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“No!” With a choked cry, Anne rushed forward,
only restrained from racing after the coach by the young footman
grasping her shoulders.

“Let me go!” Anne gasped. “I have to make him
listen.”

“Milady, please,” the youth pleaded. “You
will only get hurt.”

Anne did not know what brought her back to
her senses, the footman's wide frightened eyes or the sight of
Lucien's carriage vanishing into the darkness. The terrifying rage
drained out of her as suddenly as it had come. As she stared into
the yawning emptiness that was the street, she ceased her
struggles. With a murmur of apology, the footman released her.

She wrapped her arms about herself to still
her trembling, aware that she had behaved like a wild woman. She
could yet hear the echo of her own shocking words.

I vow I will kill you, Lucien.

Never in her life had she felt such hatred of
anyone, but Lucien had driven her to it. She knew beyond all doubt
there was no hope of ever persuading him to return Norrie. Rubbing
her arms, she waited for the familiar despair to wash over her. But
it did not come. Rather, she felt a cold weight of determination
settle over her heart.

The threat she had uttered shocked her all
the more, for she realized she had meant it. She turned, wending
her way back to Lily's house, scarce seeing where she went.

“I will have my daughter back,” she vowed.
“Whatever it takes! I swear to God I will.”

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

The prospect of a murder occasioned barely a
whisper from those overhearing the plot. But the famed actor Edmund
Kean no longer created the same sensation as he had upon his
arrival in London years ago. The theatre at Drury Lane was only
half full tonight. Although his performance as Macbeth was as
mesmerizing as ever, most of the audience turned its attention
toward a late arrival.

Mandell slipped unobtrusively into his box,
yet a ripple of murmurs went through the crowd, the disturbance
audible enough to the actors.

“Is this a dagger which I see before me?”
Kean ground out, though no one was certain whether he wanted most
to use it on Macbeth's erstwhile king or Mandell, who took his
time, swirling his black cape from his shoulders and assuming his
seat.

The marquis stripped off his gloves at a
leisurely pace, oblivious to the irritation he was causing the
actor. Mandell never troubled himself to arrive on time. Prompt
attendance at the theatre only subjected one to the horrors of the
musical interlude. Some misbegotten fellow in the orchestra was
bound not to have prepared properly. Mandell's keen ear could
detect an instrument even slightly out of tune and the sound was a
torment akin to having hot spikes shoved under his nails.

He settled back into his seat and the
audience subsided as well. Kean succeeded in dispatching the king
and now lamented over his bloodstained hands. It was a stirring
performance, but the theatre had long ago lost all magic for
Mandell.

He could still remember the first time he had
visited Drury Lane. He had been but twelve, on holiday from school
when his grandfather had brought him to a matinee production of
Romeo and Juliet. Mandell had been held spellbound, moved to tears
by the plight of the young lovers.

It had disturbed the old duke to hear his
grandson expressing such emotion over the conjuring of a set of
lowly players. When the play had ended, the duke had taken him
backstage, forced him to observe how tawdry the costumes actually
were, the glittering jewels only paste. When seen up close, the
performers looked common, garish in their lead paint makeup. Romeo
was no more than a drunken sot with a foul mouth, the dewy-eyed
Juliet a harlot who serviced half the male cast in her dressing
room.

The theatre was illusion, nothing more, and
while Mandell might permit himself a certain restrained enjoyment,
he should never become utterly taken in by it. Mandell had taken
strict heed of his grandfather's words. It was a mistake he rarely
made again, the cherishing of illusions. Now he no longer had
any.

Below him, Macbeth went through the torments
of the damned, tortured by his conscience. Mandell saw only a vain
little man strutting about in a preposterous imitation of Scottish
plaid. The marquis stirred impatiently, his gaze skating past the
players, past the pit to the tiers of boxes. He found more
diversion off the stage, within the interior of the theatre.

His eyes rested upon a particular box. Sara
was there, as lovely as ever and with a companion. It did not
surprise Mandell that his former mistress had found a replacement
for him so soon, but her choice did. Lounging behind the
dark-haired beauty was a raffish young soldier. Sara would hardly
realize her ambition courting the attention of some half-pay
officer, but no doubt she knew what she was doing. No one knew her
own interests better than Sara did.

