Page 3 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)
“We would be, were I not so ambitious. I know that there are plenty of other titled fools out there who would not be troubled by your scruples.” A spark lit Sara’s eyes, like the green fire of an emerald.
“I want to be ‘my lady somebody.’ I want to take my place in your world, the society you so scorn. I want to attend all those routs and balls, receive vouchers to Almack’s, perhaps even make my curtsy to the king. ”
“The king is as mad as you are.”
“Well, the Prince Regent then! Go ahead and sneer if you like, Mandell. But this is what I want.”
“I was not sneering at you, my dear. You may well achieve your ambition. I don’t doubt but what you are clever enough to do so.
But after you have it all, the title, Almack’s, a place in society, I wonder if you are going to want it.
You have a certain freedom now that you don’t quite appreciate, unlike me, a prisoner to all the trappings of an ancient family name. ”
“From where I stand, the gilt bars of your prison look mighty good.”
He smiled and shook his head, but he made no effort to sway her decision.
In truth, when he had begun the liaison with Sara, he had known it would end this way.
No recriminations, no repining, a blazing affair that had burnt itself out like so many others.
To give Sara her due, she was a little better than the rest, not quite in the common way.
He finished knotting his cravat. It was a shambles but it would do to see him home. Searching for his boots, he completed his dressing in silence.
Rubbing her arms and shivering, Sara rustled over to the hearth. She put another log on the fire, then poked at the embers to stir up the flames.
When he had eased himself into his frock coat, Mandell turned to her. He held out his arms and quoted, “Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.”
She might have been justified in flinging the next line of Drayton’s sonnet at him, “Nay, I have done, you get no more of me.”
But Sara never read poetry. Dusting off her hands, she moved into his embrace, raising her mouth to his. Even now her lips were generous, her tongue fiery hot against his. Drawing back, she gazed up at him, her eyes soft.
“You have been my lover all these weeks, and I suddenly realize I don’t even know your Christian name.”
“I don’t have one,” Mandell said. A memory intruded upon him—the lordly figure of his grandfather looming over him, a shivering child of ten, the old duke of Windermere flinging the certificate of Mandell’s baptism and his French passport into the fire.
“Thus dies the past, boy. You have but one thing to remember now and that is that you are the marquis of Mandell, my heir.”
And the flames had leapt up, consuming the papers in one greedy lick. If only memories could be burnt away as easily.
Shaking off the troubling reminiscence, Mandell pulled Sara close for one last kiss, then eased her out of his arms.
“Farewell, my dear. If the respectable life is what you want so much, I hope you find it.”
She stroked his cheek, an unusually tender gesture for Sara. “And you, Mandell. My wish for you is that just once in your life, you desire something strong enough to risk everything for it—your life, your soul, even the honor of your precious family name.”
“Regrettably, madam, I cannot think of anything I would ever want that badly.” Upturning her hand, he brushed his lips against her palm.
Releasing her, he moved toward the door with his usual pantherlike grace. Sara stared at him, taking one last look at that tautly honed male form she had known so intimately. One last look at the darkness, the danger to be found in that lean face whose latent sensuality never failed to arouse her.
She felt a curling of heat, a mad impulse to call him back to her bed one last time. But if she did so, it would only be harder to let Mandell go while her dreams drifted further away.
She remained where she was until the door clicked behind him.
Then she heaved a deep sigh at her own folly.
She must be mad to fling off her protector, possibly the most magnificent lover she had ever had, and this while she was still uncertain of what she meant to do next.
She had no immediate prospects, only vague ambitions.
Yet she could not summon the energy to do any more thinking tonight.
Pressing her hand to her brow, she could already feel the niggling of one of her infamous headaches.
She wanted to flop back into bed, but the tangled sheets were a reminder of Mandell, redolent with his musky scent.
She would find no repose there until she called Agnes to change the linens.
But Sara had no need to summon her maid, for the next moment the woman, in her starched apron and cap, burst into the room. The tidings Agnes brought drove all thoughts of Mandell out of Sara’s head.
“Oh, madam, he is here,” the flustered maid squeaked. “Round by the back door.”
Sara did not have to ask whom the woman meant. Her heart gave a sick thud of fear and anger.
“I will be down at once,” Sara said grimly. She had a great deal to say to that brother of hers.
She paused only long enough to change her wrapper for another dressing gown less revealing. Flinging a shawl about her shoulders, she crept through the house to the cold and silent kitchen, only glowing ashes left on the hearth of the massive bake oven.
