off his knee.
She staggered a little, but regained her balance. Her full lips curved into a sullen pout. “Did I do something wrong, milord?”
It was a painful echo of the same thing Anne had said to him.
“No!” Mandell snapped. He groped about for his purse. In this place, he was astonished he had not already been relieved of it.
“You aren't the first man who ever got hisself too drunk to perform,” the girl said. “But there are other things I could do to—”
Mandell cut off her suggestion by shoving a handful of guineas at her. “Go upstairs and try sleeping for a change.”
The girl regarded him with surprise, then shrugged and took the money. As she sashayed away from him, Mandell leaned his head back against the rim of his chair and closed his eyes.
He had no idea how he had got himself to this place or even what else he had been doing this evening. He had foggy memories of White's, lurching along in a hackney cab, frequenting some other gaming hells that all blurred into one. He had stumbled along some refuse-strewn back street and rousted a shopkeeper from his bed to ... Mandell believed he had bought something, but that was absurd. What would he have wanted to purchase at this hour of night?
Massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, he frowned, beginning to feel the throbbing effects of the amount of spirits he had consumed. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to blot out the things he most wanted to forget—Anne, his grandfather, the ages-old nightmare that still threatened to claim him if he dared to sleep.
Mandell forced his eyes open and realized someone was hovering over him. Lancelot Briggs, wearing that whipped puppy look that Mandell so despised.
“Damnation,” Mandell growled. “You still here? I thought I'd finally lost you back ... back in—well, somewhere.”
“No, my lord.” Briggs perched himself on the edge of the wooden chair opposite Mandell. He had Mandell's frock coat and cravat draped over his arm.
Struggling to an upright position, Mandell demanded, “So what're you about now? Applying for a post as my valet?”
“No, I am simply trying to make sure you leave here without misplacing anything.” Briggs regarded him hopefully. “My lord is ready to go home now, perhaps?”
“And perhaps not,” Mandell said, locating his whiskey glass. “What's the matter, Briggs? Are you not enjoying yourself?”
“No, I don't like it here.”
“Surely you are not afraid? The bold Sir Lancelot who once encountered the Hook himself, who has pledged to aid in that villain's capture and eventual hanging?”
“Don't taunt me, Mandell. I am frightened and I am not ashamed to admit it. There are all manner of evil wretches hanging about this part of town. Especially that soldier over there by the rum keg. He has a wicked-looking scar on his chin and he has been staring at us in a most suspicious manner.”
Mandell bestirred himself enough to glance in that direction. He saw no one but a scullery boy in a greasy apron.
“You're imagining things, Briggs,” he scoffed. “Have another whiskey. If you're going to hallucinate, you might as well be as drunk as I am.”
Briggs declined. He drew forth his pocket watch. Snapping open the gold case, he consulted it with a weary sigh. “It is not so very late. Maybe we could leave and go call upon your cousin Nick. Yes, that would be the very thing. He would know what to do.”
“What the devil would I want with Drummond? I am in no mood for any speeches.”
“It only' seemed to me that you are not finding much amusement here, either. This hardly is the place for a man of such fastidious tastes as your lordship.”
“Ah, that is because you are unfamiliar with the darker side of my nature, Briggs.” Mandell took a gulp of the whiskey. It was vile stuff, but his palate had gone dead so it didn’t matter. “I have bad blood, y'know.”
“Then maybe you need to see a doctor. I have heard being bled a little helps when a man falls into these black humors.”
Mandell gave a snort of mirthless laughter. “I'd have to slit my damned throat.”
Briggs paled with alarm. “Oh, no, pray, my lord. Don't even jest about such a thing.”
As Mandell reached to refill his glass, Briggs pleaded, “I think your lordship has had too much to drink. You have consumed enough to have felled an ordinary man.”
“But then I am not an ordinary man, Briggs. I am the marquis of Mandell.”
Mandell splashed some whiskey into the glass and started to raise it in a mocking salute when he was distracted by a sudden commotion. The buxom blond serving wench stumbled into Briggs's chair, emitting a shrill protest as she fled to escape the customer who had been harassing her.
“No, I won't be after going upstairs with you. You are a deal too rough, sir”
“I'll get a lot rougher, you little bitch, if you don't do as I say.”
The familiar snarling accent grated upon Mandell's ear. He looked up slowly, focusing on the girl's tormentor. Staggering across the room in pursuit was Lucien Fairhaven, flushed, sweating, and stinking of gin. Mandell had not seen Fairhaven since he had permitted the man to stalk out of Brooks's unscathed. He remembered regretting that Sir Lucien escaped so lightly for all the misery he had caused Anne. A regret that Mandell was surprised to realize still gnawed at him.
Fairhaven closed in upon the blond girl, seizing her wrist and causing her to cry out, “Ow, let me go.”
