Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  Mandell recalled meeting the woman only once. Sir Lancelot had proudly insisted upon presenting his mama to his good friend the marquis. Mandell had given her such a frozen stare, the poor woman had been too awed even to speak.

  Like so many of his memories, Mandell did not find it a comfortable one. His discomfort increased when the servant intoned his name and Lady Briggs leapt up to greet him like an old and valued friend. She rushed to the threshold with her hands extended, tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Oh, my lord Mandell. I knew the moment you heard about my poor Lancelot you would come rushing to his side.”

  Mandell flinched, but he managed a stiff bow. He resisted Lady Briggs's urgings that he join the others in the parlor, drawing her out into the hall instead. “I do not wish to intrude upon your family at such a time. But I had to know. Has the doctor been to attend Briggs yet? How does he fare?”

  “As well as can be expected, poor lamb.” Lady Briggs groped for her handkerchief. “That fiend who did this wounded him twice. By the time he was found down by the river, my son had lost a powerful deal of blood. The surgeon says there is no more to be done than let Lancelot rest and hope for the best

  “But I know he is going to be all right,” she added fiercely, mopping at her eyes. “Lancelot has always been such a sturdy boy. I wanted to sit with him, but I am not brave enough to contain myself and I upset him so. It has always distressed him to see his mama cry.”

  “He is conscious then?” Mandell asked, feeling a flicker of hope. Perhaps the reports of Lancelot's injury had all been greatly exaggerated. “Would it be possible to visit him? Would he want to see me?”

  “Lancelot would always want to see you, my lord. I shall summon his valet to conduct you to him. The dear man has not left my poor boy since he was carried home this m-morning.” The thought of the servant's devotion overcame her ladyship for a moment. She wept into her handkerchief while Mandell stood by uncomfortably.

  He was wondering if he should step into the parlor and summon one of the other women to her aid when Lady Briggs struggled for command of herself. She blew her nose gustily and then glanced up at him with a pathetic attempt to smile.

  “Forgive me for being such a fool, my lord,” she said. “But this is so hard to bear. I cannot understand why this should have happened to my son. He is such a dear kind boy, never harming anyone and so good to his mama. He hardly ever carries more than two farthings in his pocket. Why should this Hook person have wished to attack him?”

  “I don't know,” Mandell said. But another shard of memory fell into place, this one more piercing than any of the others. Through the smoke-filled haze of the tavern, he seemed to hear his own jeering voice, unguarded, speaking far too loud.

  The bold Sir Lancelot who once encountered the Hook himself, who has pledged to aid in that villain's capture.

  Equally clear came Briggs's pleading reply, Don't taunt me, Mandell. 1 am frightened.

  Who else might have heard his drunken jest besides Briggs, Mandell wondered. Briggs had kept insisting that someone was staring at him, some sailor with a beard or a scar or something like that. What had Mandell replied? Some rejoinder full of mockery and wit, no doubt. He was ever good at that, Mandell thought bitterly.

  Mandell found it difficult to continue his conversation with Lady Briggs. He was relieved when the valet, a scrawny fellow with sorrowful eyes, appeared to conduct him upstairs. The curtains had been tightly drawn in Lancelot's bedchamber, only one candle left burning. It took Mandell's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The servant did not leave the room, but he stood back respectfully, allowing Mandell to approach his master's bedside.

  A deathlike silence had already fallen over the chamber. It was broken only by the ticking of Briggs's watch, which had been left lying open upon the dressing table. The sight of the timepiece disturbed Mandell in an odd way, stirred some fragment of memory that hovered just out of reach. He closed the watchcase before stepping nearer to the bed.

  Sir Lancelot lay unmoving upon the mattress, his upper chest and neck swathed in bandages. The linen was no whiter than the pasty shade of his complexion. His eyes were shut, his face drawn in lines of silent suffering.

  Mandell's chest constricted with a mixture of sorrow, remorse, and anger. “You bloody fool! Why couldn't you have heeded me last night when I told you to go home?'

  His voice, low as it was, caused Briggs to stir. He shifted upon the pillow and his eyes fluttered open. The brown depths clouded with confusion and fear as though he thought a stranger hovered over him.

