by Liz Carlyle
She heard the heavy wooden door close softly behind her, shutting her away from him. The magic and the seductive anonymity of the evening were at an end. Beyond, the stone steps loomed in the flickering lamplight.
Xanthia went up them alone.
Chapter Eight
A Tryst at Horseferry Wharf
M ay came to Berkeley Square, and with it, a period of quiet. Lady Louisa and her father were invited to spend a few days in Brighton with friends, granting Xanthia a respite from the social whirl, if not from the demands of daily living. Nothing was heard from Lord Nash, and Xanthia mentally flogged herself about a dozen times each day for hoping—and perhaps expecting—otherwise.
Rather than permit herself to slip into low spirits, Xanthia worked long hours in an attempt to catch up on the tasks she had been shirking. Gareth grew more silent and more volatile with every passing day. And Rothewell simply grew more dissipated. One could no longer miss the deeply etched wrinkles about his eyes and the perpetual frown lines which gave his face character but little else.
None of this went unnoticed by Mr. Kemble, who seemed to make it his business to meddle in everyone else’s. One day when Xanthia was late coming down for dinner, Rothewell found himself faced with the full force of Kemble’s officiousness. He came upon the gentleman in question in the study, where he was attempting to reorganize the contents of Xanthia’s leather satchel.
“A hopeless task, Mr. Kemble,” he warned, going to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. “She’ll only stuff it full again as soon as you are gone—when will you be gone, by the way?”
“As soon as Max releases me,” he said fretfully. Having got all the papers out, he was having a devil of a time getting them back in again.
Rothewell tossed back a generous sip of his brandy. “Surely if Nash were going to make his move, he would have given some sign by now,” he remarked, staring into the depths of the amber fluid. “Xanthia has given him ample opportunity, has she not?”
“Oh, she has given him ample opportunity,” said Kemble. “But to do what? That, I think, is the question.”
Rothewell set his brandy down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, never mind!” Kemble turned the satchel around on the desktop, and with a graceful hop, hefted himself up, and simply sat on it. “Ah, victory!” he said, as the thing compressed another inch.
“You are a clever fellow, Mr. Kemble,” said Rothewell over the rim of his glass. “I will give you that. Your tact, however—”
“Sadly lacking, is it not?” Kemble interjected. “Alas, it is the bane of my existence. I often cannot help but say what I mean. It is my life’s mission, I sometimes think, to help others see truth and folly for what it is.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Rothewell again.
“Well, take yourself, for example, my lord.” Kemble had slid off the leather bag and was neatly lashing both buckles. “I hear you have been spending a vast deal of time at the Satyr’s Club.”
Rothewell stared at him blankly. “That is none of your damned business.”
Kemble shrugged his elegant shoulders. “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But the Satyr’s Club is a perniciously wicked place, Lord Rothewell. You would do well to find another establishment in which to seek your—er, your sort of entertainments. I can suggest a couple of rather innovative brothels, if you’d care to try them?”
Rothewell felt both temples begin to throb. “Who the hell are you, to give me advice?”
“A man with vast experience in this city,” said Kemble calmly, “of both the high and the low sort. There is not a bawd, a blackleg, a cracksman, or even the most baseborn cutpurse in London whom I do not know by sight. I can pinpoint on a map every whorehouse, every rookery, and every fence, from Stepney to Chelsea.”
“Good God, man. Make your point!”
“I practically cut my teeth in the stews and hells of London, my lord,” he said quietly. “You, by contrast, have been here but what? Four or five months? Forgive me, Rothewell, but in this town, you are just a babe in the woods.”
Rothewell set down his brandy and stalked toward him. “Why, you pompous little prick,” he growled. “How dare you—”
Kemble held up an admonishing finger, and, inexplicably, Rothewell stopped in his tracks. “I am also the man appointed to keep your sister safe from all harm,” he said. “And a dead brother would, in my considered opinion, constitute harm, since the lady seems inexplicably attached to you. Ordinarily, her taste is more discerning.”