Her predicament evoked not the slightest ripple of interest in the crowded taproom. Sir Lucien dealt the wench a hard slap and started dragging her toward the stairs.
“I believe the woman asked you to release her, Fairhaven,” Mandell called out. It was a slurred imitation of his usual icy tone, but it had the desired effect.
Lucien twisted around, peering in Mandell's direction. He was startled enough to let go of the girl. Clutching her
reddened cheek, she whirled and fled up the stairs. Fairhaven made no effort to follow, his attention now fixed upon Mandell. He took a wavering step toward the table, his bloodshot eyes dilated with unmistakable hatred.
“Oh, no!” Mandell heard Briggs moan softly, but he ignored him, never taking his eyes off Fairhaven's approach.
“Well, well, the high and mighty Lord Mandell and his favorite toady.” Lank strands of dirty blond hair tumbled across Lucien's brow as he leaned across the table. “What brings you to this part of town, m’lord? Still playing the knight errant. Championing whores now?”
“Please, Sir Lucien,” Briggs piped up. “We don't want any trouble,”
“There isn't going to be any trouble,” Mandell said. He was only vaguely aware of how hard his hands were gripping the edge of the table. “Sir Lucien is just leaving. He knows I find his company most distasteful,”
“Leave? The devil I will!” Sir Lucien thumped his fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “What're you going to do, Mandell? Threaten me with your glove? Do you think I am afraid of you?”
“No, you appear to have finally located your courage. Where was it? At the bottom of a gin bottle?”
Fairhaven's face darkened to an alarming hue, but to Mandell's surprise, it was his own wrist that Briggs seized in a restraining grasp.
“Don't, Mandell. Can you not see the fellow is drunk? He is not worth your trouble.”
Mandell shook himself free. What was Briggs talking about? He was behaving as though Mandell were the one likely to lose control. He was no Nick Drummond, possessed of a volatile temper. Everyone knew that the marquis of Mandell had ice in his veins.
Sir Lucien straightened, swaggering a little. “That's right, Mandell. Mustn't create a scandal to disturb the fair and virtuous Anne. Why aren't you with her tonight? Could it be that after all your heroic efforts, you couldn't get beneath her skirts after all?”
The ice in Mandell's veins pierced and burned. He shoved back from the table. “Don't you even dare to speak her name, you whoreson dog!”
Sir Lucien's face twisted with an ugly satisfaction. “Whoreson dog?” he taunted. “A rather common insult coming from you, my lord. What's happened to the famous cool wits? Could it be my dear sister-in-law has addled them?”
Mandell's breath quickened. He felt his heart commence an erratic and savage rhythm. Ignoring Briggs's feeble attempts to restrain him, he struggled to his feet.
“Mandell!” Briggs's protest was lost in Sir Lucien's bark of harsh laughter.
“You fool!” Fairhaven smirked at Mandell. “You could have had her in your power, but you didn't know how to use it, did you? When I had the child in my possession, I actually brought the proud Anne to her knees.”
“You what?”
“Didn't she ever tell you? She knelt down to me in the gutter, begging, crying for the return of her brat. And I spurned her, left her groveling in the murk where she—”
The rest of Sir Lucien's boast went unfinished as Mandell's fist smashed against his jaw. Briggs shrieked as Fairhaven stumbled back, his mouth smeared with blood. A low growl of rage escaped Sir Lucien and he lunged for Mandell.
But the ice inside Mandell shattered, splintering into myriad white-hot shards. Before Sir Lucien could strike, Mandell leapt upon him, dragging him to the floor of the tavern to the accompaniment of crashing tables and shattering glass.
Lucien got off a blow that glanced off Mandell's cheek. Mandell felt nothing but the force of his own blind fury. He drew back his fist again and again. Fairhaven's head snapped back, his features slick with blood.
“Stop! Mandell!” Briggs cried out. “You'll kill him.” But his frantic plea was all but drowned out by harsher voices, cheers of encouragement coming from cruel mouths. Greedy eyes gleamed like the demons of hell.
Lucien went limp, his eyes fluttering closed, but Mandell could not seem to check the beast that raged within him. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he drew back his arm to strike again. But something struck him hard from behind, his world exploding in a flash of bright light and pain.
Mandell wavered and fell, darkness misting before his eyes, a darkness that ebbed and flowed, in waves of agony. He no longer knew where he was or what was happening to him. Dimly, he realized that he was lying on some hard surface and cold water was being dashed against his face. He tried to turn away from it and open his eyes, but the effort proved too great. From a great distance, he heard a man's voice sobbing.
“Mandell? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you so hard. Please open your eyes. Say something. Oh, dear God, I've killed you.”
Killed him? Mandell's pain-fogged mind latched upon the word. Was he dying then? Surely there was peace to be found in dying, not these sharp spirals of pain, this terrifying feeling of being suffocated in the dark.
