Page 46 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

Sixteen

Twilight had faded into darkness by the time Anne approached the marquis of Mandell’s gate.

Clutching the heavy bundle of cloth to her chest, she eased back her hood, peering up at his house.

A faint glow of light shone through one of the lower story windows, but the rest of the stone structure appeared dark and forbidding.

She wondered what madness had compelled her to come.

Their parting earlier today had been so abrupt.

He might not want to see her. He might not even be at home.

It was absurd, her conviction that he paced the shadows of this vast and lonely house, just as she had been pacing her empty bedchamber these past hours.

Yet the conviction was strong enough to carry her past his gate, up the steps to his front door. He needed her tonight. She was as certain of that as of her own aching need, a longing that she finally dared acknowledge.

Before her courage could desert her, she shifted her bundle under one arm, lifted her hand to the brass knocker and sounded it.

Only then did it occur to her to wonder what she would say when her summons was answered, especially if by a shocked and disapproving butler like Firken.

Yet she could not imagine any of Mandell’s servants being easily scandalized.

All the same, she felt relieved when the door swung open, revealing the familiar and reliable figure of John Hastings.

“My lady Fairhaven!” The young man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he struggled to conceal it.

“Is his lordship at home?” she asked.

“Yes, milady.”

“I need to see him.”

Hastings cast a doubtful glance toward the darkened regions of the house behind him. “It is very late, milady. I don’t know if the master would be—”

“Please,” Anne said, raising her eyes to his.

Hastings hesitated a moment more, then stepped aside to allow her to enter. “My lord is in the drawing room,” he said with a solemn bow. “Will it please you to wait here while I announce you?”

“No! I think it would be better if I just went in.” She dreaded Mandell having opportunity to fix his mask of hauteur in place, or worse still, simply refuse to see her.

Hastings nodded in silent understanding. “The drawing room is through that door at the end of the hall.”

Drawing a steadying breath, Anne stepped forward. Mandell’s entrance hall was as austere and unwelcoming as she remembered it. But as she crept farther into the house, the silence was broken by the distant sound of music. Someone was playing upon the pianoforte and with a great deal of mastery.

She glanced back to Hastings who stood behind her in the shadows. “Is Lord Mandell alone?”

“Always, milady,” the footman said with a sad smile.

Anne continued on her way, her heart hammering with every step.

When she opened the door, the music seemed to assault her in a great wave, echoing off the rafters with all the power and majesty of thunder.

The velvet draperies were drawn, the room dark except for the fire blazing on the hearth and the branch of candlesticks atop the piano-forte, their glow reflecting upon the glossy rosewood surface.

Absorbed by his playing, Mandell did not even look up when she entered.

His hands rippled over the keys, the notes ringing out with a hard, angry brilliance. It was as though all the passion, the torment, the longing he kept guarded in his soul flowed out through his fingertips, finding expression in a storm of music that took Anne’s breath away.

Closing the door quietly behind her, she crept forward.

The candles illuminated his profile and the sheen of his midnight satin dressing gown.

He wore nothing else but his breeches, the robe parted to reveal a glimpse of his hair-darkened chest, the strong cords of his neck.

His face was a study in intensity, his lashes lowered to veil his eyes, a flush staining his high cheekbones, his lips half parted.

She walked toward him, captured by the fury of his music as much as if he had seized her in a fierce embrace. She stood beside him and still he did not look up until he reached a place where his fingers faltered.

His brow furrowed in concentration as his hands moved back, trying to repeat the phrase.

It was at that point that he sensed her presence.

The music died away on a final jarring note that reverberated about the room, finally echoing to silence.

He stared at her as though gazing at an apparition as she brushed back her hood.

“Anne!” He shot to his feet, the darkness in his eyes replaced by an eager light. He reached for her, his own hands a trifle unsteady, and all Anne’s doubts were swept aside. She knew she had done right to come.

She awaited his touch with breathless anticipation. But as he recovered from his initial surprise, he seemed to recollect himself. He drew back, frowning.

“How did you get in?” he asked. “And what the devil are you doing here?”

“Hastings admitted me,” she replied with more calm than she felt. “I came to return this to you.”

