by Liz Carlyle
“I work for whoever is willing to pay my price,” said Mr. Kemble, who had settled himself with exquisite grace into the chair next to Xanthia’s. “In this case, it happens to be Mr. Peel.”
Lord de Vendenheim shifted uncomfortably in the chair adjacent. “Mr. Kemble is—er, something of an expert in a field which has lately become of great interest to the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister,” he explained.
Kieran looked bored. “And what, pray, would that be?”
Vendenheim looked grim. “The transportation and illegal importation of misappropriated, untaxed, and—er, usually illicit goods.”
“Good heavens!” said Xanthia. “Smuggling?”
Kieran’s face went tight. “Now see here, de Vendenheim—Neville’s is an honest business,” he snapped, shoving his brandy glass so roughly it scratched the wood. “And my sister is of unimpeachable charac—”
Mr. Kemble threw up one hand. “Lord Rothewell, please!” he cried, his face a mask of horror. “Good brandy bruises! And your desk! That finely grained mahogany! I must beg you to think of it.”
Kieran’s mouth fell open.
“And I must beg your pardon,” Xanthia interjected firmly. “What, pray, are we talking about? Surely not the furniture?”
De Vendenheim glowered at Mr. Kemble again. There was a decided tension between the two men. “Miss Neville, Lord Sharpe has suggested that your family’s firm might be in a unique position to help the Home Office with an enquiry,” he said. “You are doubtless aware that Sharpe chairs Peel’s Select Committee on—”
Xanthia held up a forestalling hand. “I fear we know very little of English politics,” she answered. “We understand Sharpe is active in the House of Lords, but we have lived here only a short while.”
“Which makes you all the more desirable, for Peel’s purpose.” De Vendenheim folded his long, elegant hands neatly one across the other, an ornate signet ring glinting from one finger. “May I ask both of you to hold this discussion in highest confidence, whatever your decision?”
“I was not aware there was a decision to be made,” said Kieran. “But we are patriots, for pity’s sake, if that is what you are asking.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said de Vendenheim, “it is.”
“Then pray continue,” said Kieran, with an impatient gesture of his hand. “We’ll hear you out, at the very least.”
De Vendenheim and his associate exchanged glances. “Might we close the window?” asked the vicomte.
Kieran did so at once.
“You are aware, are you not, of the ongoing difficulties between Greece and Turkey?” asked the vicomte when Kieran returned to his chair.
“Barbados is not quite the back side of the moon,” said Kieran wryly. “I am aware the Greeks revolted against their Turkish rulers some years past, and that things are not much improved. But Neville’s goes to neither of those places—do we, Xanthia?”
“Yes, to Constantinople,” she murmured. “And to Athens on occasion, when the political climate permits. But what can this possibly have to do with Neville Shipping?”
De Vendenheim leaned intently forward. “The peace forced upon Turkey last year by Canning has proven nearly worthless,” he said. “Once again, the Greek revolutionaries are said to be regrouping. They mean to seize Athens and Thebes in one bold strike, and we think Russia is back to her old tricks, supplying covert assistance.”
“There will be open rebellion again?” asked Xanthia.
“Wellington fears so,” said de Vendenheim. “And to add fuel to a smoldering fire, plans were recently uncovered to smuggle American-made rifles into Greece—one thousand Carlow carbines, one of the most accurate and lethal weapons on earth.”
Kieran propped one elbow casually on his desk. “And we should care?”
“You, more so than most,” warned de Vendenheim. “The balance of power in the Near East grows more precarious by the day, and now there is a traitor in our midst—a traitor whose acts will do nothing but encourage the Greeks to fight on, and perhaps persuade the Russians to jump fully into the fray on their behalf.”
“But why is that a problem?” Xanthia was tapping one finger thoughtfully on her chair arm. “Isn’t England in sympathy with the Greeks?”
De Vendenheim frowned. “There is popular sentiment, Miss Neville,” he said grimly. “And then there is the economic and political reality. England can ill afford an expanding Russia, and what Russia really wants is not to help Greece but to gain control of the Turkish Straits and threaten our Mediterranean trade routes.”