“You'll be all right,” the voice promised. “I'll get you out of here. I'll get you to a doctor.”
No. Mandell tried to form the word, but it would not come. He wanted no doctor. There was only one person he wanted, needed. The thought pierced his haze of pain with astonishing clarity.
“Anne,” he whispered. “Take me to Anne.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Anne had no idea what time it was, only that it was well past midnight. Bathed in the glow of the lamp in the nursery, she cuddled her daughter in her lap, attempting to lull Norrie back asleep by reading to her from her favorite book of myths.
Disturbed by another of her coughing spells, Norrie had had a restless night. So had Anne, for vastly different reasons. Exhausted as she was, she felt grateful for this opportunity to snuggle Norrie close, to breathe in the sweet scent of her silky curls. Seated in the old wing chair, watching the fire in the grate burn low, it restored some sense of normalcy to her world. Heaven knew Anne needed that after what had happened last night.
She was tormented by the memory of struggling to get dressed in the darkness of Mandell's bedchamber, bewildered by his abrupt change of heart, even more bewildered by her own. Of a sudden, it had been Mandell remembering the proprieties, commanding her to leave him when she had been more than willing to stay. The recollection left her feeling confused and shamed, angry with him and with herself.
“Mama.” Norrie tugged at the sleeve of Anne's dressing gown, reclaiming her straying thoughts. “You stopped reading again.”
“What? I’m sorry, my love.” Anne deposited a kiss upon her daughter's smooth brow and glanced down the page with a frustrated sigh, trying to relocate her place in the text.
“And because Lady Persephone had eaten the seeds of the pomegranate,” Anne read, “she was ever after obliged to spend six months of the year in Hade’s underground kingdom.”
“Autumn and winter,” Norrie murmured against Anne’s shoulder. “Do you think it made Lady Persifee sad to stay with Hades?”
“I really don’t know, Norrie,” Anne said wearily, attempting to go on with the tale, but Norrie persisted.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Perhaps she didn’t really want to leave the magic underground kingdom forever. Perhaps she started to like the dark lord a little and that’s why she ate the seeds.”
“Nonsense, Eleanor.” Anne was disconcerted to find herself thinking not of Hades, but of Mandell. “I am sure the lady was merely dreadfully hungry. She could not have wished to stay with someone that wicked.”
“Why do you think the dark lord behaved so badly, Mama, forcing Lady Persifee to go away with him?”
Anne grimaced. “I have often wondered the same thing myself.”
Norrie’s small browed furrowed in frowning concentration, then she brightened. “He must have been very lonely in his dark kingdom with no one to love him.”
“That is still no excuse.” Anne brought herself up short as she remembered what she and Norrie were really discussing, a man of myth, not one of flesh and blood. If Mandell so mastered Anne’s thoughts that she was reduced to arguing with a seven-year-old child, then she was indeed
in a wretched state.
She shifted uncomfortably upon the chair, and when Norrie started to pipe up again, Anne silenced her with a swift hug. “If you don’t stop interrupting me, Eleanor Rose Fairhaven, we will be awake reading when the sun comes up and Aunt Lily will scold us both.”
“Aunt Lily never sees the sun. She’s always still sleeping.” Norrie giggled, but she subsided, nestling back against Anne’s shoulder.
Anne managed to get through the rest of the tale, intoning the words without making much sense of them. When she had finished she was relieved to see Norrie's eyelids looking heavier. Casting the book aside, Anne lifted her daughter in her arms and carried her over to lay her in her small bed.
“But I'm still not sleepy, Mama” Norrie mumbled as she burrowed deeper against the pillow. She groped about as though feeling for something, a movement that Anne had already anticipated. She bent down, retrieved Lady Persifee from where the doll had slipped to the carpet, and placed the bedraggled object within Norrie's reach.
The child gathered the doll to her with a contented sigh. By the time Anne had tucked the coverlet about her and kissed her cheek, Norrie's eyes were already closed. The child appeared likely to rest quietly now, untroubled by that persistent cough. Anne was glad that Lily's doctor was scheduled to visit in the morning.
Straightening, she rubbed the small of her back. It was more than time that she retired to her own bedchamber and got some sleep herself. As she moved to make sure the fire on the hearth was properly banked, Anne noticed that it had begun to rain again. The storm had ended hours ago, but the droplets continued to beat out a monotonous tattoo upon the nursery window. The sound was dreary and depressing without the majestic clash of thunder and lightning.
As quiet and dreary as the entire day had been Anne gave herself a brisk shake, annoyed with her own unsatisfied thoughts. What was the matter with her? She should be content. Her little daughter was safely in her care. She had nothing more to worry about, no dangerous midnight quests to undertake, no more reckless pledges to redeem, no more marquis stalking her with wicked intent in his dark eyes.
Susan Carroll Page 20