Page 17 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

Six

“Twelve of the clock and a cloudy night”

Anne heard the watchman’s mournful cry as she huddled in the shadows of the high stone wall which separated Lucien’s townhouse from the street. It seemed to her that the old charley no longer sang out as cheerfully as he once had before the Hook had brought his murderous activities to Mayfair.

Before she had left the theatre, she had heard rumors of another killing.

But that did not bear thinking of, not when she was creeping alone through the dark.

She was nervous enough. More than once she had fancied herself being followed, heard the light tap of a footfall not her own.

But when she whipped about, the sound had been swallowed by the clatter of a passing carriage, any mysterious shadows becoming nothing more than the rustling shape of some tree.

Each time she fell prey to such fancies, she chided herself for a fool, but it was a night prime for dark imaginings.

Clouds settled like a veil across the face of the moon, the wind whistled around the corners of the houses, and the heavy threat of an April rainstorm hung in the air.

Anne shivered and draped her shawl over her head.

Tightening her grip upon the pistol, she hastened her footsteps.

She was already late. Slipping away from Lily’s house undetected had not been easy, even at such an hour.

Her sister had been most persistent, pressing her to attend a late supper at Lord Cecil’s.

And even after Anne had managed to fob off Lily, there had been any number of servants about, all seeming to regard Anne’s furtive movements with curious eyes.

Lily’s household never settled until the wee hours of the morning.

By the time Anne had succeeded in snatching up her shawl, bolting out one of the side doors, the clock already approached twelve.

Anne could only hope that Louisa was not likewise experiencing such difficulties; that even if Anne was a few minutes late, the little maid would bear the patience and courage to wait for her.

Following the high wall surrounding Lucien’s garden, Anne rounded the corner, which brought her out onto the narrow street behind the house.

Except for the lone hackney that creaked by, the cobblestone lane was dark and silent, making her feel as isolated as though she had crept into the sinister confines of some back alley.

Once more her nerves played tricks upon her, conjuring up sounds behind her, shapes that were not there.

Her heart thudding, she stole one more glance over her shoulder, but she was quite alone.

She hastened toward the tall iron gate that led into Lucien’s garden.

Here at least was a pool of light provided by the two lanterns mounted upon the brick pillars on either side of the gate.

Anne shoved against the latch, but the gate was locked, just as she had expected. She peered through the bars. She had hoped to find Louisa waiting for her, but the house beyond loomed still as a tomb, with little light showing behind the windows.

The garden was likewise bleak and deserted, a desolate place overrun with weeds and dying foliage. It must have been badly neglected by the previous tenant and Lucien had done little to set things to rights. Nothing seemed capable of growing there, not shrubs, not flowers, certainly not a child.

“Louisa?” Anne called, praying that at any moment the girl would step out from some place of concealment in the shrubberies. She received no answer other than the mournful whisperings of the night wind.

Could she be more than ten minutes late? Surely Louisa would not have given up on her after such a short delay—that is, if the girl intended to keep their rendezvous at all.

The prospect that Louisa might fail her was too daunting, and Anne refused to consider it. She continued her vigil, clutching the bar of the gate, staring anxiously at the silent house.

How long she stood there Anne had no idea, the minutes crawling by. The cold damp of the night air seeped through her thin shawl, chilling her to the bone, but Anne scarce noticed it for the numbness stealing into her heart.

She feared that the dawn would find her still clinging to Lucien’s gate, wistfully regarding all those windows, wondering which one her little girl slept behind.

Louisa was not going to come. Anne knew that with a sick certainty, but she could not bring herself to abandon her hope and start the miserable trudge back home.

If only she had taken more pains with Louisa, been more persuasive, offered her more money to keep their bargain.

“Did I not make you understand?” Anne whispered. “You are my last hope.”

She rested her head against the bars of the gate, the pistol she clutched a heavy weight in her hand.

The plan she had formed began to seem both ridiculous and pathetic.

She was utterly useless at this kind of thing.

Getting Norrie safely out of that bleak dark mansion would take someone far bolder, more ruthless than she.

