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  THE PAINTED VEIL

  SUSAN CARROLL

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Susan Carroll

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  PROLOGUE

  “Nine of the clock and a foggy night.”

  The ancient charley's voice rang out with cheerful assurance. The only other sound disrupting the stillness was a carriage rattling by, its team of horses clopping along the rain-wet cobblestones.

  The old watchman stepped with confidence along Clarion Way, the street so serene it might have been no more than an architect's sketch of fashionable London. At the head of the square stood the Countess Sumner's brick mansion, the oldest house in the district. It loomed like an imposing matriarch over the row of recently built townhouses. With their gleaming colonnades and brass door knockers, the modern structures appeared almost smug in their prosperity, candleshine spilling through the windows into the murky street below.

  Most of the occupants had likely dined by now and were in the process of attiring themselves for the evening. Soon the street would become a hive of noise and activity, doors opening and closing, coaches coming and going, gentlemen and ladies dressed in their silks whisking away to some round of entertainment a rout, a ball, or the theatre.

  But for now, the old watchman paused to savor the quiet. Obadiah set down his lantern upon the pavement, flexing his gnarled fingers. Only a few hours more and he could go home to his mutton and pint of porter. He would be mighty glad of it, too. He was more tired than usual this evening, feeling his years, he supposed.

  It was unseasonably warm for an early April evening, the sudden shift in temperature causing mists to rise from the pavement. The far end of the square was all but lost in fog, the faint glow of the gas lamps providing little illumination.

  The damp settled into Obadiah's bones, aggravating his rheumatism, but other than that, he scarce minded the haze blanketing the street like a gauzy coverlet. Far better fog than rain.

  There were some as might think it made his task of patrolling the streets more dangerous. But whatever happened amiss on Clarion Way? Perhaps there was the occasional attempt at housebreaking or bout of fisticuffs between a footman and some pert delivery boy. But for the most part the square remained as orderly and dignified as the facades of the houses. Obadiah had little to do but call out the passing of the hours and the state of the weather, his watchman's rattle for summoning aid mostly unused.

  Now it would be a far different tale tonight in Bethnal Green or that tumbledown area behind Westminister. The fog would bring out the pickpockets, the thieves, and the footpads in droves. Obadiah did not envy his fellow charleys who patrolled those areas, especially poor old Adam Nash working the streets of Cheapside. They'd been having a spot of trouble there of late with one notorious cutpurse, known only as the Hook.

  More daring and swift of foot than the rest, no one had ever gotten a proper look at the villain, other than to note he had only one hand, the other sleeve ending in a wicked bit of curving steel. The rascal grew bolder every day. Most recently, he'd robbed a plump baronet bare yards from the houses Of Parliament. When that gentleman had objected to parting with his purse, the Hook had spiked his victim's shoulder like a butcher cleaving into a fat haunch of mutton.

  Obadiah shuddered at the mere thought of it. Picking up his lantern, he shuffled along again, feeling fortunate to be far removed from the vicinity of the Hook and other such-like murderous fiends. His most hazardous duty lay in checking the locks and windows of Number 32. The house hadn't been let this season and might offer a great temptation to some knowledgeable cracksman.

  By the time Obadiah had completed his circuit around the dark, silent house, the traffic on the street had picked up some. Gentlemen who had chosen to dine at their clubs returned home to change their attire.

  Obadiah watched as a hackney cab set down Nicholas Drummond, a congenial young gentleman with an arresting smile. Mr. Drummond wore a coat with several shoulder capes and a high-crowned beaver hat perched upon waves of tawny hair. He often called in the square to visit his married sister, or his cousin who lived several doors down.

  After paying off the cabbie, Drummond strode away whistling a tuneless song. Upon spying Obadiah, he nodded by way of friendly greeting.

  “Evening, Obadiah.”

  Obadiah swiftly doffed his own soft-brimmed cap. “Good evening, sir.”

