Page 44 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

Fifteen

The marquis of Mandell never had difficulty making an entrance.

He had swept through the doors of anywhere from a king’s drawing room to the most dangerous of gaming hells without a blink, treating the stares of both royalty and rogues with a cool disdain.

His arrogant confidence had never failed him until he prepared to enter the humble parlor of Sir Lancelot Briggs’s London residence.

The place was already thronged with sorrowing relatives speaking in hushed voices, a few of the women sniffing into their handkerchiefs. Mandell stood just outside the room, feeling awkward, wondering why he had come.

After hearing the tidings about Lancelot, he had bolted from the Countess Sumner’s, not even taking the time to bid Anne farewell. He had not even realized where he was going until he had found himself upon Briggs’s doorstep.

Why had he come? To fill in the blanks left in his drink-fogged memory about all that had happened last night? To assure himself that whatever had befallen Lancelot was not his fault?

Either motive was hardly a noble one and Mandell had never felt less noble in his life than when he steeled himself to face Sir Lancelot’s mother.

Usually a bustling woman, as plump and cheerful as her son, the Dowager Lady Briggs sat at the far end of the parlor, staring into the empty hearth with red-rimmed eyes.

Her large brown eyes were filled with a mournful bewilderment as though she could not quite take in what had happened to her son.

Mandell recalled meeting the woman only once. Sir Lancelot had proudly insisted upon presenting his mama to his good friend the marquis. Mandell had given her such a frozen stare, the poor woman had been too awed even to speak.

Like so many of his memories, Mandell did not find it a comfortable one. His discomfort increased when the servant intoned his name and Lady Briggs leapt up to greet him like an old and valued friend. She rushed to the threshold with her hands extended, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Oh, my lord Mandell. I knew the moment you heard about my poor Lancelot you would come rushing to his side.”

Mandell flinched, but he managed a stiff bow. He resisted Lady Briggs’s urgings that he join the others in the parlor, drawing her out into the hall instead. “I do not wish to intrude upon your family at such a time. But I had to know. Has the doctor been to attend Briggs yet? How does he fare?”

“As well as can be expected, poor lamb.” Lady Briggs groped for her handkerchief.

“That fiend who did this wounded him twice.

By the time he was found down by the river, my son had lost a powerful deal of blood.

The surgeon says there is no more to be done than let Lancelot rest and hope for the best.

“But I know he is going to be all right,” she added fiercely, mopping at her eyes. “Lancelot has always been such a sturdy boy. I wanted to sit with him, but I am not brave enough to contain myself and I upset him so. It has always distressed him to see his mama cry.”

“He is conscious then?” Mandell asked, feeling a flicker of hope. Perhaps the reports of Lancelot’s injury had all been greatly exaggerated. “Would it be possible to visit him? Would he want to see me?”

“Lancelot would always want to see you, my lord. I shall summon his valet to conduct you to him. The dear man has not left my poor boy since he was carried home this m-morning.” The thought of the servant’s devotion overcame her ladyship for a moment.

She wept into her handkerchief while Mandell stood by uncomfortably.

He was wondering if he should step into the parlor and summon one of the other women to her aid when Lady Briggs struggled for command of herself. She blew her nose gustily and then glanced up at him with a pathetic attempt to smile.

“Forgive me for being such a fool, my lord,” she said.

“But this is so hard to bear. I cannot understand why this should have happened to my son. He is such a dear kind boy, never harming anyone and so good to his mama. He hardly ever carries more than two farthings in his pocket. Why should this Hook person have wished to attack him?”

“I don’t know,” Mandell said. But another shard of memory fell into place, this one more piercing than any of the others. Through the smoke-filled haze of the tavern, he seemed to hear his own jeering voice, unguarded, speaking far too loudly.

The bold Sir Lancelot who once encountered the Hook himself, who has pledged to aid in that villain’s capture.

Equally clear came Briggs’s pleading reply, Don’t taunt me, Mandell. I am frightened.

Who else might have heard his drunken jest besides Briggs, Mandell wondered?

Briggs had kept insisting that someone was staring at him, some sailor with a beard or a scar or something like that.

What had Mandell replied? Some rejoinder full of mockery and wit, no doubt.

He was ever good at that, Mandell thought bitterly.

Mandell found it difficult to continue his conversation with Lady Briggs.

