Susan Carroll (45 page)

“I have felt all along that Briggs knows
something about the Hook, something that he feared to tell. He was
so shattered after the attack that I felt loath to press him, but
now the matter is more urgent. I will find a way to slip into his
house to see him this very night, induce him to speak.”

“No!” Anne caught at the folds of Mandell's
frock coat “You must not go, Mandell. If you are seen upon the
streets, you could be arrested.”

He covered her hands with his own. “I must
take the risk, Sorrow. Briggs is our only immediate hope. Besides,
I never intended that we should spend our lives as the resident
ghosts of Windermere Palace. Even now, Hastings will be working to
ready provisions, arranging a passage for us away from London. It
was all I could do to keep the young fool from storming Newgate
with me.”

Mandell's lips crooked into a deprecating
smile. “I seem to have inspired this misplaced devotion and concern
for my welfare in Hastings and you.”

He bent to whisper a kiss upon her trembling
lips. “Don't be afraid, Anne. I will be careful, I promise you. If
I have no success with Briggs, we shall be gone from the city this
very night. I shall tuck you away someplace safe until your
innocence can be proven.”

“And if that day never comes?”

“Then I shall find a way to fetch Norrie, and
the three of us will make a life elsewhere. I have heard tell that
America is not quite so barbaric these days. We could be a family.
I would do my best to make Eleanor a good father, and you a
tolerable husband. That is, if you would have me.”

Anne had never thought to hear such a humble
request from Mandell. Still, she was obliged to shake her head in
sorrow,

“What! The lady rejects me again?” He cupped
her chin, his eyes shining with tenderness. “But I thought my
wretched heart was all that you desired, Anne. And that is what I
am offering you.”

“It is all that I desire, all I ever dreamed
of. But Mandell, I could not permit you to make such a sacrifice
for me, abandoning your estates, your title, everything that you
are.”

“Everything that I am, everything that I want
to be, I find reflected in your eyes, milady.”

He pulled her close, his mouth covering hers
to still any further objection. His kiss was fierce and demanding,
claiming all of her, body, mind, and soul, as though he would bind
her to him forever.

Reason was no match for a force as powerful
as Mandell's embrace, and Anne surrendered, molding her body to his
hard muscular frame, remembering all that he had taught her of
passion, returning it to him with love, the two powerful emotions
blending to become one.

They kissed, clung, and caressed until they
both stood in danger of forgetting the time, the place, and the
peril that threatened them. It was Mandell who came to his senses
and wrenched himself away.

He drew an unsteady breath and laughed. “You
make it deuced hard for a man to leave you, Sorrow, but I must. I
want many more nights in your arms, and without any shadows cast
over our lovemaking.”

He caught her hand and held it to his lips
for a long moment. “I shall return very soon. You must wait for me.
You will not be afraid to be alone here?”

Anne shook her head, summoning up her bravest
smile. “I shall always have the palace ghost to bear me
company.”

“As long as he quite understands that you
belong to me.” Mandell quickly abandoned the jesting tone, his eyes
turning intent. He drew her into his arms one last time, saying,
“Everything will be all right, Anne. You must believe that.”

She believed anything when he looked at her
that way, holding her within the circle of his arms. He kissed her,
this time more tenderly, and Anne basked in the glow of his love, a
rush of warmth thrumming through her veins. Only when he had gone
did she begin to feel the cold.

As time crawled by, the bedchamber at
Windermere House began to seem worse than a prison. Anne felt
isolated and alone, trapped in a place where time had frozen like
the hands of a clock that ceased to move. She paced the worn
Turkish carpets, watching the candlelight flicker over the dark
heavy furnishings. The faded tapestries breathed of a grandeur long
past, an age of splendor that had vanished.

The security and warmth Anne had known in
Mandell's arms diminished as she watched the candle burn lower in
the socket. How long had he been gone? One hour? Two? Three? She
tried not to think of all the things that might have gone wrong.
The heavy silence of the house thickened about her until she felt
as if she would suffocate.

