What the deuce had come over him last night? He had gone to such lengths to seduce Anne, greater effort than he had ever expended upon any woman. He had pursued her at the theatre, followed her through the streets like some lovesick ass and had come close to fighting a duel all for her sake. In his bedchamber, he had done his best to put her at her ease, murmured such tender words as had ever passed his cynical lips. Then, after such a hard-fought campaign, he had allowed her to escape him because of some wretched attack of scruples.
It was as ridiculous as if Wellington had turned back from Waterloo to avoid distressing Napoleon. Mandell shook his head in disgust. It was just fortunate that he had seen nothing of his cousin Nick of late. If Drummond ever guessed how this affair of the lady Anne had ended, Nick would either roar with laughter or go all sanctimonious and declare that he had known one day Mandell's more noble self would emerge. Either response would be intolerable.
If only he had it all to do over again, Mandell thought fiercely. But that was the pure hell of it. He feared he would end by doing the same thing. What else was there to do when one found oneself drowning in violet eyes, listening to the woman pledging that she was ready to give him everything he wanted?
Did not the little fool understand that no one gave to the marquis of Mandell? He took what he wanted. There was nothing to be done with a female that naive but send her packing. Nick had warned him all along that Anne was not suited for the kind of diversion Mandell sought. He should not have had to he warned. He had always known that virtuous women were the very devil.
He should be glad that his conscience, his better self, or whatever it was, had emerged to intervene. He should be glad to be quit of his Lady Sorrow before things had gone any further, become even more complicated. And he was glad, so long as he did not dwell too long over the way Anne's hair had looked tumbled across his pillow, moonlight outlining the soft whiteness of her breasts.
Slamming the window closed, he stalked over to the corner cabinet and poured himself a large brandy. He raised his glass briefly, his lips curling into a self-mocking sneer.
“Here's to the resurrection of my nobler self,” he muttered. “And may it henceforth be buried six fathoms deep where it belongs.”
He tossed down the brandy in a single gulp and it burned like fire in his empty stomach. It occurred to him that he had never gotten around to eating anything yet today. But at the moment another brandy seemed far more appealing.
He was reaching for the decanter to refill his glass when a light rap came at his study door. Composing his features into more implacable lines, he issued a command to enter.
John Hastings stepped into the room. With a solemn bow, the footman presented Mandell with a packet of letters.
“Forgive me, my lord. But I noticed these left lying upon the hall table. They must have arrived by the morning post.”
“You certainly took your time about bringing them to my attention?”
“Yes, milord.” Hastings did not flinch beneath Mandell's icy regard.
Most likely the fault lay with the butler or the timid parlormaid, but Hastings was not a man to offer any excuses. Mandell accepted the letters and tossed them upon his desk.
“Thank you, Hastings. You may go.”
The young footman apparently took the “may” in his command quite literally. Instead of quitting the room, Hastings began stacking logs on the hearth, bending down to kindle the fire. The man was obviously too new to Mandell's employ to gauge the danger in the marquis's temper, or else was possessed of the most stolid nerve.
Mandell was inclined to believe the latter. Instead of voicing the acid rebuke that sprang to his lips, he watched Hastings in silence, observing the man's movements with the poker and bellows.
He had not exchanged a word with Hastings since he had summoned the footman to convey Anne home last night. Though he despised himself for doing so, Mandell asked, “The lady you escorted to her house yesterday evening. You made certain she arrived safely?”
“Yes, milord.”
Of course he had. Hastings was as dependable as the sun rising in the east. Otherwise Mandell would never have trusted him with such a delicate commission as looking after Anne. After an awkward pause, Mandell asked, “How did the lady seem when you left her?”
“Seem, my lord?”
“Was she calm? Distressed? Did she say anything?”
Hastings paused in his task, bellows still in hand. He frowned as though in effort of memory. “Well, she bade me good night and offered me a most generous vail.” Hastings brightened. “And then her lips sort of trembled and she smiled.”
