Mandell came the rest of the way across the grass. He favored Anne with a small bow and presented her with Norrie's nosegay.
“For you, milady,” he said. “Your daughter appears to think I need some help with my wooing.”
“I have never thought so,” Anne murmured as she accepted the motley collection of daisies, violets, and blades of grass.
For a fleeting instant, Mandell smiled and Anne thought that all was well. But the light vanished from his eyes far too quickly. She sensed an air of weariness about him that went as deep as his soul. The first hint of silver had appeared amongst his midnight-dark strands, and fresh lines of sorrow were carved near that sensitive mouth.
“Your sister told me I would find you here this morning,” he said.
“Yes, I know it is early for a walk, but I felt the need to escape.” Anne winced. “Since all that has happened, I find myself a figure of some notoriety. We are plagued by visitors at all hours, come to offer congratulations upon my narrow escape. I believe most are just curious to meet a lady who was once a resident of Newgate.”
“That is one nuisance I have not been plagued with,” Mandell said drily. “Few are presumptuous enough to foist their curiosity upon the grandson of a murderer. My chief problem has been my servants. They will persist in calling me 'Your Grace' now. Only Hastings seems to understand how it affects me.”
Anne wanted to show him how much she also understood, but Mandell turned away from her. He nodded toward where Norrie had coaxed Pegasus to the pond's edge, trying to convince the stubborn pony he needed a drink.
“I trust Eleanor has taken no ill effects through all of this?” he asked.
“She did cling to me for the first day I was returned home,” Anne replied. “But children have a way of accepting the most extraordinary events that surprises one. To Norrie, I believe, it all seemed like nothing more than a frightening story of me being held prisoner in a tower. Then you dashed in to rescue me and deal with all the ogres. I fear she now expects there to be a happy ending as well.”
Anne waited breathlessly, hoping for some sign of concurrence in Mandell. He merely lowered his lashes, veiling his expression, and Anne's heart sank. He was building his walls again. She could sense that, and she did not know how to stop him.
“Norrie and I have both been worried about you,” Anne ventured at last. “She feared you would be made very sad by the death of your grandfather.”
“In truth, Anne, I scarce know what I have been feeling these past few days. Guilt mostly.”
When Anne regarded him questioningly, he said, “No matter what the old devil did, the grief and suffering he caused, I would not have wished him such an end. I should never have been so careless, leaving that pistol behind.”
“Your grandfather would have but found some other way. What else could he have done? Could you imagine the proud duke of Windermere forced to give an accounting of his actions, even to a jury of his peers?”
“No,” Mandell said reluctantly, “I could not.”
He swallowed thickly, “That last conversation I had with my grandfather, I have not felt able to speak of it. But I would like to tell you now, Anne.”
Anne breathed a tiny sigh. Perhaps the wall this time was not quite as insurmountable as she feared. Norrie's flowers fell from her fingers unheeded as she reached out to take Mandell's hand.
“I am listening,” she said quietly.
He seemed to derive great comfort from entwining her fingers with his own. His voice was calm and steady as he related the details of that final interview. Anne could only guess what the duke's horrible revelations had done to Mandell, the ravaging of his spirit reflected in the dark depths of his eyes.
Anne grieved for Lady Celine and her young husband, a couple whose great love had been sacrificed to a revolution and an old man's bitterness. She grieved for the little boy who had thus been deprived of both of his parents. More than anything, she grieved for the man who clung so tightly to her hand as he related these horrors.
“I remembered so little myself of what happened in France,” Mandell said. “But yesterday, I found some old letters amongst the duke's private papers that clarified everything. They were from my mother, the last one posted from Calais. She explained that she had decided to defy her husband's wishes that she set sail for England, and instead meant to return with me to Paris. It appears my mother was a true Windermere, stubborn and arrogant. She simply could not be brought to believe that any French rabble would dare to harm the daughter and grandson of an English duke. Setting that bit of hauteur aside, she wrote as a woman who could not bear the thought of being parted from the man she loved.”
“Your mother did not make a wise choice, but a perfectly understandable one.”
“That is what I am endeavoring to remember out of the whole senseless tragedy,” Mandell said. “How much my parents loved each other, and that they must have been happy for a time.”
He bowed his head in silence for a moment before he could continue, “There was a more recent letter amongst my grandfather's effects. This one from the present Comte de Valmiere seeking information about myself and my father. God alone only knows why the old man did not destroy it, but I am grateful that he did not.
“I have an uncle living near Caen, and several aunts. It occurs to me that they might be able to tell me a great deal about my father, things that I was never privileged to know. The comte mentioned that he still has some of my father's compositions. It seems that the reason he took my mother to Paris in the first place was that he hoped for an audience at court, a chance to find a patron for his music.”
A slight flush of embarrassment stained Mandell's cheeks. “I know this is going to sound absurd, but I feel that if I could learn to play my father's music, I could somehow have a part of him back again, perhaps even regain a part of myself that was taken from me so long ago.”
“It does not sound absurd at all,” Anne said.
He slipped his hand from her grasp. “I want to go back to France, Anne.”