  “It is I, Briggs,” Mandell said. “Don't you know me? It is Mandell.”

  Briggs blinked, the confusion replaced with that pathetically pleased expression Mandell had always found so annoying. Now it brought a lump to his throat. He drew up a chair and seated himself beside the bed. Briggs moved his lips in an effort to speak. His face puckered and he pointed to the bandages at his throat.

  “It is all right. I understand,” Mandell said. “Don't try to talk.”

  Briggs held out his hand. After an awkward hesitation, Mandell grasped it. Briggs's flesh felt cold. Mandell squeezed the soft plump hand as though trying to infuse some of his own warmth and strength into the man.

  “You are being quite a nuisance, you know that, don't you, Briggs? Giving everyone such a scare, making all the clubs fear they will have to close their doors if you do not return soon to lose your money.”

  Mandell's voice did not even sound like his own. It rang with a false heartiness he despised, and Briggs was not fooled. His eyes drifted down with a hopelessness, a lack of faith in his own recovery.

  “You are not going to die. I forbid it.” Mandell said. He was astonished by the fierceness of his emotion. Taking a deep breath, he strove for a lighter tone. “Who else would there be to endure my company when I am in one of my uncivilized humors?”

  Briggs's lips quivered. Mandell pressed his hand one last time and released him. “We had quite a night of it last night, didn't we?”

  Briggs nodded sadly.

  “The last I recall you prevented me from murdering Lucien Fairhaven. I suppose I should thank you for that, but then I believe you carted me up to some flea-ridden bed and half drowned me with water.” The effort to recall caused Mandell's head to ache again. “Then I have this notion you left me. You were going to fetch something, is that correct?”

  Briggs nodded again, but his gaze skittered uneasily away from Mandell's.

  “How did you come to end up down by the river? Do you remember who attacked you? Was it the Hook?”

  Briggs shuddered and nodded.

  “Was he someone from the tavern? Would you recognize him again?”

  Briggs cast him a piteous glance. Mandell continued to prod gently, “Was he the same fellow you glimpsed before, the one with the plumed hat? Could you manage to write out any sort of description? I may abuse my own friends, Briggs, but I am damned if I will allow anyone else to do so. I will track this bastard down and tighten the noose about his neck myself if—”

  Mandell broke off as Briggs became quite agitated. He clutched at Mandell's sleeve, shaking his head in vehement denial.

  “Steady on, old fellow,” Mandell said, attempting to soothe him. “You don't remember who attacked you? Or you are afraid for me to go after him? I don't understand what you are trying to tell me.”

  Briggs allowed his hand to drop back to his side, his eyes filling with tears. But Mandell had no opportunity to question him further. The valet who had stood quietly in the shadows all this time now crept forward.

  “Please, my lord. The doctor said as how the master should be kept quiet. He needs to rest.”

  “Of course.” Mandell stood up reluctantly, saying, “I am sorry. I shall come back when you are feeling more fit, Lance.”

  It was the first time he had ever used Briggs's Christian name, let alone abbreviated it in such friendly fashion. Briggs appeared quite overcome. He managed to roll onto h
is side and buried his face in the pillow to conceal his silent sobs.

  Mandell was elbowed aside by the valet, who stared at him reproachfully and sought to calm his master. Mandell saw there was nothing more he could do. He had caused enough damage.

  Stepping out into the hall, he cursed himself. He had been a fool to come here, more foolish still for spouting such nonsense and upsetting poor Briggs. What was he trying to prove by vowing to capture the Hook, blustering threats of vengeance that only added to Lancelot's misery? The bitter truth was that Mandell had not been considering Briggs's feelings at all, but merely seeking to appease his own guilty conscience. He had never been Briggs's friend. It was too late to start pretending as if he were one now.

  Just as it had been too late with Anne. He had been doing the same thing with her earlier that afternoon, playing games of pretend. Making believe that he could go back to a time when he was not yet so well schooled in arrogance and cynicism, indifferent to anyone else's needs but his own.

