Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  As he flexed his sore hand, he wondered what manner of folly he had been guilty of last night. It made his head swim even to try to think about it. Confusing scenes flashed before his eyes; the quarrel with his grandfather, telling Hastings not to wait up, setting off for White's determined to drown his black thoughts.

  Apparently he had done a good job. He could recall nothing after his arrival at White's. His memory was like a dark mirror that had shattered into a dozen shards. Mandell had a strong foreboding that gathering those shards would prove an agonizing task, one that might leave him cut and bleeding.

  Managing to prop himself up on one elbow, his bleary gaze tracked round the massive four-poster bed. He could have ended up in worse places; a brothel, some stinking tavern, the gutter. This bedchamber belonged to a fashionable household, one of wealth and elegance.

  But whose? And how did he arrive here? He could not remember. So what did he do now? Attempt to summon a servant? He flattered himself that he could handle any situation with aplomb. But he was not certain that even the haughty marquis of Mandell was equal to demanding a hot bath, his clothes, and by the bye, could you kindly tell me where I am.

  Mandell was not aware that he had muttered these last words aloud until a small voice piped up, “You are at my aunt Lily's.”

  The sound, soft as it was, startled him into jerking upright. A grave mistake. His head spun and a wave of nausea swept over him. It took all of his iron control to suppress the desire to be sick, to bring the whirling room back into focus.

  A focus that settled upon a diminutive figure at the foot of his bed. Mandell wondered if he were having a hallucination. The little girl stared back at him through solemn blue eyes. She could have been an apparition, all pink and gold, garbed in delicate white muslin, a blue sash knotted at her slender waist. Except that Mandell had seen this fairy child before, locked behind the cruel iron gates of an unkempt garden.

  “Eleanor Rose Fairhaven,” Mandell said in dumbfounded accents, as though he needed to convince himself of that fact. “Anne's daughter.”

  The child must have perceived this as a form of introduction, for she dropped into a graceful curtsy. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, and then inquired politely, “S'cuse me, but have you lost your wits?”

  “That is a strong possibility,” Mandell murmured, feeling quite dazed. Norrie Fairhaven ... If she was in truth standing at the foot of his bed and he had not run quite insane, then at least he knew where his drunken progress must have ended

  At the Countess Sumner's, Lily Rosemoor's doorstep. No, not Lily's. Anne's. Mandell stifled a groan. He would have preferred the gutter.

  “I heard Bettine telling cook about you,” Norrie continued. “That you burst into our front hall like a lunytic.” The little girl frowned as she struggled to pronounce the next words. “Bettine says you are a fitting candicake for Bedlam.”

  “A woman of vast perception.” He winced. “Just who is this Bettine?”

  “Mama's maid. She helps take care of me. She is very kind most of the time, but she did think we should have throwed you back into the streets.”

  And what did Mama think? Mandell longed to ask, but why should he care what Anne would have thought? It only irritated him to realize that he did.

  The little girl's shoulders shook as she struggled to suppress a cough. Norrie crept around the side of the bed as though she approached some dangerous but fascinating beast. Mandell could easily have outstared the most haughty of duchesses. But something about the child's steady regard unnerved him. It was almost as though those clear blue eyes could peer straight through to his soul, not a pretty sight for anyone, let alone a little girl.

  Drawing the coverlet up to his chin, he sagged back against the headboard. In his current state of misery, he would have told anyone else to get the devil away from him. Instead he murmured, “Begging your pardon, Miss Fairhaven. I am not precisely up to receiving visitors at the moment.”

  “You look very sick,” Norrie agreed. “You have tiny little black hairs growing out of your face.”

  Mandell rubbed his hand along his unshaven jaw. “That is one of the consequences of calling upon a gentleman before he has had recourse to his razor. Surely you must have seen your own papa—” Mandell broke off as Norrie's face fell. He silently cursed himself for reminding the child of the father she had lost.

