Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  She ought to be grateful instead of feeling as restless as a sleeping princess only half awakened by a kiss because the prince drew back before he had properly finished the job.

  What an absurd thought that was. Mandell was certainly no fairy-tale prince simply because he had experienced one fleeting noble impulse. He was an unscrupulous rake who had been doing his best to seduce her and had nearly succeeded. Why did she have trouble remembering that fact?

  That was as unanswerable as some of Norrie's wonderings about the myth of Persephone and Hades. Anne caught herself musing over the child's innocent remark.

  Perhaps she started to like the dark lord a little.

  Like him? Anne frowned. How did one begin to like a dark menacing stranger when all one knew of him was the power of his kiss to turn one's veins to molten fire, his merest touch enough to make one forget all one had ever learned about the virtues of being a perfect lady?

  She could not speak for Persephone, but as for her own dark lord, Anne could not begin to comprehend him. How could one man be at once so kind and so cruel, so mockingly aloof and so passionately tender?

  Mandell could have taken her at once last night. Anne had expected him to do so. What she had never expected was such patience, such effort to stir her own desires. He had even tried to make her feel beautiful in his arms. And he had come so close.

  When he had her more than willing to do anything he asked, he had wrenched himself away, snapped at her to get out. What was it he had said? Something about stumbling over his conscience and finding it damnably inconvenient.

  “It would have been much more convenient if you had happened upon your conscience a little sooner, my lord,” Anne murmured. Before he had put her through such agonies of apprehension waiting for him to claim his due from her, before he had summoned her to him in that humiliating fashion like some mighty sultan beckoning to his harem girl, before he had taught her what it was like to experience passion in a man's arms.

  Why had he drawn back at the last possible moment? Did the wicked marquis truly possess some scruples, a finer side to his nature? Or when it came down to it, had he simply not found her desirable enough? That thought gave her small comfort, but at least it was one explanation for his behavior that she could comprehend.

  She sighed. The clock upon the nursery bookcase told her that it was now past three in the morning. She was beginning to fear she would be up until dawn fretting over Mandell's puzzling behavior when she was interrupted by a rap on the nursery door. Alarmed lest Norrie be disturbed, Anne hastened across the room, but the door was already opening. Bettine thrust her head across the threshold, calling, “Milady?”

  Anne frowned, nodding toward the sleeping child and raising a finger to her lips. She whispered. “Bettine, what are you doing up? I told you I had no more need of you.”

  “Oh, madam, I thought I would find you in here,” the maid said. She appeared far too agitated to keep her voice down. “You'd best come downstairs at once. There's such a commotion.”

  “What's the matter?”

  “Some drunken lunatic has forced his way into the front hall. And he won't leave. He kept calling for you and he nearly knocked poor Mr. Firken down. Now the fellow seems to be in danger of passing out and Mr. Firken doesn't know what is to be done with him.”

  Lucien was the first dread thought that popped into Anne's head. Who else did she know capable of such barbaric behavior? If he was in one of his drunken rages, Anne feared that neither her sister's elderly butler nor the footmen would be capable of subduing him. Lucien was adept at bullying servants even when sober.

  What could have possibly induced him to come here? Anne remembered the last time she had seen Lucien, and his threats of vengeance. She stole a look at her sleeping child and shivered, then drew herself up sharply.

  “Bettine, I want you to stay here with Norrie,” she said, “and lock the door”

  “Oh, milady!” Bettine's eyes went wide. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “I don't know, but I am taking no chances. Just do as I say. Lock that door and open it for no one but me.”

  Bettine nodded, her face going pale with fear. She needed no further urging and when Anne stepped out of the mom, she heard the lock being fastened with a resounding click.

  Her heart thudding with trepidation, Anne steeled herself to remain calm. She did not know exactly what she was going to do, but thoughts of the pistol buried in the bottom of her wardrobe chased through her head.

  But as she tiptoed along the landing above the stairs, she heard none of the uproar that she anticipated. The hall was strangely silent. Perhaps by some miracle Lucien had already been persuaded to leave.