Mandell's scrutiny moved on, remarking other
acquaintances, dismissing them until he found the box he wanted.
Just opposite him on the first tier sat a pale woman garbed all in
white, the short puffed sleeves of her gown exposing the slender
grace of her arms.

So Anne Fairhaven was still alive and well.
She had not gone off into a decline over the assault upon her
virtue by the wicked Lord Mandell. Mandell had to admit he had been
curious to see her again, wondering if he would experience the same
strange tug of attraction that had beset him that night at the
countess's ball.

But moonlit gardens could weave illusions as
well. The heady scent of roses, like an opiate, could cause a man
to fancy there was something different about Anne from other women,
a sorrowing angel whose gentle touch might be capable of curing the
darkness in a lost soul.

Absolute nonsense, of course. Gazing at her
across the theatre, he could see now that she was an ordinary
mortal, only a little more solemn than the sort of lady who usually
struck his fancy. She shared the box with her sister Lily and two
of the countess's long-term admirers, the Honorable Mr. Adam
Barnhart and Lord Douglas Cecil. The trio laughed heartily as the
drunken porter staggered onstage to offer some comic relief, but
Anne seemed set apart from the others, untouched by the laughter,
alone, as Mandell often felt himself to be.

Just an ordinary woman, yet he could not seem
to tear his eyes away from her. She fingered the pearls at her
neck, her decolletage more daring than the gown she had worn to
Lily's ball three evenings ago. Mandell's gaze traveled over the
soft rise of her bosom, the ivory column of her throat, the way her
hair had been pulled up into a chignon of curls that glinted gold
in the light cast up from the stage. The style left her face
mercilessly exposed, vulnerable. It made him want to pull her into
his arms and—

Mandell caught his breath, experiencing a
familiar quickening of the blood. So he desired the lady. That was
all it was. When he had kissed her, her lithe frame had felt good
pressed against him, her mouth hot, moist, and inviting.

He wanted her. Then the solution was simple.
He would have her. Fill some of his empty nights with the sweet
pleasures of her body. And in having her, he would put an end to
any illusions.

How readily would the virtuous Anne agree to
these plans of his? A hard smile touched Mandell's lips. The lady's
willingness did not overly concern him. When he had kissed her, he
had tasted desire upon her lips, felt the brief tremor of passion
course through her. A passion she had been quick to suppress. The
next time he would not permit her to do so.

He had released her that night, fully
expecting the usual reaction; tears, accusations, all the trappings
of outraged virtue. He had to admit she had surprised him. Her only
response had been that sorrowful bewilderment that he should even
have wanted to kiss her. Could it be the lady truly did not realize
how desirable she was? He would take great delight in teaching her
otherwise.

He had permitted her to flee him once. The
marquis of Mandell did not chase women across ballrooms. He bided
his time. Stretching back in his seat, he was content for the
moment to watch her from the shadows of his own box, imagining how
her honey gold fall of hair would look tumbled across his pillow,
her prim mouth well kissed to a state of compliance.

These agreeable reflections were interrupted
by the sound of a footfall behind him. Irritated to have his
solitude intruded upon, Mandell turned to see who had the temerity
to step into his box unasked.

His brows rose when he saw that it was his
cousin Nick. Who else would wear such a horror of a flowered
waistcoat and a frock coat—Mandell could not tell the exact hue,
but he had a distasteful notion it might actually be purple.

Nick stumbled forward. Banging up against the
empty seat he muttered a soft curse. Mandell had the impression
that he was rather out of breath, but Nick's voice sounded steady
enough when he spoke. “Halloa, Mandell. There you are. I had the
deuce of a time locating you.”

“Why were you even looking for me?” Mandell
asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to join you. You invited me to.”

“Did I? I must have been in a singularly
mellow mood or else I believed you would be too busy to
accept.”

