by Liz Carlyle
“Gor, mum!” Eyes wide, he tugged his forelock and went scurrying down the street.
In the gloom, she could barely make him out. His hunched form stood on the doorstep for what seemed an eternity. At last, the door must have opened, for she heard it shut again with a heavy thud. The lad leapt off the steps and hastened back up the hill.
“To whom did you give it?” she asked.
The lad shrugged. “Some stiff-arsed footman.”
“Mind your language,” Xanthia gently admonished. “Now, go home to your mother, young man. It is very late at night.”
The boy just grinned, snatched the shilling, and darted away into the fog.
Xanthia turned and retraced her steps to Park Lane, where she wound her way down some lesser-traveled lanes, across Piccadilly, and through the parks. On the opposite side of St. James’s Park, Westminster was quiet but far from empty. Fine carriages still rattled in and out, conveying important members of Parliament in splendid Tory isolation, no doubt. Xanthia preferred to walk—and in the opposite direction from Mayfair. Here, she was unknown. Anonymous. She could smell the river nearing now as she wound her way through the narrow streets unaccosted.
At the foot of Queen Anne’s Gate, she could see the sconces which flanked the entrance to the Two Chairmen. They flickered unsteadily, casting the corner in eerie light. As she approached, the pub’s taproom door swung wide, staccato laughter cutting through the fog. A pair of staggering nightingales came out and turned toward the park. Xanthia pulled her hat a fraction lower, stepped into the shadows, then headed toward the river.
It took but a few moments to make her way to the Westminster wharves. Here, vast quantities of stone and timber were off-loaded and carted into greater London to build the new homes and shops which the wealthy required. Pallets of brick and carts laden with coal lined the narrow lane which edged the water. The river was quiet tonight, the tide high and turning. A lighter came skimming past, taking advantage of the tide to sail back down to await tomorrow’s cargo.
She turned and paced again. He was not coming. Xanthia bit her lip. No, he probably had not even been at home. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. The stench of mud and rot was strong along the wharf, but inured to it, Xanthia drew her cloak tighter and paced down to the water’s edge. Below, a faint wake sloshed incessantly at the stone steps, which descended into the murky current. In the distance, she could see the lights of Lambeth glowing like gauzy yellow cotton balls in the murk.
It must be nearing midnight now. No self-respecting sybarite would be alone at such an hour. He was likely throwing the dice in Covent Garden—or wallowing in the arms of some dasher. At that thought, Xanthia squeezed her eyes shut. What a pathetic gudgeon she was! Of course the man had lovers. Many lovers—and he tired of them easily. He had told her so, in plain language. He certainly need not bestir himself in the middle of the night to stroll the riverbank in search of a clandestine romance—or whatever it was Xanthia meant to offer him.
No, he was not coming. And it was just as well. She was only fooling herself if she believed that this late-night escapade had been about nothing but the security of Neville’s shipping routes. It was about Nash—about her fascination with him. But she, too, had her pride. Besides, she was freezing to death in the damp.
Along Abingdon Street above, she could hear a watchman calling the hour, his voice strangely disembodied in the fog. Almost an hour had passed since she had set off on this ill-thought escapade. It felt like an eternity.
Xanthia was securing her cloak in preparation to go when she heard the footsteps on the cobblestones, as disembodied as the watchman’s cry. She was not perfectly sure from which direction they came until a dark form materialized from the fog, and stepped briskly past her. His height and lean grace were unmistakable. Xanthia reached out and touched the Marquess of Nash on the arm.
He froze, and turned around as she pushed back the brim of her hat. “My dear Miss Neville.” Despite the chill, he swept off his hat. “Once again, you shock me.”
In her agitation, Xanthia did not quite catch the worried edge to his tone. She drew him between a towering pile of stone and a cart laden with coal. “You received my note?”
“No, I came down to queue up early for the next coal barge,” he said. “We’re fresh out in Park Lane.”
Her shoulders fell. “I have disturbed you,” she said coolly. “My apologies.”