  Peering over the imposing mahogany balustrade into the shadows below, she saw Lily's butler, clad in his nightclothes, bending over one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace. A pair of masculine legs clad in dark breeches and Hessian boots stretched toward the hearth. The face of the man slumped in the chair was obscured from view, but one thing was certain. Those legs were too long to belong to Lucien.

  Anne did not know whether to be relieved or more alarmed. Whoever the intruder was, he appeared to have been calmed for the moment.

  “Firken?” Anne called as she crept toward the top stair.

  The butler straightened. Stepping into the pool of candlelight, his dignity appeared rumpled, his nightcap askew. “Oh, milady, I am sorry to have disturbed you in this matter, but the countess has not yet returned from the rout she attended tonight and I did not know what else to do.”

  “What is amiss?” Anne asked as she started down the stairs. The butler hastened forward. Anne had never seen the old man so disconcerted.

  “You must forgive me, Lady Fairhaven. If it had been anybody but his lordship, I would not have let him in. I would have summoned the footmen to throw him into the street, but one cannot treat the marquis in such a fashion.”

  His lordship? The marquis? Anne felt her heart give an erratic leap. She brushed past the butler as she raced the rest of the way down the steps. The candle left burning in the wall sconce illuminated the face of the man sprawled back in the chair, those blade-sharp features, the aristocratic profile that possessed a certain hauteur even in the marquis's disheveled state.

  “Mandell!” she gasped. Anne had to blink several times to be certain she was not dreaming.

  His eyes were closed but he stirred a little at the sound of his name, groaning and rolling his head against the back of the chair. He was clad only in his breeches, shirt and waistcoat soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his brow.

  “He is very drunk, I am afraid,” Firken said, clucking his tongue.

  “I can see that,” Anne replied, recovering from her initial shock. After last night, she had not expected to see the cool, arrogant marquis again, and certainly not collapsing in Lily's hall. “What is he doing here?”

  “I don't know. He asked for you, my lady. Gentlemen will do odd things when they are in their cups. But I am sure you will agree, the important thing is to avoid any unpleasantness. One would not wish to offend a man as important as my lord Mandell.”

  “Offend him!” Anne exclaimed. Once more Mandell had turned up when she least expected him, giving her a dreadful fright. As if that scene in his bedchamber had not been enough, now he must arrive on her doorstep at three in the morning, wreaking havoc with her emotions all over again.

  Anger coursed through her. Ignoring the butler's pleas for caution, she strode over and shook Mandell.

  “My lord?” she demanded. “Wake up. At once! Do you hear me?”

  He gave another moan. His eyes flickered open, his brow furrowing as though the effort cost him a great deal. He gazed up at her, confusion in those dark depths. Then his lips twitched in a lopsided smile.

  “An angel? 'stonishing,” he mumbled. “Funny ... always thought ... end in other place.”

  “I always thought so, too. But you are not dead yet my lord. Don't you e
ven know where you are? Who I am?”

  “Sorrow, my Lady Sorrow.”

  “Lady Fairhaven,” Anne snapped. “You must try to come to your senses, my lord, and go home. You are quite drunk. You have come to my sister's house by mistake.”

  Mandell shook his head, the movement causing him to wince. After a struggle, he managed to sit upright, rubbing one hand over his face.

  Anne gave a horrified gasp. There was dried blood on his sleeve and his strong, beautiful, elegant hand was hideously bruised and swollen.

  “Dear God, Mandell!” Anne took his hand carefully in her own. “What have you done to yourself? You are hurt.”

  “Of no 'portance, Sorrow.” He sighed, and there was a weariness in his eyes that went far beyond the amount of drink he must have consumed and whatever paths of hell he had stalked this evening. “Had to see you one last time. Had to give you this.” He raised his other hand and pressed something cool and smooth between her fingers.

  Anne stared at the object he had given her. It was the gold locket, the one bearing Norrie's likeness that Anne had been obliged to abandon in that dreary pawnshop. She cupped the precious treasure in the palm of her hand. Wonderingly, she raised her eyes to Mandell.

