Page 22 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)
Mandell frowned at Nick’s choice of words.
It was not obsession to desire a woman, to find it pleasant to conjure her image in those long bleak hours before dawn when he often could not sleep—an image of an angel’s face, framed by a fall of honey gold hair, with sorrowing blue eyes that sometimes had the power to banish the familiar nightmare and keep his night demons locked away.
But Mandell was not about to try explaining such a fanciful thing to Nick.
It might make it sound too much like he needed Anne Fairhaven.
And the marquis of Mandell needed no one.
“Let us just say I find the lady’s charms unique, well worth fighting for.”
“You ought not to be stirring up any trouble here at Brooks’s. You will lose your membership. I should know. I have been nearly expulsed myself on several occasions.”
“Credit me with a little more subtlety than you possess.”
“It little matters if you are infernally polite when you are offering to shoot some fellow’s brains out in a duel. And if you do challenge Sir Lucien, I daresay that is what it will come to.”
“And since when did you become so squeamish about dueling?”
“It is different with me. I never hit anyone when I shoot. Quite the contrary.” Nick rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. “I never have regained the full use of my fingers since my last disastrous engagement. But you—everyone knows you are a dead shot.”
“Let us hope Sir Lucien knows it, too.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him.” Nick regarded Mandell unhappily. “You have got the most damnable look in your eye. I feel like I am standing near a powder keg about to ignite.”
“You have always been the powder keg, cousin.”
“And you are more like a block of ice. But ice still burns. I wish you would reconsider this. I have no fondness for Sir Lucien, but if Lady Fairhaven does, she will not thank you for scaring him off. She will likely never speak to you again.”
“On the contrary,” Mandell murmured, thinking of Anne’s passionate vow. “I expect the lady to be excessively grateful.”
“You will create the deuce of a scandal. You might have to flee the country.”
A laugh of genuine amusement escaped Mandell. Nick flushed, looking deeply offended.
“Forgive me, cousin,” Mandell said, when his mirth subsided “But surely even you must perceive the humor of you preaching caution to me.”
“I’m damned if I will say another word to you then. I just hope you know what you are doing,” Nick flung out, before pivoting on his heel and stalking away.
Mandell chose to linger near one of the green baize tables and hazarded a few passes with the dice to pass the time. It was an activity that required little of his concentration, which was just as well, for Nick’s parting shot echoed through his head.
I just hope you know what you are doing. At any other time, Mandell would have told Nicholas that that was exactly the case, but for once in his life Mandell was not entirely sure of himself.
What was he doing? Was he really about to force a quarrel upon a man he scarce knew? Certainly, Sir Lucien had always filled him with contempt, but the man was not interesting enough to detest.
But before this evening ended, Mandell might find himself challenging Sir Lucien.
Not over Anne, as Mandell had led Nicholas to believe, but over a mere child.
Mandell had never been sentimental about children.
And yet he kept remembering that wistful little girl peering at her mother through the bars of a locked gate, Anne looking as vulnerable as a lost child herself He kept recalling Anne walking beside him through the darkened streets, telling him the story of her loss and grief with quiet dignity. Even her tears had been silent.
He thought he would have promised anything to erase the sorrow from her eyes; pledged to restore her daughter to her, damn the cost to himself.
“The main is seven, my lord.” One of the players next to Mandell nudged him, forcing Mandell to realize he had held the dice cupped in his hand too long.
He gave them a careless toss. Perhaps Nick was right. Perhaps he was becoming obsessed. Perhaps he should back away from this affair of the lady Anne. It waxed dangerous when he began to entertain such noble thoughts.
After all these years, it would be disconcerting to discover that he possessed a heart after all. How fortunate it was that he knew better.
In truth, he cared naught whether Anne was reunited with her daughter.
It was simply that Anne was proving a difficult conquest. If sending her flowers or showering her with jewels would have done the trick, he would not have bothered himself further.
If anyone misconstrued his intervention as some act of chivalry or kindness, the more fool they.
Mandell would know better. And so would Anne.
Strange that that last thought should fill him with such melancholy. Mandell stared down at the table, the tossing of the dice beginning to seem too great an effort. As he walked away, he had to be reminded to collect his winnings.
