The Painted Veil by Susan Carroll

Author:Susan Carroll
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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