Anne must have been most relieved to be quit of her pact with the wicked Lord Mandell. An unexpected pain twisted somewhere inside him.
“Your lady has a passing sweet smile, my lord,” Hastings ventured.
“The fire waxes hot enough. Have done and get out.”
Hastings rose to his feet, dusting off his hands on his breeches and started to leave the room. When he had reached the threshold, Mandell brought him up short by adding tersely, “And Hastings.”
“Yes milord?”
“She is not my lady.”
“No, milord,” the footman said quietly, easing the door shut behind him.
When Hastings had left, Mandell let fly an oath. When had he become reduced to holding conversations with his footman, especially about a woman? Irritated beyond measure, Mandell poured himself another brandy. He did not know what the devil had come over him of late, but he knew the cure for it.
Diversion. Fortunately, he was in a city that could provide amusement in abundance for a gentleman of his wealth and tastes. Anything from an evening at the opera to a night at a most discreet and exclusive bordello.
He was in no mood for Mozart. What he needed was a woman, and not one with soft trembling lips and vulnerable blue eyes, but a practical woman skilled in the arts of pleasing a man and grateful for nothing more than the size of his purse. Yet the thought left him strangely cold.
Perhaps what he really required was supper and cards at White's, that all-male bastion that had the good sense to ban any woman from so much as peering across the threshold. He might bid Drummond to come and dine with him. It could be entertaining to discover what Nick had been up to this past week, to torment him over the doings in Parliament. But Nick might be inclined to ask some awkward questions about the lady Anne, questions Mandell felt unequal to parrying.
Frowning into his glass, Mandell drained it. He had fallen into one of those damnable moods when every distraction he could think of seemed stale and meaningless. He would end by spending the evening at his own fireside.
But to do what? To discard books the first page barely read, to rise from the pianoforte, the melody half finished, to begin a letter only to leave the sheet blank? To pace this great empty house like a caged beast, tormented by his dark memories, questioning everything from the folly of the world to the meaning of his own existence?
Anne was right to have been relieved to have escaped him. He frequently found his own society quiet intolerable. Mandell started to reach for the brandy again only to check the movement. He was already entertaining enough morbid notions and he wasn't even drunk yet. Instead he forced himself to settle behind his desk, attempting to concentrate on the letters he had received.
The cards of invitation he thrust aside without hesitation to be examined later. The rest were bills, many of them still from when he had had Sara Palmer in his keeping. One from a dressmaker looked surprisingly recent. He wondered if Sara had been desperate enough to attempt to foist one final purchase off on him. Mandell would not have put it past her.
He had never known any female to be bolder or more shrewdly calculating. She would likely one day get her hooks into some noble fool and trick him into wedding her.
Mandell could imagine himself being introduced to her in a crowded ballroom, hearing her styled as my lady something or other, Sara looking as haughty as a grand duchess. Th
at at least was one thing to look forward to, Mandell thought cynically. It would be amusing to utter some wicked greeting only Sara would understand, to flirt with his former mistress under the nose of her unsuspecting and no doubt oaf of a husband, more amusing still if she were wearing a gown Mandell had purchased.
Smiling a little at the thought, Mandell dipped his quill into the ink, preparing to write out a draft to settle the account. He was interrupted by another knock at the door. Hastings again.
This time Mandell did not even trouble himself to look up.
“Yes? What is it now? More mail that has been left lying about for the past few days?”
“No, my lord. You have a caller.”
“Tell whoever it is to go to the devil. I am not receiving.”
When Hastings made no move to comply, Mandell glanced up impatiently. “Are you hard of hearing, man? I said I am not at home to any visitors.”
“Yes, my lord. But it is your grandfather, the Duke of Windermere.”
Mandell's brows arched in mild surprise. His grandfather calling upon him and at such an hour?
Hastings gave a delicate cough. “I am not sure you would really wish me to deliver His Grace such a message.”
