Anne could not trust herself to reply. She had spent the day in the bleak emptiness of the nursery, the presents she had bought for Norrie stacked unopened upon the table while she set stitches into the gown she was making for Norrie's favorite doll, trying not to water the silk with her tears, trying not to drive herself mad wondering where her daughter was, praying that Norrie was not too frightened or unhappy.
Anne began hoarsely, “Lucien, you were my friend once--”
“Before you married Gerald.”
“If I hurt you, I am sorry. But there must be something I can do to make amends, to make you change your mind.”
“You have never begged.”
“What?” Anne felt as though she had done nothing but beg these past months, cajoling, pleading through letters, through her solicitor, through repeated attempts to see Lucien.
“You have never asked me nicely enough. You have never begged for the return of your daughter.”
Wearily, Anne pressed one hand to her brow. “Please.”
“No!” Lucien regarded her through hard, bright eyes. “On your knees. Here. Now. In the gutter.”
The young footman made a muffled sound of protest and Anne stared at Lucien in horror. He could not possibly mean it But the lines of his face were implacable and she saw that it would take nothing less than her complete and abject humiliation to appease his wounded pride.
Anne swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and thought of Norrie. That was all that it took to sweep the last of her dignity aside. Stiffly, she lowered herself to a kneeling position on the pavement, feeling the cold and damp seep through the thin material of her gown. Raising her hands in supplicating fashion, she said “Please, Lucien. I beg of you.”
The moment seemed to stretch into hours. Dimly, Anne was aware of the restive movement of the coach horses, the fact that tears were trickling down the young footman's cheeks.
But her focus never wavered from the tall blond man looming over her. Something softened in Lucien's eyes and he reached out as though to stroke her hair. A wild surge of hope rushed through Anne.
Then he turned his back on her, saying coldly, “Get up, Anne. You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
As Lucien vaulted into the carriage, something snapped inside of Anne, all the ache of too many nights spent hovering over Norrie s empty bed, too many pleas that had fallen upon deaf ears. A rage of despair tore through her, racking her entire frame
“Damn you!” she cried.
She scrambled to her feet and launched herself at the coach, managing to prevent the footman from closing the door. Glaring up at Lucien, she said “Give me my daughter back.”
“When hell freezes over, madam.”
“Give me Norrie or I vow I will kill you, Lucien.”
With a snarl, he lashed out, dealing Anne a shove that nearly sent her sprawling onto the pavement.
Before she could recover her balance, Lucien slammed the carriage door himself, roaring out a command to his coachman. With a crack of a whip, the team started into movement, the brougham lumbering away from the curve.
“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.
He added, “I don't even know when my real birthday is.”
“I have always found that hard to understand. I know our grandfather was bitter over what happened to your mother but to blot out all traces of your youth, your connection to your father's family!”
“My damnable French blood,” Mandell said drily. “There no longer is any connection. My father and all his family may be dead for all I know.”
“If it distresses you so much, there must be a way that you could find out.”
“Who said that it distressed me?” Mandell asked with a haughty lift of his brow.
“Surely you must want to know, at least what happened to your own father.”
Mandell turned away, disturbed by a memory of himself as a child, staring up at a laughing young man with hair and eyes as dark as Mandell's own. He lifted Mandell up to the pianoforte, patiently guiding his small fingers over the keys.
Mandell blotted out the memory, replacing it with one of his mother's blood staining the pavement.
“Very likely, my father is dead,” he said. “I hope he is, and burning in hell.”
“Perhaps he is, but I don't believe you will ever know any peace until you find out for certain. You ought to go back to France, Mandell.”
“Leave it alone, Nick,” Mandell growled.
Nick subsided. Neither of them said anything and tension filled the air until Nick broke it with a shaky laugh.
“Since it is not in truth your birthday, then I need not feel obliged to spout for a gift. My pockets are rather to let at the moment.”
Susan Carroll Page 6
