Page 68 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

Twenty-Three

Anne stood on the slope near the willow tree, watching her daughter romp by the pond in St. James’s Park. With Pegasus tethered to a tree, the young groom trailed devotedly after Norrie, keeping the child from wading into the waters in her earnest efforts to toss bread to the ducks.

The breeze billowing out the soft folds of Anne’s muslin gown, she appeared all that was warm and serene, truly the gentle goddess who had restored spring to the world.

As Mandell alighted from his coach to join her, he felt a tightening in his chest, a rush of love and longing for her that was almost painful.

He had not seen Anne since the night at Windermere Palace, had been able to do no more than pen her a note, saying that as soon as he had sorted things out, he would come to her. Sorting things out—that had been a mild way to describe the chaos that had surrounded him since his grandfather’s death.

Another woman might well not have comprehended his need to be alone after the devastating revelations of that night, to come to terms with the legacy of bitterness and grief that the old duke had left to him.

But as Mandell approached across the grass and Anne glanced round, he saw no sign of reproach on her face.

Her eyes shone with a silent understanding, a smile of welcome upon her lips.

Only Anne knew what it cost her to maintain such an aura of restraint.

She wanted to run to him, cast herself into his embrace, just as she had been longing to seek him out these past days, offer him her love and consolation.

But she knew from experience that the barriers of Mandell’s heart could not be forced.

He had to be willing to allow her in. He had done so once. She prayed he would be able to again.

Before Mandell could close the distance between them, Anne heard Norrie give a glad shout. Hiking up the skirts of her frock, the little girl rushed pell-mell at Mandell and flung her arms about his legs.

As Mandell smiled and lifted Norrie high into his arms, Anne envied the child her spontaneity, her complete freedom from the constraints and doubts that beset adults.

Norrie hugged Mandell and thrust upon him a bedraggled bouquet of wildflowers and weeds.

After a few moments of whispered conversation, Mandell set the child down and she went skipping back to the pond.

Mandell came the rest of the way across the grass. He favored Anne with a small bow and presented her with Norrie’s nosegay.

“For you, milady,” he said. “Your daughter appears to think I need some help with my wooing.”

“I have never thought so,” Anne murmured as she accepted the motley collection of daisies, violets, and blades of grass.

For a fleeting instant, Mandell smiled and Anne thought that all was well.

But the light vanished from his eyes far too quickly.

She sensed an air of weariness about him that went as deep as his soul.

The first hint of silver had appeared amongst his midnight-dark strands, and fresh lines of sorrow were carved near that sensitive mouth.

“Your sister told me I would find you here this morning,” he said.

“Yes, I know it is early for a walk, but I felt the need to escape.” Anne winced.

“Since all that has happened, I find myself a figure of some notoriety. We are plagued by visitors at all hours, come to offer congratulations upon my narrow escape. I believe most are simply curious to meet a lady who was once a resident of Newgate.”

“That is one nuisance I have not been plagued with,” Mandell said drily.

“Few are presumptuous enough to foist their curiosity upon the grandson of a murderer. My chief problem has been my servants. They will persist in calling me ‘Your Grace’ now. Only Hastings seems to understand how it affects me.”

Anne wanted to show him how much she also understood, but Mandell turned away from her. He nodded toward where Norrie had coaxed Pegasus to the pond’s edge, trying to convince the stubborn pony he needed a drink.

“I trust Eleanor has taken no ill effects through all of this?” he asked.

“She did cling to me for the first day I was returned home,” Anne replied.

“But children have a way of accepting the most extraordinary events that surprises one. To Norrie, I believe, it all seemed like nothing more than a frightening story of me being held prisoner in a tower. Then you dashed in to rescue me and deal with all the ogres. I fear she now expects there to be a happy ending as well.”

Anne waited breathlessly, hoping for some sign of concurrence in Mandell. He merely lowered his lashes, veiling his expression, and Anne’s heart sank. He was building his walls again. She could sense that, and she did not know how to stop him.

“Norrie and I have been worried about you,” Anne ventured at last. “She feared you would be made very sad by the death of your grandfather.”

“In truth, Anne, I scarce know what I have been feeling these past few days. Guilt mostly.”

When Anne regarded him questioningly, he said, “No matter what the old devil did, the grief and suffering he caused, I would not have wished him such an end. I should never have been so careless, leaving that pistol behind.”

“Your grandfather would have but found some other way. What else could he have done? Could you imagine the proud duke of Windermere forced to give an accounting of his actions, even to a jury of his peers?”

“No,” Mandell said reluctantly, “I could not.”