  “I never saw my own papa very much,” Norrie said in woebegone accents. “I was sick too many times and my papa had a 'version to sickness.”

  “Did he, indeed?” Mandell said, thinking God rot the saintly Gerald.

  “I get the sniffles and cough too much.” As though to demonstrate, another hacking sound erupted from her throat which she fought by stuffing her hand against her mouth. “You see? It makes my face turn too red. Most un-unattractive, Papa used to say.”

  “He was quite mistaken. Your face is not red at all, but a most becoming shade of pink. You are a very pretty young lady, Miss Eleanor,”

  Norrie beamed. “Thank you. You are very pretty, too.”

  Mandell started to chuckle, but it hurt too much. “In my present state? I hardly think so.”

  “Not pretty, but handsome,” Norrie corrected. “Those dark bristly hairs make you look fierce and your eyes are red. I used to pretend my uncle was the king of the underworld, but you would make a better dark lord than him.”

  “I always had a strong presentiment that I looked like the devil. But thank you for confirming it, young lady.”

  “Not the devil. The god of the underworld. Don't you know who he is?”

  “Yes, Hades.” Mandell pressed his fingertips to his throbbing brow. “But I am not quite up for a mythological discussion at the moment and I think you had better return to your nursery.”

  “You read myths, too?” Norrie wriggled in delight. “Which ones?”

  “All of them, I expect, but—”

  “Uncle Lucien never did.”

  Lucien. Out of all the child's prattle, the single word struck Mandell like a blow. He stared down at his injured hand and closed his eyes as one of the shards of memory slipped into place. The smoke-filled tavern, Lucien Fairhaven crumpled beneath him, the sickening sound of his fist connecting to bone, the flow of blood.

  Lost in the memory of that grim scene, he realized that a small hand was patting his where it lay extended along the coverlet. Opening his eyes, he found Norrie peering at him, her small brow furrowed with concern.

  “Are you feeling very poorly?” she asked. “There is a doctor coming.”

  What ailed him was past the power of any physician to cure. To the child, Mandell merely said, “I don't need a doctor.”

  “Neither do I, but Mama thinks I do because of my coughing.” Norrie fretted her lower lip. “What would you do if a doctor came to see you and you didn't want him to?”

  In a painful effort, Mandell arched one of his brows. “I would simply say to him, 'Sir, you can retire at once.' “

  After absorbing this with intense concentration, Norrie pranced over to peer at herself in the mirror suspended above the dressing table.

  “Sir,” she said, “you can be tired at once.” She could mimic Mandell's haughty tone to perfection, but his expression gave her more difficulty. After much scrunching and grimacing, she was obliged to take her fingers to press her eyebrow into the upraised position.

  For the first time since he had wakened, Mandell felt the inclination to smile. But he tensed as he heard the door opening. From his angle on the bed, he could not see who it was that tiptoed into the room.

  He heard a soft gasp and Anne’s voice whispered, “Norrie! What are you doing in here? Come away before you awaken Lord Mandell.”

  Nonie spun about. “He already waked up by himself, Mama.”

  Mandell had not yet steeled himself for encountering Anne again, especially under such humiliating circumstances. But he had no time to brace himself, for she appeared at the foot of the bed, standing where he had first seen Norr
ie.

  Anne's primrose morning gown rustled softly as she stepped closer. Her honey blond hair was tucked beneath a lace cap, silken wisps of gold caressing her pale cheeks. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and she looked as though she had not passed a much better night than he

  Their eyes met across the length of the bed and both made haste to look away. Heat washed over Mandell's face. It had been so many years since he had experienced such a thing, it took a moment for him to realize what was happening to him.

  Damn. He was blushing.

  Anne's hand fluttered to the lace at her throat and she seemed to find it easier to address her daughter. “Norrie, you should not have come in here.”

  “I only wanted to peek at the strange gentleman, Mama. He is not mad as Bettine says, but very nice. He reads myths, too.”

