Susan Carroll (35 page)

He was so quiet she felt impelled to speak.
“What happened between us was incredible,” she said shyly. “It was
like nothing I have ever felt. I will never forget it.”

Anne silently cursed herself for the
inadequacy of her own words. She wished she could find some way to
explain to him that what she had experienced in his arms had been
wondrous, something bright and beautiful. She only wished it had
been the same for him. When he still failed to speak, she knew it
hadn't been.

“Did you enjoy it, too?” she asked.

“Yes, of course I did.” The kiss he pressed
to her brow was as abrupt as his words. Anne sensed he wanted her
to be silent, but she could not seem to do so.

“I keep forgetting none of this is new to
you. You must have experienced such pleasure dozens of times
before.”

Her voice was anxious and Mandell realized
she was seeking reassurance. He should have been able to give it to
her, but he was too thoroughly shaken. He was used to making
conquests. But he had never surrendered so much to any woman as he
had done with Anne tonight. It was as though in holding her so
close to his body, he had also allowed her to draw too close to his
heart. He could hardly admit such a thing to himself, let alone to
her.

Before she could stir any more such
disturbing reflections, he sought to silence her. Turning her in
his arms, he kissed her, her mouth soft and pliant after their
lovemaking. When he broke off the embrace, he saw that he had
appeased her anxieties if not his own.

Nibbling at her ear, he strove for a lighter
tone. “I fear you are far too easily pleased, my lady. Your late
husband's performance in the bedchamber must have been quite
unremarkable if you were so impressed by my poor skill tonight. The
next time, when I am better rested, I will show you far greater
pleasures.”

“Will there be a next time?” Her eyes were
far too wistful, too eager.

He should have said no for both their sakes.
Yet he found himself replying, “If you wish it.”

“Then I shall become your mistress?”

Anne watched Mandell's brows draw together in
a frown. Her question seemed to disturb him.

“Could you be comfortable in that role?” he
asked. Anne hesitated only a moment over her reply. “Yes. Neither
of us is bound by vows to anyone else. It would be different if I
were not a widow and if you were married,”

“There is no fear of that difficulty
arising.”

“Do you never intend to marry, my lord?'

“I will be obliged to one day, find some
haughty dame with enough ice and ambition in her veins to make a
proper marchioness. Trade off my title and wealth to put an heir in
the cradle of the august house of Windermere.”

He meant to sound flippant, but Anne detected
an underlying bitterness beneath his words.

“It sounds like a very cold arrangement,”
Anne ventured, reflecting that she certainly ought to know. Except
that instead of ice and ambition, Gerald had wanted propriety and
virtue,

Mandell smiled at her, stroking his fingers
through the length of her hair. “One generally saves all one's
warmth for one's mistress.”

“You will have to forgive me, my lord, and
remember that I am quite new to the rules that govern a
relationship such as ours.”

He dropped a kiss on her brow. “To begin
with, you will have to learn to be more demanding. Tell me what
carriages, what jewels, what expensive presents you expect from me
in return for your affections.”

Anne swallowed to conceal the hurt his words
gave her, “My affections don't come so dear. All I want is more
moments like we shared tonight, perhaps occasionally for you to
play your music for me.”

“You expect too little, my dear. Once again
you make me doubt whether you are the sort of woman suited for this
kind of liaison.”

“What sort of woman do you think I am?'

“The kind who will always need the prince on
a white charger, whisking you off to the security of his castle,
keeping you safe from all ogres and dragons.”

“I already tried the prince,” Anne said,
running her hand lightly up his arm. “It was very dull. I prefer to
take my chances with the dragon.”

“Even if he devours you?”

“That would be a preferable fate to being
buried alive in some silk-lined palace.”

“I hope you still think so when you have been
reduced to ashes,” Mandell said, his eyes intent and somber. “But
now that I have known what it is like to have you in my bed, I am
too selfish to forego that pleasure. I am exactly like that greedy
fellow in Norrie's story, the one who robbed the world of
spring.”

