The security and warmth Anne had known in Mandell's arms diminished as she watched the candle burn lower in the socket. How long had he been gone? One hour? Two? Three? She tried not to think of all the things that might have gone wrong. The heavy silence of the house thickened about her until she felt as if she would suffocate.
She knew it would be prudent to stay away from the windows, but she could no longer resist the urge to peer out. She forced open the shutters and rubbed away some of the grime that smeared the pane, pressing her face to the cool glass, assuring herself that a real world beyond her present madness did indeed still exist.
She could not guess the hour, but the moon had risen, bright and full, casting a glow that even the dark of night could not dim. The moonlight illuminated the tangled wilderness which had once served as vast gardens to this palatial mansion. Beyond that she could make out the black moving shadow that was the Thames, the spires and masts of the ships at dock, towering like the barren tree trunks of some mighty forest.
Ships that carried people away to far off places like America. Anne could not help picturing herself huddling on the deck of one of those with Mandell and Norrie, fugitives fleeing to some strange new land. How could she ever allow herself to be the cause of such a thing, dragging the man she loved and her delicate little daughter off into the perils of an uncertain future, uprooting them from all that they knew—their home, their heritage, their birthright. But that was surely the worst scenario, one that would not come to pass. There would be some way to prove her innocence. Mandell would persuade Briggs to talk. He would provide some vital clue or the Hook would eventually have to grow careless, be caught some other way. He would be made to confess that he had murdered Lucien.
But what if that never happened? She attempted not to torture herself with such dire possibilities, to think only of Mandell's love for her, a love stronger and more powerful than any she had ever hoped for.
If only he would return.
And if he did not? Anne rubbed her throat, wondering what she would do, where she would find the courage to face such a thing, when the candlelight wavered wildly as though struck by a draft. She turned to see that the flame had burnt near to the end of the wick and stood in danger of being extinguished by the liquid pool of wax.
The prospect of being left in darkness in this chill mausoleum of a house daunted Anne. She hoped that Mr. Drummond's endeavors to restore this house had extended to laying in a supply of candles.
She searched the small desk, but the drawers contained nothing but writing supplies; vellum, ink, quills, sealing wax. The only place anything could be stored was in the battered trunk that stood at the foot of the bed.
Anne bent over the chest, which smelled of leather and must, whose scarred wood spoke of hundreds of long ago voyages. Tugging at the lid, she feared to find it locked, but the ancient clasp had rusted and already given way.
She raised the heavy lid and propped it open against the bed. Her heart sank with disappointment to discover the trunk crammed with nothing but old clothing. She rummaged past the thick folds of a heavy black cloak and was fortunate enough to find some candles tucked beneath.
As she unearthed one of the wax tapers, her fingers brushed up against the remaining item in the trunk. She slowly lifted the object out into the light and frowned. It was a man's hat with a jaunty white feather, the soft floppy brim of the style once affected by the dashing cavaliers. Anne's heart skipped a beat. She tried to reassure herself there could be a dozen old hats identical to this one tucked away in trunks and attics.
But there were not. She knew that with dread certainty that she had seen this particular hat before, shading the features of a dark-cloaked phantom that melted out of the night to leave death in his wake.
She had little time to absorb the implications of finding such a thing hidden away in Nick Drummond's house when she heard the creak of floorboards out in the hall. Her heart skittered, torn between hope and a sudden fear.
It was Mandell returning. It had to be. Who else could it be?
She was seized with an unreasoning urge to bury the hat and cloak back inside the chest, shove aside this terrible knowledge that she had not sought and did not want.
But it was too late. The door was already being eased open. Anne shot to her feet, trembling. “Mandell,” she whispered. “Is that you?”
Her greeting died in her throat, her heart going still. It was not Mandell silhouetted on the threshold, but Nick Drummond. Anne stared at the familiar countenance, a young man's face that she had always thought so pleasant, so cheerful. He looked haggard in the dim light, but he managed to smile at the sight of her, appearing as concerned as ever, anxious to be kind.