She knew it would be prudent to stay away
from the windows, but she could no longer resist the urge to peer
out. She forced open the shutters and rubbed away some of the grime
that smeared the pane, pressing her face to the cool glass,
assuring herself that a real world beyond her present madness did
indeed still exist.

She could not guess the hour, but the moon
had risen, bright and full, casting a glow that even the dark of
night could not dim. The moonlight illuminated the tangled
wilderness which had once served as vast gardens to this palatial
mansion. Beyond that she could make out the black moving shadow
that was the Thames, the spires and masts of the ships at dock,
towering like the barren tree trunks of some mighty forest.

Ships that carried people away to far off
places like America. Anne could not help picturing herself huddling
on the deck of one of those with Mandell and Norrie, fugitives
fleeing to some strange new land. How could she ever allow herself
to be the cause of such a thing, dragging the man she loved and her
delicate little daughter off into the perils of an uncertain
future, uprooting them from all that they knew—their home, their
heritage, their birthright. But that was surely the worst scenario,
one that would not come to pass. There would be some way to prove
her innocence. Mandell would persuade Briggs to talk. He would
provide some vital clue or the Hook would eventually have to grow
careless, be caught some other way. He would be made to confess
that he had murdered Lucien.

But what if that never happened? She
attempted not to torture herself with such dire possibilities, to
think only of Mandell's love for her, a love stronger and more
powerful than any she had ever hoped for.

If only he would return.

And if he did not? Anne rubbed her throat,
wondering what she would do, where she would find the courage to
face such a thing, when the candlelight wavered wildly as though
struck by a draft. She turned to see that the flame had burnt near
to the end of the wick and stood in danger of being extinguished by
the liquid pool of wax.

The prospect of being left in darkness in
this chill mausoleum of a house daunted Anne. She hoped that Mr.
Drummond's endeavors to restore this house had extended to laying
in a supply of candles.

She searched the small desk, but the drawers
contained nothing but writing supplies; vellum, ink, quills,
sealing wax. The only place anything could be stored was in the
battered trunk that stood at the foot of the bed.

Anne bent over the chest, which smelled of
leather and must, whose scarred wood spoke of hundreds of long ago
voyages. Tugging at the lid, she feared to find it locked, but the
ancient clasp had rusted and already given way.

She raised the heavy lid and propped it open
against the bed. Her heart sank with disappointment to discover the
trunk crammed with nothing but old clothing. She rummaged past the
thick folds of a heavy black cloak and was fortunate enough to find
some candles tucked beneath.

As she unearthed one of the wax tapers, her
fingers brushed up against the remaining item in the trunk. She
slowly lifted the object out into the light and frowned. It was a
man's hat with a jaunty white feather, the soft floppy brim of the
style once affected by the dashing cavaliers. Anne's heart skipped
a beat. She tried to reassure herself there could be a dozen old
hats identical to this one tucked away in trunks and attics.

But there were not. She knew that with dread
certainty that she had seen this particular hat before, shading the
features of a dark-cloaked phantom that melted out of the night to
leave death in his wake.

She had little time to absorb the
implications of finding such a thing hidden away in Nick Drummond's
house when she heard the creak of floorboards out in the hall. Her
heart skittered, torn between hope and a sudden fear.

It was Mandell returning. It had to be. Who
else could it be?

She was seized with an unreasoning urge to
bury the hat and cloak back inside the chest, shove aside this
terrible knowledge that she had not sought and did not want.

But it was too late. The door was already
being eased open. Anne shot to her feet, trembling. “Mandell,” she
whispered. “Is that you?”

Her greeting died in her throat, her heart
going still. It was not Mandell silhouetted on the threshold, but
Nick Drummond. Anne stared at the familiar countenance, a young
man's face that she had always thought so pleasant, so cheerful. He
looked haggard in the dim light, but he managed to smile at the
sight of her, appearing as concerned as ever, anxious to be
kind.

