Susan Carroll (28 page)

When he had her more than willing to do
anything he asked, he had wrenched himself away, snapped at her to
get out. What was it he had said? Something about stumbling over
his conscience and finding it damnably inconvenient.

“It would have been much more convenient if
you had happened upon your conscience a little sooner, my lord,”
Anne murmured. Before he had put her through such agonies of
apprehension waiting for him to claim his due from her, before he
had summoned her to him in that humiliating fashion like some
mighty sultan beckoning to his harem girl, before he had taught her
what it was like to experience passion in a man's arms.

Why had he drawn back at the last possible
moment? Did the wicked marquis truly possess some scruples, a finer
side to his nature? Or when it came down to it, had he simply not
found her desirable enough? That thought gave her small comfort,
but at least it was one explanation for his behavior that she could
comprehend.

She sighed. The clock upon the nursery
bookcase told her that it was now past three in the morning. She
was beginning to fear she would be up until dawn fretting over
Mandell's puzzling behavior when she was interrupted by a rap on
the nursery door. Alarmed lest Norrie be disturbed, Anne hastened
across the room, but the door was already opening. Bettine thrust
her head across the threshold, calling, “Milady?”

Anne frowned, nodding toward the sleeping
child and raising a finger to her lips. She whispered. “Bettine,
what are you doing up? I told you I had no more need of you.”

“Oh, madam, I thought I would find you in
here,” the maid said. She appeared far too agitated to keep her
voice down. “You'd best come downstairs at once. There's such a
commotion.”

“What's the matter?”

“Some drunken lunatic has forced his way into
the front hall. And he won't leave. He kept calling for you and he
nearly knocked poor Mr. Firken down. Now the fellow seems to be in
danger of passing out and Mr. Firken doesn't know what is to be
done with him.”

Lucien was the first dread thought that
popped into Anne's head. Who else did she know capable of such
barbaric behavior? If he was in one of his drunken rages, Anne
feared that neither her sister's elderly butler nor the footmen
would be capable of subduing him. Lucien was adept at bullying
servants even when sober.

What could have possibly induced him to come
here? Anne remembered the last time she had seen Lucien, and his
threats of vengeance. She stole a look at her sleeping child and
shivered, then drew herself up sharply.

“Bettine, I want you to stay here with
Norrie,” she said, “and lock the door”

“Oh, milady!” Bettine's eyes went wide. “What
do you think is going to happen?”

“I don't know, but I am taking no chances.
Just do as I say. Lock that door and open it for no one but
me.”

Bettine nodded, her face going pale with
fear. She needed no further urging and when Anne stepped out of the
mom, she heard the lock being fastened with a resounding click.

Her heart thudding with trepidation, Anne
steeled herself to remain calm. She did not know exactly what she
was going to do, but thoughts of the pistol buried in the bottom of
her wardrobe chased through her head.

But as she tiptoed along the landing above
the stairs, she heard none of the uproar that she anticipated. The
hall was strangely silent. Perhaps by some miracle Lucien had
already been persuaded to leave.

Peering over the imposing mahogany balustrade
into the shadows below, she saw Lily's butler, clad in his
nightclothes, bending over one of the high-backed chairs near the
fireplace. A pair of masculine legs clad in dark breeches and
Hessian boots stretched toward the hearth. The face of the man
slumped in the chair was obscured from view, but one thing was
certain. Those legs were too long to belong to Lucien.

Anne did not know whether to be relieved or
more alarmed. Whoever the intruder was, he appeared to have been
calmed for the moment.

“Firken?” Anne called as she crept toward the
top stair.

The butler straightened. Stepping into the
pool of candlelight, his dignity appeared rumpled, his nightcap
askew. “Oh, milady, I am sorry to have disturbed you in this
matter, but the countess has not yet returned from the rout she
attended tonight and I did not know what else to do.”

“What is amiss?” Anne asked as she started
down the stairs. The butler hastened forward. Anne had never seen
the old man so disconcerted.

