Page 40 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

Fourteen

Mandell awoke to bright sunlight stabbing at his eyes.

With a low groan, he flung one arm across his face, shielding himself from the intensity.

Despite the warmth of the rays, he felt chilled.

His eyes mere slits, he studied his surroundings, the costly brocade bed hangings, the heavy oak pillars of the bed, the dressing table with its jar of ointment and bandages. All quite unfamiliar.

He shivered and groped for the coverlet, at the same time groping for his memory.

Where the devil am I?

He scowled and nearly cried aloud, the simple act of contracting his brow making him conscious of the pain exploding inside his head. Damn! He felt as though someone had been using his skull for a blacksmith’s anvil.

Gingerly, he attempted to explore his forehead for any sign of injury and was further mystified by the linen cocoon wrapped about his hand. Had he been in some sort of an accident?

Moistening his dry lips, he grimaced at the feel of his own tongue, thick as a wad of cotton. His splitting head and the stale taste in his mouth were sensations he recognized.

He had not been in any accident. This disaster was one of his own making, his and too many tumblers full of brandy.

He emitted a soft sigh, part disgust, part agony.

It had been many years since he had drunk himself into such a state, not since the uncultivated days of his youth.

And never had he gone so far that he had awakened in a strange bed, wearing someone else’s nightshirt, not even knowing where he was, much less what he had been doing.

As he flexed his sore hand, he wondered what manner of folly he had been guilty of last night.

It made his head swim even to try to think about it.

Confusing scenes flashed before his eyes; the quarrel with his grandfather, telling Hastings not to wait up, setting off for White’s determined to drown his black thoughts.

Apparently, he had done a good job. He could recall nothing after his arrival at White’s. His memory was like a dark mirror that had shattered into a dozen shards. Mandell had a strong foreboding that gathering those shards would prove an agonizing task, one that might leave him cut and bleeding.

Managing to prop himself up on one elbow, his bleary gaze tracked round the massive four-poster bed. He could have ended up in worse places; a brothel, some stinking tavern, the gutter. This bedchamber belonged to a fashionable household, one of wealth and elegance.

But whose? And how did he arrive here? He could not remember.

So, what did he do now? Attempt to summon a servant?

He flattered himself that he could handle any situation with aplomb.

But he was not certain that even the haughty marquis of Mandell was equal to demanding a hot bath, his clothes, and by the bye, could you kindly tell me where I am.

Mandell was not aware that he had muttered these last words aloud until a small voice piped up, “You are at my aunt Lily’s.”

The sound, soft as it was, startled him into jerking upright. A grave mistake. His head spun and a wave of nausea swept over him. It took all his iron control to suppress the desire to be sick, to bring the whirling room back into focus.

A focus that settled upon a diminutive figure at the foot of his bed.

Mandell wondered if he were having a hallucination.

The little girl stared back at him through solemn blue eyes.

She could have been an apparition, all pink and gold, garbed in delicate white muslin, a blue sash knotted at her slender waist. Except that Mandell had seen this fairy child before, locked behind the cruel iron gates of an unkempt garden.

“Eleanor Rose Fairhaven,” Mandell said in dumbfounded accents, as though he needed to convince himself of that fact. “Anne’s daughter.”

The child must have perceived this as a form of introduction, for she dropped into a graceful curtsy. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, and then inquired politely, “S’cuse me, but have you lost your wits?”

“That is a strong possibility,” Mandell murmured, feeling quite dazed. Norrie Fairhaven ... If she was in truth standing at the foot of his bed and he had not run quite insane, then at least he knew where his drunken progress must have ended.

At the Countess Sumner’s, Lily Rosemoor’s doorstep. No, not Lily’s. Anne’s. Mandell stifled a groan. He would have preferred the gutter.

“I heard Bettine telling cook about you,” Norrie continued. “That you burst into our front hall like a loonytic.” The little girl frowned as she struggled to pronounce the next words. “Bettine says you are a fitting candicake for Bedlam.”

“A woman of vast perception.” He winced. “Just who is this Bettine?”

“Mama’s maid. She helps take care of me. She is kind most of the time, but she did think we should have throwed you back into the streets.”

And what did Mama think? Mandell longed to ask, but why should he care what Anne would have thought? It only irritated him to realize that he did.