  “How goes it tonight?”

  “All's quiet, sir. Naught to complain of but the damp.”

  “Indeed, the fog does seem to be getting worse. Well, have a care for yourself, Obadiah.”

  With another wave, Drummond sprinted up the steps and was admitted into his sister's house. The exchange had been brief, but Obadiah felt as warmed by it as if he'd taken a nip of rum. A real kindly gentleman was Mr. Drummond. There weren't many like him. Few of the Quality would take any heed of a lowly watchman, let alone bid one to take care of oneself.

  Certainly not Mr. Drummond's cousin, the marquis of Mandell, who lived at the farthest end of the street. Very high in the instep was the marquis. His lordship took no more notice of Obadiah than he did the gatepost. But perhaps that was just as well. Obadiah trembled at the thought of Mandell's gaze turning his way. Very hard intent eyes had the marquis of Mandell.

  Obadiah supposed it was not his place to be studying the ways and characteristics of the Quality on his street, but the tedium of his job often left him little else to do. He trudged down the length of the pavement, going so far as the next square, then turned to come back again.

  It was nearly quarter till ten and Mr. Drummond had been correct. The fog did seem to be getting worse. When the door to Number 17 opened, Obadiah was far enough away that he could scarce make out the figures of two gentlemen stepping down into the mist. But he did not need to. He knew full well who lived there.

  Mr. Albert Glossop was the bane of the old charley's existence. Unlike Master Nick, Mr. Glossop displayed no kindness or polished manners. A high-spirited youth, he and his cronies derived some of their chief amusement from tormenting the watch, especially when Mr. Glossop had had a touch too much brandy, which was not infrequent.

  Obadiah had lost count of the number of dead cats that had been flung in his path, buckets of slops tossed on his head, hot coals shoved down his back. With vivid recollection of such past encounters, Obadiah hung back, waiting until he was sure the two men coming out of Number 17 had gone well on their way.

  By the time they reached the pavement, he was certain one of them was indeed Mr. Glossop. There was no mistaking that familiar peacock blue redingote or the jaunty tilt of his chapeau bras. The gentleman with him was obscured by a dark cloak and a wide, floppy-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. It was a plumed hat like Obadiah had once seen in an old painting of one of those cavalier fellows. Lord, who would wear a thing like that nowadays? But Mr. Glossop had been entertaining some foreigners of late and it was well known how queer those Frenchies could be.

  The gentlemen summoned neither carriage nor hackney, but walked off down the street. When the stranger turned, Obadiah thought he caught a flash of something like the silver head of a walking stick. He gave it little consideration, feeling only too relieved to have escaped the notice of Mr. Glossop and his companion.

  Only after the two men vanished into the mist did Obadiah resume his rounds. The fog-bound silence o
f the street began to seem a little oppressive and he would be glad when Clarion Way clattered with its usual nighttime activity.

  Obadiah consulted his timepiece and started to sing out, “Ten of the clock and—”

  His words were cut off by a cry that chilled his blood. It was like nothing human, an animal howling in pain. Obadiah whipped around, trying to still the pounding of his heart. What in the name of God had that been? Perhaps someone's dog crunched under the wheels of a carriage?

  But Obadiah saw no coach, no sign of a dog or beast of any kind. There was nothing—only the relentless mist.

  Then a voice rang out. “Help! Sweet Jesus! Someone please help me!”

  Obadiah froze, making no move to dash to the rescue. That had sounded too much like Mr. Glossop. Likely this was only another of Master Bertie's tricks, Obadiah told himself. He was not about to go rushing forward simply to fall prey to a nasty bit of Glossop's humor.

  But there came another shriek too convincing to be faked. Sweat beaded on Obadiah's brow despite the chill night air. Every instinct he possessed told him to flee in the opposite direction. But he forced himself to go forward, his lantern held high in his trembling hand. He had not taken many steps when a shadow rose up from the pavement before him, melting out of the mist, a figure garbed all in black.