  “This is not a proper way to be making Lord Mandell's acquaintance. I want you to go back to the nursery right now.”

  Norrie's lip quivered at Anne's stern tone, and Mandell spoke up. “I fear the fault was mine. Miss Eleanor kindly came in to inquire after my health, and I kept her engaged in conversation.”

  Anne looked astonished, but Norrie flashed him a brilliant smile. “It was nice being 'quainted with you, Lord Man. I will remember how you told me to get rid of the doctor.”

  “Get rid of ...” Anne faltered. She shot Mandell such an accusatory look, he made haste to say, “It was good advice only if one is quite well, Miss Eleanor. However, if I had a cough, I would demand that the doctor make me better at once.”

  “You would?” Norrie asked.

  “Indeed, I would.”

  Looking thoughtful, Norrie left the room, still practicing the trick with her eyebrow. As she passed through the door, she could be heard to say imperiously, “Make me better at once.”

  After the child had gone, an awkward silence ensued. Mandell found himself thinking of the last time he and Anne had been alone together in a bedchamber, but he struggled to suppress the thought. He had enough aches to torment him without adding the agony of frustrated desire.

  “I am sorry if Norrie disturbed you, my lord,” Anne said. “I have not yet engaged a governess for her and I fear she has been permitted to run a little wild. I will have to have a discussion with Eleanor about the impropriety of—of—” Her gaze skittered over Mandell's frame stretched beneath the coverlet. “Of invading a gentleman's bedchamber.”

  Despite his splitting head and sense of embarrassment, Mandell possessed enough of the devil in him to murmur, “That should be a most enlightening discussion. I would love to hear it.”

  Anne turned a bright pink and took a step nearer to the door. “I am glad to see you looking more fit. I took the liberty of sending word to your household. Your valet has arrived with fresh clothes for you. I will send him in immediately.”

  As she started to retreat, Mandell called out, “Anne. Wait!”

  She hesitated, glancing back at him.

  “My head is still not quite clear about exactly what happened last night,” he said. “I have a fair idea that I made a nuisance of myself. I understand your maid thinks I should have been thrown back into the street and no doubt she was right. Please convey my thanks to your sister for her forbearance.”

  “My sister?”

  “Yes, I assume that she must have directed her servants to put me to bed.”

  “Lily was not even here when you arrived.”

  Mandell glanced up sharply at that. Even though his wits felt far from keen at the moment, he perceived a difference in Anne, something so subtle he had not noted it before. He could find none of the primness about her mouth that he had expected. There was a gentleness in her tone, a light in her eyes that was softer than the sunbeams streaming through the window, turning her hair to gold.

  “I don't understand,” he said.

  “Lily did not arrive home until sunrise and—” A tiny smile curved Anne's lips. “Her head was not quite clear, either. She always sings tunes from the Beggar's Opera when she has had a drop too much champagne. Did you not hear her in the hall?”

  “No, that was one performance that thankfully I missed. But then who admitted me to the house?”

  Anne said nothing. She merely smiled at him again and then slipped out of the room. As Mandell heard the door close behind her, he sank back down into the pillows, feeling more dazed than when he had first regained consciousness.

  The drawing room that hosted so many of the countess's balls and other brilliant gatherings stood still and silent in the afternoon. Most of the draperies had been drawn to protect Lily's delicate silk-striped chairs from exposure to the sun. The gilt mirrors, the towering ceiling, and the magnificent chandeliers were all cast into shadow, like part of the scenery on a vast unlit stage.

  As Anne wandered aimlessly down the length of the room, she felt much like an actress waiting for the curtain to go up, an actress no longer sure of her part. But this was foolish. Nothing had changed.

  Despite all that had happened, Mandell was still ... Mandell, and she was the virtuous Anne. But as Anne fingered the gold chain about her neck and felt the cool weight of the locket hidden beneath the bodice of her gown, she knew that was not true.

