by Liz Carlyle
“A king’s ransom, Mr. Swann says.”
“Ah, Mr. Swann!” Nash paused to swirl the last of his coffee about in his cup, wondering if one could read one’s fortune in coffee dregs. He really did not care for the English habit of tea. “Tell me, Gibbons, do all my servants gossip about me? Or is it just you and Swann?”
“All of us,” Gibbons grunted. He was up his rolling ladder now, and poking about on the top shelf of the dressing room. “Alas, we lead small lives, my lord. We must look to you for our excitement.”
“Sometimes, Gibbons, I think that I should like a small life,” Nash mused. “Or perhaps just a moderately sized life. My stepbrother’s life, perhaps? Enough money to live well without being burdened by it, and a career of service to the nation. What would that be like, do you imagine?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.” With one last grunt, Gibbons heaved down a large bandbox. “But if you mean to exchange lives, kindly give a fortnight’s notice.”
“What? You do not fancy being in service to a prominent member of the Commons?”
“You could not afford me, sir,” said Gibbons.
He was quite correct, too. Nash possessed life’s every luxury. Indeed, his every whim was anticipated by someone, somewhere, from his boot-boy to his French chef, all the way up to Swann, his man of affairs, and all of them had to be paid a living wage.
Then there was his banker, his butler, his bootmaker, his vintner. His haberdasher and green grocer. Mentally, he added his stepmother and his two sisters to the list. Then all of the servants at all of his estates. His stepbrother Tony. His two great-aunts in Cumbria. The colliers in that Cornish coal mine he’d taken off old Talbot at vingt-et-un. It was almost medieval in its simplicity. To every name, he owed a duty, for such was the dominion of the Marquess of Nash. It was a damnable yoke they’d hung round his neck, by God. And he wondered if it was soon to grow heavier.
“I think it must be the carriage today, my lord.” Gibbons was at his elbow now, staring at the befogged vista which would perhaps reappear as Hyde Park someday. “I should hate you to take pneumonia.”
“Very well,” said Nash unhappily. He meant to have a name to go with the miserable unslaked lust his body was suffering, and trotting about London in a crested carriage was far from anonymous. But the carriage it would be, he supposed. It was just another of the many privileges which came to him by way of his title.
It was almost laughable, really. He was certainly not to the manner born. He was just a second son of a second son, and had possessed no prospects at all save for a grueling military career, a cold grave, and, most probably, a Turkish knife in his back.
Still, it was what he had been born and bred to do, his mother had always insisted. And strangely, it was what he had wanted. As a child, he had lived an adventurous life flitting about Europe—at least, he had thought it adventurous. He had not realized they were simply running from one political tinderbox to the next, until the whole of the Continent was consumed in Napoleon’s flame and fury.
It was not until his brother Petar, long promised to Czar Alexander I, had been on the verge of leaving for the Russian army and earning his younger sibling’s undying envy, that the astonishing news had come all the way to St. Petersburg from faraway Hampshire. Their English relations could not have picked a more opportune time to die, God rest them.
But alas, the Grim Reaper had not finished with what was left. The ensuing years had been hard ones. And when all the bloody battles were done, and all the funeral dirges sung, he was Nash—the very thing he had never expected to be nor ever wished to be.
The door hinge squealed, jerking him into the present. He turned to see his stepbrother peering into the room. “Ah, there you are, Stefan,” he said. “Have you another cup? I vow, I am soaked through to my drawers.”
“What a charming picture you paint, Tony.” Nash motioned for Gibbons, but he was already bringing another cup. “It does look a nasty day out. What brings you?”
The Honorable Anthony Hayden-Worth smiled warmly and took the best chair, which was also the one nearest the coffee service. “May a chap not call upon his brother merely to see how he goes on?” asked Tony, filling the empty cup.
Nash pushed away from the window and joined him by the hearth. “Yes, of course,” he said. “But if you need anything, Tony—?”