Kieran frowned. “But aren’t the Russians our allies?”
De Vendenheim shrugged. “Ostensibly, perhaps,” he said. “But the reality is that the fall of Constantinople would lay open a clear path for Russian expansion in the East. Eventually, perhaps even India could be jeopardized. Given the nature of your family’s business, Lord Rothewell, surely you can comprehend the significance of such trade disruptions?”
Perhaps Kieran did not, but Xanthia comprehended the significance with disturbing clarity. A war in the Mediterranean? That could prove to be a devastating economic blow to Neville Shipping.
“In time, the whole of Europe might explode into conflict again,” added Mr. Kemble. “The Continent cannot sustain such strife again so soon—not politically, and not economically.”
“That I know firsthand,” said de Vendenheim vehemently. “And that is precisely why it is in England’s best interest to support the Turks, even though popular British sympathy still lies with the Greeks.”
“Well, you may thank Lord Byron for that nonsense,” said Mr. Kemble with a simpering smile. “Just add together one hideous headdress and some frightful poetry, stir in a measure of political intrigue with a dash of premature death—and voilà! A cause célèbre!”
“He was not helpful,” admitted de Vendenheim. “But let us not speak ill of the dead.”
Kiernan was toying with the wax jack which sat upon his desk. “I do not understand,” he said as if to himself. “Why is the Home Office concerned about a war in a foreign nation?”
De Vendenheim straightened in his chair. “An excellent question,” he said. “It has to do with those rifles. And a plot which was recently uncovered on British soil, which suggests many more such shipments are planned. The money is being laundered through diplomatic channels in London—by the French, we think, though it makes no sense. But we are certain that a vast deal of ordnance is being moved out of Boston, perhaps directly into Athens, or more likely via an obscure Eastern European port.”
“An interesting theory,” Xanthia mused. “There are several ports which could be used for unlading contraband. What was the tonnage on the vessel which was seized, my lord? I am wondering, of course, about its draft. That might tell us which ports could be used most inconspicuously.”
De Vendenheim looked embarrassed. “Ma’am, you catch me short on technicalities.”
“It might be important,” said Xanthia, keenly interested now.
De Vendenheim cleared his throat. “No doubt,” he conceded. “I shall endeavor to discover those details for you, Miss Neville. In any case, Peel has reason to believe the perpetrator is a British citizen who is gunrunning for profit—and perhaps for personal reasons. But it little matters. He is still a traitor under British law.”
“And what will happen to him when caught?” asked Xanthia.
“He will be hanged,” said de Vendenheim.
“And very slowly,” added Kemble rather too cheerfully.
“Dear me!” said Kieran drolly. “A nasty business.”
De Vendenheim looked at Kieran from beneath carefully hooded eyes. “Which is why we would understand, Lord Rothewell, if you want no part of it,” he said. “It is nasty, and it is dangerous. But after speaking with Sharpe, and learning of your unique situation—well, the temptation to come straight here was simply too great.”
“Why such urgency?” asked Xanthia. “What has happened?”
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br /> Again, de Vendenheim and Mr. Kemble exchanged glances. “Two nights ago, at a village inn south of Basingstoke, a man was found with his throat slit,” said de Vendenheim.
“From ear to ear,” chimed Mr. Kemble, drawing an illustrative finger across his neck.
“Dear God!” Xanthia shuddered.
“The killer was looking for something,” Kemble continued. “Something he did not find. Sewn inside the lining of his portmanteau, agents of the Home Office found papers detailing—or allowing Peel to extrapolate—much of what we have just told you.”
“But most of it was in code,” de Vendenheim added. “Government cryptographers are working on it even as we speak. In any case, the dead courier was very near the country house of a somewhat notorious nobleman; a gentleman who is not without power and influence, and who has many contacts in Eastern Europe and Russia. It is not the first time such coincidences have occurred, yet Peel dares not investigate him openly.”
“Why?” said Kieran bluntly. “What is another bloody nobleman in this country? England seems awash in them.”
