Page 39 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“I should not dream of depriving you, my dear Briggs,” Mandell said.
He tried to pass on, but Briggs kept pace. “Oh, ‘tis all right. I have lost everything anyway.” He cast one last wistful glanceto where the croupier leaned over the curved slot in the table, raking away the last of Briggs’s gaming pieces.
“Have you dined?” Briggs asked. “We could retire to the supper room. I have so many exciting things to tell you.’’
“I think not.”
“Oh, but I do. I had the privilege of encountering your grandfather in the Pall Mall today.”
“What a rare pleasure that must have been for both of you,” Mandell replied in acid tones. He had been favored with his grandfather’s opinion of Sir Lancelot many times.
“Inbreeding,” the old duke had sniffed. “One fool mated to another for too many generations. How else could one explain how the man comes to be such a simpleton?”
But Sir Lancelot remained blissfully unaware of the duke’s scorn. He confided to Mandell, “I think His Grace may be beginning to like me a little. He condescended to speak to me this time. I said, ‘Good afternoon, Your Grace. A pleasant day, is it not?” And he said, ‘If you like rain, sir.”
Briggs beamed with delight. “He actually said that to me.‘If you like rain, sir.’”
“My grandfather has always been noted for his wit.”
“Your relationship to the duke has always intrigued me. Imagine being adopted by one’s own grandfather. I mean, do you then call him father or grandpapa?”
“I always called him Your Grace,” Mandell said icily. Sir Lancelot blinked. “Oh. Oh, of course.”
Once more Mandell made the effort to move on, but Sir Lancelot trailed after him, saying, “But why am I blathering on about His Grace?”
“I don’t know. It is one of the great mysteries of the universe.”
“I have far more interesting news to impart. You will never guess. I, Lancelot Briggs, witnessed the murder at the theatre the other night.”
“What!” Mandell was startled enough for once to accord Briggs his full attention.
“Well, I did not exactly see the murder taking place. I arrived on the scene shortly afterward. I saw a suspicious fellow slinking away, wearing a big floppy-brimmed hat with a feather, and I described him to the constable.” Briggs drew himself up importantly and Mandell could tell he was about to launch into a long-winded account of what the constable had said to him and just what he had said to the constable. But Mandell’s brief flash of attention was already lost.
He had just seen Sir Lucien Fairhaven entering the room.
Never taking his eyes from the doorway, Mandell drew forth his purse and extracted a handful of pound notes. Interrupting Sir Lancelot in midsentence, he stuffed the money into his pudgy hand.
“Here. I will stake you. Go try your luck at faro and see if you can recoup your losses.”
To Mandell’s surprise, Briggs made no move to pocket the money. His lips quivering, Sir Lancelot regarded Mandell with a wounded expression in his brown eyes. He returned the notes, speaking in a manner that for him was almost dignified.
“If you don’t wish for my company, my lord, it is not necessary to pay me to go away.”
With a small bow, he turned and shuffled off, losing himself in the throng about the hazard table. A soft curse escaped Mandell, equal parts annoyed with Briggs and with himself for making such a clumsy gesture.
But he had more important things to worry about than Briggs’s injured feelings. If Sir Lucien settled into a card game, it would make Mandell’s task that much more difficult.
Thrusting the money into his purse, he made his way across the room. Sir Lucien had paused to berate a page boy for some fancied insolence. Since he had acquired his brother’s title, Fairhaven never seemed to feel he was being paid enough deference. But it was often that way with upstart nobility and the nouveau riche.
As soon as he finished snarling at the trembling boy, Sir Lucien moved purposefully toward the faro table. But Mandell was in time to intercept him. He stepped into Sir Lucien’s path with one graceful fluid movement.
Brummell had always declared that clothes could make the man. But doubtless the Beau had never seen the likes of Fairhaven before. Sir Lucien’s attire was faultless, yet there was still an air of boorishness about him. No matter how immaculately he was garbed, Fairhaven always looked like a man recovering from a bad night, heavy bags beneath his eyes, his thick mane of yellow hair slightly unkempt.
Barely disguising his contempt, Mandell said, “Good evening, Sir Lucien.”
Fairhaven looked surprised at being addressed by Mandell, but he nodded in return. “My lord.”
“I was not aware that you were a member here, Sir Lucien.”
