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Authors: The Painted Veil

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“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
his 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.

BOOK: Susan Carroll
3.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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