She wondered if he even realized that as he said this he paced several steps away from her. Once more, Anne felt the distance threatening to grow between them. But she forced back the lump in her throat and said, “Of course, my lord. If that is what you need to do.”
“If circumstances had been different, I would have asked you to go with me. But I no longer have the right to do so, not after these discoveries about my grandfather. He often accused me of having tainted blood, and so I do. Not my father's, but his.”
“No, Mandell,” Anne protested, seeking to recapture his hand.
But Mandell stepped back, saying in a voice raw with anguish, “There was one dread moment, Anne, when I looked into his eyes and I saw myself reflected there, when I realized there was a danger I could become just like him, cold, ruthless and uncaring.”
“No, Mandell! There was an evil in him that has never existed in you.”
“How can you be so certain of that?” he asked bitterly. “Because you believe that Norrie has this uncanny ability to peer into hearts? Because for some strange reason your little girl loves me?”
“No, because I do.”
Her answer stopped his agitated pacing. Every part of him seemed to go still as he stared into her eyes, desperately wanting to believe.
She cupped his face between her hands and said, “I love you, Mandell. Do you think that I could care so much for a man who was as cold and hard as you describe?'
“Then despite all that has happened, you would still marry me, Anne?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You would permit me to be a father to your little girl?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Trust me enough to—”
“To surrender my entire life and happiness into your keeping? Yes, my lord,” Anne repeated fervently.
A shadow passed from his features, his eyes shining with such tenderness and humble gratitude that Anne felt tears start to
her eyes.
“I have another name, you know,” he said almost shyly. “I was christened for my father, Dominque.”
“Dominque,” Anne repeated. “It is a very fine name.”
“For so long I tried to forget it.”
“I know,” she said, caressing back the dark strands of hair from his temple. “Because remembering brought you the nightmare.”
“You have banished the nightmares, milady,” he said huskily. “For us, I vow there will only be dreams.”
Drawing her into his arms, he sealed the promise with his kiss.
###
About the author:
Author Susan Carroll began her career in 1986, writing historical romance and regencies, two of which were honored by Romance Writers of America with the RITA award. She has written twenty six novels to date. Her St. Leger series received much acclaim. The Bride Finder was honored with a RITA for Best Paranormal Romance in 1999. Ms. Carroll launched a new series with the publication of The Dark Queenl set during the turbulent days of the French Renaissance. Ms. Carroll was born in Latrobe, Pa. She spent much of her childhood in South Jersey where she graduated from Oakcrest High School in Mays Landing. She attended college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where she earned a B.A. in English with a minor in history. She currently resides in Illinois.
Discover other titles by Susan Carroll at Smashwords.com
Masquerade
Rendezvous
Escapade
Continue reading for a sample of Masquerade:
Chapter One
The iron bars across the window cast their shadows upon Lady Phaedra Grantham's face as she paced the confines of her cell. She raked her fingers through tangled masses of red-gold hair, her dark-fringed green eyes darting from the grate in the heavy oak door to the window far above her head.
The distance between the dingy plaster walls seemed to grow smaller each day, and the room closed in on her like the jaws of a trap. She knew it was all a trick of her imagination, the result of staring too long at the black beetles as they scuttled through the cracks to freedom-a freedom she might never know again.
Phaedra shivered, rubbing her arms. It was so cold in this place. She pulled the ragged remains of a blanket over her lawn nightshirt as her bare feet trod ceaselessly back and forth on the wooden floor. The thin cloth afforded small protection against the wind that blew through the broken glass beyond the bars.
Had the gnarled branches of the trees shed the last of their brittle leaves? She had no way of knowing. She had lost track of the days. All she could see of the world beyond was a patch of October sky, a pale wintry blue-the same color as his eyes. The man she had known as Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais.
The thought of him made her breath come quicker, and she clenched her fists. Something stirred inside of her, like tiny wings fluttering deep within her womb.
Phaedra stopped and leaned against the thick door. Cradling her hands across the slight swell of her abdomen, she forced herself to relax. She must not upset herself again. She must remain calm-if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the child.
This resolution was forgotten when she heard the scratching sound on the other side of the door. A blood-soaked arm shot through the small opening of the grate. Phaedra bit back her scream as she shrank away from the sticky red fingers pawing at the air.
A shrill laugh trickled along her spine like the icy blade of a knife. "Have you forgotten me so soon, my dear?" a voice crooned. “I came to tell you I've escaped."
Phaedra lowered her trembling hands from her mouth. Through the grate, violet eyes gleamed at her. She saw a thicket of blond tresses framing a young girl's face that once perhaps had been beautiful, but now was gaunt, ravaged by such horrors as Phaedra refused to contemplate. She whispered, "Marie? Is that you? Dear God! What have you done to your wrists?"
The woman giggled behind her hand like a child hiding a secret. "I told you these Russians could not hold an Austrian princess captive. My bones are too delicate for their clumsy shackles. I wriggled free. And when I tell my brother-.
The violet eyes clouded. "My brother," she repeated as if searching for some elusive remembrance. An expression of haunting sadness crossed her features, only to be quickly replaced with her familiar, childlike smile.