  “My locket. You got it back for me. I don't understand. How did you ... I mean, why would you bother?”

  But Mandell was beyond answering any more questions. His eyes drifted closed and he swayed dangerously forward. Anne did her best to steady him, but he sagged against her, his weight threatening to drag her to the floor.

  “Firken!” she cried.

  Even with the old man's help, there was no way to prevent Mandell collapsing onto the cold marble. He sprawled on his back, his face ice white.

  “Out cold for sure this time,” the butler lamented. “Perhaps I should go rouse Thomas and one of the other footmen. We could send his lordship home in the countess's carriage.”

  “No!” Anne said, surprised by the vehemence in her own voice. “It is raining outside and the marquis is already soaked through. Would you have him catch his death?'

  “No, milady. But what is to be done with him then?”

  Anne glanced at Mandell's still features, the lines of pain that unconsciousness failed to smooth from his brow. She clutched the locket tighter in her hand. She did not know how or why, but she found herself in the wicked marquis's debt again. The least she could do was offer him a haven until he was more himself.

  Her shoulders squared with sudden decision. “Have the footmen convey my lord upstairs to the front bedchamber.”

  “I don't know whether that would be fitting, my lady.” Firken said. “If only the countess would come home! She is so adept at handling these extraordinary situations.”

  “More so than I, I daresay. But Lily is not here.” Anne brushed the damp locks of hair back from Mandell's brow and added softly, “It would seem I am obliged to look after the dark lord myself.”

  Anne found herself alone in the bedchamber with Mandell. She could not help reflecting upon the irony of that as she arranged a pitcher of cold water, ointment, and strips of linen upon the dressing table. During the course of her very proper marriage to Gerald, she had rarely been closeted thus with her husband, perhaps twice a month. But she had seen Mandell abed twice in as many days.

  For propriety's sake she should have had one of the servants remain with her while she attended Mandell. But she experienced a surprising protective urge toward the unconscious marquis. It had been bad enough allowing the footmen and Firken to strip Mandell out of his wet garments and thrust him into the butler's spare nightshirt. She did not wish to expose the proud Mandell to any more of the young men's snickering comments or the older butler's disapproval than was necessary.

  As for her maid, Bettine had been terrified when she had been informed the lunatic stranger was being tucked up in the best front bedchamber. Bettine had dove for her own bed, pulling the covers up over her head, behaving as if Anne had brought something wild and dangerous in out of the night.

  Which perhaps she had, Anne thought as she picked up the candle and drew closer to the oak bedstead with its heavy brocade hangings. Mandell made a formidable presence, even sprawled out flat on his back.

  He was no longer resting with that deathlike stillness that had so alarmed Anne in the hall below. He had begun to toss and turn upon the pillow, twitching the sheets into a tangle below his midriff, the nightshirt pulled taut against the muscular contours of his chest.

  The sight brought back a flood of memories from last night and Anne felt her cheeks heat. Gingerly she tugged on the sheet, managing to get it up to his shoulders. But when she tried to bathe his injured hand, he pulled away from her, mumbling a protest.

  She was able to do little more than clean the dried blood from his knuckles as Mandell began to thrash about in earnest. A darkness settled over his features. That was the only way Anne could describe the tension that corded his jaw and caused deep slashes to appear alongside his mouth.

  Anne knew little about what it was like to drink oneself into such a state, but had heard it laughingly described as a condition when one felt no pain. Yet Mandell seemed to be experiencing a great deal of it, a guttural cry breaching his lips.

  Perching herself on the edge of the bed, Anne sought to soothe him, bathing his brow with cool water, murmuring some of the same absurd comforting sounds she often used with Norrie. Mandell looked younger somehow, more vulnerable when unguarded by his customary mask of cynicism.

  She was relieved when he quieted at her touch and she continued to stroke his cheek. She was finally able to apply the ointment to his hand, bandaging the swollen knuckles with the strips of linen.

