by Liz Carlyle
On top of all that, he was very much afraid that, for the first time in his life, he was in love. And he did not care. Or rather—he cared rather too much, and he had not a clue what to do about it. Indeed, of late his nights had been disturbed by tantalizing visions of Xanthia. Not the torrid sorts of nighttime visions he was accustomed to experiencing—though there had certainly been a few of those. No, the more tantalizing visions of Xanthia had been those of the most mundane—and more troubling—sort. Xanthia poking through his sideboard and looking very much at home. Xanthia in his dressing gown. Xanthia feeding him slices of cucumber from her fork.
So. There it was. He had had the unfortunate luck to fall in love with perhaps the one woman in all of London who would not have him. His title and his money meant nothing to her, of that he was utterly certain. Nonetheless, there were a great many things they both shared. A less-than-happy childhood. That constant sense of being different, of being an outsider. And, he believed, a sincere affection for one another. Surely those things were something on which one might build?
On the third day following his passionate tryst with Xanthia, Nash realized he would shortly be expected at Brierwood. God how he hated to leave without seeing her again. He had been half-hoping for another of her smuggled missives, even as he acknowledged how dangerous they were. Perhaps she had come to realize it?
“By the way, my lord,” said Gibbons, who was just finishing off Nash’s neckcloth, “there’s been another letter from Swann.”
Nash scowled. “I think it is high time we had something besides a letter from him.”
Gibbons acted as if he had not spoken. “Most unfortunate news,” he continued, giving the cravat one last fluff. “He fell off the roof of his mother’s cottage.”
Nash lowered his chin. “He fell?” he echoed incredulously. “Good God, what is a man of affairs doing on a roof—anyone’s roof?”
Gibbons smiled tightly. “You will recall he is trying to let the cottage, my lord, but the roof was leaking prodigiously,” he said. “He assures me that the break is not bad, but—”
“Break? What break?”
“The break in his shoulder,” the valet clarified. “Well, the clavicle, perhaps? I believe that is a little less dire? In any case, he cannot be jostled in a horse or a carriage for a week or so.”
“I am not fond of this long-distance relationship we seem to be having with Mr. Swann,” Nash complained. “I need him here.”
“I am sure, my lord, that you do,” said Gibbons. “But the stagecoach is a rough, miserable way to travel. Those contraptions could jolt one’s intact bones out of place.”
“I know! I know!” Nash grumbled. “I am dashed sorry he’s hurt. But I have the most frightful pile of things heaped up on my desk. I have begun to forget, quite honestly, what’s to be done with half of it.”
Gibbons smiled solicitously. “Yes, you have had other things on your mind, haven’t you?” he murmured. “Might I suggest we travel with Mr. Hayden-Worth to Brierwood? We won’t be too snug, I think—and then you may send your well-sprung traveling coach to fetch Mr. Swann home in comfort.”
“Oh, very well,” said Nash. “Poor devil! Where is his letter?”
“On your escritoire, my lord.”
Nash gave himself one last look in the mirror, then went to the little desk. “I shall tell him to expect the carriage on Saturday,” he said. “Will that be too soon, do you—”
Gibbons approached. “My lord?” he murmured. “Is something amiss?”
Nash turned from the escritoire. “Gibbons, there were a couple of letters tucked in the front of this drawer,” he said. “From my cousin Vladislav. Have you any idea what went with them?”
Gibbons shook his head. “Not a clue, sir.”
Nash frowned. “See? This is what it comes to when Swann is away.”
“Were they important, my lord?”
Nash shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted. “But he’s old and in the gout—and I do owe him a long letter soon.”
“And his letters were to remind you?” said Gibbons. “Never fear, sir. I shan’t let you forget.”
“Thank you, Gibbons,” he said earnestly. “I would really appreciate that.”
A sound by the door caused them both to turn around. Vernon, the footman, stood on the threshold. “My lord, there is a caller downstairs,” he said. “A young man by the name of Wescot.”