“My lord Hades,” Anne murmured.

“And now I have succeeded in dragging you
down into my darkness.”

Unless she was able to lead him up into the
light. It was a foolish hope, but a persistent one. Yet Anne was
wise enough to keep it to herself as Mandell gathered her close in
his arms.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Over a fortnight had passed since the attack
on Sir Lancelot Briggs, and the surly proprietor of the Running Cat
hoped that all questions regarding the doings in his tavern had
finally ceased. Since that fateful evening, Mr. George Nagle had
been beleaguered by a succession of constables, Bow Street
detectives, and even a magistrate. Many of the activities at the
Running Cat would not bear close scrutiny by the minions of the
law, and Mr. Nagle heartily wished that the Hook would be
considerate enough to look elsewhere for his next victim.

As he swept out the taproom, he reflected it
was the first peaceful afternoon he had known since that wretched
night. The tavern was empty except for the sailor, old Tom, passed
out beneath one of the benches as usual, and one other customer who
stood sipping a pint of porter near the back door.

The quiet suited Nagle, who was in a bad
humor, the lazy barmaid Jenny having neglected to clean up again.
The girl was only good for such occupation as involved her being
flat on her back on one of the beds upstairs. Nagle plied the broom
with vigor, stirring up dust motes in the bright spring sunlight.
He did not feet up to greeting any customers, not even with his
usual irritable growl.

But he straightened instinctively at the
sight of the dark-haired gentleman who entered the tavern. He was
tall, the cut of his frock coat severe, his whipcord riding
breeches immaculate. Though the color was of a most somber hue,
there was no mistaking the quality of the garments or the value of
the signet ring the gentleman flashed on his lean aristocratic
hand.

Nagle stared in momentary astonishment. His
tavern was occasionally frequented by members of the nobility, but
none like this gent, who looked mighty high in instep, his lip
curling with distaste as he crossed the threshold.

Nagle had the odd feeling he had seen the man
before. But he was discouraged from any further ogling by a pair of
imperious dark eyes that stared him down, making Nagle feel it
might be prudent to take shelter behind the bar.

“Afternoon, sir.” Nagle nodded, infusing his
voice with more respect than he showed most of his customers. “How
can I serve you? A pint of ale perhaps? Or I do have a tolerable
brandy.”

“No.” A slight shudder appeared to course
through the gentleman. “I am merely seeking information about
something that happened two weeks ago.”

Dropping his respectful mien, Nagle bristled
like a cat stroked the wrong way. “I hope this is not about that
bloody night that little fat fellow wandered out of here to get
himself skewered, because I answered all the questions I'm going to
on that score. I am not going to be plagued with every constable
this side of the river”

“Do I look like a constable?” the gentleman
inquired icily with a lift of his brow. He drew an elegant calling
card from his pocket and slid it across the counter.

Nagle squinted at this, his reading abilities
none of the best. He was able to make out that he was dealing with
a marquis of some sort, but that did little to ease Nagle's
belligerent stance.

“All I want to know,” his lordship continued,
“is if you or any of your staff noticed when Sir Lancelot left the
tavern and if he was alone.”

Nagle scowled, but gave a grudging reply.” I
can only tell you, m'lord, the same as I told the magistrate. We
cannot keep track of everybody's comings and goings around here. I
can hardly remember what happened last night, let alone two weeks
ago.”

“But that night must have stood out in your
memory. There was a fight, was there not?”

“That's not such an unusual occurrence round
here. Why must everyone keep bothering me about this business? Why
not go ask your questions of the fellow best able to answer, that
little Sir Whatsit that was attacked?”

“Because Sir Lancelot Briggs has never
recovered full use of his faculties. He remains unable to speak of
what happened to him.” The marquis's hard stare did not waver, his
haughty features, if anything, assuming a more rigid cast.

