“I told you there was little chance of that at the outset.” Mandell eased his glove back onto his hand. “Sir Lucien was no more than I ever thought him, both a fool and a coward.”
“Forgive me,” Nick said. “But I overheard a lot of what passed between you. Why did you not tell me earlier what was amiss? That villain actually took away Lady Anne's child. I vow I was ready to smash his teeth down his throat. But you were so cool. I never saw anything to equal it. You cowed him without striking a single blow.”
“Yes,” Mandell said, conscious of a bitter disappointment that this was so. Anne's tormentor had escaped too lightly. How very much he would have enjoyed holding the bastard at pistol point and slowly cocking the hammer.
Mandell checked the savage thought, wondering what was wrong with him. He had achieved what he set out to do. Nothing else should matter. Yet he felt annoyed when Nick caught up his hand, wringing it in a hearty congratulation.
“What you did tonight was wonderful,” Nick said. “One of the most noble, unselfish things I have ever seen you do. I do believe there is hope for you yet, coz.”
Mandell wrenched his hand away. His voice held a sharp edge as he replied, “Noble? Unselfish? And just what do you suppose my motives were?”
“To help Anne recover her child. What other reason could there be?”
“It never occurred to you, my idealistic young fool, that there are many ways to seduce a woman. Some want diamonds. Anne wanted her child back. It was that simple.”
Nick's smile faded. “You mean you only did this to lure Anne Fairhaven into your bed?”
“How very astute of you to finally figure it out.” Mandell waited for Nick's explosion of outrage, feeling that he would be glad of it. Anything would be better than having Nick stare at him like he was some sort of blasted hero when they both knew better.
Nick's expected burst of temper was not forthcoming. He did look more subdued, the light dying from his eyes. But he shook his head slowly.
“No, Mandell. I don't think even you fully comprehend the reasons for what you did tonight.”
“You pretend to know me better than I do myself?”
“Perhaps this once 1 do.”
Mandell drew himself up coldly. “I suggest you save your insights of character for your opponents in Parliament, Drummond. You may have need of such brilliance come next election.”
Feeling more irritated with his cousin than he ever had in his life, Mandell turned and stalked away, leaving Nick staring thoughtfully after him.
It was not the fashionable hour for shopping. The shops on Bond Street stood nearly empty at that hour of the day, most of the ladies still abed or lingering over their morning chocolate, But Anne Fairhaven had hardly been able to sleep or eat since she had parted from Mandell by Lily's gate.
A day and a night had gone by in which she had heard nothing from him. She wished he would have given her some hint of how he meant to force Lucien to return Norrie, but Mandell was very much a man who played out his own hand. Anne could do little but steel herself to wait, to try to fill her anxious hours.
That was why she paced down Bond Street at such an early hour, approaching the milliner's shop where she had first seen the child's bonnet. It was still there, displayed in the window, a confection of satin and lace the color of old ivory, trimmed with pale pink ribbons, with a large poke front that would frame Norrie's piquant features most charmingly.
Anne had glimpsed the bonnet days before when she had been dragged out on a shopping expedition by Lily. Then Anne had been scarce able to look at the delicate garment or anything else that reminded her of the little girl she had lost.
But now she did a most foolish thing. She went into the shop and purchased the bonnet. All during the carriage ride back to Lily's, Anne hugged the bandbox upon her lap, telling herself she was courting heartbreak by daring to dream that she would again have Norrie with her soon.
It was unreasonable to expect Mandell to accomplish anything so swiftly, perhaps to expect that he could accomplish anything at all. But she did expect. She did hope. He was a rake, a cynic, a man who possessed few scruples, but she sensed that he did not give his pledge lightly.
And he had pledged to get Norrie back for her. As to what she had promised in return ... Anne shivered, choosing not to think about that just now.
