Page 21 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)
Seven
The following evening, the porter at Brooks’s was astonished when he opened the door to admit the marquis of Mandell.
As his lordship swept across the threshold into the marble-tiled hall of one of the most exclusive gentleman’s clubs in London, the elderly servant moved to ease the greatcoat from Mandell’s shoulders.
“This is a rare privilege, indeed, my lord. We seldom see you in here these days. We have managed to pry you away from White’s at last.”
The porter nodded disdainfully toward the front window where the lights of the rival establishment could be seen glowing across the width of bustling St. James’s Street.
Mandell was a member of both clubs. He acknowledged that the interior of Brooks’s possessed the elegance and charm of a gentleman’s country manor, but he generally preferred the company to be found at White’s.
However, Sir Lucien Fairhaven did not. And Sir Lucien was Mandell’s main reason for venturing abroad tonight.
Mandell had made a pact with a lady and he intended to waste no time in fulfilling his side of the bargain.
As he handed off his curly-brimmed beaver to the porter, Mandell inquired casually, ‘The club is well filled this evening? Most of the members present?”
“It would seem so, my lord. With it being such a foul night, threatening to rain again and all, most of the gentlemen seem content to be here warm and dry rather than seeking other entertainment about the town. It is certainly a deal safer, my lord, if you take my meaning.” The old servant gave him a significant look.
Mandell took his meaning quite well, but made no comment. He allowed the porter, whom Mandell had known since the days of his youth, more familiarity than most servants. But he was not about to tolerate any more gossip about the recent murders, or tiresome speculation about the Hook.
Mandell crossed the imposing front hall, already beckoned by the sounds emanating from the Great Subscription Room.
The drone of masculine voices was punctuated by bursts of unrestrained laughter, the kind gentlemen indulged in when no ladies were present.
A bewigged servant held open the door and bowed Mandell inside.
He stepped into a chamber vast enough to have been a ballroom.
The Great Subscription Room was done up in the classical manner, its towering walls left noticeably bare.
There must be nothing to distract one from the club’s main and serious purpose—the pursuit of gaming.
Brooks’s members crowded round myriad felt-covered tables.
Standing or seated, they played at hazard, faro, or whist. Both the stakes and spirits appeared to be high tonight, judging from the number of flushed countenances.
Waiters trotted to and fro bearing fresh bottles of port from Brooks’s noted cellars while the croupiers intoned wins and losses amidst choruses of groans.
Mandell greeted a few acquaintances while doing a quick scan of the house. As near as he could tell, the gentleman he sought was not yet present. But the night was young. It was barely past one of the clock.
Refusing to be drawn into a game of whist, Mandell chose to stroll about observing the play.
He noticed a familiar figure in a scarlet frock coat lounging near a settee by the hearth.
He had to give his cousin credit for that much, Mandell thought with a slight smile.
In a world of rather drab and sedate evening clothing, Nick always managed to stand out.
Nick appeared to be engaged with two of his Whig friends, the betting book spread out on the table before him.
Both Lord Soames and Mr. Watkin were laughing, Nick looking flustered and annoyed.
Chances were good that the other two were roasting Nick upon some of his reformist policies, his humor on that subject often lacking.
Since the pleasure of tormenting his cousin was one Mandell reserved to himself, he went to Nick’s rescue. After the way they had parted at the theatre the other evening, Mandell expected a little reserve on Nick’s part. But his cousin had never been one to hold a grudge.
His irritation with his companions momentarily forgotten, Nick glanced up with a half-smile at Mandell’s approach. “Hullo! Mandell. Here’s a surprise. What has lured you away from that blasted Tory stronghold across the way?”
“White’s seemed a little thin of company tonight,” Mandell replied.
“The place has never been the same since poor old Brummell was obliged to flee to the continent,” Lord Soames broke in with a sigh.
Mr. Watkin agreed, both young gentlemen sobering for a moment in memory of the elegant dandy Beau Brummell, who had once been London’s supreme arbiter of fashion.
But Nick growled, “Brummell fled to escape his debts. These jackanapes will be in the same case if they persist in wagering their blunt so recklessly. Tell them, Mandell.”
