Page 35 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

“What does Your Grace find so objectionable about the lady?”

“Nothing personally. She is gently bred and from an old, respectable family. But she lowered herself by marrying with a Fairhaven, had a child by him. If you wed the lady Anne, this girl would become your stepdaughter, a child tainted with the Fairhaven blood.”

“Then little Eleanor Fairhaven and I would have something in common. My own blood is far from pure according to you.”

The duke flinched as though Mandell had struck a raw nerve. But he said levelly enough, “I trust a sound English education has cured any unfortunate traits you might have inherited from— And we decided long ago never to discuss that unfortunate part of your background, to simply forget.”

“You decided. I don’t recall ever being given a choice.

” Mandell stared into the fire, carried back to that long ago night when he had watched his grandfather burn up the papers proclaiming his French heritage.

“Perhaps the past cannot be so easily ignored, Your Grace. Nick has always thought I should seek to know more about those first years of my life.”

“What does Drummond know of anything?” the duke growled. “That young idiot, that wild-eyed radical, that Whig! Half the time I am ashamed to acknowledge him as my grandchild.”

“Nonetheless, Nick does have an uncanny habit of being right.” Some devil in Mandell prompted him to continue goading. “I have been feeling remarkably restless of late. Perhaps it is time I returned to France and sought some answers.”

The duke leaned on his cane, shoving himself to his feet. His face had gone ice white. “I absolutely forbid it!”

Mandell felt the color drain from his own face. It had been many years since the duke had presumed to say such a thing to him. Compressing his lips, he turned away. “I believe the storm is likely to break soon. I should summon Your Grace’s carriage.”

But the duke caught him by the arm. The old man’s grasp was surprisingly strong. “You will not go to France, Mandell. What possible reason could you have for doing so?”

“Is it so unnatural that I might wish to learn more of my French heritage, perhaps even my father?”

“The chevalier de Valmiere was a coward. He took my daughter away from her family, carried her off to France. He eventually abandoned her there to die. And you. He made no effort to seek you out for twenty-five years. Is there anything more you need to know about such a man?”

With a great deal of self-control, Mandell forced the duke’s grip from his sleeve. “Perhaps not, but I cannot deny that he existed.”

“So, you would seek him out, return to the land of your mother’s murderers. It is unworthy of you, Mandell. An insult to her memory. Can you have forgotten how she died?”

“No, I have not.”

“The Parisian police broke down the door of the apartment. They arrested her. They dragged her out, terrified and screaming.”

“I remember. I was there.”

“They intended to put her on trial. She would have faced the guillotine.” The old man’s eyes glittered.

“But the mob was waiting in the streets. They put their filthy hands upon my proud, beautiful Celine, suffocating her with their vile stench. Clawed and tore at her like savage beasts, smearing themselves with her blood.”

“I remember,” Mandell repeated tersely.

“And when they had done, they paraded her head on a pike—”

“I remember, damn you!

Mandell strode away to the window, struggling to regain his composure.

The sky beyond the glass was so black, like the suffocating darkness of being shut up in a closet.

Mandell had seen nothing that long ago night, only felt the terror.

It had always been the visions that the duke conjured that made him feel as though he had witnessed his mother’s death, the old man’s words splashing the night sky with vivid hues of red.

Mandell pressed unsteady fingers to his brow. When he turned back, the duke looked ashen and as shaken as he. But it had been ever thus between them, circling each other like two duelists seeking their mark, only to succeed in reopening the one old wound that gave pain to them both.

It was his grandfather who recovered enough to speak first. “You were brought to me as a boy, Mandell, frightened, confused, as ragged and shivering as any peasant. I gave everything back to you, your courage, your place as my grandson, the dignity of my own name. I never expected gratitude from you, but I at least thought to have your loyalty.”

“And so you have had, Your Grace, beyond question.”

“Then you will not go to France?” his grandfather asked.

It was as close as the proud duke of Windermere would ever come to a plea.

Mandell looked deep into the old man’s hooded eyes and was astonished to find fear there.

It had never occurred to him that his iron-willed grandfather carried with him his own nightmares and terror of Paris.

“No, I will not go,” Mandell said. “I never had any intention of doing so.”

He half expected his grandfather might require his oath on that, but the duke appeared satisfied with those few brief words. Leaning on his cane, he stumped over to summon the footman and order up his carriage himself.

It was strange, Mandell thought. As a boy, his grandfather had seemed such a looming figure in his life. When he had grown to manhood, it had come as quite a jolt to realize the duke was not that tall. What he lacked in stature, His Grace made up for in his regal bearing.

But as Mandell studied his grandfather more closely, he saw the first signs of stooping shoulders. When the candlelight played full upon the duke’s age-lined features, he looked drained.

The old man was clearly no longer up to these little bouts of theirs. Mandell experienced a genuine regret that he had goaded him so. He was moved to apologize but knew it would do no good. The duke would only perceive that as a sign of weakness.

While they waited for the duke’s carriage to be brought round, Mandell sought to introduce more neutral topics and was grateful when his grandfather followed his lead.

They discussed the spirited team of horses Mandell had recently acquired and His Grace’s plans to dine at Devonshire House that evening.

“The countess has been pressing me to do so and I shall be retiring to the country soon,” the duke said.

“In the midst of the season?”

“London is not what it was. It gets worse every year. So many of my acquaintances have passed on and one scarce knows what manner of person one might meet these days, even in the best houses. This modern world of yours, Mandell, has no proper regard for rank and breeding.”

“Not my world, Your Grace, so much as Nick’s. He believes it is high time that men should be judged more for their own merit than who their fathers were.”

“Your cousin is becoming a most alarming young man. I fear that one of these days Nicholas will carry these mad ideas of his too far.” A troubled frown creased the duke’s brow.