To give the devil his due, the fellow had a sense of humor. And for all his foppish appearance, he was not easily intimidated, either. Rothewell relaxed and gave a disgusted grunt. “A bit of a dramatist, aren’t you?” he said, strolling aimlessly back to his own desk. “I think I can take care of myself, wherever it is I choose to seek my entertainments. I do not think the Grim Reaper is as yet on my heels.”
“Have you any idea, my lord,” said Kemble, “how many men died in London last month of eating opium?”
“I haven’t a bloody clue.”
“There were six, my lord,” said Kemble. “Six that were found. Three pulled out of Limehouse Reach, and another three farther downriver. And of those six, four had been lately seen at the Satyr’s Club. Moreover, those French girls they keep will tip you the token without so much as a word of warning, for the place is riddled with the pox and they daren’t speak of it—and I mean syphilis, Rothewell, not the common clap. It robs a man of all sense, you know. But slowly, so that you have time to truly appreciate the horror of it all.”
Rothewell tossed off the last of his brandy in one swallow. “Aren’t you the crape-hanger from hell,” he grumbled. “Life is fraught with risk, Kemble. And death comes to us all.”
“To some sooner than others,” muttered Kemble. “And you are begging for it.”
“What did you say?”
Kemble set the satchel on the floor, and whirled around. “I said, my lord, that you are losing your looks,” he answered. “You have all the charm and beauty of a violent death warmed over. Honestly, have you seen yourself lately? Your skin tone is gone, your eyes are shot bloodred, and it appears that a drunken stonemason carved those lines into your face with a hammer and chisel.”
“Lines?” Absently, Rothewell slid a hand over his faint stubble. “Skin tone?”
Kemble leaned across the table, and took a full pinch of Rothewell’s cheek, then let it go again. “Do you see that? Do you?”
“No. It’s my skin—and I’m wearing it.”
“Yes, and it has no resiliency!” said Kemble. “No vigor! And that shade! Why, if you hadn’t a bit of your island bronze left, I daresay you’d have no color at all. What, pray, will you do in another six months?”
“Hang myself?” Rothewell suggested. “I mean, once a chap’s looks are gone, what else has he to live for? Good tailoring and a tight corset can only go so far.”
“Precisely!” said Kemble, missing the sarcasm.
A faint motion at the door caught Rothewell’s attention. He turned to see Xanthia entering. “Heavens, Mr. Kemble, are you still here?”
Kemble bowed stiffly. “If you are in for the evening, Miss Neville, I shall take myself off.”
“I am in,” she assured him. “But will you stay to dinner?”
“Thank you, no,” he said. “Good evening to you both. I shall find my way out.”
“And good riddance,” grumbled Rothewell, going to refill his glass.
Xanthia caught him lightly by the arm. “Must you, Kieran?” Her eyes darted toward the decanter. “I think we ought to dine now.”
She watched as her brother smiled stiffly. “By all means,” he said. “I would not keep a lady waiting.”
Xanthia forced a light laugh. “Not even when the lady has kept you waiting?” she asked. “And by her absence, subjected you to the advice and ministrations of Mr. Kemble?”
“Oh, you’ll pay for it, old thing,” he warned, offering his arm.
Xanthia shot him a look of sympathy. “Was it dreadful?”
“Yes, apparently, I am an aging old roué,” said Kieran, steering her toward the dining room. “A drunkard who has lost his looks and now subsists on Turkish opium and the purchased affections of pox-riddled prostitutes.”
“Dear me,” said Xanthia quietly. “I am very glad to have missed that conversation.”
They dined in companionable silence. Xanthia wondered what Mr. Kemble had really said to Kieran. Whatever it was, her brother appeared to be mulling it over. Or perhaps he was just suffering the blue devils again. She sighed inwardly, and motioned for the footman to refill her wineglass. Kieran would have to deal with his devils alone tonight. Xanthia hadn’t the strength.
