Page 113 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
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.
“What the devil!” Mandell exclaimed. He attempted to go to him, only to find the way barred by his grandfather’s sword.
“I fear Drummond is beyond your help, Mandell,” the duke said.
“My God, old man, what have you done?”
“Attempted to keep you from flinging your life away upon this woman.”
Mandell’s jaw hardened. “It is all finished, Your Grace. Briggs has remembered. I know everything.”
“You know nothing and you understand even less. And I have no more time to teach you.” The first hint of regret crept into the old man’s tone, but he was quick to quell it.
He started down the steps toward Mandell and Anne. Mandell wrapped one arm protectively about Anne’s waist. With his other hand, he drew forth a pistol and leveled it at the duke’s chest.
The duke paused, regarding the weapon with a brief flash of pained surprise. His lips curved in a smile laced with irony.
“So it comes down to this, does it?” he asked. “We were ever adversaries of a kind, Mandell. But now that we reach the sticking point, I wonder. Do you possess the ruthlessness to fire that weapon?”
“I beg that Your Grace will not put me to the test.”
Anne held her breath, glancing from one taut male face to the other, alike in hauteur and unyielding pride. But where the duke’s eyes were empty and cold, Mandell’s roiled with pain and despair.
The duke took another step down. “Are you in truth my grandson?” he purred. “Or only still that puling brat that sprang from de Valmiere’s loins? Do you possess the steel to do whatever you deem necessary without remorse or regret?”
“I have no desire to hurt you, Grandfather.” A fine beading of perspiration had broken out upon Mandell’s brow, but the hand holding the pistol remained steady.
“Grandfather?” the duke mocked, descending another step. “You have not called me that since the day you were first thrust weeping into my arms. I soon cured you of it, your French tendencies toward an unmanly display of emotion. But did you learn your lesson well enough to be utterly without mercy, without sentimentality? Can you kill me, Mandell, even to save your lady?”
With a malevolent smile, the duke pointed the tip of his sword toward Anne. Mandell inhaled sharply, his eyes dilated. He cocked the pistol.
