Page 62 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“The chevalier de Valmiere was a coward. He took my daughter away from her family, carried her off to France. He eventually abandoned her there to die. And you. He made no effort to seek you out for twenty-five years. Is there anything more you need to know about such a man?”
With a great deal of self-control, Mandell forced the duke’s grip from his sleeve. “Perhaps not, but I cannot deny that he existed.”
“So, you would seek him out, return to the land of your mother’s murderers. It is unworthy of you, Mandell. An insult to her memory. Can you have forgotten how she died?”
“No, I have not.”
“The Parisian police broke down the door of the apartment. They arrested her. They dragged her out, terrified and screaming.”
“I remember. I was there.”
“They intended to put her on trial. She would have faced the guillotine.” The old man’s eyes glittered. “But the mob was waiting in the streets. They put their filthy hands upon my proud, beautiful Celine, suffocating her with their vile stench. Clawed and tore at her like savage beasts, smearing themselves with her blood.”
“I remember,” Mandell repeated tersely.
“And when they had done, they paraded her head on a pike?—”
“I remember, damn you!
Mandell strode away to the window, struggling to regain his composure. The sky beyond the glass was so black, like the suffocating darkness of being shut up in a closet. Mandell had seen nothing that long ago night, only felt the terror. It had always been the visions that the duke conjured that made him feel as though he had witnessed his mother’s death, the old man’s words splashing the night sky with vivid hues of red.
Mandell pressed unsteady fingers to his brow. When he turned back, the duke looked ashen and as shaken as he. But it had been ever thus between them, circling each other like two duelists seeking their mark, only to succeed in reopening the one old wound that gave pain to them both.
It was his grandfather who recovered enough to speak first. “You were brought to me as a boy, Mandell, frightened, confused, as ragged and shivering as any peasant. I gave everything back to you, your courage, your place as my grandson, the dignity of my own name. I never expected gratitude from you, but I at least thought to have your loyalty.”
“And so you have had, Your Grace, beyond question.”
“Then you will not go to France?” his grandfather asked. It was as close as the proud duke of Windermere would ever come to a plea. Mandell looked deep into the old man’s hooded eyes and was astonished to find fear there. It had never occurred to him that his iron-willed grandfather carried with him his own nightmares and terror of Paris.
“No, I will not go,” Mandell said. “I never had any intention of doing so.”
He half expected his grandfather might require his oath on that, but the duke appeared satisfied with those few brief words. Leaning on his cane, he stumped over to summon the footman and order up his carriage himself.
It was strange, Mandell thought. As a boy, his grandfather had seemed such a looming figure in his life. When he had grown to manhood, it had come as quite a jolt to realize the duke was not that tall. What he lacked in stature, His Grace made up for in his regal bearing.
But as Mandell studied his grandfather more closely, he saw the first signs of stooping shoulders. When the candlelight played full upon the duke’s age-lined features, he looked drained.
The old man was clearly no longer up to these little bouts of theirs. Mandell experienced a genuine regret that he had goaded him so. He was moved to apologize but knew it would do no good. The duke would only perceive that as a sign of weakness.
While they waited for the duke’s carriage to be brought round, Mandell sought to introduce more neutral topics and was grateful when his grandfather followed his lead. They discussed the spirited team of horses Mandell had recently acquired and His Grace’s plans to dine at Devonshire House that evening.
“The countess has been pressing me to do so and I shall be retiring to the country soon,” the duke said.
“In the midst of the season?”
“London is not what it was. It gets worse every year. So many of my acquaintances have passed on and one scarce knows what manner of person one might meet these days, even in the best houses. This modern world of yours, Mandell, has no proper regard for rank and breeding.”
“Not my world, Your Grace, so much as Nick’s. He believes it is high time that men should be judged more for their own merit than who their fathers were.”
“Your cousin is becoming a most alarming young man. I fear that one of these days Nicholas will carry these mad ideas of his too far.” A troubled frown creased the duke’s brow.
But Mandell was accustomed to his grandfather’s complaints about Nick. Having no desire to set the duke off into another of his tirades, Mandell found it more politic to ignore the remark.
After Hastings had helped His Grace into his cloak and tricorne hat, Mandell escorted the duke to the waiting carriage himself.
Going down the walk, he attempted to use his tall frame to shield the old man from the bite of the wind. It had not yet begun to rain, but the thunder edged closer, causing the team of bays hitched to the duke’s brougham to paw restively.
“Take care, sir,” Mandell said. “It is going to be a bad night and Nick seems to be correct about one thing. Given recent events, perhaps this city does stand in need of a little more protection.”
