Page 107 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“The bloody fool,” Mandell swore.
A fleeting regret clouded his features as Mandell bent over the turnkey’s inert form. Then he glanced up at Anne who stood frozen with horror. The determined light came back into his eyes as he said, “I trust this puts an end to any further argument, milady.”
Twenty
The house stood in decaying splendor near the banks of the Thames, a private palace abandoned by time and the changing whims of fashion. It was an impressive collection of gables and projecting bays, although the magnificent stonework had been rendered a dingy grey by layers of coal smoke, and many of the windows on the west wing had been boarded over. What glass remained at the front of the house caught the rays of the dying sun, the latticed panes glinting red like fire-toned jewels.
The mansion’s gates opened onto the Strand, a cobblestone thoroughfare now cluttered with coffeehouses, shops, and more modest dwellings whose occupants took little notice of this last relic of ancient grandeur left in their midst. The front of the manor was so overgrown with weeds, shrubbery, and untrimmed trees that no one from the street could even see the two strange figures that crept toward the house’s stone porch—a nobleman in a flowing cloak closely followed by a slender servant clad in ill-fitting black and silver livery.
It was fortunate that no one observed their movements, for anyone watching would have been scandalized to see the tallman draw his footman into the shadows of the porch and seize the lad into his arms for a long hard kiss.
The low-crowned hat which had covered Anne’s head tumbled to the ground, her hair spilling about her shoulders as Mandell strained her close. For a moment the nightmare of the past hours, the nerve-racking escape from Newgate all faded to insignificance. Nothing was real except for Mandell, the heat of his lips against hers, the shelter of his embrace.
His kiss braced her, warmed her, and comforted her more than the most potent of brandies could have done. He drew back, and even in the fading light she could see the tender shadow of his smile.
“Faith, my dear,” he said huskily. “And to think I have always believed Hastings to be a most superior sort of footman. You perform services that make his devoted polishing of the silver pale by comparison.”
Anne realized he sought to relieve her apprehensions with his jest and she wished she could have obliged him by smiling. But the chill of those forbidding prison walls still seemed to cling to her and she shivered.
Observing this, he released her and produced a ring of keys which he proceeded to try upon the mansion’s imposing front door. Anne leaned wearily against one of the pillars, the recent escape already fading to become a blur in her mind—helping Mandell to truss up Griffiths’s unconscious form, scrambling into the footman’s livery, locking the cell door, creeping down to the courtyard.
Only one moment stood out with terrifying clarity. All had gone smoothly until they were to pass beneath the shadows of the prison lodge itself. The guards were too busy harassing and checking the more humble visitors. None of the turnkeys presumed to question the lordly figure that was Mandell any more than they had dared to search him on his arrival. But oneof the younger guards had frowned at the sight of Anne, perhaps realizing that my lord the marquis had somehow acquired an odd-looking footman within the prison walls.
As the guard had approached them, Anne’s heart had threatened to stop, not with fear for herself, but for Mandell. Despite his cool exterior, she sensed the danger in him. In that instant she had realized he was prepared to fight to the death before he would have allowed anyone to touch her.
But the guard had only winked and offered to clear a path for the marquis and his servant through the common herd. Mandell had nodded tersely, slipping a small purse into the man’s calloused palm. Anne had felt so weak with relief, she marveled that she had been able to continue playing her part, following a few steps behind Mandell until they had cleared the final gate.
After that she had a dazed remembrance of being bundled into a hackney cab, alighting to trail Mandell on foot through a maze of streets and alleys designed to confuse any pursuer until they had at last slipped into the grounds of this strange, abandoned house.
Going through key after key, Mandell muttered an impatient oath until he slotted in the one that fit the lock. The door creaked loudly as Mandell shoved it open. Anne bent to retrieve her hat and followed him inside.
She felt awkward and self-conscious in the masculine clothing Mandell had provided to disguise her for the escape. Hat in hand, she gazed nervously about a great hall, the gallery above where musicians must have once piped tunes for ladies in farthingales and ruffs, the gentlemen in doublets. But the vast chamber stood empty now, cobwebs clinging to the lion head brackets upon the chimneypiece.
“Mandell, what is this place?”
“Windermere Palace, one of the family icons.” Mandell grimaced at the layering of dust he dislodged as he brushed upagainst the wall. “A relic of late Tudor times. Anyone with any sense sold off their riverfront property at a great profit, but my ancestors persisted in clinging to this lumbering pile and my grandfather upheld the tradition. He wanted to give it to me, but I made haste to decline the honor. The property was then to have reverted to Nick, but since his recent marriage, I doubt that will happen.”
“Is it safe for us to be here?”
“Safe enough for the present. No one ever comes here anymore except perhaps Nick. Most of the locals tend to avoid this place like the plague because of the legends about the house being haunted.” Mandell slipped his arm about her shoulders. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Sorrow?”
“After what I saw happen to Lucien, I am no longer so sure,” she murmured.
“We will discuss that presently, but first permit me to escort you to less daunting quarters.”
Linking his arm through hers, Mandell cautioned her to beware of rotting floorboards and guided her toward the end of the hall. An L-shaped staircase stretched upward, the intricately carved newels adorned with snarling lions the same as on the fireplace.
When she and Mandell reached the top, Anne saw there was a landing that led to a long gallery, pale splotches on the wall bearing testimony to the portraits that must have once hung there.
Mandell went along the gallery, trying door after door. “I know there was one of these chambers that Nick had partially restored. Ah, here it is,” he said as he opened the last door but one. He beckoned to Anne to join him.
She stepped across the threshold of what had once been a large bedchamber. When Mandell located a tinderbox and managed to light a candle, Anne saw that unlike the rest of thehouse, this room was furnished. A worn Turkish carpet covered the floor and a faded tapestry of a hunt scene graced one wall. A massive bedstead minus its hangings dominated the room, a small chest tucked at the foot. To one side, stood a small, battered desk and chair.
The chamber was damp and musty, reminding one of the house’s proximity to the river. Anne rubbed her arms to dispel the chill. Seeing her do so, Mandell frowned.
“I wish I could light a fire, but I cannot risk anyone seeing the smoke and becoming curious enough to pay us a call. Nor can I vouch for the condition of this chimney. I daresay it has not been cleaned for years.”
He whipped off his cloak and draped it about her shoulders. “And this time I trust you will remember to return it sooner, milady,” he teased gently, trailing his fingers against the curve of her jaw.