“Lady Fairhaven,” he began. Then his gaze drifted down to the hat she gripped in her hands.
Anne could not seem to move or breathe. The moments ticked on forever as she watched Drummond's smile fade to an expression more grim.
When he raised his gaze to hers, she saw a deal of sorrow in those steady grey eyes, a regret that left her feeling strangely cold.
“My dear Anne,” he said with a chilling softness. “I am sorry you had to find that. Very sorry indeed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Anne clutched the hat to her like a shield, fear and doubt warring within her. Nick Drummond, the Hook? The murderous brigand who had attacked Briggs and killed Lucien? It was impossible. It had to be. And yet, as Nick stepped farther into the room, Anne shrank instinctively back against the bedstead.
She moistened her lips, forcing a casual tone into her voice that was belied by the unsteady thrum of her pulse.
“Mr. Drummond. What are you doing here? I was expecting Mandell.”
“I know,” he said. “Mandell should not have brought you here. He could not have picked any place in London that would have been less safe.”
“Indeed, this house is in a sad state of disrepair and ...” Anne's voice trailed away as Drummond shook his head at her.
“It's no use pretending, Anne. I should know. I have been doing too much of that myself for far too long.” He stalked nearer and plucked the hat from her fingers. “I know you are intelligent enough to understand the significance of what you have found.”
“It's just a hat and some old clothes?'
“Anne,” he admonished. His eyes were filled with that unnerving regret. He stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek, sending a chill up her spine, his face hovering above her own. It was like gazing at a familiar sunlit landscape only to find the scene shifted to something bleak and ominous.
“It might have been a relief to have someone else discover the truth if it had been anyone but you,” he said. “But you are far too gentle a soul to be dragged into the midst of all this. I am very sorry.”
“But I don't have the slightest idea what all this is,” Anne cried.
“Unfortunately there is no time for explanations.” He cast the hat aside, allowing it to tumble to the carpet with a soft thud. At the same moment, the candle gave one final flicker, guttered, and went out.
As the room plunged into darkness, Anne felt Nick's swift movement. A choked scream escaped her as his hands closed over her shoulders. She struggled wildly lest he gain a grip upon her throat.
“Anne, stop,” he growled.
Flailing with her fists, she landed several blows upon his face, driving her knuckles in the soft pocket of his eye. He grunted with pain and surprise, whipping his head back and cracking it against the bedpost .With a sharp oath, he released her. Anne stumbled past him.
Through the haze of blackness and her rising panic, she could make out the silhouette of the open door. Hurling herself across the threshold, she dared to slam the door closed behind her. Leaving Nick trapped in total darkness purchased her a few precious seconds.
Her breathing coming in ragged gulps, Anne ran blindly along the gallery. Mandell's heavy cloak tangled about her legs. She tripped on the hem and crashed to her knees. Struggling to r
egain her footing, she realized the cloak had caught on something, a loose floorboard or a nail.
Tearing frantically at the fabric, she heard the sound of Nick hurling open the bedchamber door and his muttered curses. Terror threatened to overwhelm her. She wrenched at the fastening of the cloak and flung it off her shoulders.
Scrambling to her feet, Anne made it as far as the upper landing. A ghostly mist of moonlight poured through the front windows, illuminating the gallery below.
Behind her, Nick bellowed her name. Anne glanced about, desperate for any avenue of escape. The twisting flight of stairs leading down to the hall seemed her best, her only hope.
But before she could take another step, Nick lunged. Out of the shadows behind her, she felt his arms close about her. She clawed at his hands even as she struggled to maintain her balance, feeling herself sway precariously on the topmost step.
A cry for help breached her lips as hoarse as it was unavailing, echoing along the palace's indifferent corridors.
Swearing, Nick sought to clamp his hand over her mouth,
“Damn you, Anne,” he panted. “Stop it! What are you—”
“Let her go, Drummond.”
