Page 71 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“Never over. Every time close my eyes. C-can’t get out. Can’t save her.”
Anne managed to ease him back down onto the pillow, but a ragged sob tore through him, a despairing cry that Anne felt echo in her own heart.
He clutched at the sleeve of her dressing gown. “Dark ... too dark,” he rasped. “Help me. Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t. I promise.” Anne ran her fingers back through his hair. “I am right here.”
Her assurances soothed him enough that he closed his eyes, but he continued to cry out, tossing and turning, murmuring of a secret pain Anne was certain that no one had ever been meant to hear.
She knew that when he was once more himself, the haughty Mandell might never forgive her for this, witnessing the tear thatleaked out of the corner of his eye, the childlike sob that wracked his frame.
But what could she do? Once more she had given him her promise. Perhaps she could bring him no comfort, but she could not leave him like this, either. Leaning forward, she pressed a soft kiss across his brow. Clinging to his hand, Anne watched helplessly as Mandell descended into his own dark world.
Fourteen
Mandell awoke to bright sunlight stabbing at his eyes. With a low groan, he flung one arm across his face, shielding himself from the intensity. Despite the warmth of the rays, he felt chilled. His eyes mere slits, he studied his surroundings, the costly brocade bed hangings, the heavy oak pillars of the bed, the dressing table with its jar of ointment and bandages. All quite unfamiliar.
He shivered and groped for the coverlet, at the same time groping for his memory.
Where the devil am I?
He scowled and nearly cried aloud, the simple act of contracting his brow making him conscious of the pain exploding inside his head. Damn! He felt as though someone had been using his skull for a blacksmith’s anvil.
Gingerly, he attempted to explore his forehead for any sign of injury and was further mystified by the linen cocoon wrapped about his hand. Had he been in some sort of an accident?
Moistening his dry lips, he grimaced at the feel of his own tongue, thick as a wad of cotton. His splitting head and the stale taste in his mouth were sensations he recognized.
He had not been in any accident. This disaster was one of his own making, his and too many tumblers full of brandy. He emitted a soft sigh, part disgust, part agony. It had been many years since he had drunk himself into such a state, not since the uncultivated days of his youth. And never had he gone so far that he had awakened in a strange bed, wearing someone else’s nightshirt, not even knowing where he was, much less what he had been doing.
As he flexed his sore hand, he wondered what manner of folly he had been guilty of last night. It made his head swim even to try to think about it. Confusing scenes flashed before his eyes; the quarrel with his grandfather, telling Hastings not to wait up, setting off for White’s determined to drown his black thoughts.
Apparently, he had done a good job. He could recall nothing after his arrival at White’s. His memory was like a dark mirror that had shattered into a dozen shards. Mandell had a strong foreboding that gathering those shards would prove an agonizing task, one that might leave him cut and bleeding.
Managing to prop himself up on one elbow, his bleary gaze tracked round the massive four-poster bed. He could have ended up in worse places; a brothel, some stinking tavern, the gutter. This bedchamber belonged to a fashionable household, one of wealth and elegance.
But whose? And how did he arrive here? He could not remember. So, what did he do now? Attempt to summon a servant? He flattered himself that he could handle any situation with aplomb. But he was not certain that even the haughty marquis of Mandell was equal to demanding a hot bath, his clothes, and by the bye, could you kindly tell me where I am.
Mandell was not aware that he had muttered these last words aloud until a small voice piped up, “You are at my aunt Lily’s.”
The sound, soft as it was, startled him into jerking upright. A grave mistake. His head spun and a wave of nausea swept overhim. It took all his iron control to suppress the desire to be sick, to bring the whirling room back into focus.
A focus that settled upon a diminutive figure at the foot of his bed. Mandell wondered if he were having a hallucination. The little girl stared back at him through solemn blue eyes. She could have been an apparition, all pink and gold, garbed in delicate white muslin, a blue sash knotted at her slender waist. Except that Mandell had seen this fairy child before, locked behind the cruel iron gates of an unkempt garden.
“Eleanor Rose Fairhaven,” Mandell said in dumbfounded accents, as though he needed to convince himself of that fact. “Anne’s daughter.”
The child must have perceived this as a form of introduction, for she dropped into a graceful curtsy. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, and then inquired politely, “S’cuse me, but have you lost your wits?”
“That is a strong possibility,” Mandell murmured, feeling quite dazed. Norrie Fairhaven ... If she was in truth standing at the foot of his bed and he had not run quite insane, then at least he knew where his drunken progress must have ended.
At the Countess Sumner’s, Lily Rosemoor’s doorstep. No, not Lily’s. Anne’s. Mandell stifled a groan. He would have preferred the gutter.
“I heard Bettine telling cook about you,” Norrie continued. “That you burst into our front hall like a loonytic.” The little girl frowned as she struggled to pronounce the next words. “Bettine says you are a fitting candicake for Bedlam.”
“A woman of vast perception.” He winced. “Just who is this Bettine?”
“Mama’s maid. She helps take care of me. She is kind most of the time, but she did think we should have throwed you back into the streets.”
And what did Mama think? Mandell longed to ask, but why should he care what Anne would have thought? It only irritated him to realize that he did.