When the coach pulled up before Lily's townhouse, Anne handed down her purchase to the footman who flung open the carriage door. She prayed that she had arrived back before Lily rose from her bed. Her sister would be sure to scold Anne for venturing abroad so early and without even the company of a maid. It would also be difficult to explain the purchase of that little bonnet without revealing her hopes and the shocking bargain she had struck with Mandell.
Anne hardly waited for the footman to help her to the pavement. She gathered up her skirts, preparing to slip back into the house as quickly as possible, when she was halted by the sound of someone bellowing her name.
She had little time to turn about before she realized that her brother-in-law was bearing down upon her. Lucien looked quite wild, but Anne took in little of his appearance, her gaze riveted upon the child he dragged by the hand.
Norrie! Anne's heart constricted painfully. The little girl was pale, her eyes wide with fear. Before Anne could move to intervene, Lucien drew abreast of her.
“Here,” he snarled. “Take her.” He flung the child at Anne. Norrie bounded into Anne's arms with a tiny sob and Anne lifted her, straining her close as though she would never let her go.
As Norrie buried her small face against Anne, Anne stared at Lucien. She was too stunned to do more than stammer. “I don't understand.”
Lucien glowered back at her. “Your new friend visited me at my club last night. I don't know what has passed between you and Mandell, but you have won this round. I am returning the girl, but I promise you, Anne. Neither you nor that interfering bastard has heard the last of this.”
He spoke this vow with such savage hatred, Anne was glad that Norrie had her face hidden against Anne's cloak. Spinning on his heel, Lucien stormed off down the pavement without another look back.
Still in shock, it took Anne a moment to accept the reality of what had just happened. She had Norrie back again. And neither Lucien's fury nor his threats mattered. Anne’s joy was so intense it was akin to pain. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her and she was forced to set Norrie down upon the pavement.
She tangled her fingers in the child's silken hair, nearly devouring the little girl with her kisses, soothing away Norrie's tears with hands that trembled.
“I was scared, Mama,” Norrie hiccuped on a sob. “Uncle Lucien was so angry. I thought he liked me. He gave me a pony.”
“Well, I believe that he— Oh, but what does it matter now?” She caught Norrie in another fierce hug. “You are going home with Mama now, love. And no one shall take you away from me, ever again.”
Norrie raised her head to give Anne a radiant smile. “You kept your promise, Mama. You made it spring again. I knew you would.”
“Yes,” Anne whispered. Now was hardly the time to remember that it was not she who had brought this miracle about, but a formidable man with night-dark eyes and full warm lips that could tempt an angel to sin.
No matter how, Anne's promise to Norrie had been fulfilled. There would be time later when she had her little daughter tucked up safe in her own bed tonight, time enough then in the quiet darkness for Anne to lie awake, thinking of the marquis of Mandell.
And the promise she had yet to keep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Coal smoke hung in a perpetual pall over the sagging tenements of Bethnal Green. Peering through the grimy window of the hackney coach, Sara Palmer pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose. As the hackney rattled along the cobblestones, she was assailed by far too familiar sights and sounds, ones that she had long tried to forget and put behind her; the decaying boarded-up buildings crammed with poverty-stricken families, t
he shrieks of the ragged urchins chinking stones at the carriage wheels, the bawdy songs of drunks staggering away from the gin shops.
What had once been a pleasant country village on the outskirts of London had now become a teeming part of the great city, a maze of narrow streets and courts, with dark corners where the struggling poor were tempted with the lure of quick money and often an even quicker death.
The brothels, the flash-houses, the back alleys where hardened men plotted desperate deeds ... it had been well nigh impossible to escape being pulled in and dragged down by such places when growing up in Bethnal Green.
Sara congratulated herself that she was one of the few who had managed it. She prayed that her brother Gideon might yet prove to be another. She had put him on the stagecoach heading north. Sara hadn't cared where so long as it took Gideon out of reach of the London authorities, far from questions and witnesses that might connect him with those two deaths.