  “You there! What are you about? Halt!” Obadiah attempted to shout, but his voice came in wheezing gasps. The hooded phantom paid him no heed, In a swirl of dark cloak, the man vaulted over a wrought iron fence and vanished behind the marquis of Mandell's house. Obadiah fancied he heard a demonic laugh.

  The Hook was the first thought that popped into the watchman's panicked brain, but he babbled, reassuring himself, “No, no! Not here on Clarion Way.”

  Perhaps he should seek to pursue the apparition. The marquis would not take kindly to a caped spectre creeping about beneath his windows and laughing. But Obadiah convinced himself that it was more his duty to see who had been calling for help.

  There was no evidence of any other living soul, but something had been left abandoned on the pavement, like a bundle of clothes. As Obadiah crept closer and the haze parted, he saw that it was the form of a man, crumpled upon the paving stones. A man wearing a peacock blue coat.

  “Nay, Mr. Glossop,” Obadiah quavered, “Please don't be playing any more jests upon me.”

  He knew with desperate certainty that at any moment Bert Glossop was going to leap up, startling him out of his wits with a bloodcurdling cry or a box to his ear. Indeed, he prayed Master Bert would do just that, do anything but lie there, so still.

  Standing over Glossop, Obadiah raised his lantern. He had to make himself glance down at the young man. Bert Glossop stared back at him, glassy eyed, his mouth hanging open.

  It made him look rather stupid. It made him look dead. Obadiah's knees buckled beneath him, but he managed to kneel down. He had some vague notion he ought to check for a pulse. But when he got up enough nerve to touch the man, Obadiah's hand came away sticky with blood oozing from a hole torn in Glossop's throat.

  Numb with shock, scarce knowing what he did, Obadiah tried to wipe his fingers off on the front of Glossop's coat, but another pool of crimson splashed over the folds of peacock blue.

  A moan escaped Obadiah. He staggered back. His stomach heaving, he was violently ill. But even with his scrawny frame wracked by spasms, he groped for the handle of his watchman's rattle.

  Obadiah sounded it harder than he ever had in his life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Moonlight poured through the long windows and spilled over the four-poster bed where the marquis of Mandell lay entangled in the sheets with his mistress. Even sleep failed to soften the hauteur of his features, his face all hard angles from his high cheekbones to the sharp outline of his nose and jaw. Waves of rich sable-colored hair tumbled over a lordly brow.

  But as his dark head tossed upon the pillow, his lips were twisted with a torment he would never have revealed in his waking hours.

  The dream had him in its grip again and once more he experienced that sensation of terror and helplessness. He could feel his tall, powerful frame dwindling into that of a sickly boy. He was back in the apartement in Paris and the police were hammering at the door.

  Open! Open in the name of the tribunal of the revolution!

  Mandell moaned, struggling against the sheets. He could feel himself being lifted from the bed into his mother's anns. Her face seemed to be lost in mist, but he could see the sheen of her golden hair, sense her fear in the thudding of her heart.

  She was thrusting him into the coffinlike narrowness of the cupboard. A sob tore from Mandell's throat.

  Hush! Hush, my little one. You must be very quiet.”

  “Maman!”

  He tried to clutch at her, but the door was already closing, locking him into the suffocating darkness, leaving him prey to the terrors of the distant sounds. Wood splintering, tromping boots, harsh voices, his mother's scream.

  The dream shifted and he was a full-grown man, a man burning with pain and frustrated rage. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword and he swung it wildly, hacking at the wood, breaking his way out of the cupboard.

  But instead of the bedchamber, he emerged into the murky half-light of a street, crowded with faceless phantoms, the stench of their tattered, filthy clothes as rank as the scent of blood.

  You murdering bastards! he screamed.

  He charged at them, raising his sword, but they scattered like brittle leaves before a powerful wind, the street echoing with their mocking laughter.