The icy command issuing from the foot of the stairs caused them both to freeze. Twisting in Drummond's hard grasp, Anne stared downward, her breath snagging in her throat. It was as though her frantic plea had summoned some dread specter to her aid, a stern gallant of another time and place in his stiff silvery-grey brocade, lace spilling over his ancient hands.
He held aloft a lantern, the light illuminating those aged aristocratic features, the flow of white hair bound back into a queue.
“Release the lady, Nicholas,” His Grace commanded again.
Nick was startled enough to do so. With a choked sob of relief, Anne started down the stairs. But Nick recovered himself enough to come after her, seizing her upper arm.
“No, Your Grace,” he said, Anne had never heard any words choked out with such hatred and anguish.
The duke set the lantern down, the light reflecting upward, bathing his face in an eerie glow, making his flesh seem translucent, his skin stretched too taut over his prominent cheekbones. Gripping his walking cane, he started up the stairs, coming as far as the first landing.
The sight disturbed Anne in an odd way she could not name. Perhaps it was because she could feel the tension coil in Nick. She should have warned the old man to take care. But she could not bring herself to believe that Nick would harm his own grandfather.
“Don't come any closer,” Nick snarled. “Get back to hell where you belong. I am taking Lady Fairhaven with me.”
“No, boy. I have endured enough of your defiance. You have already dishonored me past all bearing.”
“I dishonor you?” Nick gave a wild laugh.
As the duke came closer, something in his movements again gave Anne a ripple of unease. Then she realized what it was. It was the cane, the silver-handled walking cane. He was carrying it. He had no need of its aid, his step steady and sure.
“Lady Fairhaven's well-being concerns you not,” the duke said. “Leave while you still may.”
He tugged at the cane's handle and a swordstick unsheathed in a lethal hiss of steel. Anne's blood turned to ice as she realized the mistake she had made, a foolish fatal mistake. She realized it even as Nick thrust her behind him and shouted, “For the love of God, Anne. Run!”
He charged at the old man, but the duke was too swift for him. Like an arc of lightning, the sword flashed. Anne cried out as he drove the sword through Nick's shoulder.
She heard Nick give a guttural cry, watched his face go white with shock. The sword yet buried in his flesh, he leaned upon the duke's shoulder for support. For one brief moment, horror at what he had done flickered over the old man's features. Then he wrenched his sword free. Nick screamed. As he sagged onto the steps, Anne pressed her fist to her mouth so hard she tasted her own blood, but she felt too numb to notice the pain, or to be aware of anything save the crimson stain spreading over Nick's waistcoat.
Whatever remorse the duke might have known, Anne saw that he had already shuttered it away beneath his heavy eyelids. He watched his grandson's lifeblood flow out with a curious kind of detachment.
The sight pushed Anne beyond the realm of horror, beyond any fear for her own safety. Galvanized into movement, she rushed down the steps to Nick's side. Ignoring the old man who hovered over her, the bloodstained sword still gripped in his hand, she stripped off the frock coat she wore.
Bundling it up, she pressed it to Nick's shoulder in an effort to stop the bleeding. Nick groaned, his mouth clenching with pain.
“I tried to warn you, boy,” the duke said. “But you have always had a habit of rushing into things headlong, never taking heed of sage advice.”
Anne glanced up at him, unable to believe he could stand there and observe Nick's agony so calmly.
“Can you not see how badly you have injured him?” she cried. “You must go and fetch someone to help.”
For all the response she received, the old man might have been made of stone.
“He is your grandson,” she said fiercely. “I don't care what else you may have done. You cannot allow him to die.”
The duke produced a laced-edge handkerchief and proceeded to wipe Nick's blood from his sword. It was most strange, Anne thought. It had been hard for her to imagine Nick Drummond as a murderer, but she had no difficulty casting His Grace of Windermere in that role.
