Page 82 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
She glanced back to Hastings who stood behind her in the shadows. “Is Lord Mandell alone?”
“Always, milady,” the footman said with a sad smile.
Anne continued on her way, her heart hammering with every step. When she opened the door, the music seemed to assault her in a great wave, echoing off the rafters with all the power andmajesty of thunder. The velvet draperies were drawn, the room dark except for the fire blazing on the hearth and the branch of candlesticks atop the piano-forte, their glow reflecting upon the glossy rosewood surface. Absorbed by his playing, Mandell did not even look up when she entered.
His hands rippled over the keys, the notes ringing out with a hard, angry brilliance. It was as though all the passion, the torment, the longing he kept guarded in his soul flowed out through his fingertips, finding expression in a storm of music that took Anne’s breath away.
Closing the door quietly behind her, she crept forward. The candles illuminated his profile and the sheen of his midnight satin dressing gown. He wore nothing else but his breeches, the robe parted to reveal a glimpse of his hair-darkened chest, the strong cords of his neck. His face was a study in intensity, his lashes lowered to veil his eyes, a flush staining his high cheekbones, his lips half parted.
She walked toward him, captured by the fury of his music as much as if he had seized her in a fierce embrace. She stood beside him and still he did not look up until he reached a place where his fingers faltered.
His brow furrowed in concentration as his hands moved back, trying to repeat the phrase. It was at that point that he sensed her presence. The music died away on a final jarring note that reverberated about the room, finally echoing to silence. He stared at her as though gazing at an apparition as she brushed back her hood.
“Anne!” He shot to his feet, the darkness in his eyes replaced by an eager light. He reached for her, his own hands a trifle unsteady, and all Anne’s doubts were swept aside. She knew she had done right to come.
She awaited his touch with breathless anticipation. But as he recovered from his initial surprise, he seemed to recollect himself. He drew back, frowning.
“How did you get in?” he asked. “And what the devil are you doing here?”
“Hastings admitted me,” she replied with more calm than she felt. “I came to return this to you.”
She thrust toward him the bundle she had carried tucked under her arm. He appeared puzzled until he shook out the heavy folds and recognized his own caped greatcoat, the one he had draped about her shoulders the night they had first made the pact between them, the pact that had nearly made them lovers. She wondered if the garment stirred for him the same memories as it did her. It was difficult to read his expression.
“I have had it hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe all this time,” she said. “I kept forgetting to give it back to you.”
He tossed the coat over the back of one of the chairs. “You came here alone?”
“Yes, it is only a short walk from Lily’s to here and?—”
“You little fool!” The sudden flare of anger in his eyes put an end to her explanation. “There is a murderer on the loose and you decide to go for a late night stroll?”
“The streetlamps are all lit and the watchman was making his rounds.”
Mandell clenched his hands, looking as though he wanted to shake her. She hastened to add, “Perhaps I did behave a little unwisely. But it doesn’t matter. I am in no danger now.”
“That is a highly debatable point. How long have you been standing there?”
“Only a few moments. I was listening to you play. A symphony by Beethoven, wasn’t it? You did it so magnificently. I wish you hadn’t stopped.”
“I could not recollect any more. I play by memory only.”
Her gaze flew back to the pianoforte, noticing there were no sheets of composition propped in the music stand. “You don’t read music? You play that way by ear?”
He shrugged. “I never took any instruction. Some musical accomplishment is tolerable, but a gentleman should hardly perform as though he were obliged to earn a living at it like some opera-house player.”
The acid words seemed to be an echo of someone else’s sentiments, not his own. He stepped away from the pianoforte and disconcerted her by asking, “Why did you really come here tonight, Anne? And don’t tell me any more nonsense about returning that cloak. You could have dispatched a servant to bring it back days ago.”
Her cheeks heated. If he did not understand why she was here, she hardly knew how to begin to tell him, especially when he was fixing her with such a hard stare.
“You left so abruptly today,” she said. “And you seemed so distraught about your friend. I was worried. I wondered if you had heard how Sir Lancelot is faring.”
“He may live, but I doubt he’ll ever recover.”
“Do they know yet who is responsible for the attack?”
“I am,” Mandell said harshly.
When she looked at him, startled, he added, “I don’t mean that I was the one who pierced him through, but I might as well have done. I allowed him to accompany me last night and then got so drunk that I forgot all about him. I abandoned him at that wretched tavern, leaving him to the mercy of some damned brigand, some murderous phantom , whatever or whoever this accursed Hook might be.”