  And Mandell realized that it was not a weapon of steel he wielded at all, but wood. A child's toy.

  Someone threw something at his feet. He glanced down at the object, all golden and bright, sticky red. His mother's head.

  “No!” Mandell sat up in bed with a jerk, his heart thundering. It took a moment for the haze to clear from his eyes, to realize where he was. Breathing hard, he stared wildly about him until the room came into focus.

  Not Paris, but London, the familiar feminine surroundings of Sara Palmer's bedchamber. With a shuddering sigh, Mandell sagged back onto his elbows.

  He had only been dreaming, and more humiliating still, crying out like a child in his sleep.

  “Mandell?” Sara's voice came from beside him, soft, questioning.

  Mandell nearly cursed aloud to find he had awakened her with his thrashings. She sat bolt upright, regarding him with wide green eyes, her long, dusky hair falling over the lush swell of her breasts.

  “What is it, Mandell? What is wrong?” She risked a tentative touch to his shoulder.

  He realized that his flesh was bathed in a sheen of cold sweat. It glistened over the muscles of his chest, the matting of dark hair. He flung himself away from Sara, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Was it a nightmare?” she persisted.

  He didn't answer, locating the breeches he had discarded earlier. He rammed his legs into the close-fitting garment, then stood easing the fabric up over his hips. As he fumbled with the buttons on the flap, he walked to the window.

  The night sky beyond seemed vast, cool, and soothing. He stood staring into its emptiness until he was certain he had recovered his composure, and relegated the dream to the dark corner of his mind where it belonged. He said at last, “It was only a nightmare, nothing of any consequence. I am sorry I disturbed you.”

  “That is quite all right, my lord,” Sara replied. “I am sure I do not blame you. I have not slept easy myself since the report of that killing the other night. Every time I close my eyes, I see some murderous fiend with a hook coming after me.”

  “I doubt you would have anything to fear, madam.” A reluctant smile creased Mandell's lips. He felt restored enough to face her again. The dark-haired beauty sat propped up against the pillows, clutching the coverlet over her breasts. She looked almost helpless, swallowed up in the vastness of that great bed, but only a fool would have mistaken Sara Palmer for othe
r than what she was; a most formidable woman.

  “Besides,” he continued, “there is nothing even to connect this Hook to the crime except for the babblings of a hysterical old watchman. Bert Glossop was the kind of fool to inspire any number of people with a desire to kill him.”

  “Yes, he was—” Sara started to agree wholeheartedly, but she brought herself up short, assuming a prim expression. “Of course, one must not speak ill of the dead.”

  “Why not? Glossop was a perfect ass. I cannot imagine that death did anything to improve him.” Mandell arched one brow in mocking fashion. “You had best take care, my Sara. You are starting to sound as hypocritical as any of my set. And heretofore, I have always found you so wonderfully refreshing.”

  “I still am,” she murmured, flinging back the covers from his side of the bed, patting the mattress. There was a sparkle in her eyes, her lips parting in invitation.

  He made no move to rejoin her. He had banished the nightmare, but the painful emotions it had aroused left him feeling wearied and not in the least amorous.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said, “but I fear I must leave you. It is nearly midnight, and if I am going to put in any appearance at the Countess Sumner's ball, I must go back to my house and change.”

  She took his rejection in good part, with only a tiny pout. He had half expected her to make more of an effort to change his mind, which led him to suppose Sara was not really in the mood, either. As he reached for his shirt, she rose languidly from the bed, stretching her arms over her head, making no attempt to shield her nakedness. She had no modesty, but then, Mandell thought, there was no reason why she should. The full curves of her body could have served as a model for a sculptor depicting Venus.

  Sara enveloped herself in one of those filmy wrappers she favored, the pink tint of her flesh shimmering through the sheer white silk. While Mandell shrugged into his shirt, she lounged against the wall, watching him through the thickness of her lashes.