“It is me, Mandell,” a soft feminine voice spoke up.
Hastings had left the door open and Mandell glanced up to find Sara Palmer silhouetted on the threshold. She wore a pelisse of pink china crepe, complemented by a Caledonian cap of plush silk trimmed with rich bands and fox-tail feathers. Mandell remembered the hat well. He had paid for it.
His jaw tightened. He could hardly believe that Sara would possess the boldness to come here, but nothing about her should surprise him.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“You already appear to have done so.”
“I did not quite trust your footman to announce me properly.”
“You refused to give me your name, madam,” Hastings said.
“This is the Honorable Mrs. Nicholas Drummond, John,” Mandell sneered. “You may make her acquaintance as you escort her out again.”
Hastings looked startled by this order, yet more than ready to carry out the command. Every line of his stolid form radiated disapproval of Sara.
But Sara moved into the room, deposited her parasol upon Mandell's desk and stripped off her gloves. “I only require a few minutes of your time, Mandell.”
“I thought you would be gone on your bride trip. Does your husband approve of his wife calling upon single gentlemen?”
“You and I are cousins now,” she reminded him. “Besides, Nick doesn't know I am here.”
“Nick doesn't know a good many things,”
At least she had the grace to color a little at that. Mandell was sore tempted to evict her from the house himself, but whatever her reason for coming, he sensed that Sara was determined to stay put until she had her say. Loath as he was to admit it, Mandell felt a stirring of curiosity.
After a reluctant pause, he dismissed Hastings. The footman retired with a stiff bow. When the door closed behind him, Mandell rose to his feet, suddenly conscious of his disheveled appearance. He was clad in nothing but his breeches and satin dressing robe. Sweeping back the strands of hair from his eyes, he adjusted the folds of the robe, which gapped open about his bared chest, and he belted the sash more snugly about his waist.
Sara demurely turned her gaze away during the procedure. Her affected modesty only served to sharpen Mandell's anger with her. He did not invite her to sit down, but she did so anyway. Perching upon the edge of his desk, she glanced about his dark-paneled study with bright curious eyes.
“This is the first time I have ever been privileged to enter your house,” she said. “It is exactly what I would have expected of you, elegant but cold. Very severe.”
“Is that why you came here? To discuss my decor?”
“No.” Some of her bravado slipped away, her features becoming more subdued. “You might be interested to know, Mandell, that we left the countess's party not long after you did last night. Nick got very quiet. He hardly spoke a word during the carriage ride back to our flat.”
“That would be a first for Drummond.”
“He was not at all himself. When we arrived home, he gave me a quick kiss goodnight. Then he went out alone and did not come back until well after midnight.”
“And the pair of you wed only two days? Can it be your charms are wearing thin so soon, my dear?”
Her cheeks flooded with color at his mocking tone. “I believe Nick's distracted state had more to do with you,” she accused. “You told him something that upset him. Or at least I think you did. It is not always easy to tell with Nick. He seems such a straightforward sort of man, but I've come to realize he can be very good at dissembling.”
“He doesn't hold a candle to you, my dear,” Mandell said. “So you are worried about what I might have said to him? Whether I asked if you still have that charming habit of dragging all the covers to your side of the bed? Whether I warned him not to waste too much money on stays and chemises because you don't often wear them?”
“Mandell, you didn't!”
“No, I didn't, curse you. As you well know I would not after the shock of hearing that you were already married, of seeing Nick trail after you like some lovesick calf.”
Sara gave a tiny sigh of relief. She eased off the desk and came to Mandell with contrition in her eyes or at least the appearance of it. “I am sorry, Mandell. Truly I am. I wanted to tell you about Nick and me sooner, but everything happened so fast. And I know you would not be pleased, so I turned craven. I thought it would be better to wait.”
“Until you had him well and truly hooked?”
She tried to place her hand on his arm, but Mandell shook her off. He said bitterly, “Tell me just one thing, Sara. Out of all the trusting noble fools in London, how did you happen to settle upon Nick? Was it some sort of twisted vengeance against me because I would not gratify your ambitions?”
