by Liz Carlyle
“Then I shall leave you to explain that to the Prime Minister,” the vicomte snapped.
“Just remember, old chap, that there are but two things Nash cannot resist,” warned Kemble. “A well-staked card game and a beautiful woman.”
“I’ve yet to hear him accused of seducing unmarried ladies,” countered de Vendenheim.
Xanthia realized de Vendenheim had a point. She wished she’d had the forethought to invent a conveniently dead husband before clambering off the Merry Widow on All Saints’ Day. Her new life in London would have been far simpler—in any number of ways.
Just then, Kieran pushed back his chair. “Gentlemen, we will help you so far as we can, but I shan’t permit my sister to risk her safety. Is that understood?”
It was. After a few more moments of debate, the three gentlemen could not quite reach an agreement as to how best to proceed. De Vendenheim was clearly uneasy, and declared his intention of discussing the plan with Mr. Peel, whilst Mr. Kemble was already contemplating the best way to ensure Xanthia’s safety. They parted company agreeing that the vicomte would call upon them in two days’ time to tell them of any new developments.
Mr. Kemble bowed low over Xanthia’s hand as he went. “Cobalt, my dear, is your color,” he mused, his careful, assessing gaze running down her length. “Yes, accented with ice blue to match your eyes. Moreover, I have it on the best authority that blue is Nash’s favorite color.”
Xanthia smiled. “Well, we would not wish to see Lord Nash disappointed, would we?”
“No, we certainly would not.” And with that, Mr. Kemble bowed again and disappeared into the shadowy depths of the corridor.
“Kem,” said de Vendenheim as soon as the door was shut. “How would you fancy being a shipping clerk?”
“Why, I shouldn’t fancy it in the least!” Nose in the air, Kemble went down Lord Rothewell’s steps. “It must be sheer drudgery. Why do you ask?”
De Vendenheim set a brisk pace in the direction of Whitehall, more or less dragging Kem after him. “Well, it is like this, old chap,” he said. “You are the brilliant mind who encouraged this notion of Miss Neville’s helping us. But I can tell you right now that Peel will not let us troll through London using her as bait—not unless she is carefully guarded.”
Kemble came to an abrupt halt, causing a grumbling pedestrian to step off the pavement and into the street to avoid them. “Oh, no, Max,” he said. “No, no, no. I am a businessman—and a bloody busy one. Do not even think of it. I agreed to help you out with a few discreet enquiries and to do a little poking about, but no more.”
“Well,” said the vicomte equivocally, “we shall see how it all sorts out.”
“Oh, I can tell you, mon ami, how it will all sort out—with me going back to my shop in the Strand for a glass of Quinta do Noval ‘18 and a very expensive cheroot, and you going home to your put-upon wife and those drooling twins.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Kem.” The vicomte had set off again. “Children drool when they cut teeth. The stuff is hardly toxic.”
“Tell that to my best blue superfine morning coat!” said Kemble with a sniff. “Maurice was beside himself, Max, when he saw it! Simply beside himself!”
“Another of your Cheltenham tragedies,” muttered de Vendenheim, setting off again. “But on another topic, tell me, Kem, was that not a van Ruisdael landscape I saw being cleaned in your back office yesterday? Such a lovely piece. Those fluffy white clouds above the windmill. Those almost Turneresque trees. Yes, a van Ruisdael, surely?”
Kemble cut a chary, sidelong look at his companion. “You have a good eye, Max.”
“I do, don’t I?” De Vendenheim smiled and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. “And I also have a list of stolen property from an art theft which occurred in Bruges some six months past. The gentleman was quite a collector of van Ruisdael. Alas, not one piece has been recovered.”
“How perfectly dreadful for him,” said Kemble.
Suddenly, the vicomte jerked to a halt on the pavement again. “Kem, old fellow, I’ve a splendid notion!” he said. “Why do we not write to the poor chap and tell him about yours? He would doubtless be interested. Indeed, he might come over on the next Oostende packet, just to have a look.”
Kemble’s eyes flashed with ire. “Damn you, Max.”
De Vendenheim pressed his fingertips to his chest. “Me? What for, pray?”
