Susan Carroll (16 page)

A laugh of genuine amusement escaped Mandell.
Nick flushed, looking deeply offended.

“Forgive me, cousin,” Mandell said, when his
mirth subsided “But surely even you must perceive the humor of you
preaching caution to me.”

“I'm damned if I will say another word to you
then. I just hope you know what you are doing,” Nick flung out,
before pivoting on his heel and stalking away.

Mandell chose to linger near one of the green
baize tables and hazarded a few passes with the dice to pass the
time. It was an activity that required little of his concentration,
which was just as well, for Nick's parting shot echoed through his
head.

I just hope you know what you are
doing.
At any other time, Mandell would have told Nicholas that
that was exactly the case, but for once in his life Mandell was not
entirely sure of himself.

What was he doing? Was he really about to
force a quarrel upon a man he scarce knew? Certainly, Sir Lucien
had always filled him with contempt, but the man was not
interesting enough to actually detest.

But before this evening ended, Mandell might
find himself challenging Sir Lucien. Not over Anne, as Mandell had
led Nicholas to believe, but over a mere child. Mandell had never
been sentimental about children. And yet he kept remembering that
wistful little girl peering at her mother through the bars of a
locked gate, Anne looking as vulnerable as a lost child herself He
kept recalling Anne walking beside him through the darkened
streets, telling him the story of her loss and grief with quiet
dignity. Even her tears had been silent.

He thought he would have promised anything to
erase the sorrow from her eyes; pledged to restore her daughter to
her, damn the cost to himself.

“The main is seven, my lord.” One of the
players next to Mandell nudged him, forcing Mandell to realize he
had held the dice cupped in his hand too long.

He gave them a careless toss, Perhaps Nick
was right. Perhaps he was becoming obsessed. Perhaps he should back
away from this affair of the lady Anne. It waxed dangerous when he
began to entertain such noble thoughts.

After all these years, it would be
disconcerting to discover that he possessed a heart after all. How
fortunate it was that he knew better.

In truth, he cared naught whether Anne was
reunited with her daughter. It was simply that Anne was proving a
difficult conquest. If sending her flowers or showering her with
jewels would have done the trick, he would not have bothered
himself further. If anyone misconstrued his intervention as some
act of chivalry or kindness, the more fool they.

Mandell would know better. And so would
Anne.

Strange that that last thought should fill
him with such melancholy. Mandell stared down at the table, the
tossing of the dice beginning to seem too great an effort. As he
walked away, he had to be reminded to collect his winnings.

As the minutes ticked by, Mandell waxed
increasingly restless. It annoyed him to think he might be obliged
to track Fairhaven down at his house, or worse still, at one of
those squalid gaming hells Sir Lucien was known to frequent.

Mandell paced the length of the room, his
movements attracting the attention of an acquaintance he had
overlooked. Sir Lancelot Briggs was ensconced at the faro table,
his hangdog look proclaiming him to be losing. But his face
brightened at the sight of Mandell. He leapt up from the table.

“My lord, I did not know you were here. Will
it please you to play at faro? You may have my place.”

“I should not dream of depriving you, my dear
Briggs,” Mandell said.

He tried to pass on, but Briggs kept pace.
“Oh, 'tis all right. I have lost everything anyway.” He cast one
last wistful glance to where the croupier leaned over the curved
slot in the table, raking away the last of Briggs's gaming
pieces.

“Have you dined?” Briggs asked. “We could
retire to the supper room. I have so many exciting things to tell
you.''

“I think not.”

“Oh, but I do. I had the privilege of
encountering your grandfather in the Pall Mall today.”

“What a rare pleasure that must have been for
both of you,” Mandell replied in acid tones. He had been favored
with his grandfather's opinion of Sir Lancelot many times.

“Inbreeding,” the old duke had sniffed. “One
fool mated to another for too many generations. How else could one
explain how the man comes to be such a simpleton?”

But Sir Lancelot remained blissfully unaware
of the duke's scorn. He confided to Mandell, “I think His Grace may
be beginning to like me a little. He actually condescended to speak
to me this time. I said, 'Good afternoon, Your Grace. A pleasant
day, is it not?' And he said, 'If you like rain, sir.”