“Wescot? Wescot! Oh, hell!” Nash jerked out his watch. “Vernon, I’m to meet my stepbrother at White’s within the hour. What the devil does the chap want? Did he say?”
“No, my lord.” Vernon shifted his weight uneasily. “But he looks…unwell.”
“Unwell?”
“As if…well, as if he’s been crying, my lord.”
“Crying?” The last thing Nash wished to do was spend another moment with one of the infamous wailing Wescots. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Do you know, Vernon—if this is God’s way of telling me to quit gambling, it just might work,” he said.
“He wants only ten minutes of your time, sir,” the footman replied. “He really does look…unwell.”
“Yes, unwell,” said Nash dryly. “I have grasped that. Fine, Vernon. Put him in the library, and send for tea—and perhaps something a little more fortifying, just in case.”
Nash followed Vernon downstairs. A moment later, Matthew Wescot was shown into the library. His country-scrubbed cheeks had succumbed to what looked like the pallor of death, and he had not recently shaved. Yes, just out of the sponging house, it would appear.
Nash offered his hand, but his greeting was cool. If the man were here to quarrel about the conveyance of his mill to his child, he would soon rue it.
“I’ve come to thank you, Lord Nash,” said Wescot the moment their hands dropped.
“Do sit down,” offered the marquess. “For what, pray, have you come to thank me?”
“For your kindness to Anna.” Wescot settled onto the sofa’s edge, looking as if he might spring up again at any moment. “Anna, my wife. She called on you late last week.”
Nash was still standing. “I recall it,” he said. “And you needn’t have come. I shall keep my pledge to your wife.”
Wescot looked up, and managed to collect himself. “No, you need not,” he said softly. “That is why I’ve come today, you see.”
“No, I do not see,” said Nash stiffly. “If you mean to ask me to return the mill to you, I am afraid I simply cannot countenance—”
“No!” cried Mr. Wescot sharply. “God no! Your offer was more generous than I deserved. But…but I am afraid there shan’t be a child after all.”
“There shan’t be a child?” said Nash.
“Anna fell ill,” whispered Mr. Wescot. “It is entirely my fault, of course. Had I not gambled away everything we possessed, she would have felt no need to slip out into the rain and the fog the moment they hauled me off to the sponging house.”
Dear God. Nash recalled how she had shivered in her damp cloak on his doorstep. He had been vaguely worried about the girl—worried enough to send her home in a cab. He wished now he’d found her a warm brick, or plied her with brandy.
At that very moment, Vernon came in with the tea tray, on which he’d prudently placed a decanter of that very spirit. Wescot looked as if he needed a dram. But Nash was still thinking about his wife. “So she…she lost the babe?” he said. “Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes, to a fever. It strained her poor body beyond tolerance, or so the midwife said.” Wescot drew a handkerchief from his pocket and honked into it. “But I thank you, Nash, for hiring her a cab and having the good sense to send her to Harold’s. I would likely have lost Anna, too, had you not done so.”
“Lost her?” Nash felt oddly numb. “She must have been frightfully ill.”
Wescot nodded. “At death’s door these last two days,” he said. “They did not believe she would live until the wee hours of this morning. Then the fever broke, thank God. But we…we
have not told her about the child.”
“I am so very sorry,” he murmured. “The babe—it was almost due, was it not?”
“Yes, a beautiful boy,” said Wescot sadly. “We named him Harold, after Anna’s cousin. We prayed that he might survive, but his odds were—” Here, Wescot broke down into wracking sobs.
Nash sat down and sloshed one of the teacups full of brandy. “You’d best have a sip of this, old chap,” he said. “You must buck up. Crying won’t help your wife.”
Wescot nodded, caught his breath, and drank. “You are right, of course,” he said. “But I was about to say ‘his odds were not good.’”
“Well, they weren’t, I daresay.”
“But do you not see the horrible irony in that word, Lord Nash?” he asked plaintively. “Odds? I swear, if I never hear it again, I will be thankful. I have learnt I have neither the stomach nor the fortune for gaming.”