"Yes, I've told my brother, the Emperor Franz Joseph, all about you-"
She broke off as Phaedra heard a rough voice shout, "There she is. Seize her."
With another hysterical laugh, the woman disappeared from view, followed by the sound of running feet. As Phaedra buried her face in her hands she heard a heavy thud, and then a series of shrieks.
What were they doing to the poor creature? Since the first day of her imprisonment, Phaedra had refused to look through the grate into the main gallery beyond. She knew too well what horrifying scenes waited on the other side of that door.
But as the woman's screams were choked off, Phaedra could bear ignorance no longer. She had to know what was happening. She flung herself at the grillwork, clutching the rusted iron.
The woman Phaedra knew only as Marie Antoinette jerked spasmodically on the straw-covered floor as a burly guard lashed her hands behind her.
"Stop it," Phaedra cried. "Leave her alone, you fool! Can you not see she needs a doctor?"
"Shut your mouth. Or you'll need one yourself!" The guard grabbed Marie by the ankles and hauled her away: heedless of the blond head banging against the floor. "Scrawny little bitch. I told them we needed smaller manacles."
"The poor thing is mad, damn you!" Phaedra's fist smashed against the grate, scraping the skin from her knuckles while tears of anger burned her eyes. "Have you no pity?"
"Have you no pity? No pity! No pity!" Her words were taken up by other voices, until they echoed around the hall, swelling into an indistinguishable howl. Against her will, she stared at the occupants of the large chamber. What Phaedra saw was like a scene from Dante's Inferno-twisted limbs writhing against their chains, mouths issuing forth sounds unheard of outside the regions of hell. Scores of vacant eyes stared at her, empty reflections of the beings whose souls had been stolen from them ages ago.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here. The poet's verse pounded through her brain. How had Dante, writing centuries ago, imagined a place like St. Mary of Bethlehem Hospital in London? The poet had been expressing his visions of hell. Hell ... Bedlam. They were one and the same. How long before Phaedra's captors reduced her to the same broken state as those poor wretches on the other side of the door? How long before she became as mad as her captors claimed?
"Someone will help me," she whispered, dashing aside her tears. Jonathan? No, he was her longtime friend, but he was too weak, incapable. But if Jonathan could find her cousin. Only Gilly was bold enough to find some way to save her. Where was he?
He should have returned to London by now unless his Irish temper had gotten the better of him, and he had challenged the man known as Armande de LeCroix. She shuddered as the image of that aquiline face forced its way into her memory. The sable-brown hair that flowed back from his brow, the eyes that could be so cold with hate, they burned. Skilled with a sword, the blade became an extension of Armande's own lithe and ruthless strength.
Surely Gilly would not be so foolish as to provoke Armande. No, Gilly was too clever for that, Phaedra reassured herself. As she started to withdraw farther into her cell, a flash of movement in the gallery caught her eye. Peering through the grate, she saw figures grotesquely out of place in the ragged company of lunatics. The pink satin of the fop's knee breeches and waistcoat stood out as brightly as the purple silks of his lady friend. As they progressed lazily through the hall, Phaedra sensed that they were headed toward the door to her cell.
"Dear God, not again," she murmured. Retreating to her cot, she sat down, gripping the edge of the mattress, hoping she might be spared the humiliation just this once. But her prayers went unanswered. The key chinked in the lock and she heard the false syrupy t
ones that her gaoler, Belda, adopted for visitors.
"And in here, m'lord, m'lady, is the treat I promised your worships. One of the finest spectacles Bedlam has to offer. "
Belda's bewhiskered face appeared in the doorway, sneering at Phaedra as she entered, balancing a tray of food against her drooping bosom--one of the few features of Belda's bulky person that indicated her sex.
"Come in, come in," she called over her shoulder to the visitors as she set the tray down on the stool. "There's naught to fear."
The dandy stepped inside, his long nose sniffing the air with distaste as he leveled his quizzing glass at Phaedra. His lady clung close to him, shaking out the polonaise loops of her gown and ducking her head so that her powdery mountain of frizzed hair did not brush against the doorframe.
"Oh, Danny," the creature wailed, blanching beneath the layers of rouge. "This one's not even chained."
"Perfectly all right, miss." Belda grinned. "She's quiet most of the time, though she's been known to get wild. But I'm here to see she behaves herself, ain't that right, dearie?"
The matron prodded Phaedra's arm with one pudgy finger. "Say good morning to the nice lady and gentleman."
"Go to perdition," Phaedra said, her fingers clamping down harder upon the mattress.
"Naughty, naughty." Belda pinched Phaedra's chin until her eyes watered. "Mind your manners. We wouldn't want to have another session in Dr. Crowley's tranquilizing chair, would we?"
No, we wouldn't, Phaedra thought as she yanked her head aside. She would not let Belda goad her into a display of temper this time. Too often, she had provided the spectacle visitors craved, throwing herself forward to beg for help or railing at them for their heartlessness in coming to gawk at the unfortunate inmates. It was worse when she recognized her visitors, as she did now. The foppish man was Lord Arthur Danby.
Susan Carroll Page 37
