Page 111 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
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 deeply 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. Strugglingto regain her footing, she realized the cloak had caught on something, a loose floorboard or a nail.
Tearing frantically at the fabric, she heard 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.