Of course, Gideon had protested his innocence to the last, but Sara had paid him no heed. Her brother could be caught with a bloodied razor in his hand and he would insist he had just nicked himself shaving all the while a corpse lay stone cold at his feet.
Whether Gideon was innocent or not didn’t matter. What was important was that for the moment he was safe, that she had gotten him away from the dark influences and temptations of Bethnal Green. If only she could accomplish the same for her mother.
As the hackney lurched over a rut, Sara braced herself against the side of the coach, frowning. She had tried more than once to persuade her mother to retire to some little cottage in the country. Sara could have easily afforded to purchase such a thing when she had been Mandell's mistress. My lord had been most generous with his money, never questioning how Sara spent it.
But her mother had stubbornly refused. Chastity Palmer had declared she had endured quite enough of provincial village life in her youth. Sara had never been certain of her mother's origins, but Chastity had always claimed she had been a country curate's daughter.
Sara supposed that was possible. Mum did show an amazing tendency to quote the Bible when she'd had a drop too much rum. If such a respectable grandfather did exist, Sara had never met him. Her mother had run off at the age of sixteen and never gone home again. She had come to the great city of London seeking romance.
And, Sara thought wryly, Mum had found it. Again and again and again. The fact that Chastity Palmer had frequently been paid for her latest amour had never seemed to dim her enthusiasm or her fixed belief in finding her one true love.
Mrs. Palmer still had a strong liking for the men, and during her bimonthly visits, Sara never knew quite what she might find going on in her mother's flat. As the hackney drew to a halt at the curb, Sara hoped for once Chastity might be alone.
Her mother's most recent address was a small flat above the pawnshop on the corner. It was one of the more respectable-looking buildings in the Green, and Mum liked the fact that from her front windows she could see clear up the street and know at once what neighbor was involved in a fight or who was being arrested.
Gathering up the parcel she had brought, Sara alighted from the hackney and paid the driver. Before he even pulled away from the curb, Sara found herself surrounded by street urchins, creeping closer to her skirts like a pack of fierce starving rats.
She had the sense not to wear one of her best ensembles to Bethnal Green, but she was still dressed fine enough to provoke several sneers and comments.
“Look at the leddy, will yer, Sam?”
“La-di-da.”
“Hoity-toity.”
One sharp-faced lad, a little bigger and bolder than the rest, darted closer, his fingers inching toward Sara's reticule. Despite balancing the bulk of her parcel, she was quicker, spinning around and catching the boy's ear in a merciless pinch.
“Ow-ow-ow,” the lad howled, as much astonished as hurt.
Sara released him with a little shove. “Try that again, you little gallow's bait, and I'll rattle your bone box, see?”
She was appalled at how quickly she lost the refined accent she had cultivated over the years, slipping back into the patter of the street. But her fierce growl had the desired effect, the urchins scattering away from her wide-eyed.
Lifting her skirts above the mud and debris, Sara picked her away around to the narrow door at the back of the pawnshop. Mounting a flight of rickety stairs, she made her way to the second floor. She could already hear a burst of raucous laughter from the flat above.
Sara sighed. It was as she had feared. Mum was entertaining again. If she had not already dismissed the hackney, Sara would have been tempted to turn right around and leave.
But then she would have come all this way for nothing. Bracing herself, Sara climbed the last of the steps and rapped halfheartedly on the flat door. The laughter within was so noisy, she was obliged to pound harder.
The laughter stilled at once, and Sara smiled, fully comprehending. In this neighborhood, such a thump on the door could well mean the constable or a tipstaff. After a brief pause, the door was inched open by Chastity Palmer. Her sagging bosom threatened to spill out of her gown, yet Mum's middle-aged face still possessed a certain blowzy prettiness.
At the sight of Sara, Chastity's cautious expression disappeared. She beamed, throwing wide the door.
“Sary! My sweet babe.” She dragged Sara across the threshold, embracing her, package and all.