Briggs beamed with delight. “He actually said
that to me.
'If you like rain, sir.'
“

“My grandfather has always been noted for his
wit.”

“Your relationship to the duke has always
intrigued me. Imagine being adopted by one's own grandfather. I
mean, do you then call him father or grandpapa?”

“I always called him 'Your Grace,' “ Mandell
said icily. Sir Lancelot blinked. “Oh. Oh, of course.”

Once more Mandell made the effort to move on,
but Sir Lancelot trailed after him, saying, “But why am I
blathering on about His Grace?”

“I don't know. It is one of the great
mysteries of the universe.”

“I have far more interesting news to impart.
You will never guess. I, Lancelot Briggs, witnessed the murder at
the theatre the other night.”

“What!” Mandell was startled enough for once
to accord Briggs his full attention.

“Well, I did not exactly see the murder
taking place. I arrived on the scene shortly afterward. I saw a
suspicious fellow slinking away, wearing a big floppy-brimmed hat
with a feather, and I described him to the constable.” Briggs drew
himself up importantly and Mandell could tell he was about to
launch into a long-winded account of what the constable had said to
him and just what he had said to the constable. But Mandell's brief
flash of attention was already lost.

He had just seen Sir Lucien Fairhaven
entering the room.

Never taking his eyes from the doorway,
Mandell drew forth his purse and extracted a handful of pound
notes. Interrupting Sir Lancelot in midsentence, he stuffed the
money into his pudgy hand.

“Here. I will stake you. Go try your luck at
faro and see if you can recoup your losses.”

To Mandell's surprise, Briggs made no move to
pocket the money. His lips quivering, Sir Lancelot regarded Mandell
with a wounded expression in his brown eyes. He returned the notes,
speaking in a manner that for him was almost dignified.

“If you don't wish for my company, my lord,
it is not necessary to pay me to go away.”

With a small bow, he turned and shuffled off,
losing himself in the throng about the hazard table. A soft curse
escaped Mandell, equal parts annoyed with Briggs and with himself
for making such a clumsy gesture.

But he had more important things to worry
about at the moment than Briggs's injured feelings. If Sir Lucien
settled into a card game, it would make Mandell's task that much
more difficult.

Thrusting the money into his purse, he made
his way across the room. Sir Lucien had paused to berate a page boy
for some fancied insolence. Since he had acquired his brother's
title, Fairhaven never seemed to feel he was being paid enough
deference. But it was often that way with upstart nobility and the
nouveau riche.

As soon as he finished snarling at the
trembling boy, Sir Lucien moved purposefully toward the faro table.
But Mandell was in time to intercept him. He stepped into Sir
Lucien's path with one graceful fluid movement.

BrummeII had always declared that clothes
could make the man. But doubtless the Beau had never seen the likes
of Fairhaven before. Sir Lucien's attire was faultless, yet there
was still an air of boorishness about him. No matter how
immaculately he was garbed, Fairhaven always looked like a man
recovering from a bad night, heavy bags beneath his eyes, his thick
mane of yellow hair slightly unkempt.

Barely disguising his contempt, Mandell said,
“Good evening, Sir Lucien.”

Fairhaven looked surprised at being addressed
by Mandell, but he nodded in return. “My lord.”

“I was not aware that you were a member here,
Sir Lucien.”

“I had the privilege of being elected two
months ago.”

“Ah, that would explain it. I must have been
absent the night the ballots were cast. What a pity.”

Fairhaven frowned as though considering
whether or not this was meant as an insult. Mandell wondered if he
was going to prove as obtuse as Lancelot Briggs.

He beckoned imperiously. “Come join me in a
glass of madeira.”

“Another time perhaps. I was just sitting
down to play.”

Mandell offered him a thin smile. “Apparently
I did not make myself clear. It is my particular wish you join me.
I need to speak to you on a matter of some slight importance.”

Sir Lucien looked suspicious and a little ill
at ease. But he conceded with an ungracious shrug. “Oh, very well.
But I trust this will not take too long.”