It had been a long, hard slog in Wapping today. In between the rush of real work, she had written not just one, but two notes to Nash—and promptly torn them up, of course. Then she and Gareth had quarreled about the scheduling again, and it had ended in her overriding several of his decisions, something she tried to avoid. But the demands he made of the ships and their captains had become intolerable. It really was inhumane to turn crews around on so little notice and to behave as if everyone else ought to be the sort of emotionless automaton he had apparently become.
Oh, Xanthia was fond of Gareth. In her own way, she even loved him. And in loving him, she had come to know him for what he was: an intelligent, somewhat arrogant man who was honest to a fault and too handsome for his own good. Kieran believed her a fool for not marrying Gareth, but Xanthia knew something was missing. She wished to love with her whole heart—and perhaps when she did, the sacrifices marriage would require of her would not seem too great a price to pay.
She had often considered saying yes to Gareth’s proposals. But she had realized she could not when she found herself obsessed by how their marriage might affect Neville Shipping. Would he insist on taking over once they were wed? Probably. Gareth had once hinted that he believed Xanthia would be happier if she had a home and children to care for. Indeed, he might have tried to insist on it. But if they continued working cheek by jowl for years on end, might they simply come to find one another dull?
The risk was too great, Xanthia had soon realized. The continued success of the business had to come first. And if she were able to so easily put it first—to think of it as the thing around which their marriage must revolve—then Gareth was not the man for her. And Gareth deserved something better than a wife who did not love him enough to make him her utmost priority.
Lord Nash, on the other hand, had become a terrible distraction. But that aside, Xanthia rather doubted that he would ever trouble himself to consciously interfere in her work. And it sometimes felt as if her thoughts already revolved around him. Certainly she was unable to think clearly when he was in the same room—a bad sign, she feared. When Nash kissed her, the world swirled from beneath her feet, and her every thought was of his touch. Neville’s could go hang when she was in his arms. And that was a risk of an altogether different sort.
Suddenly Kieran’s voice cut into her consciousness. “So what of this business with Nash?” he asked out of the blue. “Just what is going on, Zee?”
“Going on?” Xanthia swallowed hard. Her brother looked in an ill mood. “With…Lord Nash?”
“Yes, Nash,” said Kieran. “Look here, Zee—did anything…happen at that masque last week?”
Xanthia feigned surprise. “Well, I saw Lord Nash,” she answered. “We spoke. He was very…amiable, I daresay, is the word I am looking for. But he did not press a wad of banknotes into my hand and beg me to run a load of rifles to Kotor. And he isn’t going to, if you ask me.”
“Humph,” said Kieran. “He’s got no dog in this fight?”
“Oh, I would not say that,” Xanthia admitted. “I almost think he would do it, were he asked. But he hasn’t been. I’m quite sure of it.”
“Are you?”
“Utterly,” Xanthia confirmed. “I think Nash’s idea of aiding the motherland would be to run away and join the Russian Imperial Guard. And somehow, I must make de Vendenheim and Peel believe that.”
“If you say Nash is innocent, I believe you,” said her brother. “So bugger Peel and de Vendenheim. What are they to us? Or Nash either, come to that?”
Xanthia set her wineglass aside and frowned. “Do mind your language, Kieran,” she said. “This is our home, not a cane field.”
“I beg your pardon,” said her brother stiffly. “You must do as you please, I suppose. But as for that coxcomb Kemble, I should like to get rid of him, too. Indeed, I may well do it.”
“You have had too much to drink,” Xanthia remarked.
Kieran pushed away from the table. “No, my dear,” said her brother, jerking to his feet. “I have not had nearly enough. That is my problem.”
Xanthia crushed her napkin with both fists. “Kieran, stop,” she whispered.
“Stop what?” he demanded.
She lifted her gaze to catch his. “Kieran, can you not see?” she pleaded. “You are all I have. But you…you are becoming more like our uncle every day.”
Abruptly, his fists crashed down on the tabletop. “By God, Zee, I don’t need this!” he roared, as the glass and cutlery jumped. “Not from that upstart Kemble, and especially not from you. Like Uncle, indeed! I have not yet taken my riding crop to your hide, have I? Nor locked you in the cellar with the rats and the damp? Nor let my dissolute friends chase you round the dinner table?” His face was black with rage.
