Page 63 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“Bah! I suppose you mean that Hook business. I am no fool like young Albert Glossop. I have always known how to take care of myself.”
One of the duke’s own postilions snapped to open the coach door for him. But Mandell put his hand beneath the duke’s elbow to help him up the steps. It was the only touch his grandfather had ever been willing to accept from him.
As the duke settled back against the squabs, Mandell closed the door. His Grace thrust his head forward to peer out the coach window. “One more thing, Mandell. Think about what I have said regarding your dealings with Lady Fairhaven.”
Mandell had hoped his grandfather had forgotten or else decided to let the matter die. But that was too much to have expected. His Grace was nothing if not persistent.
“Set your mind at rest,” Mandell said. “I have no intention of marrying anyone at present.”
“But I want you to think of marriage. It is time you were producing an heir. All I ask is that when you are choosing a bride, remember your station in life—you are my grandson, the marquis of Mandell.”
“When would you ever allow me to forget?” Mandell murmured somewhat bitterly. But his remark was lost as the coachman whipped up the team and his grandfather’s ancient carriage clattered off down the street,
Mandell felt the first dash of rain against his cheek and did not linger by the gate. He returned to the relative warmth and comfort of his drawing room. But if he had been restless before his grandfather’s visit, he now felt tenfold more so.
He applied the poker to the fire, causing the flames to crackle and flare higher about the half-burned logs. It was ironic. His grandfather had striven to burn away his past, commanded him to forget. Yet it was the old man who constantly stirred the ashes of remembrance.
The bitter words he had exchanged with the duke had set ghosts loose upon this chamber. It was a perfect night for such specters with the rain now lashing the panes, the wind howling like some thrice-damned soul.
One such phantom was waiting for him as he approached the pianoforte, lightly trailing his fingers over the keys. After such a passage of time, Mandell had no clear memory of his father, other than he had been tall and handsome, his eyes brilliantly dark.
But his recollection of the chevalier’s hands was crystal clear, those long, sensitive fingers moving as deftly down the keys as a man might caress a mistress he has known long and loved well. His father’s voice had been as rich and lilting as the music he played.
“Attend-moi, mon petit gentilhomme, if you seek the fire and fury of a man’s soul, look to Monsieur Beethoven. But if you want something light and romantic to charm the ladies, it must be Mozart.”
Mandell recollected heeding his words most solemnly, for it had seemed his father was right. When his father had played out the strains of a minuet, his mother leaned across the pianoforte, sighed, and smiled. Mandell’s memory of the Lady Celine was that she had hardly ever smiled. She had always been so stern and distant. She only seemed to come alive when his father was present.
Mandell scowled, the softer vision fading as it always did to be replaced by the darker one, that night of black closets, splintering wood, and terrifying screams. Valmiere had given his mother love and life, only to abandon her to death.
“Where were you that night, my noble father?” Mandell grated. “Why weren’t you there to save her?”
He slammed his fist down upon the pianoforte keys with a jarring clang and then stalked away from the instrument. Whyhad he and his mother been left alone in Paris? Had his father truly been that much of a bastard, and did any of it really matter anymore?
No, it didn’t. It was only his grandfather’s visit that had stirred up all these memories, these doubts. It was only the storm outside making him so edgy, the lightning cracking and illuminating his windows like a flash of cannon fire.
He could sense the tension building within him until he felt as dark and dangerous as the night itself. It was going to be a wild night, a night in which he dared not sleep, for he knew he would dream. And dreaming was always bad.
Anne was fortunate she was not with him now, for he could never have been merciful enough to let her go. Not tonight.
“My Lady Sorrow, if you were in my arms at this moment, I would crush you against me, plunder your sweetness until I found forgetfulness, I could almost admit that I need?—”
But Mandell was quick to check that wayward thought. He had no need but the most primitive male urge. He had survived many such nights of torment without Anne Fairhaven. He would get through this one as well.
Summoning Hastings, he commanded the footman to fetch his greatcoat and beaver hat. “I shall be dining away from home this evening,” Mandell informed him.
Hastings ventured a doubtful glance toward the windows, where the storm raged outside, but all he said was, “Yes, my lord.”
“And you may tell my valet not to wait up for me. I do not expect to return until very late.”
“Very good, my lord. Does that mean the rest of the staff might retire early as well?” There was a hint of eagerness in Hastings’s usual respectful monotone.
Mandell shot his footman a curious glance. He suddenly recalled the reason for Hastings’s introduction into hishousehold. “You were planning to be married soon, were you not, Hastings? My parlor maid—er—Agnes.”
“Emily, my lord. You must have forgotten. We were wed last Tuesday morn. You granted us a half-day holiday.”
“Did I? How unusually gracious of me.” Mandell drew on his gloves. “So, you are a newly wedded man. Yes, perhaps you should retire to your bed early.”
Mandell was amused to see the stolid Hastings flush a deep scarlet. The marquis’s lips curved into a genuine smile, which was rare for him. Accepting his hat from the footman, he said, “Be off with you, John. Hie yourself away to the heaven of your lady’s arms.”
