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She dare not allow him to look too deep into
her eyes. If she did, she would be lost. He would know everything.
He would—

With great difficulty, Anne checked her
panicky thoughts. She ran her fingers over her neck, telling
herself she was being ridiculous. Mandell was not omniscient.
Mandell would not be looking into her eyes. He had not even
attempted to approach her, content to mock her from a distance with
a bow and that quizzing smile. He had likely forgotten her
existence and was absorbed in enjoying the play.

She had enough real fears to contend with
without inventing new ones. With the back of her glove, she mopped
a bead of perspiration from her brow. She was not at all formed for
this sort of dangerous intrigue.

She felt as guilty as if she really were
plotting to murder someone. Despite her fierce vow to Lucien, Anne
had not bought the pistol to harm him, only to threaten him if
necessary. Indeed, she hoped she would not have to confront him at
all, but would find some way to snatch her daughter from his house
when he was away.

Norrie ... in a few short hours, if all went
well, Anne might actually be gazing upon her little girl again,
caressing her curls while she slept. Crushed inside the reticule
beneath the pistol was a note.

Midnight. The back gate.

L.

The lettering was rough and had obviously
been carefully labored over. It was the script of a servant who had
been taught only the bare rudiments of printing. Louisa Douglas,
apple-cheeked, fresh from Yorkshire, was little more than a child
herself.

Anne had patiently studied the comings and
goings of Lucien's household for nearly two days. She had hoped for
a glimpse of Norrie and been disappointed. But she had managed to
assess many of the servants, trying to decide who might be useful
for her purpose.

In the end, Anne had settled upon Louisa, a
homely young woman who, despite her crooked teeth, possessed a warm
smile. The little maid was sent out on frequent marketing errands
and Anne had found no difficulty approaching her in the street.

Louisa had been wary, sympathetic, and
intrigued by turns over Anne's plight. Yes indeed, she saw Miss
Eleanor every day. It was Louisa's task to carry the breakfast tray
up to the nursery. The poor little mite always looked so pale.
Pining for her mama, Louisa expected. Louisa would be only too
happy to try to slip Norrie a message or a small present from
Anne.

But when Anne had explained what she really
wanted, Louisa's eyes had gone round with terror. Smuggling a
message was one thing, but sneaking Anne into the house to actually
see the child quite another. If they were caught! Sir Lucien had
the most formidable temper,

“Then we will pick a time when Sir Lucien is
gone,” Anne had said smoothly.

“He hardly ever is during the day, ma'am.
Mostly just late at night.”

“Late at night would be perfect,” Anne had
said. “The rest of the household would be asleep.”

Louisa had allowed that even the governess,
Mrs. Ansley, was a heavy sleeper, but she had continued to shake
her head. It had taken a great deal of persuasion and coin to
convince the girl to help Anne in such a risky undertaking. Even
then, Anne was not sure she had succeeded until she had found the
note tucked, as prearranged, in the chink of the garden wall. The
simple note that was somehow touching printed in that childlike
hand

What troubled Anne most about all her
plotting was the deception she practiced upon Louisa. Contrary to
what she had told the girl, Anne wanted to do far more than just
see her child tonight. She meant to remark the layout of the
interior of Lucien's house, the position of windows and doors, and
the exact location of Norrie's room.

For the next time Anne entered Lucien's
house, she had to do it without Louisa's aid. She could not have an
innocent serving girl implicated in Norrie's abduction, Abduction?
No! Anne's lips thinned at the word. It was not abduction to take
back one's own child. Norrie was rightfully hers no matter what
Lucien and the law decreed.

Lost in her contemplations, Anne did not
realize how far the performance had progressed. When she managed to
focus on the stage, she realized the actress playing Lady Macbeth
was drifting through the paces of the sleepwalking scene.

Soon the curtain would ring down for the
intermission between the main bill and the farce. Anne determined
to resist Lily's efforts to drag her along to the foyer again. She
could not face greeting more acquaintances, trying to keep her
worries and apprehensions to herself.