“No.” He set one hand on her arm, and gentled his voice. “No, my dear, never that. But it is not safe for a lady to be out so late at night. I would drag you home this minute, could I do so without risk to your reputation.”
“Let me worry about my reputation,” she answered. “I wished to see you—and I knew you would not come to me.”
“Oh, my dear girl,” he said softly. “Whatever for?”
Xanthia shook her head, uncertain of her answer. “After last week—” she began, then faltered. “After what we did together…I, well, I have been unable to think clearly.”
“Last week.” His voice had grown quiet.
The tension inside Xanthia snapped. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “We are not going to pretend, Nash, it did not happen.”
He fell silent for a long moment, then exhaled sharply in the gloom. “No, that would not do at all, would it?” he said almost to himself. “It did happen. And given our nature, I very much fear it is apt to happen again.”
“You sound as if you regret it,” Xanthia whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t do that to us, Nash. That is worse than pretending it never happened. It is like…like wishing we did not know one another at all. But it is too late for that.”
His grip on her arm tightened. “My dear, that is the very point.” His voice was raw now, and tinged with some powerful emotion. “You do not know me. And I—well, I should never have come to your office that day. Certainly I should not have followed you to Lady Cartselle’s masque. My intentions were far from honorable. And by God, they aren’t honorable now.”
On some wild, insane impulse, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him hard on the lips. His body stiffened, but his mouth softened. His fingers curled into the wool of her cloak. And then the fire burst hot and fierce between them.
On a raw moan, Nash drew his tongue across the seam of her lips. Xanthia opened her mouth at once, thrilling to the taste of him. Her hands found his waist, worked their way into his coat, and slid round to the small of his back. His fine beaver hat fell to the cobblestones. One of his arms banded her to him, strong and resolute, while the other hand cradled the back of her head in a kiss which was infinite in its sweetness. Unmistakable in its desperation.
They came apart with small, lingering kisses, lovers parting with an enduring reluctance. “My dear, you are dangerously tempting,” he whispered.
“I wish to see you again, Nash,” she said fervently. “Alone. Let me come to you. Who will know?”
He drew back to look at her. “I am too much the cad to refuse you, my dear,” he murmured. “But I will at least remind you that you deserve better. Or at the very least, you deserve more.”
She looked up at him unflinchingly. “More than you can give?” she whispered. “That is what you mean, I know. But would it not be fairer to let me decide what enough is? Would it not be more equitable to let me determine how daring I wish to be?”
He leaned toward her and set his forehead to hers. “I begin to think, my dear, that you are very daring indeed,” he murmured. “Very well then. Suit yourself. I think you know the address. Number Six Park Lane.”
She brushed her lips along his jawline. He pulled her more tightly against him. “My poor girl, come here. You are shivering.”
“It is this dreadful English damp,” she said on half a laugh. “I never imagined one could be so homesick for a place one did not like all that well.”
He set his lips to her forehead. “In Barbados, I daresay, the tropical flowers would be bursting with blooms, the days would be long, and the sun w
ould be hot,” he murmured. “Yes, I know what it is to be homesick for something far different from this, my dear. You have my sympathy.”
She pulled away, and grinned. “Ah, but in Barbados, the men are not nearly so handsome,” she said. “Or so skilled. I believe I will put up with this vile weather for a while.”
“I hope, Xanthia, that you will.” He kissed her again, feverishly and a little desperately. “Now for God’s sake, go home.”
“Tomorrow evening, then?” she whispered. “I shall claim a headache and go to bed early—and I will wear a veil, I swear it. No one will recognize me.”
“You will wear a veil, yes,” he firmly repeated. “And I shall send my servants away.”
“You would do that for me?”
“I will do whatever I must to live with the guilt,” he said.
“Where shall I meet you?” she asked breathlessly. “What time?”
“Come up through King Street Mews, if good sense does not overtake you first,” he said. “There is a gate into the yard, and the rear door which is always lit. I will await you there. If you have not come by eight o’clock, I will assume you have come to see reason—and I will try to be glad of it.”
“Oh, I fear that reason and I parted ways in Lady Cartselle’s livery room,” said Xanthia honestly. “I will be there.”
