Page 7 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“Oh? Have you seen him tonight?”
“Well, no, but one knows he is still out there, lurking. After what happened to poor Bertie Glossop, I fear none of us are safe until that villain is captured.” Briggs added shyly, “I looked for you at the club earlier. When you did not come to dine, I confess I was worried.”
Mandell eyed Briggs with distaste. The man trailed after him so much he was becoming known as “Mandell’s toady.” Perhaps that did not affront Briggs’s pride, but it certainly did Mandell’s.
“Your solicitude is touching,” the marquis said coldly, “but I trust I may alter my schedule without it becoming a matter of public concern.”
Briggs turned a bright red. “Yes, of course. That is, I am sorry. I only ...” He allowed his words to trail away, his brown eyes welling with hurt. He walked off, looking crestfallen.
“Why must you always be so cutting, Mandell?” The quiet voice might have been his conscience except that Mandell did not believe he possessed one. Turning, he discovered that his cousin Nicholas Drummond had come up behind him.
Nick’s sartorial magnificence was almost blinding. He wore a mauve frock coat, lace spilling from his cuffs, his neckcloth folded in an intricate arrangement. It amused Mandell that Nick, intensely serious about everything else, should be so frivolous in matters of dress, loading himself down with fobs and diamond stickpins. Mandell, on the other hand, who accounted nothing to be of great importance, wore no jewelry save his gold signet ring.
Nick asked, “Why do you always treat poor Briggs so shabbily? He is your friend.”
“I was not aware that I had any friends,” Mandell replied.
“Briggs apparently thinks otherwise. The man is devoted to you.”
“So would a dog be, if I had one.” Mandell drew forth an enameled snuffbox and flicked open the lid with a careless but practiced gesture. “I don’t entertain sycophants.”
“No, you are the last man anyone could accuse of that. That is why I don’t understand what possessed Briggs to attach himself to you.”
Mandell helped himself to a pinch of snuff, then returned the box to his pocket. “That is my own fault. We were both at a gaming hell once and a Captain Sharp was fleecing Briggs at cards. When Briggs was foolish enough to object, the fellow threatened him with a pistol. I felt compelled to intervene.”
“Did you, by God.” Nick’s eyes warmed with admiration, but Mandell would have none of it.
“I don’t know what comes over me,” he said. “I am beset by these beneficent impulses from time to time like a recurrent bout of the brain fever. It is the one great flaw in my character.”
“Well, flawed or not, I am deuced glad to see you. I thought you would be otherwise engaged this evening. Have you tired of the charms of your latest mistress so soon?”
“Why? Would you like me to introduce you to her?”
“No, thank you,” Nick said, laughing. “I am far too occupied with my work for such a diversion. I have been meaning to call upon you. I have a favor to ask.”
Mandell cast his cousin a pained glance. “Not to second you in another duel! My dear fellow, this is becoming a tiresome habit. I can sympathize with you in some measure. There are a good many people I would like to shoot, but not over politics. Now it would be another matter if you fought over a woman or because someone’s waistcoat offended you.”
Mandell flicked his fingers against Nick’s own silk garment, a pattern of bright mauve stripes.
“Damn your eyes, Mandell,” Nick growled, “there is nothing wrong with my waistcoat, and no, I am not about to fight another duel. I am still recovering from the effects of my last meeting with Beresford.”
He rubbed the back of his left hand, which bore a recent scar from a pistol ball. Mandell had only been thankful that Beresford, who was a crack shot, had been content to aim for Nick’s hand rather than his hot head.
“It is something else entirely I need to ask you about,” Nick said. “But perhaps we had better find someplace quieter where we will not be interrupted.”
“If you insist, though it is not my habit to steal off into secluded alcoves with politicians.”
Nick grinned. “And do not all the mamas in this room know it! As soon as you appeared on the threshold, Lady Ormsbygathered her girls about her like a flustered hen. I believe she has sent out for their chastity belts.”
“An unnecessary precaution,” Mandell murmured. “I have seen her daughters.”
After which quip, he permitted Nick to lead the way through the drawing room. This was not an easy feat, for the gallery was packed. Couples performing a quadrille had hardly enough room to pace off their steps. More than one lady present had recourse to use her fan, the blazing lights of the chamber’s four chandeliers being over brilliant.
The curtained alcove seemed cool and quiet by comparison. Nick flung himself down at once upon a claw foot sofa, but Mandell chose to remain standing.
“Is it my imagination,” he said, “or are the voices of the ladies a little shriller tonight?”
“Oh, I suppose there is still a deal of excitement owing to Bertie Glossop’s death.” Nick shrugged. “Mind you, I would not have wished Glossop any harm, but in a queer way, his murder has turned out to be a good thing. I had hoped that the activities of the Hook might have done so sooner, but it seems to have taken something this grim to shake certain people out of their complacency.”