He swallowed thickly, “That last conversation I had with my grandfather, I have not felt able to speak of it. But I would like to tell you now, Anne.”

Anne breathed a tiny sigh. Perhaps the wall this time was not quite as insurmountable as she feared. Norrie’s flowers fell from her fingers unheeded as she reached out to take Mandell’s hand.

“I am listening,” she said quietly.

He seemed to derive great comfort from entwining her fingers with his own.

His voice was calm and steady as he related the details of that final interview.

Anne could only guess what the duke’s horrible revelations had done to Mandell, the ravaging of his spirit reflected in the dark depths of his eyes.

Anne grieved for Lady Celine and her young husband, a couple whose great love had been sacrificed to a revolution and an old man’s bitterness.

She grieved for the little boy who had thus been deprived of both of his parents.

More than anything, she grieved for the man who clung so tightly to her hand as he related these horrors.

“I remembered so little myself of what happened in France,” Mandell said.

“But yesterday, I found some old letters amongst the duke’s private papers that clarified everything.

They were from my mother, the last one posted from Calais.

She explained that she had decided to defy her husband’s wishes that she set sail for England, and instead meant to return with me to Paris.

It appears my mother was a true Windermere, stubborn and arrogant.

She simply could not be brought to believe that any French rabble would dare to harm the daughter and grandson of an English duke.

Setting that bit of hauteur aside, she wrote as a woman who could not bear the thought of being parted from the man she loved. ”

“Your mother did not make a wise choice, but a perfectly understandable one.”

“That is what I am endeavoring to remember out of the whole senseless tragedy,” Mandell said. “How much my parents loved each other, and that they must have been happy for a time.”

He bowed his head in silence for a moment before he could continue, “There was a more recent letter amongst my grandfather’s effects.

This one from the present Comte de Valmiere seeking information about myself and my father.

God alone only knows why the old man did not destroy it, but I am grateful that he did not.

“I have an uncle living near Caen, and several aunts. It occurs to me that they might be able to tell me a great deal about my father, things that I was never privileged to know. The comte mentioned that he still has some of my father’s compositions.

It seems that the reason he took my mother to Paris in the first place was that he hoped for an audience at court, a chance to find a patron for his music. ”

A flush of embarrassment stained Mandell’s cheeks. “I know this is going to sound absurd, but I feel that if I could learn to play my father’s music, I could somehow have a part of him back again, perhaps even regain a part of myself that was taken from me so long ago.”

“It does not sound absurd at all,” Anne said.

He slipped his hand from her grasp. “I want to go back to France, Anne.”

She wondered if he realized that as he spoke, he paced several steps away from her. Once more, Anne felt the distance threatening to grow between them. But she forced back the lump in her throat and said, “Of course, my lord. If that is what you need to do.”

“If circumstances had been different, I would have asked you to go with me. But I no longer have the right to do so, not after these discoveries about my grandfather. He often accused me of having tainted blood, and so I do. Not my father’s, but his.”

“No, Mandell,” Anne protested, seeking to recapture his hand.

But Mandell stepped back, saying in a voice raw with anguish, “There was one dread moment, Anne, when I looked into his eyes and I saw myself reflected there, when I realized there was a danger I could become just like him, cold, ruthless and uncaring.”

“No, Mandell! There was an evil in him that has never existed in you.”

“How can you be so certain of that?” he asked bitterly. “Because you believe that Norrie has this uncanny ability to peer into hearts? Because for some strange reason your little girl loves me?”

“No, because I do.”

Her answer stopped his agitated pacing. Every part of him seemed to go still as he stared into her eyes, desperately wanting to believe.

She cupped his face between her hands and said, “I love you, Mandell. Do you think that I could care so much for a man who was as cold and hard as you describe?”

“Then despite all that has happened, you would still marry me, Anne?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You would permit me to be a father to your little girl?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Trust me enough to—”

“To surrender my entire life and happiness into your keeping? Yes, my lord,” Anne repeated fervently.

A shadow passed from his features, his eyes shining with such tenderness and humble gratitude that Anne felt tears start to her eyes.

“I have another name, you know,” he said almost shyly. “I was christened for my father, Dominque.”

“Dominque,” Anne repeated. “It is a very fine name.”

“For so long I tried to forget it.”

“I know,” she said, caressing back the dark strands of hair from his temple. “Because remembering brought you the nightmare.”

“You have banished the nightmares, milady,” he said huskily. “For us, I vow there will only be dreams.”

Drawing her into his arms, he sealed the promise with his kiss.