His eyes softened and lingered on her face. “I will be waiting for you,” he said. “Now kindly appease the less daring amongst us by going home. I promise to make it worth your while tomorrow night.”
Xanthia shivered, half from the chill and half from anticipation. “Good night, then,” she whispered. On impulse, she rose onto her toes and kissed him swiftly. “Until tomorrow.”
“Good night…Zee.” Nash turned, snatched up his hat and, with one last look of regret, melted into the gloom.
He wished, she knew, to escort her home. But it would not do for her to be seen alone after midnight on the arm of any man, and certainly not Nash’s. A pity she had not thought of a veil sooner. Pulling her cloak snugly about her, she left the wharf and set a quick pace back up toward St. James’s. Her mind was awhirl with plans and possibilities. She had done it. She had convinced him.
She wanted, of course, to prove his innocence. To herself. And to de Vendenheim. Surely, once inside his home, she would see something—at the very least, some sort of sign—which would cast doubt upon the Government’s theory? Her shoulders fell. What if she had no opportunity? Or what if she did—and found nothing? Would it matter to her? No, very little, she admitted. De Vendenheim had by far the easier task. Guilt was so much easier to prove than innocence.
At the corner of Great George Street, she turned left, but here the fog seemed to have thickened, if such a thing were possible. Even the gaslights were useless. Keeping a careful eye on the pavement, Xanthia quickened her pace. But something behind caught her ear. Footsteps. They echoed hollowly off the towering town houses which lined the street.
Foolishly, she slowed. Was it Nash? Perhaps he had decided to follow her? Or perhaps her imagination had just run wild.
No. The steps were closer now. Xanthia picked up her pace, her heels sharp and quick on the pavement. She could sense St. James’s Park just ahead. In a few more minutes, she would be back in Berkeley Square. There would be a good fire in her bedchamber. A decanter of sherry on the night table. Warmth. Security. Comfort.
Suddenly, something—someone—snared her arm, spinning her roughly around. “Yer money or yer life,” rasped an almost inhuman voice. “Scream, and I’ll slit yer from ear ter ear.”
“Unhand me,” ordered Xanthia, giving a hard try. “Let go!”
The man merely jerked her closer. His breath was sour and reeked of onions. “Let’s ’ave it, now,” he ordered, laying something cold and menacing against her throat. “That little leather purse full of coins? Toss it onto the pavement, milady, afore yer gets a nasty bloodstain on that fine cloak.”
Her blood was running cold now. The blade against her throat was like ice. Like death. “Release me,” she whispered. “And I shall reach insi—”
Suddenly, the man’s arm jerked high, as if God himself had seized it. He cried out, grabbing his elbow as the knife clattered to the pavement. “What the bloody—?”
The question was never finished. Something black—a boot?—flashed in the gloom, catching the man square across the throat. His head snapped back like a broken doll’s, then he slithered to the pavement.
“Good God,” said a dark, deeply irritated voice. “Where is your pistol, Miss Neville?”
Xanthia sagged with relief as Mr. Kemble materialized from the gloom. “Oh, thank heaven!” she said. “My pistol—oh. Oh, dear. I left it.”
“And did you leave your common sense behind to keep it company?” he snapped. The urbane coxcomb was gone, and Kemble was all business. “Do not ever flash a purse in the street again, Miss Neville. Especially not in the middle of the night. Indeed, you should know better.”
Xanthia had grabbed hold of a lamppost to steady herself. “But—but I didn’t flash it.”
The man on the pavement began to moan. Without missing a beat, Kemble set his boot firmly against the man’s throat. “The boy you hired,” he said irritably. “He was not out for a midnight stroll, Miss Neville. He was making marks.”
“Making…marks?”
“Looking for victims to rob,” Kemble clarified. “He works for a ring. Pickpockets, cracksmen, common ruffians. They all come out at night, Miss Neville—and the daylight, too. How in God’s name have you survived down in Wapping?”
She blushed. “My mind…it was elsewhere tonight.”
“Yes,” said Kemble dryly. “I noticed.”
