Page 100 of Beneath the Devil's Mask

Struggling to free himself from those clutching hands, he peered down the length of a mist-shrouded street. He could see the distant forms of the mob, mad, howling like a blood-crazed beast with a hundred mouths. And she was there, in their midst, being hauled away by a black-cloaked phantom in a plumed hat.

Anne! Anne!

The phantom glanced back when Mandell called. He could sense the burning mockery of its gaze, but its features were obscured by a death white veil, clinging to its face like a gossamer layer of skin. The phantom dragged Anne toward a towering scaffold and Mandell could see the guillotine, its sharp blade already rich with blood.

He had to get to Anne, had to tear away the veil that hid the phantom’s hideous features. It was the only way to save her. Mandell fought against the restraining hands, but it was hopeless. The aged fingers seemed only to grow stronger, entwining him like vines, pulling him back into the suffocating darkness of the closet.

When he was thrust inside, the door slammed closed. He could hear insane laughter and then the hammering. The door was being nailed shut so that he could never escape.

“No!”

Mandell’s head snapped forward. He wrenched awake with a start. His breath coming quickly, his gaze roved round the study as he tried to recollect where he was and shake off the last vestiges of the dream. It bewildered him because he was certain he was fully awake. And yet the hammering had not ceased.

He blinked and realized that someone was knocking insistently upon the study door. Before he could recover his wits enough to issue any command, the door inched open, Hastings thrust his head through the opening and inquired anxiously, “My lord?”

Mandell pressed his fingertips to his eyes and indicated with a curt gesture that the footman could enter. Hastings stepped inside.

“I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to disturb you.”

”You didn’t. I had merely dozed off for a few minutes.”

Hastings frowned. `Did my lord sleep all night in that chair?”

“No.” Mandell ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “I came down to read just before daybreak.” He looked for the slender volume of Shakespearean sonnets and discovered it had tumbled to the floor. Upon the small tripod table stood a pool of wax that had once been a candle. “What time is it?” he demanded.

“Near nine of the clock, my lord.”

Mandell frowned. Obviously, he had dozed off for more than just a few minutes. He noticed Hastings regarding him with a troubled expression and snapped, “Well, what is it, man? What did you want?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is a lady that insists upon seeing you.”

“A lady?” Mandell straightened, unable to help the eager note that came into his voice.

“It is not your lady, sir.”

“Oh.” Mandell sagged back in the chair and murmured. “I did not suppose that it would be. I no longer have a lady, Hastings.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, my lord.”

Mandell averted his gaze, discomfited by the level of sympathy and silent understanding he read in the younger man’s eyes. He asked with no real interest, “What wench is it that would plague me at such an ungodly hour?”

“It is me, Mandell,” a soft feminine voice spoke up.

Hastings had left the door open and Mandell glanced up to find Sara Palmer silhouetted on the threshold. She wore a pelisse of pink china crepe, complemented by a Caledonian capof plush silk trimmed with rich bands and fox-tail feathers. Mandell remembered the hat well. He had paid for it.

His jaw tightened. He could hardly believe that Sara would possess the boldness to come here, but nothing about her should surprise him.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“You already appear to have done so.”

“I did not quite trust your footman to announce me properly.”

“You refused to give me your name, madam,” Hastings said.

“This is the Honorable Mrs. Nicholas Drummond, John,” Mandell sneered. “You may make her acquaintance as you escort her out again.”

Hastings looked startled by this order, yet more than ready to carry out the command. Every line of his stolid form radiated disapproval of Sara.