Page 5 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
And the flames had leapt up, consuming the papers in one greedy lick. If only memories could be burnt away as easily.
Shaking off the troubling reminiscence, Mandell pulled Sara close for one last kiss, then eased her out of his arms.
“Farewell, my dear. If the respectable life is what you want so much, I hope you find it.”
She stroked his cheek, an unusually tender gesture for Sara. “And you, Mandell. My wish for you is that just once in your life, you desire something strong enough to risk everything for it—your life, your soul, even the honor of your precious family name.”
“Regrettably, madam, I cannot think of anything I would ever want that badly.” Upturning her hand, he brushed his lips against her palm.
Releasing her, he moved toward the door with his usual pantherlike grace. Sara stared at him, taking one last look at that tautly honed male form she had known so intimately. One last look at the darkness, the danger to be found in that lean face whose latent sensuality never failed to arouse her.
She felt a curling of heat, a mad impulse to call him back to her bed one last time. But if she did so, it would only be harder to let Mandell go while her dreams drifted further away.
She remained where she was until the door clicked behind him. Then she heaved a deep sigh at her own folly. She must be mad to fling off her protector, possibly the most magnificent lover she had ever had, and this while she was still uncertain of what she meant to do next. She had no immediate prospects, only vague ambitions.
Yet she could not summon the energy to do any more thinking tonight. Pressing her hand to her brow, she could already feel the niggling of one of her infamous headaches. She wanted to flop back into bed, but the tangled sheets were a reminder of Mandell, redolent with his musky scent. She would find no repose there until she called Agnes to change the linens.
But Sara had no need to summon her maid, for the next moment the woman, in her starched apron and cap, burst into the room. The tidings Agnes brought drove all thoughts of Mandell out of Sara’s head.
“Oh, madam, he is here,” the flustered maid squeaked. “Round by the back door.”
Sara did not have to ask whom the woman meant. Her heart gave a sick thud of fear and anger.
“I will be down at once,” Sara said grimly. She had a great deal to say to that brother of hers.
She paused only long enough to change her wrapper for another dressing gown less revealing. Flinging a shawl about her shoulders, she crept through the house to the cold and silent kitchen, only glowing ashes left on the hearth of the massive bake oven.
Gideon Palmer lounged just inside the doorway. Despite the jagged scar that creased his chin, he was a handsome young man in scarlet regimentals. His rakish smile had been more than one poor maid’s undoing.
“Sara,” he said, with a lazy grin. “My dear sister.”
But she was not about to be charmed by him, not this time. She launched into him without preamble.
“Albert Glossop is dead!” she hissed. “Damn it, Gideon! What have you been doing?”
Mandell had the hackney cab set him down at the end of Clarion Way. With such a press of carriages depositing people at the Countess Sumner’s door, the entire thoroughfare was clogged. Mandell found it far easier to proceed on foot.
He had no intention of stepping round to Sumner House himself until he had changed his attire. Fortunately, his townhouse lay just at the end of the street.
Lily’s ball was certainly gaining the lion’s share of the attention tonight, for the rest of Clarion Way remained shadowed and silent. As Mandell progressed farther along the pavement, he felt as though he had stepped out of a circle of light and confusion into the soothing quiet that night was meant to be.
Not even a footman was to be seen lingering about the square, not since Glossop’s murder. Away from the excitement at the opposite end of Clarion Way, Mandell was quite alone, except for the cloaked individual who stood outside of his house.
Mandell tensed and might have reached for the swordstick hidden in the handle of his walking cane, except that hooded figure was slight, obviously a woman.
She leaned up against his wrought iron fence, blocking the short path that led up to the stairs of the house. As Mandell drew closer, he saw the woman shudder and heard a muffled sob.
He rolled his eyes. He never had much patience for a weeping female, certainly not one who chose to snuffle over his fence at this time of night.
Stalking up behind her, he said, “I beg your pardon, madam.”
He had spoken quietly, but even that caused her to gasp. She whirled around, clutching her hand to the region of her heart.
Mandell had entertained the notion that this must be some maid from one of the houses, likely disappointed in a rendezvous with a lover. But the richness of the woman’s satin cloak dispelled that idea.
She was clearly a lady. But what the deuce was she doing in the street at this hour, and why did she have to be doing it upon his doorstep?
As she recovered her breath, she said, “Oh, it is you, Lord Mandell. You startled me.”