But Mandell was accustomed to his grandfather’s complaints about Nick. Having no desire to set the duke off into another of his tirades, Mandell found it more politic to ignore the remark.

After Hastings had helped His Grace into his cloak and tricorne hat, Mandell escorted the duke to the waiting carriage himself.

Going down the walk, he attempted to use his tall frame to shield the old man from the bite of the wind. It had not yet begun to rain, but the thunder edged closer, causing the team of bays hitched to the duke’s brougham to paw restively.

“Take care, sir,” Mandell said. “It is going to be a bad night and Nick seems to be correct about one thing. Given recent events, perhaps this city does stand in need of a little more protection.”

“Bah! I suppose you mean that Hook business. I am no fool like young Albert Glossop. I have always known how to take care of myself.”

One of the duke’s own postilions snapped to open the coach door for him. But Mandell put his hand beneath the duke’s elbow to help him up the steps. It was the only touch his grandfather had ever been willing to accept from him.

As the duke settled back against the squabs, Mandell closed the door. His Grace thrust his head forward to peer out the coach window. “One more thing, Mandell. Think about what I have said regarding your dealings with Lady Fairhaven.”

Mandell had hoped his grandfather had forgotten or else decided to let the matter die. But that was too much to have expected. His Grace was nothing if not persistent.

“Set your mind at rest,” Mandell said. “I have no intention of marrying anyone at present.”

“But I want you to think of marriage. It is time you were producing an heir. All I ask is that when you are choosing a bride, remember your station in life—you are my grandson, the marquis of Mandell.”

“When would you ever allow me to forget?” Mandell murmured somewhat bitterly. But his remark was lost as the coachman whipped up the team and his grandfather’s ancient carriage clattered off down the street,

Mandell felt the first dash of rain against his cheek and did not linger by the gate. He returned to the relative warmth and comfort of his drawing room. But if he had been restless before his grandfather’s visit, he now felt tenfold more so.

He applied the poker to the fire, causing the flames to crackle and flare higher about the half-burned logs. It was ironic. His grandfather had striven to burn away his past, commanded him to forget. Yet it was the old man who constantly stirred the ashes of remembrance.

The bitter words he had exchanged with the duke had set ghosts loose upon this chamber. It was a perfect night for such specters with the rain now lashing the panes, the wind howling like some thrice-damned soul.

One such phantom was waiting for him as he approached the pianoforte, lightly trailing his fingers over the keys. After such a passage of time, Mandell had no clear memory of his father, other than he had been tall and handsome, his eyes brilliantly dark.

But his recollection of the chevalier’s hands was crystal clear, those long, sensitive fingers moving as deftly down the keys as a man might caress a mistress he has known long and loved well. His father’s voice had been as rich and lilting as the music he played.

“Attend-moi, mon petit gentilhomme, if you seek the fire and fury of a man’s soul, look to Monsieur Beethoven. But if you want something light and romantic to charm the ladies, it must be Mozart.”

Mandell recollected heeding his words most solemnly, for it had seemed his father was right.

When his father had played out the strains of a minuet, his mother leaned across the pianoforte, sighed, and smiled.

Mandell’s memory of the Lady Celine was that she had hardly ever smiled.

She had always been so stern and distant.

She only seemed to come alive when his father was present.

Mandell scowled, the softer vision fading as it always did to be replaced by the darker one, that night of black closets, splintering wood, and terrifying screams. Valmiere had given his mother love and life, only to abandon her to death.

“Where were you that night, my noble father?” Mandell grated. “Why weren’t you there to save her?”

He slammed his fist down upon the pianoforte keys with a jarring clang and then stalked away from the instrument. Why had he and his mother been left alone in Paris? Had his father truly been that much of a bastard, and did any of it really matter anymore?

No, it didn’t. It was only his grandfather’s visit that had stirred up all these memories, these doubts. It was only the storm outside making him so edgy, the lightning cracking and illuminating his windows like a flash of cannon fire.

He could sense the tension building within him until he felt as dark and dangerous as the night itself. It was going to be a wild night, a night in which he dared not sleep, for he knew he would dream. And dreaming was always bad.

Anne was fortunate she was not with him now, for he could never have been merciful enough to let her go. Not tonight.

“My Lady Sorrow, if you were in my arms at this moment, I would crush you against me, plunder your sweetness until I found forgetfulness, I could almost admit that I need—”

But Mandell was quick to check that wayward thought. He had no need but the most primitive male urge. He had survived many such nights of torment without Anne Fairhaven. He would get through this one as well.

Summoning Hastings, he commanded the footman to fetch his greatcoat and beaver hat. “I shall be dining away from home this evening,” Mandell informed him.

Hastings ventured a doubtful glance toward the windows, where the storm raged outside, but all he said was, “Yes, my lord.”

“And you may tell my valet not to wait up for me. I do not expect to return until very late.”

“Very good, my lord. Does that mean the rest of the staff might retire early as well?” There was a hint of eagerness in Hastings’s usual respectful monotone.

Mandell shot his footman a curious glance. He suddenly recalled the reason for Hastings’s introduction into his household. “You were planning to be married soon, were you not, Hastings? My parlor maid—er—Agnes.”

“Emily, my lord. You must have forgotten. We were wed last Tuesday morn. You granted us a half-day holiday.”

“Did I? How unusually gracious of me.” Mandell drew on his gloves. “So, you are a newly wedded man. Yes, perhaps you should retire to your bed early.”

Mandell was amused to see the stolid Hastings flush a deep scarlet. The marquis’s lips curved into a genuine smile, which was rare for him. Accepting his hat from the footman, he said, “Be off with you, John. Hie yourself away to the heaven of your lady’s arms.”

Mandell’s smile faded to an expression more grim. “I intend to seek my comfort tonight in far different regions.”