Nash slid back into his chair. “Well, it is hardly the sort of life I would recommend,” he said. Then he realized on a start that he actually meant it. “It is a life built on the weaknesses of other men,” he continued. “Your weaknesses have hurt you badly, Wescot, and put your wife in a most precarious position. Now you must be strong when she cannot.”
Wescot gave a watery smile. “You are not a man who minces words, are you?”
“What good would that do you?” asked Nash honestly. “You are in a devil of a mess.”
“No, my lord, I am not.” Abruptly, Wescot stood, and Nash followed suit. “I am the most fortunate man on earth, for I still have my wife,” he earnestly continued. “I cry for her, Lord Nash, not for myself. But there will be more children, eventually. When she is ready to hear that, I shall tell her so.”
“Very wise,” murmured Nash. “And for all her frail appearance, your wife does not lack for fortitude or sense. In the future, I think you would do well to heed her advice.”
Wescot offered his hand. “Thank you, Lord Nash,” he said. “I shall. And now if you will excuse me, I’d best return to Anna’s bedside.”
They started toward the door. Wescot did indeed seem eager to be gone. “What happens now?” asked Nash. “Do you return to Yorkshire when your wife is well enough?”
Wescot looked sheepish. “No, I dare not go back and suffer my father’s wrath,” he said. “He feared I would do something foolish with the mill—and I am ashamed to have proven him right.”
Nash furrowed his brow. “Then where do you go from here?”
“Back to Spitalfields.” Wescot smiled faintly. “Harold has very kindly offered to take me into the greengrocer’s business—and I am deeply grateful for it.”
The greengrocer’s business? Good God! Nash pinched at the bridge of his nose for a long minute, Wescot looking at him oddly. Nash let go of his nose. “Wait one moment,” he said.
He went to the desk, suddenly grateful for Swann’s protracted absence. Knowing he might well regret it, he shuffled madly through the heap of papers until, halfway down, he unearthed Wescot’s note. He snatched it and returned to the door. “Here,” he said, handing it to the young man.
Wescot looked down incredulously. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I do not want this.”
“I hope that you do not,” said Nash. “It would be a true sign of repentance.”
With a stubborn set of his jaw, Wescot stuffed it into Nash’s coat pocket.
Nash pulled it out again. “Take it,” he said more calmly. “Take it for your wife. Don’t be a prideful fool twice, Wescot. Do you want her to live out her life as a grocer’s wife when you know damned good and well she deserves something better?”
Wescot hung his head.
“Take it,” said Nash again. “Take it for Anna. But if you bugger it up again, Wescot, I will cheerfully hunt you down and beat you within an inch of your life—if that makes you feel any better.”
“Well…it does, rather.” Wescot glanced at the paper, then took it from Nash’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, sir. Anna thanks you. I—I won’t bugger it up again. I promise.”
Nash watched him go with a terrible sinking sensation in his heart. That poor, poor girl. So frail and lovely—and so full of hope when she had left him. Dear God, how fatal one little mistake—one small error in judgment—could be to one’s happiness. And how very short life could be. He grieved for Anna Wescot even as he grieved for himself and all of his wasted days.
But he need waste no more—or at the very least, he might do something worthwhile with what was left of them. He knew, of course, what that something should be. It came to him with the clarity of a bucket of cold water tossed over one’s head. He wanted to marry Xanthia Neville—or at the very least, try to marry her.
Good God. This was madness.
He had better think about this. He sat down on the sofa and poured a second teacup of brandy. It was not quite as insipid as he recalled. Judiciously, he eyed the decanter. There might be enough left to put him out of his misery. And perhaps when he awoke, this strange urge would have gone away.
No. No, it would not have. Because it was not an urge. It was a certainty which had been edging up on him slowly and steadily for some days now. The bottom of a bottle would not obscure it. Besides, what did he have to worry about, save for personal humiliation? Xanthia Neville would not have him, and his mind had already run through all the reasons. But the most telling reason of all was that Xanthia had already refused what little he had to offer her.