“That is not what I meant,” said Xanthia, unwilling to back down. “And I think you know it.”
Kieran braced both hands on the table’s edge and bowed his head. She could feel him grappling for control. “I know I do not need your advice, damn it,” he finally rasped, falling back into his chair. “I am not something for you to manage or to fix, Zee. I am not Neville Shipping. I am just a man, and I am living my life as I see fit. I will thank you to stay out of it.”
Xanthia forced her hands to relax. “You leave me little choice,” she answered, as her napkin slithered into the floor.
He had turned his face away. “No choice at all,” he said, as one of the footmen entered with a decanter of port. “I am well enough, Zee. Leave me be.”
Xanthia declined to stay for Kieran’s port and excused herself from the table. Pausing only long enough to snatch her satchel from the study, she went upstairs. But once alone in her suite, she was seized with a restless frustration and paced the floors for the better part of an hour. Eventually, she decided to skim some correspondence she’d brought home from work. Soon she had read four letters—without comprehending a word.
In frustration, she snapped the file shut and tossed it onto the bed. Would Kieran try to insist she put an end to this intrigue with Nash? For all his slipshod ways and laissez-faire attitude, her brother always put her happiness—and her safety—first. He had clearly decided she was wasting her time with Nash. Xanthia wished to God she felt the same. But slowly, by agonizing little increments, she had come to believe that no moment spent in Nash’s company was wasted.
The man was, however, dangerous. A hardened gamester and a well-practiced libertine. Possibly worse. But he was no traitor to his country. Again Xanthia wondered how close de Vendenheim was to making an arrest. Surely he would have to have proof? Or perhaps not. Perhaps de Vendenheim had decided that the mere allegation of treason would throw enough light on the smuggling operation to end it? Even more chilling was the fact that at Lady Cartselle’s masque, he had implied that he was no longer as concerned about Mr. Hayden-Worth’s influence in Parliament.
Unfortunately, the longer de Vendenheim’s hounds chased the wrong fox, the greater the risk to Nash—and the greater the chance that the real smuggler would continue unchecked. The precarious balance of power in the Mediterranean might easily be tilted toward chaos. On her fingers, Xanthia counted the number of Neville’s ships which could be passing through the Strait of Gibraltar within the n
ext fortnight. She ran out of fingers.
Impulsively, but with a surprisingly clear head, Xanthia went to her writing desk, scratched out yet a third, nearly illegible note, and sealed it with red wax. Then before she could think better of it, she threw on her woolen walking cloak and rummaged through her wardrobe for a hat which would shadow her face.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. Kieran had obviously gone out, for the lamp in his study was unlit. She was not above slipping out the back door, but it was unnecessary. The servants had apparently gone belowstairs for dinner. Xanthia let herself out and locked the door behind. She tried not to consider the rashness of her actions, and instead set a brisk pace along Upper Brook Street, thankful for what little light leached through the evening’s brume.
Number Six Park Lane was the address of the Marquess of Nash. Xanthia had learnt that much from Mr. Kemble, and it was but a few minutes’ walk from Berkeley Square. How odd to think that the object of her obsession lived scarcely a stone’s throw away. But Xanthia had learned that everyone who was anyone lived in Mayfair, and all of them right atop one another.
The spring fog clung to her face like damp cotton wool, the metallic scent of coal smoke acrid in her nostrils. Shivering, Xanthia pulled her cloak tighter and turned into Park Lane. The street below was quiet. She paced down a few yards, then back up again. Some five minutes into her vigil, a boy in a scruffy brown coat rounded the corner, whistling a merry tune.
She called him to her, and extracted her purse. “I wish you to run an errand for me,” she said solemnly. “Are you willing?”
“Are yer payin’?” He eyed her purse almost lasciviously.
Xanthia extracted a sixpence and pressed both it and the sealed note into the boy’s hand. “Take this down to Number Six,” she instructed. “The front door, mind, not the rear. Come back when you’ve done it, and I’ll have a shilling for your trouble.”