Sara felt relieved. If she was only Chastity's “babe” and not her “heart's darling,” at least she knew that Mum wasn't drunk. Sara returned the hug, breathing in the scents that had always meant mother to her, cheap perfume and stale gin.
Peering over Chastity's shoulder Sara glanced around to see who else was present. It was not as bad as she feared. Mum had not been entertaining her latest “romance.”
Seated behind Mum's small wooden table was only a neighbor, old Mr. Haythrope, the beanpole of a man who occupied the flat upstairs. Next to him was a demure woman garbed in black who looked respectable enough to have been a governess. She was in fact one self-styled Madame Dubonnet, the owner of one of the most exclusive and elegant brothels in the city. Chastity had once worked for her off and on, and even Sara had had her start in Madame's house.
Sara had interrupted them in the midst of their refreshments. The delicate china service she had bought her mother was laid out upon the table, but from the reek of spirits in the air and the flushed countenances of her mother's guests, Sara doubted that anyone had been drinking tea.
When Chastity had had her fill of hugging Sara, she tugged her over to the table, laughing and exclaiming proudly, “Well, would you just look who's come to visit her poor old mama? It's our little Sary. Doesn't she just look grand as a queen?”
Mr. Haythrope managed to get to his feet. “Sharmed, to see you again, Mish Palmer. Shimply sharmed.”
He would have taken her hand, but Sara shrank away with disgust. The man's dirt-encrusted fingernails reminded her of his profession as a grave robber.
She was distracted by Madame Dubonnet pacing around her, examining the stitching upon her cloak with an expert eye, lifting the garment up to peer at the ruching on Sara's gown.
“Oh, you have done very well for yourself, Sara,” she said. “Very well.” Madame nodded wisely at Chastity Palmer. “I always knew the girl would never end up a common whore.”
“There was never anything common about any of my children,” Chastity said loftily.
“You were a credit to my house once, Sara Palmer.” The brothel owner gave a sentimental sigh. “The bishop of Barnwell still asks after you.”
“Does he indeed?” Sara gave a dismissive shrug as she set her parcel on the table, but she could not help remembering. The bishop had been her first lover. How very strange. Out of all the men she had had, the two who had been best in bed had been his holy eminence and that devil Mandell.
Still, Sara had no wish to indulge in such reminiscences. Unlike her mother, she preferred t
o put the past behind her. She felt grateful when neither of Chastity's guests elected to linger long. Mr. Haythrope was going to require some help negotiating the stairs.
Both Chastity and Madame Dubonnet followed him through the door of the flat to make sure he did not fall and break his neck. While awaiting her mother's return, Sara removed her cloak and bonnet.
Even though she knew it was useless, she could not help strolling about the flat's single large room, straightening the cushions on the worn settee, wiping dust off the oil lamp, picking Chastity's nightgown off the floor.
Sara started to return it to the curtained alcove where Chastity kept her bed. But as she brushed the drapery aside, she was stayed by the sound of soft snoring, the sight of a large bulk beneath the covers of the bed, a pair of glossy black boots tossed carelessly on the rug.
It seemed she had been too optimistic. Mum had one more guest after all, and Sara had no desire for an introduction. Sara let the curtain fall, draping Chastity's nightgown over the back of one of the chairs.
Chastity bustled back into the room, breathless and laughing. “I declare! That Bill Haythrope, I've never known any man to get so easily foxed. Just wave a cup of stout beneath his nose and he's under the table.”
“He's an old drunkard, Mum. I don't know how you can encourage him to hang about or that Madame Dubonnet. I should think you would want to forget that we ever had any connection to her or her house.”
“Betty is an old friend, Sara, and Mr. Haythrope is a kind, generous man. It was him as apprenticed your brother Davy into a profitable trade.”
“As a resurrectionist? Stealing and selling dead bodies!”
“It's nice steady work, miss.”
“If Davy were not so lazy, if he had an ounce of ambition in that thick head of his—”
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