Page 79 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
Briggs’s lips quivered. Mandell pressed his hand one last time and released him. “We had quite a night of it last night, didn’t we?”
Briggs nodded sadly.
“The last I recall you prevented me from murdering Lucien Fairhaven. I suppose I should thank you for that, but then I believe you carted me up to some flea-ridden bed and half drowned me with water.” The effort to recall caused Mandell’s head to ache again. “Then I have this notion you left me. You were going to fetch something, is that correct?”
Briggs nodded again, but his gaze skittered uneasily away from Mandell’s.
“How did you come to end up down by the river? Do you remember who attacked you? Was it the Hook?”
Briggs shuddered and nodded.
“Was he someone from the tavern? Would you recognize him again?”
Briggs cast him a piteous glance. Mandell continued to prod gently, “Was he the same fellow you glimpsed before, the one with the plumed hat? Could you manage to write out any sort of description? I may abuse my own friends, Briggs, but I am damned if I will allow anyone else to do so. I will track this bastard down and tighten the noose about his neck myself if?—”
Mandell broke off as Briggs became quite agitated. He clutched at Mandell’s sleeve, shaking his head in vehement denial.
“Steady on, old fellow,” Mandell said, attempting to soothe him. “You don’t remember who attacked you? Or you are afraid for me to go after him? I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.”
Briggs allowed his hand to drop back to his side, his eyes filling with tears. But Mandell had no opportunity to question him further. The valet who had stood quietly in the shadows all this time now crept forward.
“Please, my lord. The doctor said as how the master should be kept quiet. He needs to rest.”
“Of course.” Mandell stood up reluctantly, saying, “I am sorry. I shall come back when you are feeling more fit, Lance.”
It was the first time he had ever used Briggs’s Christian name, let alone abbreviated it in such friendly fashion. Briggs appeared quite overcome. He managed to roll onto his side and buried his face in the pillow to conceal his silent sobs.
Mandell was elbowed aside by the valet, who stared at him reproachfully and sought to calm his master. Mandell saw there was nothing more he could do. He had caused enough damage.
Stepping out into the hall, he cursed himself. He had been a fool to come here, more foolish still for spouting such nonsense and upsetting poor Briggs. What was he trying to prove by vowing to capture the Hook, blustering threats of vengeance that only added to Lancelot’s misery? The bitter truth was that Mandell had not been considering Briggs’s feelings at all, but merely seeking to appease his own guilty conscience. He had never been Briggs’s friend. It was too late to start pretending as if he were one now.
Just as it had been too late with Anne. He had been doing the same thing with her earlier that afternoon, playing games of pretend. Making believe that he could go back to a time when he was not yet so well-schooled in arrogance and cynicism, indifferent to anyone else’s needs but his own.
It had not worked. The soft touch of her skin, the sweet scent of her perfume, the warm womanly feel of her in his arms and his own selfish desires had raged out of control. That she had responded in kind only made matters worse. It was just a sign of how far he had succeeded in seducing her. He had been so tempted to take full advantage of her willingness.
It is too late for any new beginnings. As he dwelled upon this grim truth, he became aware that one of the maidservants was approaching him. She would wish to conduct him back to the parlor, but Mandell could not bring himself to face Briggs’s grieving mother again.
He called for his hat and walking stick instead and quit the house. Drawing on his gloves, he bolted down the stone steps of the brick residence and collided with his cousin. Nick staggered back, his curly-brimmed beaver nearly flying to the pavement He grasped at it, looking a little taken aback at the sight of the marquis.
“Mandell!” he exclaimed. Appearing to recover himself, he straightened his hat back upon his head.
It had been over a week since Mandell had seen his cousin, and he should have evinced more pleasure at encountering Nick. But he felt too raw from his visit with Briggs to do more than mutter, “The long-lost Drummond. Where have you been keeping yourself, Nicholas?”
Nick smiled, but the expression was strained, lacking his usual warmth. “I have been preoccupied with Parliamentary sessions, government details too tedious to bore you with. But I rushed over as soon as I heard about the attack on poor Briggs. I was told that he is not expected to live.”
“He looks very bad, but he is conscious.”
“Oh?” Nick asked anxiously. “You have spoken to him?”
“I visited with him for awhile, but he cannot speak.”
”Then he cannot describe who attacked him?”
“Cannot or will not.” Mandell frowned, remembering Briggs’s strong reaction to being questioned. “It seems to distress him to remember anything about the attack. The shock of the whole incident appears to have been too much for him. I fear it may have disordered his mind.”
Nick vented a frustrated sigh. “Well, I did try to warn everyone, but no one would listen. The activities of the Hook won’t be stopped until we have a better police force. The government always refuses to do anything until it is too late.”
“For Briggs, it already is,” Mandell reminded him sharply.