She still had so many arrangements to make in
the days to come. She needed to hire a coach to get her and Norrie
out of London, and then find some way to gain passage out of the
country, far from Lucien. Anne did not as yet have the least idea
how to go about such a thing.

She tensed, thinking of the difficulties
ahead, her fingers moving back to fidget with her purse. Lily
reached out to stop the movement with a tiny smile, an admonishing
shake of the head.

That was Lily, forever playing the older
sister, trying to curb Anne's inelegant tendency to fiddle with her
purses, fans, jewelry, or to nibble her nails. Often Lily's playful
reproofs irritated Anne, but tonight the gesture brought an
unexpected lump to her throat. It occurred to her that if the plan
she had formed succeeded, she might never see Lily again. She would
have to flee without even bidding her sister farewell.

She wished she could take Lily into her
confidence, but no one would be less likely to understand the rash
action Anne contemplated, an action that would put her forever
beyond the pale of the society Lily so cherished.

Certainly when Anne had first come to London
in search of her daughter, Lily had patted Anne's shoulder and
commiserated. “It is a deal too bad of Lucien not to allow you to
see the child. But I heard he has engaged for her one of the best
governesses in England. Mrs. Ansley tutored the Duchess of
Biltmore's girls. Do you think that Norrie will be neglected?”

Anne could not precisely say that. In his own
way, Lucien was fond of Norrie. All of her sensitive, dreamy-eyed
little daughter's physical needs would be met, but Norrie required
more affection than any governess could give. Norrie needed her
mother.

Anne had tried to explain that to Lily, but
her sister had only given her cheek an indulgent pat.

“Dear Anne. You are a lady, not a nursemaid.
The child will have a legion of servants to attend to her needs.
And I will tell you what I found to be true of my own girls. The
older they got, the more interesting they became. When Norrie is
quite grown, she may call upon you as she pleases, and you will
find that you take much greater delight in her company then.”

Lily could have no notion what dismay her
words had struck to Anne's heart. She had realized then it was
useless even trying to explain to Lily about such things as how
warm and sweet Norrie felt being rocked at bedtime, the simple joy
of coaxing tangles from curls yet baby fine, of enfolding small
fingers still sticky with jam. Small stubby fingers that would all
too soon grow into long elegant ones slipping out of a mother's
reach.

It would be foolish to expect the bright
butterfly that was her sister to understand any of that. Not that
Lily was callous or unusual. Most of the fashionable ladies in
London would have agreed with her. The rearing of children was best
left to servants, and though it was sad that Anne could not see her
daughter upon occasion, there were far greater tragedies. Great
heavens, she might have been refused vouchers to Almacks.

Anne's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
Perhaps having children had come all too easily to those grand
ladies. They had never had to endure the heartbreak of so many
miscarriages, the even greater grief of laying to rest a tiny
stillborn son.

When Norrie had been placed into Anne's arms
for the first time, warm, alive, she had been like a small miracle.
The babe had been at once so frail, so susceptible to every passing
fever and sniffle, and yet also so bright-eyed, so quick, so eager
to learn. Like a miser with a fragile treasure, Anne had hoarded
her child within the secure walls of the nursery, ever fearful the
jealous heavens meant to snatch Nonie away from her.

But it had taken Lucien to make that
nightmare come to pass.

The clash of swords upon the stage pulled
Anne out of her unhappy thoughts. Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane
and Macbeth rushed toward his end. When Kean stepped forward to
take his final bow, the applause swelled around Anne, an excitement
that did not touch her.

In the midst of the cheering crowd, she felt
isolated and alone. Strangely, her gaze was drawn to the one part
of the theatre she had sworn to avoid. Her eyes swept the upper
tiers, seeking the box opposite.

Mandell's seat was empty. He must have left
before the final scene. She experienced a strong relief mixed with
a curious sensation of disappointment. The feeling confused her and
she sought to ignore it.

The applause had barely died before Lily
gathered up her skirts and rose eagerly to her feet. As much as she
adored any sort of performance, Lily also loved to see and be seen,
to compare her gown with the other ladies' present. It was with
great difficulty that Anne refused her sister's insistence upon
taking another turn about the foyer.