He was relieved when the valet, a scrawny fellow with sorrowful eyes, appeared to conduct him upstairs.

The curtains had been tightly drawn in Lancelot’s bedchamber, only one candle left burning.

It took Mandell’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

The servant did not leave the room, but he stood back respectfully, allowing Mandell to approach his master’s bedside.

A deathlike silence had already fallen over the chamber.

It was broken only by the ticking of Briggs’s watch, which had been left lying open upon the dressing table.

The sight of the timepiece disturbed Mandell in an odd way, stirred some fragment of memory that hovered just out of reach.

He closed the watchcase before stepping nearer to the bed.

Sir Lancelot lay unmoving upon the mattress, his upper chest and neck swathed in bandages. The linen was no whiter than the pasty shade of his complexion. His eyes were shut, his face drawn in lines of silent suffering.

Mandell’s chest constricted with a mixture of sorrow, remorse, and anger. “You bloody fool! Why couldn’t you have heeded me last night when I told you to go home?”

His voice, low as it was, caused Briggs to stir. He shifted upon the pillow and his eyes fluttered open. The brown depths clouded with confusion and fear as though he thought a stranger hovered over him.

“It is I, Briggs,” Mandell said. “Don’t you know me? It is Mandell.”

Briggs blinked, the confusion replaced with that pathetically pleased expression Mandell had always found so annoying.

Now it brought a lump to his throat. He drew up a chair and seated himself beside the bed.

Briggs moved his lips to speak. His face puckered and he pointed to the bandages at his throat.

“It is all right. I understand,” Mandell said. “Don’t try to talk.”

Briggs held out his hand. After an awkward hesitation, Mandell grasped it. Briggs’s flesh felt cold. Mandell squeezed the soft plump hand as though trying to infuse some of his own warmth and strength into the man.

“You are being quite a nuisance, you know that, don’t you, Briggs? Giving everyone such a scare, making all the clubs fear they will have to close their doors if you do not return soon to lose your money.”

Mandell’s voice did not even sound like his own. It rang with a false heartiness he despised, and Briggs was not fooled. His eyes drifted down with a hopelessness, a lack of faith in his own recovery.

“You are not going to die. I forbid it.” Mandell said. He was astonished by the fierceness of his emotion. Taking a deep breath, he strove for a lighter tone. “Who else would there be to endure my company when I am in one of my uncivilized humors?”

Briggs’s lips quivered. Mandell pressed his hand one last time and released him. “We had quite a night of it last night, didn’t we?”

Briggs nodded sadly.

“The last I recall you prevented me from murdering Lucien Fairhaven. I suppose I should thank you for that, but then I believe you carted me up to some flea-ridden bed and half drowned me with water.” The effort to recall caused Mandell’s head to ache again.

“Then I have this notion you left me. You were going to fetch something, is that correct?”

Briggs nodded again, but his gaze skittered uneasily away from Mandell’s.

“How did you come to end up down by the river? Do you remember who attacked you? Was it the Hook?”

Briggs shuddered and nodded.

“Was he someone from the tavern? Would you recognize him again?”

Briggs cast him a piteous glance. Mandell continued to prod gently, “Was he the same fellow you glimpsed before, the one with the plumed hat? Could you manage to write out any sort of description? I may abuse my own friends, Briggs, but I am damned if I will allow anyone else to do so. I will track this bastard down and tighten the noose about his neck myself if—”

Mandell broke off as Briggs became quite agitated. He clutched at Mandell’s sleeve, shaking his head in vehement denial.

“Steady on, old fellow,” Mandell said, attempting to soothe him. “You don’t remember who attacked you? Or you are afraid for me to go after him? I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.”

Briggs allowed his hand to drop back to his side, his eyes filling with tears. But Mandell had no opportunity to question him further. The valet who had stood quietly in the shadows all this time now crept forward.

“Please, my lord. The doctor said as how the master should be kept quiet. He needs to rest.”

“Of course.” Mandell stood up reluctantly, saying, “I am sorry. I shall come back when you are feeling more fit, Lance.”

It was the first time he had ever used Briggs’s Christian name, let alone abbreviated it in such friendly fashion. Briggs appeared quite overcome. He managed to roll onto his side and buried his face in the pillow to conceal his silent sobs.