“There is an old saying, my dear,” he said in his low cultured accents. “It goes something like, 'If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out.' I have just done so. Drummond is no longer any kin of mine.”
“He is mad, Anne,” Nick panted. “Get out of here. Save yourself.”
Anne shook her head, trying to apply more pressure to Nick's wound.
“Is it madness then?” the duke asked. “To attempt to defend what is yours, to try to preserve the world you have always known?”
“That's your justification for murder?” Nick rolled his head to one side, whether in an effort to escape the pain or simply because he could no longer abide the sight of his grandfather Anne could not tell.
She was a little heartened to realize that she had managed to stop the flow of blood. Glancing toward the front door, she prayed for Mandell's imminent return and calculated her chances of being able to escape and rouse some help from one of the houses on the Strand. Could she possibly make it down the stairs before the duke attempted to cut her down? Even if she were able to do so, how could she abandon Nick to the mercy of a man who was clearly dead to any human compassion?
As though guessing at her thoughts, the duke shifted his position behind her so that he now completely blocked the stairs, toying with his sword.
“At least let Anne go,” Nick murmured. “She is no threat to you.”
“On the contrary, Lady Fairhaven poses the greatest threat of all.” The old man's icy facade cracked a little, some of his bitterness seeping through. “I bred Mandell to be as hard and polished as a diamond, to accept the rights and privileges that are his due. But she has changed him, softened him and inflicted him with some sickly notion of love.”
“I am glad that I have,” Anne cried.
“It is the same curse that destroyed his mother, lured my Celine away from me to die.”
“Lured! She probably fled from you. If you raised her with as much heart as you've shown Mandell, how I would have pitied that poor lady.”
The duke's eyes flashed dangerously. “My proud Celine would have had no need of your pity. Any more than does Mandell.”
He seized Anne's wrist, his grip amazingly strong. He dragged her away from Nick, hauling her to her feet. Despite the realization that she could be dead soon, Anne met his ferocious gaze with a look of defiance.
“You cannot hope to get away with any more killing,” Nick gasped. “You will be caught this time.”
“Perhaps I shall. But at least I will have
saved Mandell from committing the same folly his mother did.”
Nick made a feeble effort to grip the staircase banister, trying to pull himself upward. “Damn you. Leave her alone.”
The duke ignored him, demanding of Anne, “Where is Mandell? I heard about his foolish heroics, rescuing you from Newgate. I thought I should have to send out runners to overtake the pair of you on your flight. Then my dolt of a butler finally saw fit to confide in me that Mandell had sent round earlier to obtain the keys to this place.”
He gave Anne a rough shake. “Where is Mandell now? Where has he gone?”
“He has gone seeking the truth,” Anne said. “And I would give my life to shield him from it.”
“I will have to take you up on that offer, my dear.”
Nick kicked out wildly, sobbing with his efforts to rise only to sink back again. He cursed, saying, “You will have to deal with me first.”
“I presumed I already had.” Releasing Anne, the duke shifted, staring down at Nick. Anne saw the sudden flex of tension in the old man. As he drew back the sword, she flung herself at him, deflecting his sword arm upward. He lashed out, shoving her hard. With a small cry, Anne lost her balance. She banged up against the banister and tumbled down the stairs, catching herself at the first landing.
Bruised and shaken, she could only watch in horror as the duke whipped around, preparing to run Nick through. She would never reach him in time.
“Anne!”
Someone roared her name, but the cry did not come from Nick or the duke. Mandell's voice echoed from behind her. The duke froze at the sound of his grandson’s voice, the old man's face draining as white as the moonlight that bathed his features. Anne choked on a sob of relief and struggled to her knees.
She had not heard the door flung open or witnessed his return. She was only too glad to see him now, taking the stairs two at a time. He pulled Anne to her feet, dragging her into his arms. “Anne, thank God. I—”
He broke off as his gaze slid past her to Nick's inert form. He appeared to have lapsed into unconsciousness, his eyes closed.
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