“You—you were following me?” Xanthia had finally stopped shaking, her fear succumbing to her indignation. “You were spying on me?”
“I am watching out for you,” Kemble corrected. “With good reason, as it happens.”
“But—but how dare you?” Xanthia sputtered.
“Go home, Miss Neville,” said Kemble almost wearily. “Go home, find your pistol, and put it in your reticule. Never flash your purse in the street again. Burn that hideous excuse of a hat as soon as you arrive home. And for God’s sake, do not ever turn your back on the Marquess of Nash. Peel wishes you merely to serve your country—not to die for it.”
“Are you following me everywhere?” she demanded.
“Someone is,” he said. “Max has seen to it.”
For an instant, Xanthia shook with fury. “Then someone may prepare to follow me back to Park Lane tomorrow night,” she hissed. “For I am going back—and I am going to prove once and for all that Nash had nothing to do with this gunrunning business.”
“Miss Neville, I urge you to be cautious.”
“Yes, as de Vendenheim is being cautious?” Xanthia retorted. “He has all but convicted Nash.”
Across the street, a shade had flown up, and a lamp now hovered at the window. The man on the pavement moaned again, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up, saw Kemble, and raw fear sketched across his face.
“Good evening, Mr. Tomkins,” said Kemble, hauling the man to his feet. “Working nights again, are we?”
“Georgie Kemble!” he gritted. “God rot yer, yer sneaky peachin’ bastard!”
Kemble smiled. “Yes, I have missed you, too, Tommy,” he said, deftly twisting the man’s arm up behind his back. “Let’s have a little stroll up to the Queen’s Square Magistrate’s Office, shall we? The weather is so lovely tonight.”
The man writhed. “Sod off, yer son of a bitch.”
“What a moving offer,” said Kemble, “but you are not quite my type. Now move.”
The man moved, his eyes shying over one shoulder like a nervous horse’s. He clearly feared his captor. But Mr. Kemble seemed quite thoroughly at ease. Chattering amiably about the weather, he frog-marched Xanthia’s assailant into the gloom.
Xanthia stared after them in amazement and clutched her reticule to he
r chest. “Mr. Kemble,” she said into the swirling haze, “you are a very strange man.”
Chapter Nine
A Cup of Coffee in Park Lane
A cross Westminster, the day dawned fair, the morning sun quickly burning off the last of the evening’s fog and bathing the verdant slopes of Hyde Park in shafts of light which shifted gently as the clouds drifted overhead. Today, Lord Nash was up at dawn, much to his staff’s surprise, for he had a few errands to run. By the late afternoon, however, he had returned to Park Lane to dress for the evening and await his fate.
A fine, strong breeze periodically ballooned the draperies about his shoulders, bathing him in cool air as he braced his palms on the window frame. The shafts of late sunlight across the park reminded him, he decided, of a scene from a Constable exhibit which he’d admired at the Royal Academy. Fleetingly, he was struck with the strangest impulse to take Miss Neville to see it.
Good Lord. What a notion!
“There,” said Gibbons, giving one last tug upon the back of Nash’s collar. “It looks splendid, sir, if I do say so myself. Now, are you quite sure you can extract yourself from this finery without my help?”
“I shall manage.” Nash turned to give himself one last going-over in the pier glass, then picked up his cup of coffee. It was his third; he kept pouring them, then forgetting to drink them.
Gibbons was looking at him slyly. “It will be no trouble at all, my lord, for me to return in time to help you undress.”
Nash glowered at him over the cold coffee. “I said you were to have the evening off,” he replied. “Let me rephrase that. Go away—and do not come back until noon tomorrow.”
Gibbons trembled with feigned indignation. “Well!” answered the valet. “Such ingratitude!”
Nash handed him the coffee. “But whilst you’re still here, be so good as to pour this out,” he said. “It’s gone cold.”
With a tight smile, Gibbons went to the window and summarily dumped it.
Below, someone shrieked.
Nash glowered at the valet. “Bloody hell!” he said, hastening toward the window. “Sorry! Very sorry!” he called out.