Kemble was silent for a moment. “I cannot close my shop, Max,” he finally said. “And Miss Neville probably works in Wapping. Right on the river, I do not doubt. Quelles horreurs! The sounds. The stench. I could not bear it.”
“But on the river is precisely where one finds smugglers,” said the vicomte calmly. “Moreover, your clerk John-Claude is perfectly capable of managing the shop. Maurice can keep an eye on him.”
Kemble gave one last little quake of rage, then surrendered. “Her interior decorator, then,” he said. “Not a clerk.”
“Interior decorator?” Max stopped again, and set his hands on his hips. “I don’t even know what that is, Kem, but I am relatively certain a counting house in Wapping does not require one.”
“It probably requires one quite desperately,” Kemble countered. “But very well then, I shall be…her personal secretary! Yes, her man of affairs, so to speak. That way it will seem perfectly logical for me to be seen in both her home and her business.”
Now this was the kind of logic with which the vicomte could not argue. “That really is quite a capital notion,” he said musingly. “Unusual, yes. But then, she is an unusual woman.”
“I can give you no more than a fortnight, Max,” warned Kemble. “And you must bear all the expenses.”
“Fine, but I want you with her every possible moment,” said the vicomte warningly. “And Kem?”
“What?”
De Vendenheim paused but a heartbeat. “If Nash gives her any trouble—if she ends up in any immediate danger whatsoever—kill him.”
“How?” asked Kemble matter-of-factly.
“Snap his neck,” suggested the vicomte. “Then shove him down the stairs and say he fell.”
“Well, trips and falls are a leading cause of injury,” murmured Kemble solicitously.
But de Vendenheim’s attention was focused farther down the street. “Kem, do you see that hackney coach turning the corner into the Haymarket?” he asked. “If we hurry, we can catch it.”
“Why?” asked Kemble. “I am just going down to the Strand.”
“No, you are going to Wapping,” said the vicomte. “I believe we shall just pay a call to the River Police. Let’s see what they might know about munitions smuggling. And then, why, I think we will search out the offices of Neville Shipping. No time like the present, Kem, for you to get the lay of the land—and the river, whilst we’re at it.”
Upon the departure of their unexpected guests, Xanthia went at once to her room and remained there alone, thinking. So lost was she in her contemplations, she failed to so much as light a lamp, despite the falling dusk. Vaguely, she was aware that dinnertime approached and that Kieran would doubtless wish to discuss de Vendenheim’s request—perhaps even to scold her just a bit for her audacity. But Xanthia wished first to replay the conversation in her own head, to come to terms with her reasons for making such a bold and ill-considered offer.
Help de Vendenheim indeed. In hindsight, she was shocked he had not refused her offer outright. Perhaps it was a measure of his desperation. It was a very serious charge which had been leveled against Lord Nash—and a horrific charge, too, when one considered that a man had been murdered. She remembered Mr. Kemble, ghoulishly slicing his finger across his throat. It made it impossible to put de Vendenheim’s allegations from her mind.
Could Nash be a traitor? He certainly exuded wealth and power, and possessed the aura of a man who usually got what he wanted. There was an unmistakable dichotomy to his character; a strange mix of darkness and light which was just a bit unnerving. Xanthia was quite
certain the man could be ruthless when it was warranted. But gunrunning? Was he capable of it?
Xanthia gazed blindly into the falling gloom and realized the answer was yes. But had he done it? Ah, now that was another question altogether. Would Nash be a traitor to the Crown in order to protect his interests elsewhere? Or would he do it simply for money? It was a complicated question.
Xanthia knew what she wished to believe. She wished to believe the best of him—which was silly when one considered she scarcely knew the man. At first, de Vendenheim’s allegations had made her feel inexplicably wronged by Lord Nash. How could he be…what? Not her knight in shining armor.
That was laughable. If Nash possessed armor, it would be gunmetal black and chain mail. Xanthia looked down to see that she had begun to twist her handkerchief in knots. Damn it, she wanted to know! She needed to know the truth about Lord Nash’s character—which was frightening when one considered the implication of such a need. Her promise to de Vendenheim had little to do with patriotism or duty, and everything to do with plain old feminine curiosity. And therein lay the danger. But already Xanthia knew that she would not be dissuaded. One way or another, she meant to have the truth about Lord Nash.
