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

Two

It was well past midnight by the time the marquis of Mandell arrived at the Countess Sumner’s ball.

He permitted a servant to remove the black cloak from his broad shoulders.

Without glancing around, Mandell handed off his gloves, high-crowned hat, and gold-tipped cane to another pasty-faced footman.

Then, straightening his cuffs, the marquis passed between twin marble pillars into the main drawing room.

It was a long chamber done up with gilt mirrors and hung with red damask like some opulent Italian palazzo. Mandell presented a stark contrast in the severe style of his evening clothes, the unrelenting black relieved only by the snowy folds of his cravat.

The gallery was already thronged with the countess’s guests.

Mandell observed the assembled company through cynical eyes.

Apparently, Glossop’s murder had done little to discourage any of the haute ton from venturing abroad in search of their pleasures.

If anything, it added a certain titillation to the hum of gossip.

The well-bred voices could be heard even above the scrape of the violins.

“My dear, positively too dreadful.”

“That murderous footpad, the Hook.”

“Mr. Glossop’s throat pierced quite through.”

“And it happened right here on the corner of Clarion Way.”

Mandell’s lip curled with contempt and he wondered why he had come. He might have done better to have appeased Sara, lingering in her bed, except that he had been troubled with a restlessness of late that not even she could satisfy. He felt as hollow, as empty as this roomful of chattering fools.

The hour was advanced enough that Lily was no longer receiving latecomers. Mandell waved aside the servant who would have announced him. He strolled into the drawing room, but he had not taken many steps when he was accosted by Sir Lancelot Briggs.

The man came scrambling to Mandell’s side like a bumbling puppy. Briggs was plump, with shirt collars worn too high, his hair curled too tight. His eyes lit up with joy at the sight of Mandell and he clutched at the marquis’s sleeve.

“Mandell! Oh, thank God! Thank God you are unharmed.”

“Which is more than can be said for my coat,” Mandell complained, prying Briggs’s fingers away.

“I am sorry. But I have been so anxious about you, what with that fiend the Hook still roaming abroad.”

“Oh? Have you seen him tonight?”

“Well, no, but one knows he is still out there, lurking. After what happened to poor Bertie Glossop, I fear none of us are safe until that villain is captured.” Briggs added shyly, “I looked for you at the club earlier. When you did not come to dine, I confess I was worried.”

Mandell eyed Briggs with distaste. The man trailed after him so much he was becoming known as “Mandell’s toady.” Perhaps that did not affront Briggs’s pride, but it certainly did Mandell’s.

“Your solicitude is touching,” the marquis said coldly, “but I trust I may alter my schedule without it becoming a matter of public concern.”

Briggs turned a bright red. “Yes, of course. That is, I am sorry. I only ...” He allowed his words to trail away, his brown eyes welling with hurt. He walked off, looking crestfallen.

“Why must you always be so cutting, Mandell?” The quiet voice might have been his conscience except that Mandell did not believe he possessed one. Turning, he discovered that his cousin Nicholas Drummond had come up behind him.

Nick’s sartorial magnificence was almost blinding.

He wore a mauve frock coat, lace spilling from his cuffs, his neckcloth folded in an intricate arrangement.

It amused Mandell that Nick, intensely serious about everything else, should be so frivolous in matters of dress, loading himself down with fobs and diamond stickpins.

Mandell, on the other hand, who accounted nothing to be of great importance, wore no jewelry save his gold signet ring.

Nick asked, “Why do you always treat poor Briggs so shabbily? He is your friend.”

“I was not aware that I had any friends,” Mandell replied.

“Briggs apparently thinks otherwise. The man is devoted to you.”

“So would a dog be, if I had one.” Mandell drew forth an enameled snuffbox and flicked open the lid with a careless but practiced gesture. “I don’t entertain sycophants.”

“No, you are the last man anyone could accuse of that. That is why I don’t understand what possessed Briggs to attach himself to you.”

Mandell helped himself to a pinch of snuff, then returned the box to his pocket.

“That is my own fault. We were both at a gaming hell once and a Captain Sharp was fleecing Briggs at cards. When Briggs was foolish enough to object, the fellow threatened him with a pistol. I felt compelled to intervene.”

“Did you, by God.” Nick’s eyes warmed with admiration, but Mandell would have none of it.