An inscrutable look passed over his stepbrother’s face. “I’m quite all right,” he said. “But thank you just the same.”
“Jenny is well?” said Nash.
Tony lifted one shoulder. “She went back down to Brierwood last week,” he remarked. “She seems to have developed quite a fondness for the place. Perhaps she misses Mamma and the girls. I hope you do not mind?”
“Do not be ridiculous, Tony,” he replied. “Brierwood is Jenny’s home, too. I wish her to be happy there.”
“Oh, Jenny is happy enough, so long as her bills are paid.” Tony smiled faintly. “She will pop over to France, I daresay, whilst she’s in Hampshire, and run up a few more.”
“Her father really has cut her off this time?”
Tony shook his head. “Not really,” he answered. “She is a pampered princess, our Jenny. Papa threatens, but once in a while, a fat bank draft will still turn up.”
“Perhaps it would be better if he did cut her off,” Nash suggested.
“Why?” asked Tony pointedly. “So you would be left to pay her bills? And I would be further indebted you? Thank you, no.”
Nash sat down and poured himself another cup of coffee, struggling to hold his temper in check. “I have never interfered in your marriage, Tony,” he finally said. “And I do not mean to do so now.”
Tony smiled, and the sour mood was broken. “Actually, old man, I only came round to see what went with you last night,” he said. “I thought you’d be at White’s.”
It was an olive branch, and Nash took it. “I finally caught up with Lord Hastley,” he said, slowly stirring his coffee. “He has agreed to part with that broodmare after all—for the right price, of course.”
Tony’s face broke into a grin. “Congratulations, Stefan!” said his stepbrother. “How the devil did you manage it?”
Nash smiled wryly. “An act of sheer desperation, I do assure you,” he said. “I ran him to ground at Sharpe’s ball last night.”
“Good God, you attended a come-out? That was desperate.”
“It was, rather,” Nash agreed.
Tony scowled across the table. “Mind what you do in such places, Stefan,” he warned, “or one of those sly, matchmaking mammas will have you in a fix from which your money cannot extract you.”
His words sent a chill down Nash’s spine though he did not show it. “Wealth can extract a man from nearly everything,” he said, hoping he spoke the truth. “And then there is always my vile reputation to fall back on, is there not? In any case, I found Hastley in Sharpe’s cardroom. The poor devil’s in so deep, he has taken to bride-shopping. And he’s glad enough now to take my money.”
“Yes, aren’t we all,” said Tony on a laugh.
Nash laid his spoon down carefully. “You are entitled to an allowance from the estate, Tony,” he said, measuring his words. “Father arranged it. I could not undo it, even if I wished to—and I do not.”
Tony smiled again and changed the subject, turning it instead to his favorite, politics, and the growing strain between Wellington and Lord Eldon. Nash did not much concern himself with English politics, but he knew Tony lived for it, so he murmured polite responses and nodded at all the right places.
“I tell you, Stefan, this damned Catholic question is going to be the death of somebody,” Tony finally finished. “At best, it is slow political suicide for the prime minister.”
“And trouble in the family is never a good thing,” said Nash wryly.
Tony just laughed again. “By the way, old fellow, that reminds me,” he said. “Mamma is to celebrate her fiftieth birthday next month.”
“
Yes,” said Nash. “I had not forgotten.”
“I believe I shall have a celebration,” said Tony. “Something more than her usual birthday dinner party. Perhaps a ball, and a few guests up to Brierwood for the week, if you do not mind?”
“Of course I do not,” said Nash. “Jenny will be pleased to have something to do, won’t she? I’m told females enjoy such things.”
“I am not sure a house party for Mamma’s friends is Jenny’s idea of excitement,” said Tony. “Still, will you come, Stefan? It is your home—and Mamma would be so pleased.”
There was an almost imperceptible tightening of Nash’s mouth. “We shall see,” he finally said. “What are your plans for the day, Tony? Shall I see you at White’s this evening?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said his stepbrother. “We’re to meet after dinner to whinge over the Test and Corporation Acts, but we are just beating a dead horse if you ask me. And then there’ll be a by-election strategy meeting.”