She thrust toward him the bundle she had carried tucked under her arm.

He appeared puzzled until he shook out the heavy folds and recognized his own caped greatcoat, the one he had draped about her shoulders the night they had first made the pact between them, the pact that had nearly made them lovers.

She wondered if the garment stirred for him the same memories as it did her.

It was difficult to read his expression.

“I have had it hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe all this time,” she said. “I kept forgetting to give it back to you.”

He tossed the coat over the back of one of the chairs. “You came here alone?”

“Yes, it is only a short walk from Lily’s to here and—”

“You little fool!” The sudden flare of anger in his eyes put an end to her explanation. “There is a murderer on the loose and you decide to go for a late night stroll?”

“The streetlamps are all lit and the watchman was making his rounds.”

Mandell clenched his hands, looking as though he wanted to shake her. She hastened to add, “Perhaps I did behave a little unwisely. But it doesn’t matter. I am in no danger now.”

“That is a highly debatable point. How long have you been standing there?”

“Only a few moments. I was listening to you play. A symphony by Beethoven, wasn’t it? You did it so magnificently. I wish you hadn’t stopped.”

“I could not recollect any more. I play by memory only.”

Her gaze flew back to the pianoforte, noticing there were no sheets of composition propped in the music stand. “You don’t read music? You play that way by ear?”

He shrugged. “I never took any instruction. Some musical accomplishment is tolerable, but a gentleman should hardly perform as though he were obliged to earn a living at it like some opera-house player.”

The acid words seemed to be an echo of someone else’s sentiments, not his own.

He stepped away from the pianoforte and disconcerted her by asking, “Why did you really come here tonight, Anne? And don’t tell me any more nonsense about returning that cloak.

You could have dispatched a servant to bring it back days ago. ”

Her cheeks heated. If he did not understand why she was here, she hardly knew how to begin to tell him, especially when he was fixing her with such a hard stare.

“You left so abruptly today,” she said. “And you seemed so distraught about your friend. I was worried. I wondered if you had heard how Sir Lancelot is faring.”

“He may live, but I doubt he’ll ever recover.”

“Do they know yet who is responsible for the attack?”

“I am,” Mandell said harshly.

When she looked at him, startled, he added, “I don’t mean that I was the one who pierced him through, but I might as well have done.

I allowed him to accompany me last night and then got so drunk that I forgot all about him.

I abandoned him at that wretched tavern, leaving him to the mercy of some damned brigand, some murderous phantom , whatever or whoever this accursed Hook might be. ”

Mandell’s lips twisted in a bitter smile.

“Briggs hated jaunting about such low places. He only came to try to protect me from myself. Because I once did him a misplaced kindness, he conceived this notion that I am somehow worth saving, a mistaken idea that you seem to share. Is that why you came, Anne? To be my ministering angel? You cannot minister to the devil, my dear.”

His words were hard, jeering, inviting her to share in his self-condemnation. But one look into his eyes was enough to see how Mandell damned himself.

His face was taut with the strain of the past hours. A few dark strands of hair drooped over his brow. Anne had longed to smooth them back ever since she had entered the room. Closing the distance between them, she gave way to the impulse now, caressing his forehead.

“I came to you because I thought you might need a friend tonight,” she said.

He tensed at her touch and caught her hand, holding it in an iron grip. “My friends pay a high price for the privilege of my company. If you don’t believe me, ask Briggs. He could tell you—that is if he were still able to speak.”

“I am prepared to take the risk, my lord. I am not afraid.”

“You should be.” He kissed her hand brusquely and returned it to her. “Go home, Anne. You need not worry about me. I am not likely to go off into a decline over Briggs. I am after all a cold-hearted bastard. I will have forgotten all about the poor fool by tomorrow.”

Would he? Anne wondered. Or would what had happened to Briggs become one more painful memory for Mandell, buried only to resurface, haunting him in his dreams?

His mouth, she suddenly realized, had never been suited for such hard mockery, but had always been formed for a more sensitive cast. She brushed her fingers lightly over his lips.

He flinched as though she had burned him.

He retreated, saying, “I will summon Hastings to escort you home.”