  It had not worked. The soft touch of her skin, the sweet scent of her perfume, the warm womanly feel of her in his arms and his own selfish desires had raged out of control. That she had responded in kind only made matters worse. It was just a sign of how far he had succeeded in seducing her. He had been so tempted to take full advantage of her willingness.

  It is too late for any new beginnings. As he dwelled upon this grim truth, he became aware that one of the maidservants was approaching him. She would wish to conduct him back to the parlor, but Mandell could not bring himself to face Briggs's grieving mother again.

  He called for his hat and walking stick instead, and quit the house. Drawing on his gloves, he bolted down the stone steps of the brick residence and collided with his cousin. Nick staggered back, his curly-brimmed beaver nearly flying to the pavement He grasped at it, looking a little taken aback at the sight of the marquis.

  “Mandell!” he exclaimed. Appearing to recover himself, he straightened his hat back upon his head.

  It had been over a week since Mandell had seen his cousin, and he should have evinced more pleasure at encountering Nick. But he felt too raw from his visit with Briggs to do more than mutter, “The long lost Drummond. Where have you been keeping yourself, Nicholas?”

  Nick smiled, but the expression was strained, lacking his usual warmth. “I have been preoccupied with Parliamentary sessions, government details too tedious to bore you with. But I rushed over as soon as I heard about the attack on poor Briggs. I was told that he is not expected to live.”

  “He looks very bad, but he is conscious.”

  “Oh?” Nick asked anxiously. “You have spoken to him?”

  “I visited with him for awhile, but he cannot speak.”

  “Then he cannot describe who attacked him?”

  “Cannot or will not.” Mandell frowned, remembering Briggs's strong reaction to being questioned. “It seems to distress him to remember anything about the attack. The shock of the whole incident appears to have been too much for him. I fear it may have disordered his mind.”

  Nick vented a frustrated sigh. “Well, I did try to warn everyone, but no one would listen. The activities of the Hook won't be stopped until we have a better police force. The government always refuses to do anything until it is too late.”

  “For Briggs, it already is,” Mandell reminded him sharply.

  “Perhaps what happened to Briggs will finally be the leverage I need to get my bill through Parliament. He is the Hook's third victim. Surely now—”

  “Don't, Nick,” Mandell snapped. “I am in no mood to listen to one of your homilies about the social benefits to be derived from murder.”

  “Damn you, I have never said anything like that,” Nick protested hotly. “Of course, what happened to Briggs was dreadful. But if some good could come of it, if the House could at last be brought to realize ...”

  When Mandell shot him a dark look, Nick bore enough sense to subside, but he added, “Besides, what makes you so self-righteous all of a sudden? You have probably wounded Briggs with that cutting tongue of yours far worse than anything the Hook did to him.”

  Nick's words struck too close to the mark. Mandell flinched, but he drew himself up icily. “Yes, I daresay you are right. But I think Briggs's family has enough to endure without the pair of us quarreling on their doorstep, I bid you farewell, cousin.”

  Mandell brushed past Nick. He started to stalk away along the pavement when he was halted by the sound of Nick's voice.

  “Mandell!”

  Mandell glanced back. Nick stood poised by Briggs's steps. He still looked flushed with annoyance, but there was an unaccountable sorrow in his eyes as well.

  “I am sorry,” Nick said. “I did not mean to sound so callous. I guess I never realized how much you cared about Briggs.”

  Mandell started to voice his usual denial, but he ended by saying softly, “Neither did I.”

  “If I had only known—” Nick broke off. He looked as though he wanted to say something more but ended by shaking his head sadly. “You are right. This is not a good time or place to talk about anything,”

  He turned to walk away himself in the opposite direction. Apparently he had forgotten his own intention to visit Briggs or had decided against it.

  Mandell stared after Nick. It occurred to him that Drummond was behaving rather oddly. It was not like the impetuous Nick to hold back with anything he desired to say, no matter what the circumstances. Mandell was left with a strange sensation of a distance widening between them, a distance that stretched much further than the yards of pavement that separated them.

