Page 81 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
“And his face?”
“I couldn’t see that, m’lord. It was a terrible foggy night.”
“Then what made you so sure it was the Hook?”
“Why because the rogue has been on the prowl for months, terrifying honest folks. Who else could it have been?”
“Who else indeed?” the marquis murmured. He frowned, but Obadiah had the impression Lord Mandell was not scowling at him so much as at some disturbing thought of his own. The marquis’s curiosity on this subject surprised Obadiah a little, but then he had never fully understood the ways of the Quality.
He waited respectfully while the marquis continued, “After you found Glossop, did he still have his valuables on him? His watch perhaps, his purse?”
“I don’t know, m’lord. After I first touched Mr. Glossop and saw that he was dead—” Obadiah shuddered, remembering the sensation of his fingers coming away, warm and sticky with blood. “I didn’t examine the young gentleman too close after that.”
The marquis seemed so disappointed with his answer, Obadiah hastened to add, “But the Hook must’ve taken away Mr. Glossop’s valuables. Stands to reason, don’t it? Him being such a notorious cutpurse and all.”
The marquis did not answer. He regarded Obadiah and said gravely, ‘Thank you, Mr. Jones. You have been most helpful.”
“Have I?” Obadiah quavered. “I wish I could think I have been. I still remember how Mr. Glossop screamed that night. I never had much liking for Master Bertie, but it was a terrible way for any young fellow to die. I lay awake sometime wondering if I could’ve done things any differently that night. If I might’ve moved a little faster, done something to save him.”
“Regret is the poison of life, Mr. Jones.” Lord Mandell said. ”But I fear it is a curse that many of us are doomed to experience.”
He smiled sadly and passed on his way, leaving Obadiah staring after him. This surely had to be one of the strangest encounters Obadiah had ever had on Clarion Way and yet, for a moment he had felt an odd kinship with Lord Mandell. It was almost as if the marquis really understood Obadiah’s feelings of guilt and remorse over what had happened to Mr. Glossop.
And to think he had once fancied the marquis such a hard, cold man. He had much more of a liking for Lord Mandell’s cousin. But lately it was Mr. Drummond who seemed less than kind, distant and curt. The last time they had met, Mr. Nick had snapped at Obadiah to get out of his way.
Obadiah meandered on his way up the street, slowly shaking his head. It only went to show. One never knew any man as well as one thought one did.
Sixteen
Twilight had faded into darkness by the time Anne approached the marquis of Mandell’s gate. Clutching the heavy bundle of cloth to her chest, she eased back her hood, peering up at his house. A faint glow of light shone through one of the lower story windows, but the rest of the stone structure appeared dark and forbidding.
She wondered what madness had compelled her to come. Their parting earlier today had been so abrupt. He might not want to see her. He might not even be at home. It was absurd, her conviction that he paced the shadows of this vast and lonely house, just as she had been pacing her empty bedchamber these past hours.
Yet the conviction was strong enough to carry her past his gate, up the steps to his front door. He needed her tonight. She was as certain of that as of her own aching need, a longing that she finally dared acknowledge.
Before her courage could desert her, she shifted her bundle under one arm, lifted her hand to the brass knocker and sounded it. Only then did it occur to her to wonder what she would say when her summons was answered, especially if by a shocked anddisapproving butler like Firken. Yet she could not imagine any of Mandell’s servants being easily scandalized.
All the same, she felt relieved when the door swung open, revealing the familiar and reliable figure of John Hastings.
“My lady Fairhaven!” The young man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he struggled to conceal it.
“Is his lordship at home?” she asked.
“Yes, milady.”
“I need to see him.”
Hastings cast a doubtful glance toward the darkened regions of the house behind him. “It is very late, milady. I don’t know if the master would be?—”
“Please,” Anne said, raising her eyes to his.
Hastings hesitated a moment more, then stepped aside to allow her to enter. “My lord is in the drawing room,” he said with a solemn bow. “Will it please you to wait here while I announce you?”
“No! I think it would be better if I just went in.” She dreaded Mandell having opportunity to fix his mask of hauteur in place, or worse still, simply refuse to see her.
Hastings nodded in silent understanding. “The drawing room is through that door at the end of the hall.”
Drawing a steadying breath, Anne stepped forward. Mandell’s entrance hall was as austere and unwelcoming as she remembered it. But as she crept farther into the house, the silence was broken by the distant sound of music. Someone was playing upon the pianoforte and with a great deal of mastery.