“I find the crowd far too fatiguing,” Anne
said. “But you go on ahead. I am quite content to remain here.”

Lily looked a little vexed with her. Mr.
Barnhart, who obviously found Anne's company a bore, merely stifled
a yawn and offered his arm to the countess. But the gallant Lord
Cecil beamed at Anne, saying, “Then I will stay behind and bear you
company, Lady Fairhaven?'

“Oh, no,” Anne cried, dismayed at the
prospect of having to make conversation with anyone. even the
kindly Lord Cecil. “I will be fine by myself and you must be quite
stiff from sitting so long.”

She stilled any further protest by leaning
forward and adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “Besides, you
cannot have Mr. Barnhart stealing a march upon you.”

His lordship glanced anxiously toward Mr.
Barnhart, who was already escorting Lily out of the box. “Well, if
you are really sure,” he said. He sketched Anne a quick bow and
bolted after the others.

Anne sighed with relief, sagging back in her
chair. At least for a few moments she could be alone with her hopes
and fears. She did not have to keep her expression schooled into a
smile, feign interest in Kean's performance, or watch what she did
with her hands.

She plucked at her purse, running her fingers
over the silk and the heavy bulge of the pistol. The weapon held
the most horrible fascination for her. She was beset with a
constant urge to keep stealing peeks at the pistol as though if she
did not keep checking, the device might explode in her lap.

With an anxious glance about her, Anne bent
over the purse. Easing open the clasp, she parted the silk edges
just enough to peer inside. She touched the cold ivory of the
pistol's handle, and felt for the note from Louisa Douglas to make
certain it was also secure.

But at that moment she was startled by the
creak of a footfall and realized someone was about to enter the
box. Her pulse gave a violent leap, and in fumbling to close the
reticule, she dropped it instead.

The slippery silk skidded beyond her chair
out of reach. Anne bolted from her seat, scrambling on her knees to
retrieve the purse. Before she could do so, she nearly collided
with a pair of elegantly shod feet, muscular legs outlined to
perfection by tight breeches.

Her heart seemed to stop as she glanced
upward at the tall, powerful figure looming over her. Mandell’s
face was a blend of light and shadow. As in that night in the
garden, he was garbed in unrelenting darkness from the satin of his
frock coat to his sable hair to the black of his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she said.”I hoped
that you had already gone.”

That expressive brow of his shot upward.
“Faith, milady, but you are hard upon a man's vanity. Are you
merely overwhelmed by my presence or have you lost something?”

“What?” Anne stammered, conscious of her
ridiculous position, kneeling at his feet. “No, I haven't.
That—that is, I dropped my—my—”

“I believe you ladies call it a
reticule.”

To Anne's horror, he bent down beside her,
reaching for the purse. His unexpected appearance had caused her to
freeze, but now she was galvanized into movement. She dove for the
purse herself, but she was too late. Mandell's long fingers had
already closed about the reticule.

Anne held her breath, half expecting the
damning contents to come tumbling out. But the clasp had
miraculously closed in the fall. There was only a slight hesitation
on Mandell's part before he handed the purse to her.

Had he noticed anything unusual? If so, he
did not betray it by the flicker of an eyelash. He seemed concerned
only with placing a steadying hand beneath her elbow and helping
her to her feet.

As soon as she was standing, Anne shrank from
his touch. She realized her heart was beating again with an almost
painful rapidity. Since their last meeting, Mandell had assumed a
supernatural presence in her thoughts, something dark, wild, and
threatening to her peace of mind.

Resisting the urge to whip the purse behind
her back, Anne said with what dignity she could muster, “Thank you,
my lord, but now—”

“Now that I have performed this trifling
service, you wish to send me to the devil. That would be a great
pity, with you looking so lovely tonight.”

Anne shied as skittishly as a high-strung
colt when Mandell reached out to touch the curve of her cheek. “I
like what you have done with your hair,” he murmured. “The softer
style becomes you. As does the cut of the gown.”

BOOK: Susan Carroll
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