  It only added to Mandell's feeling of being isolated and alone, but he attempted to shrug the emotion aside. He was being foolish, he chided himself. Likely Nick was, as he had said, preoccupied with some blasted political matter. Even as he turned the corner, Drummond consulted his pocket watch and hastened his steps as though he had forgotten some important meeting.

  It was the sight of that pocket watch that drove thoughts of Nick and everything else out of Mandell's head. His breath quickened as he was assaulted by the memory that had eluded him earlier in Briggs's bedchamber.

  But now he could recall it so clearly—Briggs performing the same action at the tavern last night, checking the time on his watch, urging Mandell to leave. The same watch that now sat ticking upon Briggs's dressing table hours after he had been assaulted, supposedly by one of the most notorious brigands in London.

  As the full implication of this struck Mandell, his brow knit in a heavy frown. What manner of villain was he dealing with here? What kind of a common footpad would carve up a man to rob him, only to leave his victim still in possession of a solid gold watch?

  The last minutes of daylight faded. Clarion Way was enveloped in a purple mantle of twilight, the first stars winking in the sky.

  “Seven o'clock and all's well,” Obadiah called out. But the old watchman no longer intoned the time with the confidence and serenity he had felt before Bertie Glossop's murder. Now, if a stray cat so much as brushed against his legs, he startled half out of his skin.

  When he saw the gentleman in the long black cloak come striding up the street, Obadiah's heart gave a flutter of fear, although there was nothing furtive about the man's movements. It was only the marquis of Mandell approaching his own front gate.

  But the haughty marquis had ever made Obadiah nervous and he was quick to step out of his lordship's path. He expected Mandell to sweep on past, taking no more notice of Obadiah than he ever did.

  To his astonishment, the marquis came to an abrupt halt and nodded in his direction. “Good evening.”

  Even then, Obadiah glanced about to see whom his lordship might be addressing.

  “I am talking to you, sir,” Lord Mandell said with a tinge of impatience in his voice. “You are the night watchman, are you not'?”

  “Well, I-I---,” Obadiah babbled. He had always been in terror of Mandell's fierce dark gaze. But seen close up, he real
ized that the marquis's face possessed none of its usual hauteur. His eyes were dulled with a bone-deep weariness, a feeling Obadiah knew all too well. It gave him the courage to reply.

  “Why, why, yes, milord.” Obadiah managed a nervous but respectful bow. “I am Obadiah Jones, your lordship. At your service.”

  “You, I believe, are the one that I heard found Albert Glossop's body. Do you remember the night he was killed?”

  The question astonished Obadiah into blurting out, “How could I ever forget it, sir? 'Twas the most terrifying night of my life, finding young Mr. Glossop that way, all bloodied over and seeing that villian run away, laughing like some pure devil from hell.”

  The marquis's eyes narrowed. “You actually saw the Hook then?”

  “'Deed I did. All garbed in black he was, like some phantom, that strange hat flopping over his eyes.”

  “And his face?”

  “I couldn't see that, m'lord. It was a terrible foggy night.”

  “Then what made you so sure it was the Hook?”

  “Why because the rogue has been on the prowl for months, terrifying honest folks. Who else could it have been?”

  “Who else indeed?” the marquis murmured. He frowned, but Obadiah had the impression Lord Mandell was not scowling at him so much as at some disturbing thought of his own. The marquis's curiosity on this subject surprised Obadiah a little, but then he had never fully understood the ways of the Quality.

  He waited respectfully while the marquis continued, “After you found Glossop, did he still have his valuables on him? His watch perhaps, his purse?”

  “I don't know, m'lord. After I first touched Mr. Glossop and saw that he was dead—” Obadiah shuddered, remembering the sensation of his fingers coming away, warm and sticky with blood. “I didn't examine the young gentleman too close after that.”

  The marquis seemed so disappointed with his answer, Obadiah hastened to add, “But the Hook must've taken away Mr. Glossop's valuables. Stands to reason, don't it? Him being such a notorious cutpurse and all.”

  The marquis did not answer. He regarded Obadiah and said gravely, 'Thank you, Mr. Jones. You have been most helpful.”