“That is entirely up to you, sir.” Giving the
man no further opportunity to think or change his mind, Mandell led
the way toward the farthest corner of the crowded salon.

He was aware that a few heads turned,
remarking their progress. The marquis of Mandell was not known to
bestow his attention upon parvenus like Sir Lucien Fairhaven. Nick
stared after them with troubled eyes.

Mandell found two chairs in a secluded corner
and sent one of the waiters to fetch some madeira and two glasses.
As they waited for the wine, Sir Lucien cracked his knuckles, his
gaze traveling toward where the bets were being laid, fast and
heavy.

Mandell had the opportunity of studying
Fairhaven at his leisure. The man possessed a certain florid
handsomeness. But in a few more years, there would likely be no
trace of those good looks, the vigor of youth all but vanished.

Mandell had encountered the likes of Sir
Lucien before, a hedonist of low tastes and even worse breeding, a
man whose decadent soul was rotting him from the inside out.
Mandell had heard it said that Sir Lucien frequented the lowest
gaming hells and brothels. His sexual appetites were supposed to be
so strange that none of the more respectable establishments would
have him, no matter what coin he offered.

And it was this creature who had charge of
Anne's daughter, that curly haired waif who had been dragged from
her bed at midnight, who had to stand shivering in a garden just to
be able to feel the touch of her mother's hand.

Something strange stirred inside Mandell the
more he stared at Sir Lucien, something cold and hard. He had
pledged to help Anne simply as a means to his own ends. But it
occurred to Mandell that dealing with Fairhaven might be a
pleasure.

When the wine was served, Sir Lucien took a
large gulp, then growled, “So? You had something to say to me?'

“Yes.” Settling back, Mandell tasted his own
wine. “I believe you are in possession of something that does not
belong to you.”

“You mean something of yours? I think not, my
lord.”

“Something of Lady Anne Fairhaven's. Stolen
away by you many months ago. Her daughter.”

“My niece. I am the girl's legal guardian. I
have a perfect right to do whatever I choose with her” He scowled.
“In any event, my lord, I fail to see that these family matters are
any concern of yours.”

“I am making them my concern.”

“Why?”

“Consider me a tenderhearted fellow. It gives
me great distress to see a child separated from its mother. So much
so, I am afraid I must ask you to return young Eleanor to the lady
Anne. By noon tomorrow at the latest.”

This cool demand left Sir Lucien dumbfounded
at first. Then he flushed, blustering. “And if I don't chose to do
so?”

Mandell twirled the stem of his wineglass
idly between his fingers. “Then I fear I would be vexed with you,
Sir Lucien, Very vexed, indeed. I might even consider your refusal
an insult of the gravest kind.”

Fairhaven choked on his wine. He set the
glass down with a sharp click. “Could you possibly be implying that
you would challenge me to a duel over the chit? It would do you no
good. Do you think I would allow myself to be drawn into such an
affair? I know your reputation with a pistol. I have seen Derek
Constable still hobbling about on his crutches. And I heard tell
about that highwayman on the heath that time. Shot dead through the
heart at twenty-five paces.”

Sir Lucien snorted. “Challenge to a duel. It
would be more like an invitation to die. No, thank you, my
lord.”

“And yet I could make it impossible for you
to refuse. Suppose I were even now to fling the contents of my
glass into your face in front of all these interested
gentlemen.”

Sir Lucien stole a nervous glance about him,
waxing pale at the mere suggestion of such a thing.

“Think you that you could then just walk
away,” Mandell purred, “and ever show yourself in this club or
anywhere else again?”

“You are utterly mad, Mandell, or else drunk.
Did Anne put you up to this? She does not seem the sort of woman to
have any influence over you. My dour sister-in-law is hardly worth
your notice.”

A muscle twitched in Mandell's cheek. His
fingers tightened so convulsively about the crystal, he nearly
shattered it. Keeping the taut smile fixed to his lips, he said,
“And you, sir, I find are not worth the waste of this fine madeira
after all.

As he drained his glass and rose to his feet,
Sir Lucien breathed easier, apparently believing the conversation
to have reached its conclusion.