Page 110 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
He drew an unsteady breath and laughed. “You make it deuced hard for a man to leave you, Sorrow, but I must. I want many more nights in your arms, and without any shadows cast over our lovemaking.”
He caught her hand and held it to his lips for a long moment. “I shall return very soon. You must wait for me. You will not be afraid to be alone here?”
Anne shook her head, summoning up her bravest smile. “I shall always have the palace ghost to bear me company.”
“As long as he quite understands that you belong to me.” Mandell quickly abandoned the jesting tone, his eyes turning intent. He drew her into his arms one last time, saying, “Everything will be all right, Anne. You must believe that.”
She believed anything when he looked at her that way, holding her within the circle of his arms. He kissed her, this time more tenderly, and Anne basked in the glow of his love, a rush of warmth thrumming through her veins. Only when he had gone did she begin to feel the cold.
As time crawled by, the bedchamber at Windermere House began to seem worse than a prison. Anne felt isolated and alone, trapped in a place where time had frozen like the hands of a clock that ceased to move. She paced the worn Turkish carpets, watching the candlelight flicker over the dark heavy furnishings. The faded tapestries breathed of a grandeur long past, an age of splendor that had vanished.
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 whichhad 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 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.”
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.