“No! It was nothing like that!”
“Then what was it? You could not have fancied Nick any great matrimonial prize! From a worldly point of view, you could not have done worse than Drummond. He is not a wealthy man.”
“I did not realize his grandfather would cut him off.”
Mandell gave a hard laugh. “There was not much for His Grace to cut. Nick was never a favorite with the old man. The most the duke ever offered Drummond was that wretched palace down by the river, a crumbling Tudor wreck. He would never have allowed Drummond even that if he had realized that Nick meant to convert the place to a charity hospital someday.
“No, my dear, Nick has but a modest income from the estate his father left and whatever stipend he might earn from his political offices. And what little Nick does have, he tends to give to any beggar that crosses his path.”
“I know that,” Sara said with a wry smile.
“So you wed him for his title? Because he is the grandson of a duke.”
“The Honorable Mrs. Drummond?” Sara pulled a face. “No, I don't even like the sound of it, and as for being related to His Grace of Windermere, I don't see how anyone could benefit from kinship with that old curmudgeon.”
Mandell regarded her with a puzzled frown. “Then you must have believed that Nick will rise to a position of some political importance. Perhaps you fancied yourself the wife of a prime minister one day?”
Sara laughed outright. “With Nick's radical views? He will be lucky to keep his seat in the House of Commons.”
“Then what the devil did you marry him for?'
“He asked me and I accepted. I'm not getting any younger, you know.”
For the first time, the bold Sara could not seem to meet Mandell's gaze. Scowling, he studied her face, noticing a difference in her that he had been too angry to perceive before. There was a change in Sara, something subtle, the slightest softening about her mouth, an added luster in her eyes.
A suspicion dawned upon Mandell, so incredible he hesitated to voice it aloud. “You could not possibly have learned to care for Nick?”
“Care for Drummond? Don't be ridiculous. Do you think I would fall in love with a man simply because he has a winsome smile?” Sara stalked away from Mandell, waving her hands in an agitated gesture. “He's not even handsome. He's impossible, a starry-eyed fool, an eternal optimist, forever babbling on about this cause and that one. He is not even the sort of man who would permit a woman to come first in his life.”
Sara continued to bluster on in this fashion until Mandell wondered just whom she was trying to convince. He circled round her, slipped his fingers beneath her chin and forced her to look up.
Her eyes blazed with bright defiant tears. Her lips trembled.
“Good God,” he said softly. “You fell in love with him.”
“So what if I did?' She dashed his hand away. “There is no law against it and don't you dare to laugh at me, you cynical bastard. I daresay you think you are far too clever to fall in love yourself.”
“No,” Mandell said, his mind clouding with a vision of Anne that was both poignant and painful. “Not too clever. Too much the fool to do so.”
His response caused a momentary surprise to flicker in Sara's
face. Reaching into her reticule, she produced a handkerchief and scrubbed at the moisture in her eyes. “I always thought that I was a damn sight too clever for such nonsense. Then I elope with someone I have barely known for a fortnight.
“Do you realize that Nick was such a gentleman he did not even touch me until we were wed?” Sara's voice echoed the depths of her own disbelief. “I married a man without even knowing what he would be like in bed. As it happens, Nick is rather wonderful when he is not in a rush to get to Parliament.”
Mandell's lips twitched, tempted for the first time that morning to smile. “Forgive my continued amazement. I still cannot imagine a more unlikely pairing than you and Drummond. Where the deuce did you meet him?”
“I was lost in the wrong part of town. I just looked up and there he was, strutting through the slums of Bethnal Green in all his sartorial splendor.”
She sniffed and gave a shaky laugh. “Nick actually believes he can make a difference, you know, with his investigating and reporting on the conditions of the poor. That if he writes well enough and speaks loud enough he will induce everyone to be reasonable and see the need for reforms as clearly as he does. When that shows no sign of happening, he gets frustrated. So much so that I am afraid for him,”
Mandell discovered that he believed her, detecting a genuine caring and concern behind her words. He attempted to reassure her. “You need not worry about Drummond, my dear. I have watched him for years, like the fabled Don Quixote, forever tilting at windmills. And he never seems daunted when the giants don't fall.”