“You must forgive me, Lady Fairhaven. If it
had been anybody but his lordship, I would not have let him in. I
would have summoned the footmen to throw him into the street, but
one cannot treat the marquis in such a fashion.”

His lordship? The marquis? Anne felt her
heart give an erratic leap. She brushed past the butler as she
raced the rest of the way down the steps. The candle left burning
in the wall sconce illuminated the face of the man sprawled back in
the chair, those blade-sharp features, the aristocratic profile
that possessed a certain hauteur even in the marquis's disheveled
state.

“Mandell!” she gasped. Anne had to blink
several times to be certain she was not dreaming.

His eyes were closed but he stirred a little
at the sound of his name, groaning and rolling his head against the
back of the chair. He was clad only in his breeches, shirt and
waistcoat soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his
brow.

“He is very drunk, I am afraid,” Firken said,
clucking his tongue.

“I can see that,” Anne replied, recovering
from her initial shock. After last night, she had not expected to
see the cool, arrogant marquis again, and certainly not collapsing
in Lily's hall. “What is he doing here?”

“I don't know. He asked for you, my lady.
Gentlemen will do odd things when they are in their cups. But I am
sure you will agree, the important thing is to avoid any
unpleasantness. One would not wish to offend a man as important as
my lord Mandell.”

“Offend him!” Anne exclaimed. Once more
Mandell had turned up when she least expected him, giving her a
dreadful fright. As if that scene in his bedchamber had not been
enough, now he must arrive on her doorstep at three in the morning,
wreaking havoc with her emotions all over again.

Anger coursed through her. Ignoring the
butler's pleas for caution, she strode over and shook Mandell.

“My lord?” she demanded. “Wake up. At once!
Do you hear me?”

He gave another moan. His eyes flickered
open, his brow furrowing as though the effort cost him a great
deal. He gazed up at her, confusion in those dark depths. Then his
lips twitched in a lopsided smile.

“An angel? 'stonishing,” he mumbled. “Funny
... always thought ... end in other place.”

“I always thought so, too. But you are not
dead yet my lord. Don't you even know where you are? Who I am?”

“Sorrow, my Lady Sorrow.”

“Lady Fairhaven,” Anne snapped. “You must try
to come to your senses, my lord, and go home. You are quite drunk.
You have come to my sister's house by mistake.”

Mandell shook his head, the movement causing
him to wince. After a struggle, he managed to sit upright, rubbing
one hand over his face.

Anne gave a horrified gasp. There was dried
blood on his sleeve and his strong, beautiful, elegant hand was
hideously bruised and swollen.

“Dear God, Mandell!” Anne took his hand
carefully in her own. “What have you done to yourself? You are
hurt.”

“Of no 'portance, Sorrow.” He sighed, and
there was a weariness in his eyes that went far beyond the amount
of drink he must have consumed and whatever paths of hell he had
stalked this evening. “Had to see you one last time. Had to give
you this.” He raised his other hand and pressed something cool and
smooth between her fingers.

Anne stared at the object he had given her.
It was the gold locket, the one bearing Norrie's likeness that Anne
had been obliged to abandon in that dreary pawnshop. She cupped the
precious treasure in the palm of her hand. Wonderingly, she raised
her eyes to Mandell.

“My locket. You got it back for me. I don't
understand. How did you ... I mean, why would you bother?”

But Mandell was beyond answering any more
questions. His eyes drifted closed and he swayed dangerously
forward. Anne did her best to steady him, but he sagged against
her, his weight threatening to drag her to the floor.

“Firken!” she cried.

Even with the old man's help, there was no
way to prevent Mandell collapsing onto the cold marble. He sprawled
on his back, his face ice white.

“Out cold for sure this time,” the butler
lamented. “Perhaps I should go rouse Thomas and one of the other
footmen. We could send his lordship home in the countess's
carriage.”

“No!” Anne said, surprised by the vehemence
in her own voice. “It is raining outside and the marquis is already
soaked through. Would you have him catch his death?'

“No, milady. But what is to be done with him
then?”