As the minutes ticked by, Mandell waxed increasingly restless. It annoyed him to think he might be obliged to track Fairhaven down at his house, or worse still, at one of those squalid gaming hells Sir Lucien was known to frequent.
Mandell paced the length of the room, his movements attracting the attention of an acquaintance he had overlooked. Sir Lancelot Briggs was ensconced at the faro table, his hangdog look proclaiming him to be losing. But his face brightened at the sight of Mandell. He leapt up from the table.
“My lord, I did not know you were here. Will it please you to play at faro? You may have my place.”
“I should not dream of depriving you, my dear Briggs,” Mandell said.
He tried to pass on, but Briggs kept pace. “Oh, ‘tis all right. I have lost everything anyway.” He cast one last wistful glance to where the croupier leaned over the curved slot in the table, raking away the last of Briggs’s gaming pieces.
“Have you dined?” Briggs asked. “We could retire to the supper room. I have so many exciting things to tell you.’’
“I think not.”
“Oh, but I do. I had the privilege of encountering your grandfather in the Pall Mall today.”
“What a rare pleasure that must have been for both of you,” Mandell replied in acid tones. He had been favored with his grandfather’s opinion of Sir Lancelot many times.
“Inbreeding,” the old duke had sniffed. “One fool mated to another for too many generations. How else could one explain how the man comes to be such a simpleton?”
But Sir Lancelot remained blissfully unaware of the duke’s scorn. He confided to Mandell, “I think His Grace may be beginning to like me a little. He condescended to speak to me this time. I said, ‘Good afternoon, Your Grace. A pleasant day, is it not?” And he said, ‘If you like rain, sir.”
Briggs beamed with delight. “He actually said that to me. ‘If you like rain, sir.’”
“My grandfather has always been noted for his wit.”
“Your relationship to the duke has always intrigued me. Imagine being adopted by one’s own grandfather. I mean, do you then call him father or grandpapa?”
“I always called him Your Grace,” Mandell said icily. Sir Lancelot blinked. “Oh. Oh, of course.”
Once more Mandell made the effort to move on, but Sir Lancelot trailed after him, saying, “But why am I blathering on about His Grace?”
“I don’t know. It is one of the great mysteries of the universe.”
“I have far more interesting news to impart. You will never guess. I, Lancelot Briggs, witnessed the murder at the theatre the other night.”
“What!” Mandell was startled enough for once to accord Briggs his full attention.
“Well, I did not exactly see the murder taking place. I arrived on the scene shortly afterward. I saw a suspicious fellow slinking away, wearing a big floppy-brimmed hat with a feather, and I described him to the constable.” Briggs drew himself up importantly and Mandell could tell he was about to launch into a long-winded account of what the constable had said to him and just what he had said to the constable.
But Mandell’s brief flash of attention was already lost.
He had just seen Sir Lucien Fairhaven entering the room.
Never taking his eyes from the doorway, Mandell drew forth his purse and extracted a handful of pound notes. Interrupting Sir Lancelot in midsentence, he stuffed the money into his pudgy hand.
“Here. I will stake you. Go try your luck at faro and see if you can recoup your losses.”
To Mandell’s surprise, Briggs made no move to pocket the money. His lips quivering, Sir Lancelot regarded Mandell with a wounded expression in his brown eyes. He returned the notes, speaking in a manner that for him was almost dignified.
“If you don’t wish for my company, my lord, it is not necessary to pay me to go away.”
With a small bow, he turned and shuffled off, losing himself in the throng about the hazard table. A soft curse escaped Mandell, equal parts annoyed with Briggs and with himself for making such a clumsy gesture.
But he had more important things to worry about than Briggs’s injured feelings. If Sir Lucien settled into a card game, it would make Mandell’s task that much more difficult.
Thrusting the money into his purse, he made his way across the room.
Sir Lucien had paused to berate a page boy for some fancied insolence.
Since he had acquired his brother’s title, Fairhaven never seemed to feel he was being paid enough deference.
But it was often that way with upstart nobility and the nouveau riche.
As soon as he finished snarling at the trembling boy, Sir Lucien moved purposefully toward the faro table. But Mandell was in time to intercept him. He stepped into Sir Lucien’s path with one graceful fluid movement.