The little girl’s shoulders shook as she struggled to suppress a cough.

Norrie crept around the side of the bed as though she approached some dangerous but fascinating beast. Mandell could easily have outstared the haughtiest of duchesses.

But something about the child’s steady regard unnerved him.

It was almost as though those clear blue eyes could peer straight through to his soul, not a pretty sight for anyone, let alone a little girl.

Drawing the coverlet up to his chin, he sagged back against the headboard. In his current state of misery, he would have told anyone else to get the devil away from him. Instead, he murmured, “Begging your pardon, Miss Fairhaven. I am not precisely up to receiving visitors at the moment.”

“You look very sick,” Norrie agreed. “You have tiny little black hairs growing out of your face.”

Mandell rubbed his hand along his unshaven jaw.

“That is one of the consequences of calling upon a gentleman before he has had recourse to his razor. Surely you must have seen your own papa—” Mandell broke off as Norrie’s face fell.

He silently cursed himself for reminding the child of the father she had lost.

“I never saw my own papa very much,” Norrie said in woebegone accents. “I was sick too many times and my papa had a ‘version to sickness.”

“Did he, indeed?” Mandell said, thinking God rot the saintly Gerald.

“I get the sniffles and cough too much.” As though to demonstrate, another hacking sound erupted from her throat which she fought by stuffing her hand against her mouth. “You see? It makes my face turn too red. Most un-unattractive, Papa used to say.”

“He was quite mistaken. Your face is not red at all, but a most becoming shade of pink. You are a very pretty young lady, Miss Eleanor,”

Norrie beamed. “Thank you. You are very pretty, too.”

Mandell started to chuckle, but it hurt too much. “In my present state? I hardly think so.”

“Not pretty, but handsome,” Norrie corrected. “Those dark bristly hairs make you look fierce and your eyes are red. I used to pretend my uncle was the king of the underworld, but you would make a better dark lord than him.”

“I always had a strong presentiment that I looked like the devil. But thank you for confirming it, young lady.”

“Not the devil. The god of the underworld. Don’t you know who he is?”

“Yes, Hades.” Mandell pressed his fingertips to his throbbing brow. “But I am not quite up for a mythological discussion at the moment and I think you had better return to your nursery.”

“You read myths, too?” Norrie wriggled in delight. “Which ones?”

“All of them, I expect, but—”

“Uncle Lucien never did.”

Lucien. Out of all the child’s prattle, the single word struck Mandell like a blow.

He stared down at his injured hand and closed his eyes as one of the shards of memory slipped into place.

The smoke-filled tavern, Lucien Fairhaven crumpled beneath him, the sickening sound of his fist connecting to bone, the flow of blood.

Lost in the memory of that grim scene, he realized that a small hand was patting his where it lay extended along the coverlet. Opening his eyes, he found Norrie peering at him, her small brow furrowed with concern.

“Are you feeling very poorly?” she asked. “There is a doctor coming.”

What ailed him was past the power of any physician to cure. To the child, Mandell merely said, “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Neither do I, but Mama thinks I do because of my coughing.” Norrie fretted her lower lip. “What would you do if a doctor came to see you and you didn’t want him to?”

In a painful effort, Mandell arched one of his brows. “I would simply say to him, ‘Sir, you can retire at once.’”

After absorbing this with intense concentration, Norrie pranced over to peer at herself in the mirror suspended above the dressing table.

“Sir,” she said, “you can be tired at once.” She could mimic Mandell’s haughty tone to perfection, but his expression gave her more difficulty. After much scrunching and grimacing, she was obliged to take her fingers to press her eyebrow into the upraised position.

For the first time since he had wakened, Mandell felt the inclination to smile. But he tensed as he heard the door opening. From his angle on the bed, he could not see who it was that tiptoed into the room.

He heard a soft gasp and Anne’s voice whispered, “Norrie! What are you doing in here? Come away before you awaken Lord Mandell.”

Nonie spun about. “He already waked up by himself, Mama.”

Mandell had not yet steeled himself for encountering Anne again, especially under such humiliating circumstances. But he had no time to brace himself, for she appeared at the foot of the bed, standing where he had first seen Norrie.