“Why do you not dine here, then?”
“Certainly, if you will forgive me for rushing away afterwards,” said Tony. “These bloody meetings will likely drag into the night as it is.”
“But your seat in the Commons is quite safe. You have been reelected. What more must you do?”
Tony pushed back his chair and rose. “It is the nature of English politics, Stefan,” he said. “Elections do not simply cost pots of money, they take effort. One hand washing the other, and all that rot. And rotten boroughs do not come cheap. You are fortunate to be in the Lords, old fellow, where one need not concern oneself with the opinions—or the palms—of the common man.”
Nash smiled and languidly took up his coffee. “Indeed, I never give him a thought, Tony,” he said, staring over the brim of his cup. “I am too preoccupied with exercising my upper-class prerogatives—and, of course, my upper-class vices.”
His stepbrother scowled down at him. “It is just that sort of talk, Stefan, which blackens your reputation,” he chided. “I beg you to have a care—and to think of Mamma, at the very least.”
“I cannot think anyone imagines my stepmother responsible for my character, Tony,” said Nash. “I am fond of Edwina, as she is fond of me. But she did not raise me, more’s the pity.”
Whatever argument his brother might have countered with was forestalled by Gibbons, who crossed from the dressing room to the window. “It is a miracle, my lord,” he announced, staring down at the street below. “The rain has stopped. I think you may safely go out now.”
But Nash was not simply going out. He was going on the offensive. “Excellent, Gibbons,” he answered. “Send word to bring round my gig, and fetch my charcoal morning coat.”
In Wapping, the skies did not clear until midafternoon. Xanthia stood at her office window, staring across the Upper Pool toward St. Savior’s Docks and trying to keep her mind on her work. London’s weather had done little to still the traffic on the Thames, for this sort of hustle and bustle was driven by hardier men than that.
The whole of London’s Docklands was still a constant fascination to her. Even now, some four months after her arrival, she was awed by the industry and commerce of the East End. To Xanthia, England was Wapping. She remembered nothing of her infancy in Lincolnshire. Indeed, she had never in her memory ventured beyond the West Indies until five years past, when she and Kieran had visited London to open a second office for Neville Shipping.
But the moment her trunk hit the dock in this teeming city, she had felt at once as if she belonged. Not in the countryside, nor even in Mayfair, where their home was, but here, amidst all this grime and stench and pulsating activity. If the Thames was London’s main artery, then surely Wapping was its heart.
Six days a week, Kieran’s barouche brought her from the luxurious confines of Berkeley Square, along the Strand and Fleet Street, and thence into another world. This was the world of the workingman; the mastmakers and the coopers, the lightermen and the watermen. The place where black-garbed customs clerks with ink-stained fingers brushed shoulders with aldermen and bankers. Where the East End merchant princes strode down from their opulent town homes in Wellclose Square to watch their fortunes sail into the Pool of London.
Along this part of the Thames, the languages, the shops, and even the churches were as apt to be foreign as English. The Swedes and the Norwegians were preeminent. The Chinese and the Africans brought strange music and exotic foods. The French and the Italians were as at home in Wapping as in Cherbourg or Genoa. It was a glorious melting pot of humanity.
Just then, the door behind Xanthia opened, sending another chill through the room. She turned from the window to see Gareth Lloyd, their business agent, coming into the office. He went at once to his desk in the corner and slapped down the baize ledger he had carried into the room. “The Belle Weather is in,” he said matter-of-factly. “She’s coming up Limehouse Reach just now.”
Xanthia’s eyes widened. “What a splendid run!” Inordinately pleased, she left the window and went to her own desk to check the schedules. “All went well? Or has anyone come ashore?”
“The boatswain came in. He says Captain Stretton took on an extra ton of ivory when she rounded the Cape.” Lloyd dragged a hand through his thick, golden hair. “Unfortunately, there’s been spoilage in the citrus. A black fungus. About a third has been lost, I collect.”