De Vendenheim’s eyes flashed with frustration. “This one has a family member who is well placed in the Commons, and becoming increasingly influential within the party,” he answered. “The family is very close. Peel can hardly suggest this man is a traitor by word or deed—certainly not without irrefutable evidence. If Peel is wrong—if—then great damage might be done on any number of fronts.”
Kieran appeared unsympathetic. “In Barbados, we would just hang him.”
Xanthia shot Kieran a chiding look, then turned to de Vendenheim. “The man is wealthy, too, I collect?”
“His marquessate is a rich one,” the vicomte admitted. “And he has multiplied the family fortune many times over, ostensibly by means of high-stakes gaming. It is said he has nerves of steel at the table, and can anticipate his opponent’s every move. But he could just as easily be feathering his nest by smuggling and gunrunning. Who would be the wiser?”
Mr. Kemble gave an impatient toss of his hand. “You are going to have to give them a name, Max,” he warned. “We can go no further with this until you do.”
De Vendenheim hesitated. He looked at Kieran very directly. “May I have your word as a gentleman that neither you nor your sister will divulge this name?”
“To whom would we divulge it?” asked Kieran. “We scarcely know anyone. But my cousin Sharpe sent you here, so of course you have our word.”
De Vendenheim paused to consider it. “The man’s name is Stefan Mihailo Northampton,” he said quietly. “But he is called Nash. The Marquess of Nash.”
Xanthia suppressed a gasp. Kieran set the wax jack down awkwardly, and cut his eyes toward her. “Lord Dark-and-Dangerous,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” said de Vendenheim.
“A little jest between us,” said Kieran, shifting his eyes away. “We do know him vaguely. He…he was at Sharpe’s ball.”
“Yes, Sharpe invited him for a reason,” admitted the vicomte. “He is keeping an eye on the fellow.”
Kieran studied their visitors. “Nash is an imposing sort of man,” he went on. “However, I found him a tad presumptuous. What do you know of him?”
“His background is unusual,” said the vicomte. “He was born in Montenegro, to an old and very noble family with a good bit of Russian blood on one side.”
“Montenegro?” Kieran echoed.
“The black mountain,” murmured Xanthia. “It is a rugged place between the Adriatic and the southern Carpathians.”
“Do you know it, Miss Neville?” asked Mr. Kemble.
“Not well,” said Xanthia. “But I know that the Bay of Kotor is the largest on the Adriatic—a sort of fjord, and very deep—yet it is extremely well hidden.”
“Yes, a point which has not escaped us,” said Mr. Kemble.
“The country was once known as the ancient principality of Zeta,” the vicomte went on. “His family’s estate was in Danilovgrad—and still is, I daresay. Nash’s maternal grandfather was a renowned military leader who fought with Vladika Petar I, and helped crush the Turks at Martinici. Amongst the region’s nobility, the family is both powerful and wealthy—and more than a little dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” said Kieran. “In what way?”
“The region has a violent history, and deep clan loyalties which are often incomprehensible to us,” the vicomte said. “The family has close ties to Russia and no love lost for the Turks.”
“But is Lord Nash close to that side of his family?” asked Xanthia pointedly.
De Vendenheim lifted one shoulder. “It was once assumed not,” he admitted. “But with Eastern Europe perched on the edge of this nasty little war, we can ill afford assumptions.”
“At present, Wellington hopes merely to keep the lid on an already-boiling pot,” said Mr. Kemble. “So, as you might deduce, the last thing England needs in the region is a gunrunner with uncertain loyalties.”
“It all sounds so very complicated,” said Xanthia. “But we did wonder at Lord Nash’s faint accent.”
Mr. Kemble looked at her oddly. “What do you know of him?”
“As my brother said, I met him at Sharpe’s ball,” she returned. “He is quite dramatic in appearance. And his dark eyes…yes, very exotic.”
“Yet his father was as English as yours or mine,” said Mr. Kemble. “He was a second son—a strikingly handsome man, by all accounts—who met his wife in Prague whilst making the Grand Tour. They drifted about Europe and Russia until Nash was perhaps twelve, then his father came into the title most unexpectedly.”
Kieran propped an elbow on his chair arm, and waved his hand vaguely. “And you wish us to do…what, precisely? Knock on his front door and offer to transport his munitions to Kotor? Bloody obvious, I should say.”