Suddenly, a faint sound drew her back to the present. She looked up to see one of the housemaids silhouetted in the door. “Shall I light your lamp, miss?” said the girl. “It is almost time for dinner.”
Xanthia laid aside her well-wrenched handkerchief and stood. “Thank you, Amy,” she said. “A little light of any sort would be most welcome just now.”
Chapter Five
A Shocking Proposal in Richmond
L ord and Lady Henslow were a prominent couple amongst the upper echelons of the ton, and much admired for the gala picnic which they held at their Richmond estate each season. Today looked to be another great success, for the guests who surrounded the buffet tent were already agog. Her ladyship’s French chef had somehow managed to roast a pig the size of a beer barrel, and was presently engaged in carving the beast al fresco with swift, showy flashes of his kitchen knives.
Suddenly, one of the knives slipped on a bone, glinting dangerously in the sun. A collective gasp arose. Lord Nash passed on by the tent and the unlucky pig. It would not do to meet his Maker by means of an exhibitionistic Frenchman—not when one had been expected by one’s family to die a hero’s death at the hands of a bloodthirsty sultan.
He strolled toward to the top of the stairs, which led down the lush lawns of Henslow House. They rolled out like carpets of emerald beneath the sun, each a littler lower than the last. One of the lower terraces held a bowling green to one side, whilst the opposite flank was set with tables and chairs trimmed in white-and-yellow bunting. Below it all lay the Thames, which here appeared to be a glistening, pristine waterway, rather than the almost fetid, roiling surge which it became but a few miles downstream.
Amidst a gaggle of ladies below him, Nash could see his hostess, floating like a pink balloon in a sea of pastel muslin. Lady Henslow’s ample girth made her unmistakable in the crowd. Nash set off in her direction. He rather liked Lady Henslow. His stepmother’s elder sister, Lady Henslow had always fawned over his young sisters, Phaedra and Phoebe. She had enlisted the influence of her husband, an ardent Tory, in assuring Tony’s swift rise to power. And to Edwina, she provided a sisterly shoulder to cry on. For all those things, Nash was grateful to Lady Henslow. But none of them, he inwardly admitted, was the reason he had come to her picnic.
But Lady Henslow had espied him and was wading from the pastel froth of her guests, her face aglow with delight. “Nash, do my eyes deceive?” she said, reaching up—very far up—to set her palms against his cheeks. “I never thought to see you here.”
Nash took one of her hands and carried it to his lips. “My dear, it is a pleasure,” he said, bowing low. “I see you mean to outshine the season’s debutantes. That shade of pink greatly becomes you.”
Lady Henslow’s eyes twinkled. “And I see you keep to your racy Continental habits, my boy,” she returned. “No proper Englishman would let his lips actually touch my hand.”
Nash raised both eyebrows. “Alas, madam, it is gloved,” he said. “You have cheated me of a long-anticipated pleasure.”
At this her ladyship guffawed most indelicately. “Be honest with me, my boy,” she said. “What brings you slinking around before nightfall? Surely not my little affair?”
Nash gave a muted smile. “May I not call upon my stepaunt when the mood strikes me?”
“Certainly, you may do,” said her ladyship. “But the mood has not struck you these last twenty years or better. You are up to some sort of intrigue, Stefan. I know it. Just remember—there will be no pigeon-plucking at my picnic. Some of these lads are just down from school and green as grass.”
Nash gave a muted smile. “I only pluck pigeons who are old enough to know what they are about, ma’am, and fool enough to deserve it.”
Lady Henslow laughed again. But just then, she was called away to some crisis in the buffet tent—a severed finger, most probably. Nash snared a drink from a passing footman and continued his amble down the terraces, all the while aware of the not infrequent stares and whispers which came his way. He ignored them and paused to speak to those few gentlemen whom he knew. But the truth was, London society, even the very best of it, was cleanly cut into two halves. There were those in the ton’s inner circle, and there were those who moved along the darker fringe. Nash was clinging to the ends of the fringe.