“Ah, well, the debates finished earlier than
usual tonight,” Nick said cheerfully, taking little trouble to keep
his voice down. This earned him a few giggles and some shushes from
the neighboring boxes.

Nick peered down at the stage, complaining.
“Damn, they are still on the main bill. I had hoped they would have
reached the farce by now.”

“You are providing the farce, coz,” Mandell
drawled. “Do sit down.”

“What? Oh!” Nick sank down onto his seat,
only slightly abashed by another chorus of titters. He leaned
forward, attempting to concentrate on the play, allowing Mandell
the leisure to study his unexpected guest.

His memory might be faulty, but Mandell
doubted he had invited Nick to join him tonight. There could be no
worse theatre companion than his cousin. Nick fidgeted, drummed his
fingers along the box rail and voiced loud asides. Mandell supposed
it was the politician in Nick, unable to bear listening to anyone
else declaim while he was forced to remain silent.

Nick did not chatter, but he seemed more
restless than usual tonight, an aura of suppressed excitement about
him. He clearly had no more interest in the play than he ever did.
His cousin must want something of him, Mandell decided. With a sigh
of resignation, he wondered what servant's marriage Nick might be
arranging now or what widows' and orphans' fund he was
advocating.

The first act finished and Kean stepped
forward to take his bow to an enthusiastic applause. Mandell's
attention was drawn back to the Countess Sumner's party. Lily was
sweeping a reluctant Anne and the two gentlemen from her box to
flit about greeting acquaintances.

Mandell remained where he was. He had no
desire to address Anne in the company of a crowded theatre foyer.
When next he spoke to the lady, he meant to be alone with her.

Besides, he might as well find out what the
blazes Nick wanted now. Then perhaps he would be left in peace. He
turned to his cousin, who stretched.

“Entertaining fellow, Shakespeare,” Nick said
with a mighty yawn. “But why couldn't he have written his plays in
plain English?”

“It's called Elizabethan poetry, cousin.” For
the first time, Mandell took full note of Nick's appearance. The
coat, alas, was indeed purple, and rather disheveled for the dapper
Nicholas. His ash-blond hair was disarranged as well, swept to one
side in a clumsy effort to conceal the bruise darkening on his
temple.

“What the devil happened to you?” Mandell
demanded.

“Oh, the debates became a little heated
tonight. Someone shied a book at my head.”

“Tories can be so impetuous.”

“Actually it was one of my fellow Whigs. I
seem to be getting too radical for everyone's tastes.” Nick touched
his fingers gingerly to the bruise and winced. “Does it look very
dreadful?”

“No, it matches your coat beautifully. What
sedition have you been espousing now to rouse such passions?”

Nick's mouth set into a bitter line. “I have
not been doing anything but trying to convince those blockheads
that this city is crying out for an organized police force. Instead
of supporting the notion, everyone treats me as though I were a
second Cromwell attempting to organize a military state.”

“Take heart, coz. Perhaps the Hook will
oblige you with another murder. That should stir things up in your
favor.”

To Mandell's surprise, this offhand bit of
raillery caused Nick to go white.

“That's not amusing, Mandell,” Nick said
tersely. “There is nothing laughable about murder.”

“Isn't there?” Mandell murmured. “I have
often wondered whether death might not prove the greatest diversion
of all.”

Nick regarded him for a moment with troubled
eyes, then said, “I have had enough of debates for one night, Let
us talk of something else. We are going to have to leave the
theatre early. I for one do not care to face our grandfather's
temper if we are late.”

“I have no plans for calling upon His Grace
tonight.”

“Mandell, you cannot have forgotten. We have
all been bidden to attend a late supper. Even Mama and my sisters
will be there.”

“Give them my regards.”

“But the supper is to honor your
birthday.”

“It is not my birthday. It is the anniversary
of the day my grandfather brought me to England to acknowledge me
as his heir.” Mandell's tone was one of indifference, but it masked
the bleak feeling that stole over him at the memory of that day.
The day he had been re-created as the marquis of Mandell, the day
that he had utterly lost all sense of another identity.

BOOK: Susan Carroll
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