“He is more daunted than you could ever imagine, Mandell. He waxes so angry and desperate when no one heeds his proposals. Sometimes I fear that he—” Sara's eyes clouded, but whatever thought troubled her, she shook it off, saying ruefully,“He has such dreams, not shallow ambitions like mine, but real dreams for a better world where everyone would be warm and safe and well fed. Dreams that are absurd, impossible and—and absolutely wonderful.”
“My cousin appears to have disordered your reason, Sara. You sound ready to embrace his causes yourself.”
“No, I am only interested in embracing him. That is the difficulty. Nick imagines me to be this respectable widow, an angel of mercy to the poor and destitute, ready to march at his side to right the wrongs of the world. And I will march if he wants me to, but I live in dread of him finding out who and what I really am.”
“And that is why you came to see me.”
Sara nodded. She reached out to clutch at Mandell's arm. “I beg you, my lord. Maintain your silence. Don't tell him anything you know of my past. Give me the chance to make him happy.”
She spoke quietly, the strength of her plea in the luminous depths of her eyes. Mandell hesitated and then covered her hand with his own. “It is an odd thing, but I believe you do love Drummond, that you will make him a good wife, far better than any proper lady with only birth and breeding to recommend her”
Sara gaped at him. “Did such a remark actually come from you, my lord?”
“Astonishingly, it did.” Mandell gave her a wry smile. He pressed Sara's hand and returned it to her. “Set aside your fears. Drummond will never hear anything ill of you from me. On the contrary, I wish you both great joy.”
“Are you sure you are feeling quite well, Mandell? The most I had hoped for was an uneasy truce between us for Nick's sake. I never imagined you would give me your blessing.”
“My blessing would not be worth much, but I will give you some advice. We were discreet, Sara, but this is London, after all. Someone had to know of our previous connection, some avid gossip who will take delight in whispering the tidings in Nick's ear. You would be better off telling him yourself, along with any other dark secrets you might harbor”
Sara said nothing. Mandell could tell she found his advice most unpalatable, but before he could further urge the wisdom of such a course, they were interrupted.
Sara started as the study door burst open and Hastings rushed into the room. Mandell prepared to deliver a rebuke until he noted how flushed the footman looked, panting as though he had run a great way.
“My lord,” he gasped. “Your pardon. Something d-dreadful.” He paused, clutching his side, struggling to get the breath to continue.
“Calm yourself, Hastings. Unless the house is afire, I can see no reason for you to—”
But Mandell's words were stayed by the footman's vigorous headshake of denial.
“Another murder, my lord. Last night. Here on Clarion Way.”
“Oh, no!” Sara gave a soft cry of dismay. She pressed her hand to her mouth as though to quell any further reaction.
But Mandell's attention was riveted on the footman. “Take a deep breath, Hastings, and regain command of yourself.”
Hastings nodded, struggling to obey.
“So the cursed Hook has struck again,” Mandell said. Behind him, he heard Sara sink down upon one of the chairs. “Who has been killed this time?”
“Sir Lucien Fairhaven,” the footman managed to get out.
“Fairhaven?” Mandell frowned. His mind reeled with this strange development. First the death of Bertie Glossop on this same street. Next that Keeler boy behind the theatre. then the attack on Briggs, with Fairhaven disappearing only to surface again to be murdered. None of this affair made any more sense than it ever did.
But he shrugged, saying, “It seems the Hook may actually have performed a service this time—that is if his victim was indeed Sir Lucien. Are you sure of your facts, Hastings?”
Hastings nodded. “I heard about the murder from the postboy. I thought your lordship would wish to know more, so I took the liberty of running down to the Countess Sumner's to see what I could discover.”
“The Countess Sumner's? What did you go there for?”