Nash looked about at the crowd, seeing no one under the age of twenty whom he knew. No, the gentlemen—and the women—with whom he associated were older and harder, and they recognized one another by their cynical eyes and jaded expressions. They were not apt to be seen at afternoon picnics. Indeed, they were not apt to be seen much before midnight.
Nash felt a little foolish, but he shook it off and moved on. On the last terrace, the crowd thickened considerably. Here, the ladies in pastel ruffles twirled their matching parasols as they clung to the arms of the dashing young beaus who took them down to promenade along the riverbank whilst doting mothers looked on. Suddenly, Nash wished to escape. He half turned on the step, but unexpectedly, someone touched his elbow.
“Stefan? You? At a picnic?”
He turned to see that Tony stood nearby.
“Remarkable is it not?” Nash murmured.
“I should say so,” agreed Tony. “Aunt must be in alt. This will provide the ton with a week’s worth of gossip.”
Nash lifted his hat to the two gentlemen with his brother. “Mr. Sofford, Lord Ogle,” he said with a bow. “I trust I find you well?”
Tony’s political cronies were quite well, and apparently engaged in a rather animated debate about the Civil Rights of Convicts Act. After exchanging pleasantries, they went on to argue about banking, poaching, and something to do with the Catholics, though what, if anything, one had to do with the other, Nash could not have said. He was struggling mightily not to yawn when Mr. Sofford pointed up the steps.
“Ah, look!” he said. “Here comes Sharpe. He will know how the Whigs are expected to split.”
“No doubt he shall,” said Lord Ogle. “But on a more pressing point, gentlemen, who are the visions of beauty clinging to the fellow’s arms?”
Tony set a hand above his eyes to shield the sun. “That sugarplum with the ringlets is his daughter, Lady Louisa,” he answered. “And the slender lady with the dark hair is a cousin, a Mrs.—Mrs.—damn, but I forget her name.”
“Miss Neville,” Nash supplied. “She is unwed and newly arrived from the West Indies.”
Tony dropped his hand, and looked at Nash oddly. “Is she indeed?” he murmured. “And unwed? At her age?”
“Come, Hayden-Worth!” said Mr. Sofford. “She is hardly in her dotage. Besides, I hear she is possessed of a huge fortune.”
“Heavens!” murmured Lord Ogle. “I wonder if there is any hope of dispossessing her of it?”
“I sho
uld have a care, if I were you,” said Sofford quietly. “Her brother is Baron Rothewell. Have you met him?”
Ogle shook his head. “No.”
“Well, you don’t wish to,” said Sofford. He looked as if he might say more, but the new arrivals were drifting down the terraced lawn now. When they reached the stairs above, Lord Ogle called out for Sharpe to join them.
Nash knew it the instant Miss Neville laid eyes on him. But to the lady’s credit, she neither faltered nor blushed. In fact, he realized as the introductions were being made, she seemed almost glad to see him. Or perhaps mildly amused was the better term, for a strange little smile lurked at one corner of her wide, good-humored mouth, and there was a glint of something intriguing in her eyes.
And what eyes they were. How odd he had not noticed them before. They were an unusual color, a deep shade of blue, which was rimmed with silver-gray. Odder still, the look which was fixed upon him was steady—like a man’s. Rather than casting her gaze downward or sideways in some silly effort to appear demure, she looked directly at him; not boldly, but simply eye to eye, as if she knew precisely what she was about.
“And how shall you vote, Lord Nash?” asked Miss Neville, drawing him back to the present.
Nash tried to pretend he’d been listening. “I rather doubt I shall vote at all, ma’am.”
“But you should do, Nash!” grumbled Lord Sharpe. “We could use you on our side now and again, you know.” The earl looked as if he was about to launch some tirade on noblesse oblige, but Nash was saved by Lady Louisa, who tugged gently on her father’s arm.
“Papa, the bowling!” she whined. “You promised we might watch. Mr. Sofford, are you not to play?”
“Gad!” said Sofford, tugging out his watch. “Is it time already?”
Lord Ogle bowed. “Good luck to you, old chap,” he said. “Hayden-Worth and I are promised to Lady Henslow for archery on the east lawn.”
“Miss Neville, are you a fan of bowls?” asked Nash.
“I fear I know little about it,” she replied. “But I am sure I shall enjoy it.”