“I can hardly tell them anything unless I know the nature of the wager.”
Lord Soames’s eyes had begun to dance again. “Perhaps Lord Mandell will care to lay odds of his own.”
Mr. Watkin, the mischievous redhead, spoke up with a chuckle. “We are hazarding as to who the Hook’s next victim might be.”
“Indeed?” Mandell asked politely.
“Aye.” Lord Soames giggled. He had likely consumed too much port. “I regret to say that it is your cousin Drummond who is the odds-on favorite.”
Mandell stole a glance at the scowling Nicholas. “The Hook would have to be careless indeed to attack a gentleman of such noted temper as my cousin.”
“And equally noted for his empty purse.” Mr. Watkin grinned while Lord Soames picked up the quill pen. Drawing the betting book closer, he continued to register the wager in a slightly unsteady hand.
“Temper and poverty notwithstanding,” Watkin continued, “it has to be Nick. He is positively begging to be attacked, some of the places he has been poking about of late, those lightning houses.”
“Flash-houses,” Nick said. “I have been investigating flash-houses in Bethnal Green.”
At Mandell’s inquiring look, he explained. “Those taverns that are little better than schools for crime, where street urchins are taught to be thieves, little girls scarce turned twelve taught to be whores.”
“How very original.” Mandell’s lip curled in disgust. “And progressive. One of the most civilized cities in the world now offering formal education for pickpockets and prostitutes.”
Lord Soames snorted a laugh, spattering ink over the betting book. “That is just what I was telling Drummond.”
“Except that Mandell is being sarcastic,” Nick said. “While you, you great lumbering idiot, are merely acting the fool.”
Taking exception to this form of address, Soames flushed bright red. It was the sort of quarrel between young gentlemen that could easily get out of hand.
Mandell stepped between the two men. “You must excuse my cousin, Soames. We both know Drummond well enough by now to realize he waxes a little earnest over such matters. He offers you his most sincere apologies.”
Soames blinked owlishly and gave a nod of acceptance, even as Nick was crying out in protest. “No, I don’t.”
But Mandell seized his arm in an iron grip, hustling Nick away. Nick wrenched himself free, glaring. “Damn it, Mandell,” he said. “Why did you interfere? I had no wish to apologize to that ass. It is men like Soames who make me ashamed to be considered a Whig.”
“Nicholas, the fellow is half foxed. You cannot attack someone merely for possessing a dull wit.”
“Oh, yes I can.”
“I cannot risk you engaging yourself to fight a duel at present. That would be most inconvenient.”
“Why should you care?”
“Because for once, you may have to act as my second. So do us both a favor. Bespeak a glass of chilled wine and hie yourself off to cool that temper.”
With his cousin gaping at him, Mandell started to walk away. But Nick was hard after him. “Second you in a duel! Damnation, Mandell, you cannot simply toss out a remark like that and then not explain yourself.”
“There is nothing to explain at the moment.” Mandell peered toward the door and frowned. Half past one and no sign of Sir Lucien. He asked Nicholas, “Sir Lucien Fairhaven is still a member of Brooks’s, is he not?”
“Yes, he is, but what does that have to—” Nick broke off, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Lady Fairhaven, does it?”
Before Mandell could answer, Nick went on, “It was Sir Lucien that you meant when you said—My God! You are planning to challenge Fairhaven to a duel over Anne. I know you made that remark about getting rid of your rivals, but I cannot believe it. You have not fought a duel over any woman since that time you were seventeen and you damn near killed Cecily Constable’s brother because . ..”
Mandell shot Nick a warning look. His cousin trailed off, possessing enough sense not to pursue that particularly ugly incident any further.
“Calm yourself, Nicholas, and for heaven’s sake, keep your voice down.
” Even in a place as devoted to faro as Brooks’s Nick’s agitated manner would soon attract attention.
“As usual, your imagination runs away with you. I never said a word about challenging Sir Lucien. I merely want to talk to him.”
“You intend to warn him to stay away from Anne,” Nick continued, shaking his head. “I just don’t understand it. I have implored you more than once to leave her alone. She is no dasher, no Helen of Troy, not at all the sort to inspire this degree of obsession.”