“Lady Fairhaven,” he began. Then his gaze
drifted down to the hat she gripped in her hands.

Anne could not seem to move or breathe. The
moments ticked on forever as she watched Drummond's smile fade to
an expression more grim.

When he raised his gaze to hers, she saw a
deal of sorrow in those steady grey eyes, a regret that left her
feeling strangely cold.

“My dear Anne,” he said with a chilling
softness. “I am sorry you had to find that. Very sorry indeed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Anne clutched the hat to her like a shield,
fear and doubt warring within her. Nick Drummond, the Hook? The
murderous brigand who had attacked Briggs and killed Lucien? It was
impossible. It had to be. And yet, as Nick stepped farther into the
room, Anne shrank instinctively back against the bedstead.

She moistened her lips, forcing a casual tone
into her voice that was belied by the unsteady thrum of her
pulse.

“Mr. Drummond. What are you doing here? I was
expecting Mandell.”

“I know,” he said. “Mandell should not have
brought you here. He could not have picked any place in London that
would have been less safe.”

“Indeed, this house is in a sad state of
disrepair and ...” Anne's voice trailed away as Drummond shook his
head at her.

“It's no use pretending, Anne. I should know.
I have been doing too much of that myself for far too long.” He
stalked nearer and plucked the hat from her fingers. “I know you
are intelligent enough to understand the significance of what you
have found.”

“It's just a hat and some old clothes?'

“Anne,” he admonished. His eyes were filled
with that unnerving regret. He stroked the back of his knuckles
along her cheek, sending a chill up her spine, his face hovering
above her own. It was like gazing at a familiar sunlit landscape
only to find the scene shifted to something bleak and ominous.

“It might have been a relief to have someone
else discover the truth if it had been anyone but you,” he said.
“But you are far too gentle a soul to be dragged into the midst of
all this. I am very sorry.”

“But I don't have the slightest idea what all
this is,” Anne cried.

“Unfortunately there is no time for
explanations.” He cast the hat aside, allowing it to tumble to the
carpet with a soft thud. At the same moment, the candle gave one
final flicker, guttered, and went out.

As the room plunged into darkness, Anne felt
Nick's swift movement. A choked scream escaped her as his hands
closed over her shoulders. She struggled wildly lest he gain a grip
upon her throat.

“Anne, stop,” he growled.

Flailing with her fists, she landed several
blows upon his face, driving her knuckles in the soft pocket of his
eye. He grunted with pain and surprise, whipping his head back and
cracking it against the bedpost .With a sharp oath, he released
her. Anne stumbled past him.

Through the haze of blackness and her rising
panic, she could make out the silhouette of the open door. Hurling
herself across the threshold, she dared to slam the door closed
behind her. Leaving Nick trapped in total darkness purchased her a
few precious seconds.

Her breathing coming in ragged gulps, Anne
ran blindly along the gallery. Mandell's heavy cloak tangled about
her legs. She tripped on the hem and crashed to her knees.
Struggling to regain her footing, she realized the cloak had caught
on something, a loose floorboard or a nail.

Tearing frantically at the fabric, she heard
the sound of Nick hurling open the bedchamber door and his muttered
curses. Terror threatened to overwhelm her. She wrenched at the
fastening of the cloak and flung it off her shoulders.

Scrambling to her feet, Anne made it as far
as the upper landing. A ghostly mist of moonlight poured through
the front windows, illuminating the gallery below.

Behind her, Nick bellowed her name. Anne
glanced about, desperate for any avenue of escape. The twisting
flight of stairs leading down to the hall seemed her best, her only
hope.

But before she could take another step, Nick
lunged. Out of the shadows behind her, she felt his arms close
about her. She clawed at his hands even as she struggled to
maintain her balance, feeling herself sway precariously on the
topmost step.

A cry for help breached her lips as hoarse as
it was unavailing, echoing along the palace's indifferent
corridors.

Swearing, Nick sought to clamp his hand over
her mouth,

“Damn you, Anne,” he panted. “Stop it! What
are you—”