Page 60 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
He doubted any fault could be found with his appearance, but if there was, His Grace would be quick to point itout. Mandell had long ago abandoned the quest to win his grandfather’s approbation. A most useless struggle.
He and the old man rarely spent time in each other’s company these days. Mandell had no notion what could have prompted the duke to call upon him this evening. He was certain only of one thing. The visit was unlikely to afford pleasure to either of them.
Shoving open the door, he stepped into the drawing room, a chamber that was at once both somber and elegant with its heavy curtains, mahogany furniture, and thick Aubusson carpet. The duke stood at the far corner by the pianoforte. Oblivious to Mandell’s arrival, he leaned upon his silver-handled cane, staring up at the small painting that had been a gift to Mandell from his cousin Drummond. It was by a Dutch artist after Rembrandt’s style of light and shadow and depicted a cavalier with flowing black locks and pointed beard, an arrogant youth of another time and place.
Mandell reflected that his grandfather could have just stepped out of a portrait of another century, an age of greater elegance. His thick waves of white hair swept back into a queue, His Grace was attired in a powder blue satin coat and knee breeches, the richness of the fabric gleaming in the candlelight. The coat was nudged back slightly to reveal a flowered waistcoat that Nick would have envied.
His grandfather had never inspired much affection in Mandell, but he did have to admit the duke had a way about him, a regal aura that could put a king to shame. One could not love the old devil, but one did have to admire him.
Mandell pulled the door behind him with a sharp click. His Grace had to have heard him, but he did not trouble himself to turn around.
“Good evening, your Grace.”
The duke finished his inspection of the portrait. “Mandell.” He gave a curt nod, regarding Mandell with his heavy-lidded gaze, those keen eyes that time seemed unable to dim.
“This is an unlooked-for honor.” Mandell chose his words with deliberate care. “I trust I have not kept you waiting too long.”
“Only a quarter of an hour. I have entertained myself by studying your unusual taste in decor. I notice you yet have that about.” The duke made a sweeping gesture with his cane, bringing it to rest atop the pianoforte. “Do you still play?”
“Occasionally, to amuse myself. And you can hardly have forgotten the pianoforte once belonged to my mother.”
“She had little use for it. Like most of the Windermeres, my daughter was not musically inclined.” The duke’s thin smile was rife with accusation.
Mandell felt his jaw clench in response. Both he and the duke knew where Mandell had inherited his ability and passion for music, and it had not been from Lady Celine. It was a subject to be avoided. The old man must be in a rare mood to be seeking to provoke a quarrel this soon. Considering Mandell’s own edgy temper this evening, his grandfather’s visit could not have been more ill-timed.
Mandell eased the cane from atop the piano. “I cannot believe you called upon me to discuss my furnishings. There is a chill at this end of the room. Will it please you to return by the fire?”
The duke held his gaze for a moment, then complied, stalking past Mandell. He settled himself upon a wing chair. Brushing back the lace from his cuffs, he rested both of his hands upon his cane in front of him. His fingers were remarkably smooth and straight for a man of his years.
Mandell knew his grandfather would get to the reason for this visit in his own good time. Curbing his impatience, Mandellstood by the fire, resting one arm along the mantel. It somehow gave him an advantage, and one needed every advantage when dealing with His Grace of Windermere.
“I hope Hastings looked after you well in my absence,” Mandell remarked.
“Hastings?” The duke frowned. “Oh, you mean your footman. An efficient enough fellow, but why will you persist in garbing your servants in black? It seems the most deplorable affectation, as though you were perpetually in mourning.”
“So I am,” Mandell drawled. “For my lost innocence.”
“Spare me your wit, sir.”
Mandell acknowledged this rebuke with an ironic bow. “If you do not care for my wit, perhaps you would prefer my wine. I have an excellent port in my cellars.”
“No, thank you. I fear my gout has been flaring up.”
“Then it astonishes me that you would choose to venture abroad. Especially on such an evening. The weather promises to turn most foul.”
“I should not have had to come here if you would be so obliging as to wait upon me. You did not even appear last week when I asked you to dine.”
“Commanded me,” Mandell corrected.
“I suppose I may command my own grandson. That dinner was to have been a special occasion.”
“To mark the anniversary of when you acknowledged me as your heir. I marvel that Your Grace still thinks that a cause for celebration.”
His grandfather pursed his lips and said grudgingly, “For the most part, I have been quite satisfied with you, Mandell. You exhibit the traits of a man of intelligence and breeding except for those lapses when the passionate side of your nature gets the better of you.”
He scowled. “I have recently heard some gossip about you from Sir Lancelot Briggs which I find disturbing.”
“Indeed? I was not aware that Your Grace and Briggs had become such boon companions.”