“Out of his wits, eh? Too bad,” Nagle grunted
uneasily. “But I cannot help you, m'lord. The most I recollect is
that sometime after that brawl, the one gentleman as was fighting
and that there Sir Briggs up and vanished. And as for the
blond-haired fellow that took the worst of the drubbing, when he
managed to get to his feet, he left howling for blood and vengeance
against the whole world. Perhaps somebody ought to be asking that
fine gentleman a question or two.”

“I already tried. Sir Lucien has left London.
Gone to Bath for the sake of his health, or so his butler
says.”

“How convenient for him.” Nagle sneered. “I
wish I was there m'self.”

The marquis lowered his eves and Nagle found
it a great relief to be spared any more of that piercing gaze. But
his tension returned as the marquis asked, “And what of this
notorious footpad, the Hook? You must have heard something about
him, some speculation as to his identity perhaps, some whisperings
from your patrons?”

Nagle began to polish the mugs behind the
counter with a scrupulous attention they had never received before.
“I've only ever heard enough to know the Hook is one person 1 want
to stay clear of, and if your lordship is wise, you'll do the
same.”

Nagle did not look up from his task, but he
could feel the power of those dark eyes boring into him. He heard
the marquis's purse jangle as he laid it upon the counter. Nagle
could not keep his eyes from straying to where his lordship
fingered the soft leather in suggestive fashion.

“Are you certain you remember nothing else
about the night Briggs was attacked?' the marquis purred.

Nagle licked his lips, but he had not
entirely forgotten the presence of his other customer, the one who
lingered in the shadows by the rear door.

Nagle said, “If I remembered anything, I
would have said so.”

He could feel the weight of the marquis's
displeasure. But all his lordship did was to lay several pound
notes by his calling card. “If your memory should improve, sir, I
trust you will wait upon me. I could make it worth your trouble. My
name and direction are written upon the card.”

Nagle nodded in jerky fashion. He did not
feel able to breathe freely until the marquis had turned and strode
back out of the tavern. Then Nagle pounced upon the card and the
money, shoving them deep in the pocket of his dirty apron.

The customer who had been lounging at the
back of the tavern now stepped up to the bar. Nagle tried not to
give a nervous start.

“What was that all about, George?” the young
man asked.

Nagle knew enough about Gideon Palmer not to
be fooled by the deceptive pleasantry in Palmer's voice.

The tavern host forced a shrug. “Only some
high and mighty lordship with nothing better to do than bother an
honest working man with a deal of questions he can't answer.”

“Mandell,” Gideon muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Palmer stroked the scar that
disfigured his chin. “So what did his lordship wish to know?”

“Just a deal of nonsense about the night that
Briggs fellow was attacked and about the Hook.”

“And what did you tell him my dear friend
George?”

The question was soft, but Nagle felt the
hairs prickle along the back of his neck.

“I had nothing to tell his lordship, did I?”
Nagle blustered. “And I wouldn't if I did. I have too much regard
for my own skin and besides that, I have no patience for fellows as
would squeak for a handful of coins.”

“At least that is one thing we have in
common, George,” Gideon said with a silky smile. “Neither do
I.”

Mandell urged his black gelding through the
gates into St. James's Park, the fresh smell of the grass and warm
spring breeze dispelling the stench that clung to him from the
Running Cat tavern, a noisome combination of sour spirits and stale
smoke. There was nothing so enlightening, Mandell thought wryly, as
returning to the scene of one's drunken revels when one was stone
cold sober.

He had only returned to the tavern out of
sheer frustration at Briggs's continued silence. Although Lancelot
had recovered enough to sit up in bed, he seemed to retreat deeper
into himself each day, shrinking from receiving any visitors,
especially Mandell. If Briggs's assailant was to be apprehended,
Mandell realized he would have to seek information from some other
quarter.

Wheeling his horse into the leafy path that
led toward the lake, Mandell grimaced at the image of himself
visiting the tavern, playing at Bow Street Runner, a piece of pure
foolishness that had gained him nothing. He did not know why he had
bothered. Briggs was obviously beyond caring whether the Hook was
captured or not. It would do little to aide his recovery or even
assuage Mandell's guilt to charge about acting like some heroic
avenger.