Page 38 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
Mandell frowned at Nick’s choice of words. It was not obsession to desire a woman, to find it pleasant to conjure her image in those long bleak hours before dawn when he often could not sleep—an image of an angel’s face, framed by a fall of honey gold hair, with sorrowing blue eyes that sometimes had the power to banish the familiar nightmare and keep his night demons locked away. But Mandell was not about to try explaining such a fanciful thing to Nick. It might make it soundtoo much like he needed Anne Fairhaven. And the marquis of Mandell needed no one.
“Let us just say I find the lady’s charms unique, well worth fighting for.”
“You ought not to be stirring up any trouble here at Brooks’s. You will lose your membership. I should know. I have been nearly expulsed myself on several occasions.”
“Credit me with a little more subtlety than you possess.”
“It little matters if you are infernally polite when you are offering to shoot some fellow’s brains out in a duel. And if you do challenge Sir Lucien, I daresay that is what it will come to.”
“And since when did you become so squeamish about dueling?”
“It is different with me. I never hit anyone when I shoot. Quite the contrary.” Nick rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. “I never have regained the full use of my fingers since my last disastrous engagement. But you—everyone knows you are a dead shot.”
“Let us hope Sir Lucien knows it, too.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him.” Nick regarded Mandell unhappily. “You have got the most damnable look in your eye. I feel like I am standing near a powder keg about to ignite.”
“You have always been the powder keg, cousin.”
“And you are more like a block of ice. But ice still burns. I wish you would reconsider this. I have no fondness for Sir Lucien, but if Lady Fairhaven does, she will not thank you for scaring him off. She will likely never speak to you again.”
“On the contrary,” Mandell murmured, thinking of Anne’s passionate vow. “I expect the lady to be excessively grateful.”
“You will create the deuce of a scandal. You might have to flee the country.”
A laugh of genuine amusement escaped Mandell. Nick flushed, looking deeply offended.
“Forgive me, cousin,” Mandell said, when his mirth subsided “But surely even you must perceive the humor of you preaching caution to me.”
“I’m damned if I will say another word to you then. I just hope you know what you are doing,” Nick flung out, before pivoting on his heel and stalking away.
Mandell chose to linger near one of the green baize tables and hazarded a few passes with the dice to pass the time. It was an activity that required little of his concentration, which was just as well, for Nick’s parting shot echoed through his head.
I just hope you know what you are doing.At any other time, Mandell would have told Nicholas that that was exactly the case, but for once in his life Mandell was not entirely sure of himself.
What was he doing? Was he really about to force a quarrel upon a man he scarce knew? Certainly, Sir Lucien had always filled him with contempt, but the man was not interesting enough to detest.
But before this evening ended, Mandell might find himself challenging Sir Lucien. Not over Anne, as Mandell had led Nicholas to believe, but over a mere child. Mandell had never been sentimental about children. And yet he kept remembering that wistful little girl peering at her mother through the bars of a locked gate, Anne looking as vulnerable as a lost child herself He kept recalling Anne walking beside him through the darkened streets, telling him the story of her loss and grief with quiet dignity. Even her tears had been silent.
He thought he would have promised anything to erase the sorrow from her eyes; pledged to restore her daughter to her, damn the cost to himself.
“The main is seven, my lord.” One of the players next to Mandell nudged him, forcing Mandell to realize he had held the dice cupped in his hand too long.
He gave them a careless toss. Perhaps Nick was right. Perhaps he was becoming obsessed. Perhaps he should back away from this affair of the lady Anne. It waxed dangerous when he began to entertain such noble thoughts.
After all these years, it would be disconcerting to discover that he possessed a heart after all. How fortunate it was that he knew better.
In truth, he cared naught whether Anne was reunited with her daughter. It was simply that Anne was proving a difficult conquest. If sending her flowers or showering her with jewels would have done the trick, he would not have bothered himself further. If anyone misconstrued his intervention as some act of chivalry or kindness, the more fool they.
Mandell would know better. And so would Anne.
Strange that that last thought should fill him with such melancholy. Mandell stared down at the table, the tossing of the dice beginning to seem too great an effort. As he walked away, he had to be reminded to collect his winnings.
As the minutes ticked by, Mandell waxed increasingly restless. It annoyed him to think he might be obliged to track Fairhaven down at his house, or worse still, at one of those squalid gaming hells Sir Lucien was known to frequent.
Mandell paced the length of the room, his movements attracting the attention of an acquaintance he had overlooked. Sir Lancelot Briggs was ensconced at the faro table, his hangdog look proclaiming him to be losing. But his face brightened at the sight of Mandell. He leapt up from the table.
“My lord, I did not know you were here. Will it please you to play at faro? You may have my place.”