It was disconcerting that an image of the marquis of Mandell should pop into her head. Ruthless Mandell was, and most certainly bold and unscrupulous. But if Anne ever stood alone in the dark with him, she knew that Mandell’s thoughts would not be upon rescuing her daughter.

And God help her, perhaps her own would not be, either.

Mandell’s eyes had a seductive effect upon her, both hypnotic and strange.

He seemed to call to some wild, dark, secret corner of Anne’s heart, a part of herself that alarmed her.

Even now she could feel that stirring of her blood which was almost a fever.

Anne fought to suppress the unwelcome feeling, to banish Mandell from her mind. She was still struggling to do so when she straightened, suddenly alert. Was it only her overwrought imagination again or had she seen something this time? A shadowy form emerging from the shelter of the house?

Anne strained against the gate. No, this time she had not imagined it. Someone was coming down the garden path. And it was a woman carrying a large bundle in her arms.

Anne was momentarily confused. It occurred to her that she ought to step back out of the pool of lantern light on the chance that this was not Louisa.

Her gaze fixed on that mysterious bundle, a bundle that she realized was a child swathed in a blanket, the folds falling back enough to reveal a glint of golden curls.

Anne’s throat constricted painfully.

“Norrie,” she rasped. That foolish maid had stolen her little daughter straight out of her bed and brought her out into the chill damp of the night.

But as Louisa stumbled closer, Anne was consumed by an overwhelming longing.

She could think of nothing but her need to see her child again, to touch her.

“Lady Anne?” Louisa stopped within yards of the gate, peering cautiously.

“Yes. Yes!” Anne choked out, flinging back the shawl so that she would be more readily recognized. Her daughter stirred awake in Louisa’s arms. Norrie raised her head from the maid’s shoulder, knuckling her eyes in a familiar gesture that wrenched at Anne’s heartstrings.

Louisa crept near the gate whispering, “I’m right sorry, ma’am. But I didn’t know what else to do. It seemed much easier to bring the little girl out to you.”

Anne nodded, unable to tear her gaze from her daughter’s face.

The lantern bathed Norrie in a soft glow, illuminating those fragile porcelain features, the rosebud lips, the small, upturned nose, eyes such a clear blue they were almost transparent.

She was a dream child, an angel child, a golden-haired fairy who had often seemed not quite real to Anne and never less so than at this moment.

She strained her arm to the utmost, stretching through the gate, able to touch only the blanket, half fearing Norrie would vanish into mist as she had in so many of Anne’s nightmares these past months.

Norrie was small for her age, but it was obvious she had already proven a great burden to Louisa’s slender arms. With a mighty sigh, the maid set Norrie down.

The child was clad in nothing but her nightgown and the blanket, but Anne was relieved to see that Louisa had at least enough wit to have eased slippers onto Norrie’s feet.

Anne hunkered down to Norrie’s level. Setting the pistol she carried by her knee out of the child’s sight, Anne smiled tremulously, reaching both arms through the bars.

Instead of coming any closer, the little girl shrank back against Louisa, the child’s sleep-misted eyes regarding Anne with confusion. The memory of Lucien’s mocking words echoed inside Anne’s head.

I vow the child has forgotten you already.

Anne’s chest hurt so that she could hardly breathe, but she managed to croon gently, “Norrie. It’s me. It’s Mama.”

“Mama’?” Norrie took a tentative step forward, blinking at Anne with the solemnness of a baby owl. Then her glad cry rang out, shattering the silence of the brooding darkness.

“Mama! It is you. I thought I just dreamed you again.”

Norrie flattened herself against the gate, and Anne ran her fingers through the child’s silken curls, pressing feverish kisses against Norrie’s face, her own tears wetting Norrie’s baby-soft cheeks. Her arms ached with the need to gather her child close.

“For the love of God,” Anne cried to Louisa. “Unlock this wretched gate.”

Her eyes large in her frightened face, Louisa bit down upon her lip. “Oh, I can’t, milady. I brought the girl to see you. I dare not do any more.”

“Please. Let me into the garden. Just for a moment.”

“Nay, ma’am. I am already afeard I have done too much. I should never have agreed to any of this. If the master caught me, I’d be turned out for sure and whipped besides. I ought to be getting that child straight back to her bed.”