Page 10 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“And just how would you be knowing that, my lady?” Mandell asked.
“Because one can no longer hear him creak when he walks. How else should I know it, you naughty man?” She closed her fan and rapped his wrist.
A laugh escaped Mandell, one of genuine amusement. The rest of London might be in an uproar over murder, but trust Lily Rosemoor to be more interested in the regent’s stays. Mandell had always been more at ease with the countess than with other women. He liked his mistresses younger and not quite so giddy. She preferred her lovers blonde and more poetic. So their relationship had never been hampered by any sexual tension.
With the ease of long acquaintance, Lily linked her aim through his. “Come, Mandell, there is someone you must make your leg to. You will never guess who has returned to London. Anne, my darling little sister.”
She tugged Mandell over to the chair where the young woman sat, staring pensively down at the floor tiles. Mandell had never taken much notice of Anne Fairhaven, but she appeared as he remembered her, pale and prim, her fair hair done up in a crown of braids. The style was perhaps a little too severe, but it drew attention to the slender column of her neck. Clad in a high-waisted lavender gown, she was like a fine pastel lost amidst the brightness of more garish oil paintings.
“Anne,” Lily called gaily. “Do but look who has arrived.”
Lady Fairhaven glanced up. Mandell experienced the shock of more recent recognition as the candleshine played fully over her delicate features. Impossible that it should be so, but Anne Fairhaven was the woman who had been weeping by his gate. She had been half lost in shadow then. Her hair tumbling free had made quite a difference from her usual prim style. But there was no mistaking those violet-hued eyes. They were clear now, only the shadows beneath bearing testimony to her former unhappiness.
Before Mandell could move or speak, Anne shot to her feet, a blush staining her cheeks.
“My lord,” Lily said. “You do remember my sister, I trust?”
“Of course,” he said, managing to gain possession of Anne’s hand. “The virtuous Lady Fairhaven.”
“The wicked Lord Mandell,” Anne countered, snatching her fingers free of his grasp. “Excuse me, Lily, my lord. I was on the verge of retiring to the card room. There is someone I must speak to.”
For the second time that night, she fled from Mandell without a backward glance. Her gown, demure as it was, clung to the willowy curves of her hips. She moved with a grace that was somehow far more alluring than the exaggerated sway of bolder women.
“I declare,” Lily exclaimed. “Whatever got into her? Mandell, what have you done to frighten my poor Anne?”
“Nothing.” Mandell smiled. “Yet.”
The countess wagged her finger at him. “I dislike that gleam in your eye, my lord. You must form no designs upon my little sister. It would do her a world of good to take a lover. But you are far too wicked for her, I fear.”
“Do you know,” Mandell said pleasantly, “I have been warned away from the lady enough times, it is beginning to arouse the devil in me.”
Lily clucked her tongue at him and would have said more, but her attention was caught by the arrival of some other latecomers. She fluttered away to greet them like the distractible butterfly that she was.
That left Mandell free to wonder about Anne Fairhaven’s strange behavior. What had induced such a proper lady to roam the streets unescorted, weeping as though her heart would break? Mandell’s curiosity was aroused enough this time to pursue her—at least as far as the next room.
She had ducked into a small adjoining parlor set aside for those wishing for cards instead of dancing. When Mandell crossed the threshold, he found her standing near the hearth,observing the play at one table. Mandell saw nothing in this foursome to attract her interest.
The group consisted in part of a callow youth and Sir Lancelot Briggs. Briggs gave Mandell a hopeful smile, but Mandell ignored him, more struck by the other two players. One was the Lady Anne’s brother-in-law, Sir Lucien Fairhaven. A large man with sun-streaked blond hair, his face was deeply carved with lines of dissipation.
But most surprising was the fourth man at the table, Mandell’s grandfather, the august duke of Windermere. His Grace rarely tolerated the company of fools, so it was a mystery to Mandell why he would play at whist with any of these men. His white hair swept back in a queue, his close-set eyes were shadowed beneath bushy brows. He acknowledged Mandell’s presence with a curt nod.
Although Anne did not look Mandell’s way, she was obviously aware of his approach. She stiffened as he came up to her.
“How fortunate,” he said in low tones. “It would seem we meet again, my Lady Sorrow.”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered, trying to sidle away. “I had hoped you would not recognize me.”
“I would have had to have been drunk not to. I liked your hair better down. It looked more golden in the moonlight.”
“Do go away,” she said. “I am trying to concentrate on the game.”
Mandell glanced idly at the table, when suddenly he realized what held her attention. Someone at the table was cheating and doing it badly. The card being dealt by the youth was scratched, a botched attempt to mark the deck. It must come to the notice of the entire table in a moment.
The question was who was responsible. Briggs? No, the fellow lacked the wit to be other than honest. The spotted youth?He had obviously been losing badly, trickles of sweat mingling with the blemishes on his brow. As for the jaded Sir Lucien, he had accumulated an impressive pile of paper and coins in front of him.
Whoever was guilty, Mandell knew his grandfather would not take kindly to the discovery he was playing with a cheat. Disgrace for one of these men was imminent. The marked card had been shuffled his grandfather’s way. The old man’s eyes were far too keen to miss it. But just as the duke reached for the card, Anne overturned a glass of wine perched on the table. The gesture was awkward, and Mandell could tell, quite deliberate.
The wine splattered in a splash of dark purple across the table and over the cards. Three of the men jerked back, only the duke remaining unperturbed.