Gideon Palmer lounged just inside the doorway. Despite the jagged scar that creased his chin, he was a handsome young man in scarlet regimentals. His rakish smile had been more than one poor maid’s undoing.
“Sara,” he said, with a lazy grin. “My dear sister.”
But she was not about to be charmed by him, not this time. She launched into him without preamble.
“Albert Glossop is dead!” she hissed. “Damn it, Gideon! What have you been doing?”
Mandell had the hackney cab set him down at the end of Clarion Way. With such a press of carriages depositing people at the Countess Sumner’s door, the entire thoroughfare was clogged. Mandell found it far easier to proceed on foot.
He had no intention of stepping round to Sumner House himself until he had changed his attire. Fortunately, his townhouse lay just at the end of the street.
Lily’s ball was certainly gaining the lion’s share of the attention tonight, for the rest of Clarion Way remained shadowed and silent.
As Mandell progressed farther along the pavement, he felt as though he had stepped out of a circle of light and confusion into the soothing quiet that night was meant to be.
Not even a footman was to be seen lingering about the square, not since Glossop’s murder. Away from the excitement at the opposite end of Clarion Way, Mandell was quite alone, except for the cloaked individual who stood outside of his house.
Mandell tensed and might have reached for the swordstick hidden in the handle of his walking cane, except that hooded figure was slight, obviously a woman.
She leaned up against his wrought iron fence, blocking the short path that led up to the stairs of the house. As Mandell drew closer, he saw the woman shudder and heard a muffled sob.
He rolled his eyes. He never had much patience for a weeping female, certainly not one who chose to snuffle over his fence at this time of night.
Stalking up behind her, he said, “I beg your pardon, madam.”
He had spoken quietly, but even that caused her to gasp. She whirled around, clutching her hand to the region of her heart.
Mandell had entertained the notion that this must be some maid from one of the houses, likely disappointed in a rendezvous with a lover. But the richness of the woman’s satin cloak dispelled that idea.
She was clearly a lady. But what the deuce was she doing in the street at this hour, and why did she have to be doing it upon his doorstep?
As she recovered her breath, she said, “Oh, it is you, Lord Mandell. You startled me.”
She knew him. But he didn’t think he knew her. The voice was not familiar. As she took a wary step back, her hood fell back a little revealing a pale, heart-shaped face, and delicate features that conveyed an impression of haunting sadness.
She was young, but not a chit just out of the schoolroom.
She might have been pretty, but it was difficult to tell, her eyes being so swollen with her tears.
Her hair certainly was beautiful, tumbling to her shoulders in a cascade of honey gold.
There was something vaguely familiar about her, but Mandell could not quite place it.
After assessing her appearance, he asked, “Have we met before, madam? You are?”
He waited for her to fill in the blank, but she only retreated deeper into the shelter of her hood.
“That is none of your concern, my lord. Be pleased to pass on your way.”
“Well, my Lady Sorrow, I would be happy to do so,” he said drily, “but that is a little difficult when you bar my path, rusting out my gatepost with your tears.”
“Your gate?” she faltered. “You live here?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
She choked on a bitter laugh. “Is this not typical of my fortune? I do not even have the right house.”
She mopped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Even in the dim light of the street, Mandell could see that her eyes were very blue, like violets from those long ago springs he had spent in the country instead of walled up in the stone and grit of London.
“Do forgive me, my lord, for being such a fool.”
She tried to rush on, but this time Mandell blocked her way. He never sought to burden himself with anyone else’s misery and he was not about to do so now. All the same he felt curiously loathe to let her go.
“You shouldn’t be wandering about alone at night, milady.
It is not safe.” He was not about to bring up the murder.
If there was a chance she had not heard of Bert Glossop’s death, there was no sense in terrifying her.
Instead, he concluded, “Even here on Clarion Way, there is a danger of footpads.”
“But I have nothing left of value for anyone to steal.”
She ducked past him and moved off rapidly down the street, never glancing back.
Mandell stood by his gate, watching her go.
There might have been a time in his more hot-blooded youth when he would have been intrigued enough to follow her, discover the secret of her tears, perhaps the sweeter secrets still she kept concealed beneath that cloak.
But he was far too jaded and cynical now to go pursuing mysterious young women through the streets. As he observed that proud slender shape vanish into the darkness, for a fleeting moment Mandell was sorry that this was so.