Mandell flung down his quill with an expressive grimace. “You are quite right, Hastings. One is always at home to His Grace of Windermere. Show him in—”
Mandell broke off, glancing down at his attire. It would hardly do to receive the old gentleman in his shirtsleeves and breeches.
“Place him in the drawing room,” Mandell finished. “And express my regrets for the delay, I shall be there directly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Hastings rushed off to obey his command while Mandell retired to his bedchamber to make himself more presentable. Some fifteen minutes later he descended the stairs, smoothing out the sleeve of a dark navy frock coat, his cravat arranged to a modest perfection.
He doubted any fault could be found with his appearance, but if there was, His Grace would be quick to point it out. Mandell had long ago abandoned the quest to win his grandfather's approbation. A most useless struggle.
He and the old man rarely spent time in each other's company these days. Mandell had no notion what could have prompted the duke to call upon him this evening. He was certain only of one thing. The visit was unlikely to afford pleasure to either of them.
Shoving open the door, he stepped into the drawing mom, a chamber that was at once both somber and elegant with its heavy curtains, mahogany furniture, and thick Aubusson carpet. The duke stood at the far corner by the pianoforte. Oblivious to Mandell's arrival, he leaned upon his silver-handled cane, staring up at the small painting that had been a gift to Mandell from his cousin Drummond. It was by a Dutch artist after Rembrandt's style of light and shadow, and depicted a cavalier with flowing black locks and pointed beard, an arrogant youth of another time and place.
Mandell reflected that his grandfather could have just stepped out of a portrait of another century, an age of greater elegance. His thick waves of white hair swept back into a queue, His Grace was attired in a powder blue satin coat and knee breeches, the richness of the fabric gleaming in the candlelight. The coat was nudged back slightly to reveal a flowered waistcoat that Nick would have envied.
His grandfather had never inspired much affection in Mandell, but he did have to admit the duke had a way about him, a regal aura that could put a king to shame. One could not love the old devil, but one did have to admire him.
Mandell pulled the door behind him with a sharp click. His Grace had to have heard him, but he did not trouble himself to turn around.
“Good evening, your Grace.”
The duke finished his inspection of the portrait. “Mandell.” He gave a curt nod, regarding Mandell with his heavy lidded gaze, those keen eyes that time seemed unable to dim.
“This is an unlooked for honor.” Mandell chose his words with deliberate care. “I trust I have not kept you waiting too long.”
“Only a quarter of an hour. I have entertained myself by studying your unusual taste in decor. I notice you yet have that about.” The duke made a sweeping gesture with his cane, bringing it to rest atop the pianoforte. “Do you still play?”
“Occasionally, to amuse myself. And you can hardly have forgotten the pianoforte once belonged to my mother.”
“She had little use for it. Like most of the Windermeres, my daughter was not musically inclined.” The due's thin smile was rife with accusation.
Mandell felt his jaw clench in response. Both he and the duke knew where Mandell had inherited his ability and passion for music, and it had not been from Lady Celine. It was a subject to be avoided. The old man must be in a rare mood to be seeking to provoke a quarrel this soon. Considering Mandell's own edgy temper this evening, his grandfather's visit could not have been more ill timed.
Mandell eased the cane from atop the piano. “I cannot believe you called upon me to discuss my furnishings. There is a chill at this end of the room. Will it please you to return by the fire?”
The duke held his gaze for a moment, then complied, stalking past Mandell. He settled himself upon a wing chair. Brushing back the lace from his cuffs, he rested both of his hands upon his cane in front of him. His fingers were remarkably smooth and straight for a man of his years.
Mandell knew his grandfather would get to the reason for this visit in his own good time. Curbing his impatience, Mandell stood by the fire, resting one arm along the mantel. It somehow gave him an advantage, and one needed every advantage when dealing with His Grace of Windermere.