Anne glanced at Mandell's still features, the
lines of pain that unconsciousness failed to smooth from his brow.
She clutched the locket tighter in her hand. She did not know how
or why, but she found herself in the wicked marquis's debt again.
The least she could do was offer him a haven until he was more
himself.

Her shoulders squared with sudden decision.
“Have the footmen convey my lord upstairs to the front
bedchamber.”

“I don't know whether that would be fitting,
my lady.” Firken said. “If only the countess would come home! She
is so adept at handling these extraordinary situations.”

“More so than I, I daresay. But Lily is not
here.” Anne brushed the damp locks of hair back from Mandell's brow
and added softly, “It would seem I am obliged to look after the
dark lord myself.”

Anne found herself alone in the bedchamber
with Mandell. She could not help reflecting upon the irony of that
as she arranged a pitcher of cold water, ointment, and strips of
linen upon the dressing table. During the course of her very proper
marriage to Gerald, she had rarely been closeted thus with her
husband, perhaps twice a month. But she had seen Mandell abed twice
in as many days.

For propriety's sake she should have had one
of the servants remain with her while she attended Mandell. But she
experienced a surprising protective urge toward the unconscious
marquis. It had been bad enough allowing the footmen and Firken to
strip Mandell out of his wet garments and thrust him into the
butler's spare nightshirt. She did not wish to expose the proud
Mandell to any more of the young men's snickering comments or the
older butler's disapproval than was necessary.

As for her maid, Bettine had been terrified
when she had been informed the lunatic stranger was being tucked up
in the best front bedchamber. Bettine had dove for her own bed,
pulling the covers up over her head, behaving as if Anne had
brought something wild and dangerous in out of the night.

Which perhaps she had, Anne thought as she
picked up the candle and drew closer to the oak bedstead with its
heavy brocade hangings. Mandell made a formidable presence, even
sprawled out flat on his back.

He was no longer resting with that deathlike
stillness that had so alarmed Anne in the hall below. He had begun
to toss and turn upon the pillow, twitching the sheets into a
tangle below his midriff, the nightshirt pulled taut against the
muscular contours of his chest.

The sight brought back a flood of memories
from last night and Anne felt her cheeks heat. Gingerly she tugged
on the sheet, managing to get it up to his shoulders. But when she
tried to bathe his injured hand, he pulled away from her, mumbling
a protest.

She was able to do little more than clean the
dried blood from his knuckles as Mandell began to thrash about in
earnest. A darkness settled over his features. That was the only
way Anne could describe the tension that corded his jaw and caused
deep slashes to appear alongside his mouth.

Anne knew little about what it was like to
drink oneself into such a state, but had heard it laughingly
described as a condition when one felt no pain. Yet Mandell seemed
to be experiencing a great deal of it, a guttural cry breaching his
lips.

Perching herself on the edge of the bed, Anne
sought to soothe him, bathing his brow with cool water, murmuring
some of the same absurd comforting sounds she often used with
Norrie. Mandell looked younger somehow, more vulnerable when
unguarded by his customary mask of cynicism.

She was relieved when he quieted at her touch
and she continued to stroke his cheek. She was finally able to
apply the ointment to his hand, bandaging the swollen knuckles with
the strips of linen.

Brushing her fingers one last time across his
brow, she checked for fever. His brow felt almost too cool, damp
and clammy with perspiration.

Even though she knew he could not hear her,
she murmured. “Try to rest now, my lord. Sleep is what you need. I
fear you will not be feeling quite well when you awaken, but I will
need to talk to you.”

She touched the locket which she had fastened
about her neck. “I know you do not usually condescend to answer
questions, but this is one time you must oblige me.”

She eased herself away from the bed and
reached for the candle. But a startled cry escaped her when Mandell
suddenly lashed out. His eyes flew open wide and he seized hold of
her wrist.

“Don't,” he said hoarsely. “Don't go.”

Anne took a tremulous breath, trying to
recover from the fright he had given her. “But I must, my lord. It
will be dawn in a few hours and you must try to sleep.”

“Don't go out there!” His fingers tightened
on her wrist to a painful extent. He stared up at her, his
expression so wild it caused Anne's heart to pound.