  Brushing her fingers one last time across his brow, she checked for fever. His brow felt almost too cool, damp and clammy with perspiration.

  Even though she knew he could not hear her, she murmured. “Try to rest now, my lord. Sleep is what you need. I fear you will not be feeling quite well when you awaken, but I will need to talk to you.”

  She touched the locket which she had fastened about her neck. “I know you do not usually condescend to answer questions, but this is one time you must oblige me.”

  She eased herself away from the bed and reached for the candle. But a startled cry escaped her when Mandell suddenly lashed out. His eyes flew open wide and he seized hold of her wrist.

  “Don't,” he said hoarsely. “Don't go.”

  Anne took a tremulous breath, trying to recover from the fright he had given her. “But I must, my lord. It will be dawn in a few hours and you must try to sleep.”

  “Don't go out there!” His fingers tightened on her wrist to a painful extent. He stared up at her, his expression so wild it caused Anne's heart to pound.

  “They'll kill you,” he said. He stared straight at her, but his eyes were glazed and Anne realized he was in the grip of some delirium. She sought to pry his fingers away

  “You are dreaming, my lord. There is no one here to harm me or you. You are at my sister's house. Do you not remember?”

  He wrenched her forward as he pushed up onto one elbow. “No!” His voice was low, savage.

  “Please. Mandell. Let go. You are hurting me.”

  “They will destroy you as they did her”

  “Destroyed who?” Anne cried. Struggling to make sense of his madness, she wrenched herself free.

  “Mother.”

  Anne had never before heard a single word breathed with such anguish. Her fear dissolved before the torment that twisted his lips and haunted his eyes.

  “Mandell, you are having a nightmare,” Anne said. “What happened to your mother was a long time ago. It is over.”

  “Never over. Every time close my eyes. C-can't get out. Can't save her.”

  Anne managed to ease him back down onto the pillow, but a ragged sob tore through him, a despairing cry that Anne felt echo in her own heart.

  He clutched at the sleeve of her dressing gown. “Dark ... too dark,�
�� he rasped. “Help me. Don't leave me.”

  “I won't. I promise.” Anne ran her fingers back through his hair. “I am right here.”

  Her assurances soothed him enough that he closed his eyes, but he continued to cry out, tossing and turning, murmuring of a secret pain Anne was certain that no one had ever been meant to hear.

  She knew that when he was once more himself, the haughty Mandell might never forgive her for this, witnessing the tear that leaked out of the corner of his eye, the childlike sob that wracked his frame.

  But what could she do? Once more she had given him her promise. Perhaps she could bring him no comfort, but she could not leave him like this, either. Leaning forward, she pressed a soft kiss across his brow. Clinging to his hand, Anne watched helplessly as Mandell descended into his own dark world.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mandell awoke to bright sunlight stabbing at his eyes. With a low groan, he flung one arm across his face, shielding himself from the intensity. Despite the warmth of the rays, he felt chilled. His eyes mere slits, he studied his surroundings, the costly brocade bedhangings, the heavy oak pillars of the bed, the dressing table with its jar of ointment and bandages. All quite unfamiliar.

  He shivered and groped for the coverlet, at the same time groping for his memory.

  Where the devil am I?

  He scowled and nearly cried aloud, the simple act of contracting his brow making him conscious of the pain exploding inside his head. Damn! He felt as though someone had been using his skull for a blacksmith's anvil.

  Gingerly, he attempted to explore his forehead for any sign of injury and was further mystified by the linen cocoon wrapped about his hand. Had he been in some sort of an accident?

  Moistening his dry lips, he grimaced at the feel of his own tongue, thick as a wad of cotton. His splitting head and the stale taste in his mouth were sensations he recognized.

  He had not been in any accident. This disaster was one of his own making, his and too many tumblers full of brandy. He emitted a soft sigh, part disgust, part agony. It had been many years since he had drunk himself into such a state, not since the uncultivated days of his youth. And never had he gone so far that he had awakened in a strange bed, wearing someone else's nightshirt, not even knowing where he was, much less what he had been doing.