Page 69 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“Firken?” Anne called as she crept toward the top stair.
The butler straightened. Stepping into the pool of candlelight, his dignity appeared rumpled, his nightcap askew. “Oh, milady, I am sorry to have disturbed you in this matter, but the countess has not yet returned from the rout she attended tonight and I did not know what else to do.”
“What is amiss?” Anne asked as she started down the stairs. The butler hastened forward. Anne had never seen the old man so disconcerted.
“You must forgive me, Lady Fairhaven. If it had been anybody but his lordship, I would not have let him in. I would have summoned the footmen to throw him into the street, but one cannot treat the marquis in such a fashion.”
His lordship? The marquis? Anne felt her heart give an erratic leap. She brushed past the butler as she raced the rest of the way down the steps. The candle left burning in the wall sconce illuminated the face of the man sprawled back in the chair, those blade-sharp features, the aristocratic profile that possessed a certain hauteur even in the marquis’s disheveled state.
“Mandell!” she gasped. Anne had to blink several times to be certain she was not dreaming.
His eyes were closed but he stirred a little at the sound of his name, groaning and rolling his head against the back of the chair. He was clad only in his breeches, shirt and waistcoat soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his brow.
“He is very drunk, I am afraid,” Firken said, clucking his tongue.
“I can see that,” Anne replied, recovering from her initial shock. After last night, she had not expected to see the cool, arrogant marquis again, and certainly not collapsing in Lily’s hall. “What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know. He asked for you, my lady. Gentlemen will do odd things when they are in their cups. But I am sure you will agree, the important thing is to avoid any unpleasantness. One would not wish to offend a man as important as my lord Mandell.”
“Offend him!” Anne exclaimed. Once more Mandell had turned up when she least expected him, giving her a dreadful fright. As if that scene in his bedchamber had not been enough, now he must arrive on her doorstep at three in the morning, wreaking havoc with her emotions all over again.
Anger coursed through her. Ignoring the butler’s pleas for caution, she strode over and shook Mandell.
“My lord?” she demanded. “Wake up. At once! Do you hear me?”
He gave another moan. His eyes flickered open, his brow furrowing as though the effort cost him a great deal. He gazed up at her, confusion in those dark depths. Then his lips twitched in a lopsided smile.
“An angel? ‘stonishing,” he mumbled. “Funny ... always thought ... end in other place.”
“I always thought so, too. But you are not dead yet my lord. Don’t you even know where you are? Who I am?”
“Sorrow, my Lady Sorrow.”
“Lady Fairhaven,” Anne snapped. “You must try to come to your senses, my lord, and go home. You are quite drunk. You have come to my sister’s house by mistake.”
Mandell shook his head, the movement causing him to wince. After a struggle, he managed to sit upright, rubbing one hand over his face.
Anne gave a horrified gasp. There was dried blood on his sleeve and his strong, beautiful, elegant hand was hideously bruised and swollen.
“Dear God, Mandell!” Anne took his hand carefully in her own. “What have you done to yourself? You are hurt.”
“Of no ‘portance, Sorrow.” He sighed, and there was a weariness in his eyes that went far beyond the amount of drink he must have consumed and whatever paths of hell he had stalked this evening. “Had to see you one last time. Had to give you this.” He raised his other hand and pressed something cool and smooth between her fingers.
Anne stared at the object he had given her. It was the gold locket, the one bearing Norrie’s likeness that Anne had been obliged to abandon in that dreary pawnshop. She cupped the precious treasure in the palm of her hand. Wonderingly, she raised her eyes to Mandell.
“My locket. You got it back for me. I don’t understand. How did you ... I mean, why would you bother?”
But Mandell was beyond answering any more questions. His eyes drifted closed and he swayed dangerously forward. Anne did her best to steady him, but he sagged against her, his weight threatening to drag her to the floor.
“Firken!” she cried.
Even with the old man’s help, there was no way to prevent Mandell collapsing onto the cold marble. He sprawled on his back, his face ice white.
“Out cold for sure this time,” the butler lamented. “Perhaps I should go rouse Thomas and one of the other footmen. We could send his lordship home in the countess’s carriage.”
“No!” Anne said, surprised by the vehemence in her own voice. “It is raining outside and the marquis is already soaked through. Would you have him catch his death?”
“No, milady. But what is to be done with him then?”