  Something had changed, and she could not say how or when it had begun. Perhaps the moment when he had pressed the locket into her hand. Or had the change come sometime during those hours before dawn, watching Mandell struggle with his own private demons, realizing that the arrogant marquis could ache and bleed like any other man? Or was it when she had seen him being so kind to her little girl?

  Anne was not sure. She only knew she would never be able to view the wicked marquis in quite the same way again. As she waited for him, something compelled her to remove her lace cap, allowing her hair to tumble freely about her shoulders. She considered retiring to change her gown for something a little less matronly when the drawing room's massive double doors were eased open.

  Anne expected it to be one of the servants come to inform her that the marquis had emerged from his room and was asking for her. But it was Mandell himself who paused, silhouetted on the threshold. He turned his head, searching the room. Anne felt her heart miss a beat the moment his eyes found hers.

  He stepped quietly into the room, drawing the doors closed behind him. A remarkable transformation had taken place during the hour since she had left him. In assuming the clothes his servant had brought—the cravat, the buff-colored breeches, the frock coat of midnight blue—Mandell appeared to have reassumed some of the arrogance of his stance as well. Clean-shaven, his ebony waves of hair swept back, the only sign of his recent misadventure was a certain paleness, his cheekbones standing out in gaunt relief.

  Yet as he stalked the length of the room, coming toward her, Anne sensed a hesitancy in his manner that had not been there before. He stopped within an arm's length of where she stood before the French doors leading down into the garden. They stared at each other like two strangers waiting to be introduced, which was absurd. She had nearly been this man's lover.

  Nearly. Anne had never before realized what a world of regret could be found in a single word.

  Mandell said, “I was told I might find you in here, milady. May I speak to you for a few moments?”

  “Certainly. I have been hoping—that is, I was expecting you would wish to do so.”

  “And well you might, although I scarce know how to begin. Anne. It is deuced strange. I can tender the most handsome apologies when I don't mean a word of it. When I want to be sincere, which isn't often, I can't seem to think of a thing to say.”

  He turned away from her, his arms locked behind his back. The sunlight that filtered in through the French doors played over the bladelike tension of his profile. “I remember enough of what happened last night to realize that I behaved like a complete idiot.”

  “It was no great matter, my lord.”

  “No great matter? I burst into your sister's house, roaring drunk, assaulted the butler, roused you from your sl
eep, and passed out on the floor. I expected a box to the ears this morning or at least a lecture on the evils of intemperance.”

  “I was exasperated with you at first. You have a habit of disconcerting me. I suppose I am getting accustomed to it.”

  “I am sorry, Anne,” he said stiffly “When 1 was in such a state, I do not know why I chose to inflict myself upon you, of all people.”

  “Don't you remember? You came to bring me this.” Anne tugged at her gold chain, drawing forth the locket from inside the neckline of her gown.

  Mandell stepped closer to examine it. The gold chain seemed more delicate when contrasted to the strength of his long tapering fingers. He opened the locket, exposing the miniature of Norrie as a babe, her eyes wide and blue, her halo of tumbled curls and dimpled cheeks making her look like a mischievous cherub. His grim expression lightened a little.

  “I do have a vague recollection of rousting some pawnbroker from his bed, forcing him to open his shop.”

  “I am astonished that you even remembered my telling you about the locket, let alone where to find it.”

  “My memory is a peculiar thing. It is amazing what I choose to forget, what I am forced to remember.” Sadness clouded his eyes.

  Anne knew the source of it. She had pieced together the nightmare of his childhood from his ravings, and the knowledge weighed heavy upon her heart. She longed to offer him some comfort, but she had a fair notion of what that would do to Mandell's pride.

  Instead she asked him the question that most troubled her. “You went to a great deal of bother to retrieve this locket for me. Why did you do so?”

  “A drunken whim, I suppose.” He snapped the locket closed. “If you are worried that it is another attempt to get you in my debt, don't be. I don't expect any repayment.”