“That's where Sir Lucien was killed, my lord. In the garden. Near midnight.”
Mandell inhaled sharply. Sir Lucien murdered by the Hook in Lily's garden, such a grisly thing taking place within yards of the house that sheltered Anne and Norrie. Mandell could well imagine the horror and, the distress Anne must be feeling this morning. Even in death, Lucien Fairhaven had found a way to cut at her peace. Mandell silently damned the man to hell.
“Sir Lucien was supposed to be gone from London,” he said. “What was that devil doing in the countess's garden?'
“Getting himself killed, my lord,” Hastings said glumly.
The first icy fingers of an inexplicable dread stroked along Mandell's spine. He had the disquieting feeling that there was something more that Hastings had not told him yet. The young footman possessed a steady, unexcitable disposition. He seemed unduly distressed for mere tidings of Sir Lucien's murder.
“What else is amiss, John?” Mandell asked. He could scarce bring himself to voice the question. “Is Lady Fairhaven all right?'
Mandell's dread only increased when Hastings avoided giving a direct answer. Instead he said, “They have arrested someone for Sir Lucien's murder.”
“The Hook? They have captured the Hook?”
An odd, strangled sound escaped Sara, but Mandell did not turn round. He fixed Hastings with his gaze, a gaze that the footman no longer possessed the courage to meet.
“No, my lord,” he said. “There was no Hook. Not this time. Sir Lucien was shot by your lady.” Hastings spoke the last words so low, Mandell could hardly hear him.
“What!” He gripped Hastings shoulder so hard the younger man winced. “Where did you hear such a damnable tale?”
“From the countess's own butler, my lord. He was that broken up about it, was Mr. Firken. But the servants at Sumner House and the old watchman, they know. They heard the shot and they saw Lady Fairhaven standing over Sir Lucien with the pistol.”
“Those prating fools,” Mandell rasped. “Anne couldn't. She can't even load a pistol properly.”
“Mr. Firken did say that her ladyship swears there was someone else in the garden, a cloaked figure.”
“Then damn you
, there was. The Hook. It must have been.”
“But no one else saw him, my lord. And with his dying breath, Sir Lucien accused Lady Fairhaven.”
“Lying bastard! If he was not already dead, I'd cut out his tongue.” Mandell released Hastings, then stepped back, his lips setting into a taut line. “I must go to Sumner House and see Anne at once. I'll fast put a stop to all this madness.”
“You don't understand, my lord,” Hastings said miserably. “Your lady isn't there. They have already arrested her, taken her to Newgate.”
Hastings's words slammed into Mandell's consciousness with the force of an explosion. He felt the blood drain from his face. The room seemed to rock, shift beneath his feet, the present slipping away to melt with the past. The sunlight was pouring through his window, his eyes were wide open, and yet he could hear it. The pounding. The infernal pounding at the door.
“No!” He breathed harshly. The nightmare had come again and this time there was no waking to escape it. He could envision it so clearly, the rough hands seizing her, dragging her off into the blackness of night, her face pale with tenor. But it was not his mother's face he saw. It was Anne's.
The past shifted to the present and Mandell shivered, sickened with a dread and fear that he had not known since that long ago night. The pounding continued and he realized it was his own heart.
“Mandell?” Sara's image drifted into his view. He had all but forgotten her presence. “Mandell, you are looking very queer. Are you all right?”
He managed to bring the room back into focus, becoming aware of her troubled frown, of Hastings's anxious concern. The footman was attempting to press a glass of brandy into his hand.
“Here, my lord. Perhaps you had best drink this.”
Mandell gulped down the contents of the glass. The fiery liquid burned his throat and sent a rush of warmth through his veins. The chilling terrors of the boy slowly dissolved to become the anger and fire of the man.
Mandell thrust the empty glass back at Hastings and said in an impassioned rush, “I have got to get Anne out of that accursed place.”
“My lord?” Hasting's eyes widened in alarm, but Mandell was already striding for the door.
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