Page 36 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
His eyes held hers in the darkness. “Now ‘tis truly done, our pact made. And I give you fair warning, Sorrow. I do not deal kindly with those who break faith with me.”
“I will not. Just get Norrie back for me.”
By way of acquiescence, he sketched a brief bow, rife with arrogance and a supreme confidence that filled Anne with more hope than she had known for a long time. She refused to dwell on the nature of the bargain she had just made, only thinking what it would be like to have Norrie back again.
As he resumed escorting her through the darkened street, he said, “Do me one favor, Sorrow, now that you have agreed to allow me to handle this matter for you. Curb your penchant forflitting about the streets alone after sunset. You may encounter far worse than me in the dark. A gentleman known as the Hook for example. There has been another murder tonight.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“The latest victim, I believe, is not unknown to you. Mr. Daniel Keeler.”
Anne frowned in confusion.
“The young gentleman you saved the other night from disgracing himself at the card table.”
“How dreadful.” For a moment, Anne was deeply shocked and grieved. But nothing could take precedence over her anxiety over her daughter, and what Mandell intended to do.
When they arrived back at Lily’s gate, Anne demanded, “My lord, you must give me some idea of what you are planning. How will you go about rescuing Norrie, if not by abduction? I have tried everything else. Lucien won’t listen to reason.”
“I believe I can persuade him to listen to me.” Mandell’s smile was not pleasant. He raised her hand to his mouth, his lips warm and lingering upon her bare flesh.
“But Mandell?—”
“Keep safe behind locked doors, Sorrow.”
With this final command, he stalked off, vanishing into the darkness before Anne could question him further. She suddenly realized she was still wearing his cloak, the garment seeming as rife with secrets and mystery as its owner. She huddled deeper into the heavy folds, torn between hope and fear, a little awed by the dark force she had just unleashed upon the night.
Seven
The following evening, the porter at Brooks’s was astonished when he opened the door to admit the marquis of Mandell. As his lordship swept across the threshold into the marble-tiled hall of one of the most exclusive gentleman’s clubs in London, the elderly servant moved to ease the greatcoat from Mandell’s shoulders.
“This is a rare privilege, indeed, my lord. We seldom see you in here these days. We have managed to pry you away from White’s at last.”
The porter nodded disdainfully toward the front window where the lights of the rival establishment could be seen glowing across the width of bustling St. James’s Street. Mandell was a member of both clubs. He acknowledged that the interior of Brooks’s possessed the elegance and charm of a gentleman’s country manor, but he generally preferred the company to be found at White’s. However, Sir Lucien Fairhaven did not. And Sir Lucien was Mandell’s main reason for venturing abroad tonight. Mandell had made a pact with a lady and he intended to waste no time in fulfilling his side of the bargain.
As he handed off his curly-brimmed beaver to the porter, Mandell inquired casually, ‘The club is well filled this evening? Most of the members present?”
“It would seem so, my lord. With it being such a foul night, threatening to rain again and all, most of the gentlemen seem content to be here warm and dry rather than seeking other entertainment about the town. It is certainly a deal safer, my lord, if you take my meaning.” The old servant gave him a significant look.
Mandell took his meaning quite well, but made no comment. He allowed the porter, whom Mandell had known since the days of his youth, more familiarity than most servants. But he was not about to tolerate any more gossip about the recent murders, or tiresome speculation about the Hook.
Mandell crossed the imposing front hall, already beckoned by the sounds emanating from the Great Subscription Room. The drone of masculine voices was punctuated by bursts of unrestrained laughter, the kind gentlemen indulged in when no ladies were present. A bewigged servant held open the door and bowed Mandell inside.
He stepped into a chamber vast enough to have been a ballroom. The Great Subscription Room was done up in the classical manner, its towering walls left noticeably bare. There must be nothing to distract one from the club’s main and serious purpose—the pursuit of gaming. Brooks’s members crowded round myriad felt-covered tables. Standing or seated, they played at hazard, faro, or whist. Both the stakes and spirits appeared to be high tonight, judging from the number of flushed countenances. Waiters trotted to and fro bearing fresh bottles of port from Brooks’s noted cellars while the croupiers intoned wins and losses amidst choruses of groans.
Mandell greeted a few acquaintances while doing a quick scan of the house. As near as he could tell, the gentleman hesought was not yet present. But the night was young. It was barely past one of the clock.
Refusing to be drawn into a game of whist, Mandell chose to stroll about observing the play. He noticed a familiar figure in a scarlet frock coat lounging near a settee by the hearth. He had to give his cousin credit for that much, Mandell thought with a slight smile. In a world of rather drab and sedate evening clothing, Nick always managed to stand out.
Nick appeared to be engaged with two of his Whig friends, the betting book spread out on the table before him. Both Lord Soames and Mr. Watkin were laughing, Nick looking flustered and annoyed. Chances were good that the other two were roasting Nick upon some of his reformist policies, his humor on that subject often lacking.
Since the pleasure of tormenting his cousin was one Mandell reserved to himself, he went to Nick’s rescue. After the way they had parted at the theatre the other evening, Mandell expected a little reserve on Nick’s part. But his cousin had never been one to hold a grudge.
His irritation with his companions momentarily forgotten, Nick glanced up with a half-smile at Mandell’s approach. “Hullo! Mandell. Here’s a surprise. What has lured you away from that blasted Tory stronghold across the way?”
“White’s seemed a little thin of company tonight,” Mandell replied.
“The place has never been the same since poor old Brummell was obliged to flee to the continent,” Lord Soames broke in with a sigh.
