Page 19 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
She wrapped her arms about herself to still her trembling, aware that she had behaved like a wild woman. She could yet hear the echo of her own shocking words.
I vow I will kill you, Lucien.
Never in her life had she felt such hatred of anyone, but Lucien had driven her to it. She knew beyond all doubt there was no hope of ever persuading him to return Norrie. Rubbing her arms, she waited for the familiar despair to wash over her. But it did not come. Rather, she felt a cold weight of determination settle over her heart.
The threat she had uttered shocked her even more, for she realized she had meant it. She turned, wending her way back to Lily’s house, scarce seeing where she went.
“I will have my daughter back,” she vowed. “Whatever it takes! I swear to God I will.”
Four
The prospect of a murder occasioned barely a whisper from those overhearing the plot. But the famed actor Edmund Kean no longer created the same sensation as he had upon his arrival in London years ago. The theatre at Drury Lane was only half full tonight. Although his performance as Macbeth was as mesmerizing as ever, most of the audience turned its attention toward a late arrival.
Mandell slipped unobtrusively into his box, yet a ripple of murmurs went through the crowd, the disturbance audible enough to the actors.
“Is this a dagger which I see before me?” Kean ground out, though no one was certain whether he wanted most to use it on Macbeth’s erstwhile king or Mandell, who took his time, swirling his black cape from his shoulders and assuming his seat.
The marquis stripped off his gloves at a leisurely pace, oblivious to the irritation he was causing the actor. Mandell never troubled himself to arrive on time. Prompt attendance at the theatre only subjected one to the horrors of the musical interlude. Some misbegotten fellow in the orchestra was bound not to have prepared properly. Mandell’s keen ear could detectan instrument even slightly out of tune and the sound was a torment akin to having hot spikes shoved under his nails.
He settled back into his seat and the audience subsided as well. Kean succeeded in dispatching the king and now lamented over his bloodstained hands. It was a stirring performance, but the theatre had long ago lost all magic for Mandell.
He could still remember the first time he had visited Drury Lane. He had been but twelve, on holiday from school when his grandfather had brought him to a matinee production of Romeo and Juliet. Mandell had been held spellbound, moved to tears by the plight of the young lovers.
It had disturbed the old duke to hear his grandson expressing such emotion over the conjuring of a set of lowly players. When the play had ended, the duke had taken him backstage, forced him to observe how tawdry the costumes were, the glittering jewels only paste. When seen up close, the performers looked common, garish in their lead paint makeup. Romeo was no more than a drunken sot with a foul mouth, the dewy-eyed Juliet a harlot who serviced half the male cast in her dressing room.
The theatre was illusion, nothing more, and while Mandell might permit himself a certain restrained enjoyment, he should never become utterly taken in by it. Mandell had taken strict heed of his grandfather’s words. It was a mistake he rarely made again, the cherishing of illusions. Now he no longer had any.
Below him, Macbeth went through the torments of the damned, tortured by his conscience. Mandell saw only a vain little man strutting about in a preposterous imitation of Scottish plaid. The marquis stirred impatiently, his gaze skating past the players, past the pit to the tiers of boxes. He found more diversion off the stage, within the interior of the theatre.
His eyes rested upon a particular box. Sara was there, as lovely as ever and with a companion. It did not surprise Mandell that his former mistress had found a replacement for himso soon, but her choice did. Lounging behind the dark-haired beauty was a raffish young soldier. Sara would hardly realize her ambition courting the attention of some half-pay officer, but no doubt she knew what she was doing. No one knew her own interests better than Sara did.
Mandell’s scrutiny moved on, remarking other acquaintances, dismissing them until he found the box he wanted. Just opposite him on the first tier sat a pale woman garbed all in white, the short, puffed sleeves of her gown exposing the slender grace of her arms.
Anne Fairhaven was still alive and well. She had not gone off into a decline over the assault upon her virtue by the wicked Lord Mandell. Mandell had to admit he had been curious to see her again, wondering if he would experience the same strange tug of attraction that had beset him that night at the countess’s ball.
But moonlit gardens could weave illusions as well. The heady scent of roses, like an opiate, could cause a man to fancy there was something different about Anne from other women, a sorrowing angel whose gentle touch might be capable of curing the darkness in a lost soul.
Absolute nonsense, of course. Gazing at her across the theatre, he could see now that she was an ordinary mortal, only a little more solemn than the sort of lady who usually struck his fancy. She shared the box with her sister Lily and two of the countess’s long-term admirers, the Honorable Mr. Adam Barnhart and Lord Douglas Cecil. The trio laughed heartily as the drunken porter staggered onstage to offer some comic relief, but Anne seemed set apart from the others, untouched by the laughter, alone, as Mandell often felt himself to be.
Just an ordinary woman, yet he could not seem to tear his eyes away from her. She fingered the pearls at her neck, her decolletage more daring than the gown she had worn to Lily’sball three evenings ago. Mandell’s gaze traveled over the soft rise of her bosom, the ivory column of her throat, the way her hair had been pulled up into a chignon of curls that glinted gold in the light cast up from the stage. The style left her face mercilessly exposed, vulnerable. It made him want to pull her into his arms and?—
Mandell caught his breath, experiencing a familiar quickening of the blood. He desired the lady. That was all it was. When he had kissed her, her lithe frame had felt good pressed against him, her mouth hot, moist, and inviting.
He wanted her. Then the solution was simple. He would have her. Fill some of his empty nights with the sweet pleasures of her body. And in having her, he would put an end to any illusions.
How readily would the virtuous Anne agree to these plans of his? A hard smile touched Mandell’s lips. The lady’s willingness did not overly concern him. When he had kissed her, he had tasted desire upon her lips, felt the brief tremor of passion course through her. A passion she had been quick to suppress. The next time he would not permit her to do so.
He had released her that night, fully expecting the usual reaction, tears, accusations, all the trappings of outraged virtue. He had to admit she had surprised him. Her only response had been that sorrowful bewilderment that he should even have wanted to kiss her. Could it be the lady truly did not realize how desirable she was? He would take great delight in teaching her otherwise.
He had permitted her to flee him once. The marquis of Mandell did not chase women across ballrooms. He bided his time. Stretching back in his seat, he was content for the moment to watch her from the shadows of his own box, imagining how her honey gold fall of hair would look tumbled across his pillow, her prim mouth well kissed to a state of compliance.
These agreeable reflections were interrupted by the sound of a footfall behind him. Irritated to have his solitude intruded upon, Mandell turned to see who had the temerity to step into his box unasked.
His brows rose when he saw that it was his cousin Nick. Who else would wear such a horror of a flowered waistcoat and a frock coat—Mandell could not tell the exact hue, but he had a distasteful notion it might actually be purple.
Nick stumbled forward. Banging up against the empty seat he muttered a soft curse. Mandell had the impression that he was rather out of breath, but Nick’s voice sounded steady enough when he spoke. “Mandell. There you are. I had the deuce of a time locating you.”
“Why were you even looking for me?” Mandell asked. “What are you doing here?”
