Susan Carroll (29 page)

“They'll kill you,” he said. He stared
straight at her, but his eyes were glazed and Anne realized he was
in the grip of some delirium. She sought to pry his fingers
away

“You are dreaming, my lord. There is no one
here to harm me or you. You are at my sister's house. Do you not
remember?”

He wrenched her forward as he pushed up onto
one elbow. “No!” His voice was low, savage.

“Please. Mandell. Let go. You are hurting
me.”

“They will destroy you as they did her”

“Destroyed who?” Anne cried. Struggling to
make sense of his madness, she wrenched herself free.

“Mother.”

Anne had never before heard a single word
breathed with such anguish. Her fear dissolved before the torment
that twisted his lips and haunted his eyes.

“Mandell, you are having a nightmare,” Anne
said. “What happened to your mother was a long time ago. It is
over.”

“Never over. Every time close my eyes.
C-can't get out. Can't save her.”

Anne managed to ease him back down onto the
pillow, but a ragged sob tore through him, a despairing cry that
Anne felt echo in her own heart.

He clutched at the sleeve of her dressing
gown. “Dark ... too dark,” he rasped. “Help me. Don't leave
me.”

“I won't. I promise.” Anne ran her fingers
back through his hair. “I am right here.”

Her assurances soothed him enough that he
closed his eyes, but he continued to cry out, tossing and turning,
murmuring of a secret pain Anne was certain that no one had ever
been meant to hear.

She knew that when he was once more himself,
the haughty Mandell might never forgive her for this, witnessing
the tear that leaked out of the corner of his eye, the childlike
sob that wracked his frame.

But what could she do? Once more she had
given him her promise. Perhaps she could bring him no comfort, but
she could not leave him like this, either. Leaning forward, she
pressed a soft kiss across his brow. Clinging to his hand, Anne
watched helplessly as Mandell descended into his own dark
world.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mandell awoke to bright sunlight stabbing at
his eyes. With a low groan, he flung one arm across his face,
shielding himself from the intensity. Despite the warmth of the
rays, he felt chilled. His eyes mere slits, he studied his
surroundings, the costly brocade bedhangings, the heavy oak pillars
of the bed, the dressing table with its jar of ointment and
bandages. All quite unfamiliar.

He shivered and groped for the coverlet, at
the same time groping for his memory.

Where the devil am I?

He scowled and nearly cried aloud, the simple
act of contracting his brow making him conscious of the pain
exploding inside his head. Damn! He felt as though someone had been
using his skull for a blacksmith's anvil.

Gingerly, he attempted to explore his
forehead for any sign of injury and was further mystified by the
linen cocoon wrapped about his hand. Had he been in some sort of an
accident?

Moistening his dry lips, he grimaced at the
feel of his own tongue, thick as a wad of cotton. His splitting
head and the stale taste in his mouth were sensations he
recognized.

He had not been in any accident. This
disaster was one of his own making, his and too many tumblers full
of brandy. He emitted a soft sigh, part disgust, part agony. It had
been many years since he had drunk himself into such a state, not
since the uncultivated days of his youth. And never had he gone so
far that he had awakened in a strange bed, wearing someone else's
nightshirt, not even knowing where he was, much less what he had
been doing.

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
Norrie.

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.