“Good Lord, no,” said de Vendenheim. “Just make his acquaintance, Lord Rothewell. And suggest, ever so vaguely, that your morals can be compromised.”
“That would be nothing new,” Kieran murmured.
“And you have been in England but four months,” said Mr. Kemble. “Play upon your colonial past. Complain about the King and his taxation policies. Suggest that Barbados should go the way of America. He will not think it odd if you feel little obligation to the Crown.”
Kieran was staring pensively into the distance, and tapping one finger on his desk. “It will not do,” he said, almost to himself. “He can too easily discover that I’ve nothing to do with Neville Shipping. I daresay I could not plot the ports of Europe on a map with a sledgehammer.”
De Vendenheim and Kemble looked at him in bewilderment.
Xanthia sat up stiffly in her chair. “I shall do it,” she said abruptly.
Their gazes turned to her in unison. “I beg your pardon?” said the vicomte. “You shall do what?”
She managed a look of cool competence. “I shall befriend Lord Nash,” she said. “I know rather more of this business than does my brother.”
Kieran nodded. “Regrettably true,” he acknowledged. “I am not at all sure poor Sharpe believes it, but I am just the family farmer. It is Xanthia here who tends our little world of wood and water—and she will do anything to keep her business interests from being threatened.”
Their initial confusion past, the two gentlemen did not look particularly disbelieving. “I see,” said de Vendenheim. “This rather complicates matters.”
“Or perhaps not,” murmured Mr. Kemble. “Indeed, perhaps it simplifies them.”
Kieran was frowning. “I think Xanthia’s getting involved with this Nash character might be unwise,” he said. “Gentlemen, you’d best find another bit of bait for your hook.”
“Oh, come now, Kieran!” Xanthia interjected. “Lord Nash can scarce be more unsavory than the sea dogs and scoundrels I am accustomed to. And I have Mr. Lloyd, our business agent, to help me.” She turned to Mr. Kemble and the vicomte. “Besides, I have already made the gentleman’s acquaintance.”
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p; Kieran lifted one of his dark, haughty eyebrows quite high at that. “Yes, and quite thoroughly, I begin to think,” he murmured. “And you now propose to strike up a deeper acquaintance?”
Xanthia smiled coolly. “He was not altogether indifferent to my charms, Kieran,” she said. “And while Nash hardly strikes me as a traitor, any risk to England’s trade routes—indeed, to our trade routes—cannot be tolerated. Someone must get at the truth of this business, and quickly.”
De Vendenheim was looking both appalled and hopeful. “With all respect, Miss Neville, Lord Nash is not the sort—well, he is not a gentleman with whom one—”
“He is not thought quite nice, Miss Neville,” Mr. Kemble interjected. “And unmarried ladies dare not risk his acquaintance.”
Xanthia looked at him skeptically. “I must have seen a dozen mammas shove their daughters in his direction at Lord Sharpe’s,” she chided. “And I do not think his exchanging a word or two with a confirmed spinster will much discourage them, either. Gentlemen, I suggest you put this matter in my hands. I shan’t risk my neck, my good name, or my business, of that you may be certain.”
“Yes, especially the latter,” said Kieran dryly.
“But Miss Neville,” protested de Vendenheim. “Your reputation—”
“No, my trade routes,” she interjected.
“He may learn more about you, Zee, than you wish him to know,” warned her brother.
“Lord Nash is hardly the sort of man who gossips,” said Xanthia.
“Yes, and what if Nash turns up at Neville Shipping one day?” grumbled de Vendenheim. “What then? Is your Mr. Lloyd always in?”
“No, he is often in the warehouses, or on the docks,” Xanthia admitted. “It is his job to oversee and account for the movement of freight. But we’ve a counting house full of clerks below.”
Lord de Vendenheim looked at Kieran, who smiled faintly. “She is bullheaded,” he said matter-of-factly. “But far from stupid.”
Mr. Kemble gave a slow, wicked smile. “I say let her have at it, old chap,” he said to de Vendenheim. “You know that old saw about women being the weaker vessel? Well, it’s a damned lie.”