“I don’t know what comes over me,” he said. “I am beset by these beneficent impulses from time to time like a recurrent bout of the brain fever. It is the one great flaw in my character.”

“Well, flawed or not, I am deuced glad to see you. I thought you would be otherwise engaged this evening. Have you tired of the charms of your latest mistress so soon?”

“Why? Would you like me to introduce you to her?”

“No, thank you,” Nick said, laughing. “I am far too occupied with my work for such a diversion. I have been meaning to call upon you. I have a favor to ask.”

Mandell cast his cousin a pained glance.

“Not to second you in another duel! My dear fellow, this is becoming a tiresome habit. I can sympathize with you in some measure. There are a good many people I would like to shoot, but not over politics. Now it would be another matter if you fought over a woman or because someone’s waistcoat offended you. ”

Mandell flicked his fingers against Nick’s own silk garment, a pattern of bright mauve stripes.

“Damn your eyes, Mandell,” Nick growled, “there is nothing wrong with my waistcoat, and no, I am not about to fight another duel. I am still recovering from the effects of my last meeting with Beresford.”

He rubbed the back of his left hand, which bore a recent scar from a pistol ball. Mandell had only been thankful that Beresford, who was a crack shot, had been content to aim for Nick’s hand rather than his hot head.

“It is something else entirely I need to ask you about,” Nick said. “But perhaps we had better find someplace quieter where we will not be interrupted.”

“If you insist, though it is not my habit to steal off into secluded alcoves with politicians.”

Nick grinned. “And do not all the mamas in this room know it! As soon as you appeared on the threshold, Lady Ormsby gathered her girls about her like a flustered hen. I believe she has sent out for their chastity belts.”

“An unnecessary precaution,” Mandell murmured. “I have seen her daughters.”

After which quip, he permitted Nick to lead the way through the drawing room.

This was not an easy feat, for the gallery was packed.

Couples performing a quadrille had hardly enough room to pace off their steps.

More than one lady present had recourse to use her fan, the blazing lights of the chamber’s four chandeliers being over brilliant.

The curtained alcove seemed cool and quiet by comparison. Nick flung himself down at once upon a claw foot sofa, but Mandell chose to remain standing.

“Is it my imagination,” he said, “or are the voices of the ladies a little shriller tonight?”

“Oh, I suppose there is still a deal of excitement owing to Bertie Glossop’s death.

” Nick shrugged. “Mind you, I would not have wished Glossop any harm, but in a queer way, his murder has turned out to be a good thing. I had hoped that the activities of the Hook might have done so sooner, but it seems to have taken something this grim to shake certain people out of their complacency.”

The more Nick warmed to his subject, the more heated his voice became.

“Now perhaps the good citizens of Mayfair will understand some of the terrors the West End poor have faced for years. Parliament will understand the need to do away with our outmoded police force. The time has come to organize one efficient central unit—”

“My dear Nick,” Mandell interrupted as soon as he could get a word in. “If you are going to start addressing me as though I were a public meeting, I fear I will be obliged to eschew the pleasure of your company.”

“But—”

“And besides, you know I am the last person likely to sympathize with your notion of an efficient police.”

Their eyes locked and Nick apparently took his meaning, for he spoke in milder tones. “What happened to your mother in Paris took place a very long time ago, Mandell, and it was a different thing altogether.”

“Was it?” Mandell said, his voice going cold and hard. He was on the verge of leaving when Nick flung up one hand.

“No, I am sorry. Come back. I promise I have done with my speeches about the police. This was not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”

Mandell returned, but he eyed his cousin with wariness, wondering about the nature of the favor Nick required. Nick was not often beforehand with the world, yet he seldom asked to borrow money, at least not for himself.

Mandell had a dread that Nick’s forthcoming request must have something to do with one of his infernal causes.

Nick cleared his throat, a bad sign. “Of course, you know John Hastings.”

“No, I cannot say that I do.”

“He is my footman, the one who usually answers the front door.”

Mandell’s brows rose a fraction. “I have a vague recollection of some burly youth, but I have not as yet had opportunity to strike up an intimacy with him.”

“Don’t go all haughty on me, Mandell,” Nick implored. “The thing is, John wants to marry Emily.”

Mandell regarded him blankly.

“Emily, your downstairs maid.”