Page 52 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
A servant melted out of the darkness, a stocky young man attired in Mandell’s distinctive livery of black and silver.
The footman bowed. “Lady Fairhaven?”
Anne nodded. She wondered if this solemn man knew why he had been sent to fetch her. Of course, he did. Servants always knew everything. Anne blushed, shrinking deeper into the shelter of her hood.
“I am John Hastings, my lady,” the footman said, opening the coach door for her. “My lord Mandell sent me to insure your safe arrival.”
As he handed her into the darkened interior of the carriage, Anne asked, “Where are we going?”
But Mandell had obviously trained his servants to be as enigmatic as himself, for Hastings closed the door without another word. He scrambled to take his place up on the box beside the coachman.
Anne was jolted back against the squabs as the coach lurched into movement. She clenched her hands together in her lap, trying to still her desire to leap back out of the carriage.
She supposed it didn’t matter what their destination might be. She had placed herself in Mandell’s power that night she had given him her vow, perhaps longer ago still when she had first permitted him to lead her into a moonlit garden and steal a kiss.
There was no escaping him now.
Ten
The carriage ride was short. Anne did not have enough time to compose herself before the silent Hastings was handing her down into the darkness of a stable yard.
“If it would please you to follow me, my lady,” he said.
As if Anne had any choice but to do so. Huddling deeper into her cloak, she stumbled after Hastings through the inky blackness of a starless night, broken only by the bobbing light of the lantern he carried. He took such long strides she had to hasten to keep up with him, having little chance to gain her bearings other than to realize that she passed beneath the branches of some trees, through the shadows of what appeared to be a garden.
It was not until the footman led her across the threshold of a formidable door, and her feet clattered against the cold marble tile of an entranceway, that Anne dared ease back her hood to determine exactly where she was.
She stood in an imposing front hall, cold, elegant, and austere, a stairway with a wrought iron balustrade sweeping up to a shadowed landing above her. A shock of realization pierced her and she nearly exclaimed aloud.
Mandell’s own London house. She had never been past his front gate before, but she knew with inexplicable certainty that she stood in his reception hall. The coach could have done no more than circle the square several times before bringing her back here, to a house only down the street from her own sister’s.
Feeling more confused and unsettled than ever, Anne turned to question the footman, but Hastings had vanished, leaving her alone in the chill silence of the hall, the house around her a ring of forbidding closed doors.
There was no sign of Mandell or anyone else for that matter. Now what was she expected to do? Anne wondered miserably. There was not even a fire kindled upon the hall’s massive stone hearth. Hastings had taken the lantern away, and if not for the candles flickering in the wall sconces, she would have been left in darkness.
She stood, shifting from foot to foot. The front door loomed but yards away. She could fling it open in a trice. If she ran fast enough, it would be a matter of minutes before she was back safe in her own bedchamber.
“You are late, Sorrow,” a silky voice echoed from the regions behind her. Her heart thudding, Anne whipped around.
The marquis of Mandell stood on the landing above her, his tall shadow cast down the length of the stairs. The candlelight accented the hauteur of his features, giving him an aura of almost satanic male beauty, the glow bringing a sheen to the dark waves of his hair.
He was clad in a wine-colored dressing gown of satin, belted at the waist. The rich folds parted enough to reveal that he wore close-fitting black breeches beneath and a white shirt opened slightly at the neck. He extended one hand toward her, his signet ring glinting in the light.
It was not so much a supplication as a silent command. Anne risked one longing glance toward the front door before drawingin a steadying breath. She raised her skirts, beginning the long climb up toward Mandell.
When she came close enough, he caught her hand, his own fingers strong and steadying as he drew her up to stand beside him.
“It is nearly eleven of the clock,” he said. “I have never waited so long for any lady to keep her appointment with me. I had begun to think you intended to fail me.”
There was an edge to his voice and when she dared glance up at him, she saw that his eyes were as still and brooding as his great empty house.
“I had difficulty getting away,” Anne said. “Norrie woke up and she needed me. I had to soothe her back to sleep,”
Mandell’s face softened. “The important thing is that you are here now.”
“Yes, but I never expected you would bring me to your home.”
His brows rose haughtily. “You thought I would hie you off to some sordid inn where any common knave might look at you? I have a little more regard for your reputation than that, milady. That is why I instructed Hastings to take great care when spiriting you away to me.”