That was unfortunate, but not wholly unexpected. Xanthia settled into her chair and began to rub her hands absently up and down her arms.
Lloyd crossed to the fireplace and knelt. “You are freezing again.” He spoke without looking at her and began to poke at the coals. “I shall build up the fire.”
“Thank you.”
She watched him in silence. When the fire was thoroughly rekindled, Lloyd went to the huge map which all but covered the adjacent wall, and began to study the bloodred lines dotted with bright yellow pins, each of which represented one of Neville’s ships at sea. The red lines were their preferred trade routes, and Lloyd could likely have traced them in with a fingertip in the dark of night, so well did he know them.
Gareth Lloyd had been with Neville Shipping since before her elder brother’s death a dozen years past. Luke had taken him on as an errand boy in the counting house. But Lloyd had quickly shown an uncanny knack for all things financial, and the West Indies was not precisely awash in talent. Those who risked the treacherous journey came to make their own fortunes, not someone else’s. A few succeeded, as Kieran had. Sugar was a lucrative business, often more lucrative than shipping.
Gareth Lloyd, however, had continued to toil quietly in the service of another. After Luke’s death, Neville Shipping had floundered under a series of business agents, each more dishonest than the last. Kieran had profoundly disliked the company their brother had begun, and he was already worked to the bone by the plantations and mills which provided the bulk of the family’s wealth. But Xanthia had grown up at Luke’s feet, going regularly with him to the shipping office. It had been the best place to keep a little sister occupied and out of trouble when there were no female relations to depend upon.
Xanthia did not even remember when she had ceased to play at working and had begun to work in earnest. She could not recall the first occasion when one of the men had come to her with a problem to be solved or a decision to be made. Or when she had fired the first worthless business agent and watched disbelief sketch across his face. But at some point, even the bankers and the merchants and the sea captains had ceased patting her on the head and begun to accept that she was a force with which to be reckoned.
By slow default, the management of Neville Shipping had fallen to Xanthia and the operations to Gareth Lloyd. Kieran had not strongly objected. It was Barbados; one did what one must with whatever resources one had. Moreover, they were good—both of them—bloody good at what they did. Negotiate and strategize. Invest and hedge. They could send ships and money and commodities flying halfway round the world with the ease of falling off a ladder.
“Reluctantly, yes.” Xanthia laid aside her pen.
“A Mayfair ball at the height of the season, attended by the height of society,” he murmured. “Was it all that a woman might dream of?”
“Some women, perhaps.” Xanthia closed the schedule she’d been looking at and stood.
He crossed the room and set one hand beside her on the desk. The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. “You do know that you cannot live two lives, Xanthia, do you not?” he said coolly. “You cannot be both society belle and business owner. This is England. The ton will not accept you.”
“Then the ton be damned,” she answered. This was not the first time these past four months this particular issue had arisen. “If my choices did not suit you, Gareth, then you should have stayed in Bridgetown.”
“And do what?” he returned.
She lifted her accusing gaze to his. “You had prospects, Gareth,” she said quietly. “Fine ones, too. Hancock’s offered you a good deal more than Neville’s pays you, even with your minority ownership. Did you think me fool enough not to know that? So why are you still here? That’s what I wonder.”
“Damn it, Xanthia, you know why.” His hands seized her shoulders before she could shove him away, and his mouth took hers roughly. Demandingly.
For an instant, she let herself give in, let her weight fall against him, giving in to the strain and the loneliness. He was rock solid and warm. Against her will, the memory of a long-ago passion stirred in her chest. Gareth sensed her surrender and deepened the kiss, claiming her—or so he thought.
But he could never claim her. Whatever there had once been was no more, and she dared not rekindle it. She needed him—needed his friendship, his wisdom—but no, not this. Desire was nothing without love. Xanthia, set her hands against his shoulders and forced him back with surprising strength.