“I hope Hastings looked after you well in my absence,” Mandell remarked.
“Hastings?” The duke frowned. “Oh, you mean your footman. An efficient enough fellow, but why will you persist in garbing your servants in black? It seems the most deplorable affectation, as though you were perpetually in mourning.”
“So 1 am,” Mandell drawled. “For my lost innocence.”
“Spare me your wit, sir.”
Mandell acknowledged this rebuke with an ironic bow. “If you do not care for my wit, perhaps you would prefer my wine. I have an excellent port in my cellars.”
“No, thank you. I fear my gout has been flaring up.”
“Then it astonishes me that you would choose to venture abroad. Especially on such an evening. The weather promises to turn most foul.”
“I should not have had to come here if you would be so obliging as to wait upon me. You did not even put in an appearance last week when I asked you to dine.”
“Commanded me,” Mandell corrected.
“I suppose I may command my own grandson. That dinner was to have been a special occasion.”
“To mark the anniversary of when you acknowledged me as your heir. I marvel that Your Grace still thinks that a cause for celebration.”
His grandfather pursed his lips and said grudgingly, “For the most part, I have been quite satisfied with you, Mandell. You exhibit the traits of a man of intelligence and breeding except for those lapses when the passionate side of your nature gets the better of you.”
He scowled. “I have recently heard some gossip about you from Sir Lancelot Briggs which I find disturbing.”
“Indeed? 1 was not aware that Your Grace and Briggs had become such boon companions.”
“Do not trifle with me, sir. Briggs is a blithering fool and your association with the man does you no credit. But he did serve one useful purpose. If not for his idiotic chatter, I should never have known how close you came to fighting a duel with Lucien Fairhaven.”
Mandell tensed. So that was what had brought the duke descending upon him. Damn Briggs, he thought grimly.
“I await your explanation, sir,” the duke said.
Mandell gave him an icy smile. “You raised me to believe the marquis of Mandell is not required to give an accounting of his actions to anyone.”
“You are to me! I despise Fairhaven myself. He comes from a family of country ups
tarts. But I will not have my heir risking scandal and possibly death by challenging such an underbred boor.”
“Such considerations did not seem to trouble you when you thrust me into a duel when I was only sixteen,” Mandell reminded him coldly. “You did everything but load the pistol for me.”
“The dispute with Constable was an affair among gentlemen. You had been insulted. It was a matter of honor.”
“Or at least the appearance of honor.”
“Do not seek to change the subject, sir. You threatened Sir Lucien over a matter that was none of your concern. You forced him into turning the guardianship of his niece back to her mother, Anne Fairhaven.”
“Your Grace is remarkably well informed. So why come questioning me?”
“Because while I know what you did, I have no notion why you did it. I can only presume your extraordinary behavior has something to do with Lady Anne Fairhaven.”
Mandell gritted his teeth. If it had been anyone but his grandfather daring to question him about Anne, Mandell would have told them to go to the devil. But His Grace of Windermere possessed enough icy hauteur to freeze the depths of hell.
“Is she one of your light-o'-loves?” the duke asked.
“The virtuous Lady Anne?” Mandell arched one brow after his own haughty fashion. “That is hardly likely.”
It was illogical. He had done his best to seduce Anne and yet to hear his grandfather speak of her thus stirred an inexplicable anger in Mandell.
The duke regarded Mandell through narrowed eyes. “Then you must have a more serious motive for currying the lady's favor. It is just as I feared.”
“Feared?”
“If you are thinking of marriage, she will not do, Mandell.”
No thought of marriage had ever entered Mandell's head, but his grandfather's words brought him up short.
“What does Your Grace find so objectionable about the lady?'
“Nothing personally. She is gently bred and from an old, respectable family. But she lowered herself by marrying with a Fairhaven, had a child by him. If you wed the lady Anne, this girl would become your stepdaughter, a child tainted with the Fairhaven blood.”
Susan Carroll Page 18
