Free Susan Carroll by The Painted Veil Page B

moment with troubled
eyes, then said, “I have had enough of debates for one night, Let
us talk of something else. We are going to have to leave the
theatre early. I for one do not care to face our grandfather's
temper if we are late.”
    “I have no plans for calling upon His Grace
tonight.”
    “Mandell, you cannot have forgotten. We have
all been bidden to attend a late supper. Even Mama and my sisters
will be there.”
    “Give them my regards.”
    “But the supper is to honor your
birthday.”
    “It is not my birthday. It is the anniversary
of the day my grandfather brought me to England to acknowledge me
as his heir.” Mandell's tone was one of indifference, but it masked
the bleak feeling that stole over him at the memory of that day.
The day he had been re-created as the marquis of Mandell, the day
that he had utterly lost all sense of another identity.
    He added, “I don't even know when my real
birthday is.”
    “I have always found that hard to understand.
I know our grandfather was bitter over what happened to your mother
but to blot out all traces of your youth, your connection to your
father's family!”
    “My damnable French blood,” Mandell said
drily. “There no longer is any connection. My father and all his
family may be dead for all I know.”
    “If it distresses you so much, there must be
a way that you could find out.”
    “Who said that it distressed me?” Mandell
asked with a haughty lift of his brow.
    “Surely you must want to know, at least what
happened to your own father.”
    Mandell turned away, disturbed by a memory of
himself as a child, staring up at a laughing young man with hair
and eyes as dark as Mandell's own. He lifted Mandell up to the
pianoforte, patiently guiding his small fingers over the keys.
    Mandell blotted out the memory, replacing it
with one of his mother's blood staining the pavement.
    “Very likely, my father is dead,” he said. “I
hope he is, and burning in hell.”
    “Perhaps he is, but I don't believe you will
ever know any peace until you find out for certain. You ought to go
back to France, Mandell.”
    “Leave it alone, Nick,” Mandell growled.
    Nick subsided. Neither of them said anything
and tension filled the air until Nick broke it with a shaky
laugh.
    “Since it is not in truth your birthday, then
I need not feel obliged to spout for a gift. My pockets are rather
to let at the moment.”
    “Your pockets are always to let.” Mandell
turned back to face his cousin, feeling enough in command of his
feelings to assume his usual dry tone. “Besides, I have already
received a gift.”
    He drew forth a gaudy gilt-trimmed snuffbox,
the sides decorated with jade dragons, their eyes gleaming with the
fire of red rubies.
    “Good lord!” Nick said. “Where did you get
that awful thing? I can scarce believe that our grandfather would
give you such a thing.”
    “The old duke is not that sentimental. I
received it from my dear friend Lancelot Briggs.”
    “I am surprised that you accepted it.”
    “So am I. I was sampling a fine madeira at
the time and feeling unusually gracious.” Mandell stared at the
snuffbox with a slight frown. The scene had been embarrassing. He
had been trying to enjoy his dinner at White's in peace when Briggs
had entered the club and plunked down at Mandell's table. Mumbling
something unintelligible, Briggs had blushed as shyly as a maid and
shoved the snuffbox at Mandell.
    Briggs's lips had trembled with a wistful
smile, his eyes full of that doglike adoration. Such a simple man.
Such an irritating one. For the life of him, Mandell did not know
why he put up with Briggs or why he had pocketed the snuffbox.
    But now, as he sat turning the absurd thing
in his hands, his mouth creased into an expression that was half
smile, half grimace. He mused aloud to Nick, “You know, it does
tend to grow on one. I may actually learn to like it.”
    “There is no accounting for tastes.”
    “No, there isn't” Mandell angled a