What, then, would you rather do with your life, Miss Neville? he had once asked her. Retire to the country and raise a brood of children, perhaps?
No, she had answered. No, Lord Nash, I am already doing what I please with my life.
And she was enjoying that life. He could see it in the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her business and her work.
But her eyes sparkled when she was with him, too. And she had admitted that she adored him. She trembled with pleasure when he made love to her. And, yes, she liked him. So it probably wasn’t a matter of losing her altogether. It was not quite the horror which poor Wescot had faced. No, he could keep Xanthia, he thought—keep her in his bed, at least. Until someone’s suspicion caught fire, and she was forced to choose.
Was that enough? If he bided his time, would he tire of her? Nash stared at the brandy and shook his head. So there was but one option left to him—and it was a slender reed at that. Xanthia was a businesswoman, and she understood the art of the deal as well as any businessman he knew. Therefore, he must offer her something better. Something which she could manage and make as successful as Neville Shipping.
Brierwood. It was one of the finest estates in England—and potentially the most profitable. Thousands and thousands of acres of fertile farmland and rolling timber. Half a dozen villages. Two miles of channel frontage. A chalk mine. A coal mine. Grain mills. A quarry. A fortune at his fingertips, had he ever bothered to tap it. Instead, he had chosen to let it limp along under the guardianship of an aged estate agent, whilst easing his conscience by reassuring himself that someday the whole mess would pass on to a distant cousin—someone who would give a shite for it. Instead, Brierwood could be Xanthia’s. To manage and to build, and ultimately, to leave to her children.
Or…she could just keep her old job.
Did he give a damn what society thought of his wife? Well, no. She could trot off to Wapping until those spiteful fishwives down at Almack’s bolted the bloody doors in his face—he’d never been there anyway, and despite his long-ago wager with Xanthia, he wasn’t going.
Still, Brierwood was one hell of an ace for a chap to stick up his sleeve. It would take some time, however, and some delicate maneuvering to convince her. In fact, it would be best to begin simply by waving the temptation beneath her nose.
Nash pushed the brandy away and headed for the stairs. “Gibbons!” he bellowed up the stairwell. “Gibbons, fetch my boots, and my best riding coat!”
Gibbons met him at the door, a coat hanging from his fing
ertip.
“Not the brown,” he barked. “That’s the drabbest rag I own. Fetch the dark blue—oh, and a fresh shirt.”
Gibbons trotted dutifully back to the dressing room again. The man had a surprising knack for knowing when to keep his mouth shut. After the coat, there were the boots to be decided on. And then Nash decided that his cravat was just a tad too lifeless after all. But eventually, he was dressed, his best horse was brought round from the mews, and Lord Nash was off in pursuit of his future.
A few minutes later, he found himself sequestered in Lord Rothewell’s study, feeling foolish and more than a little frustrated. Xanthia was not at home. How had he imagined otherwise? She was not like the other women of his acquaintance, who rose at noon and did little thereafter. Xanthia had a business to run. But Lord Rothewell was in, his servant reported, and would be happy to receive him.
Nash questioned the word happy, however, upon seeing the gentleman himself. Rothewell entered with his usual determined stride, but his eyes were shot with blood, and his deeply tanned face would have been politely described as haggard.
“Afternoon, Nash,” said the baron, going to the sideboard. “Will you have a drink?”
“No, I thank you, it is too early for me,” he said. “I’ve been up but an hour or two.”
“Ah, and I have not yet been to bed,” remarked the baron, returning to his desk with a snifter of brandy. “Sit down, Nash. I don’t imagine this is a social call?”
Nash looked at him curiously. “What other sort of call would it be?”
Rothewell hesitated, then smiled faintly. “One never knows,” he murmured vaguely. “I rather assumed—but never mind. What brings you?”
“Frankly, I came to call on both you and your sister,” he confessed. “I forgot she would not likely be at home.”
