by Liz Carlyle
Mr. Kemble and Lord de Vendenheim exchanged dark glances and started at once toward the door.
Phaedra’s confusion suddenly cleared. “Oh, dear,” she murmured to Xanthia. “Jenny’s bollixed something up again, hasn’t she?”
“We must hope not,” said Xanthia quietly. “And if she has, we must trust that Lord Nash can set it to rights.”
Phaedra strolled to the window, peering out as the two gentlemen in black piled back into their carriage. “Well, I don’t know how Nash will manage it,” she muttered, “but I somehow get the feeling that dear old Jenny is going to be saying a few prayers—with or without this book.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Denouement in Paris
S ummer spread up the Seine Valley like a damp blanket, layering the land with a thick, unseasonable warmth. In Paris, the streets were stifling but tolerable. Inside l’hospice de la Salpêtrière, however, the stillness and stench were almost overpowering. Lord Nash stood beside one of the narrow windows which overlooked the deceptively verdant lawns, pinched the bridge of his nose, and did his best to shut out the groans and screams which resonated through the ancient building.
He scarcely heard the sound of the door, which opened behind him—but he heard his name, a distant, bloodcurdling cry, over and over, like that of a wounded animal. It echoed down the hall, then was mercifully muted again by the thud of the closing door. The hand which touched his was cool.
Nash looked down at the slender wrist which extended from the sleeve of a starched white alb. He turned slowly from the window. “Bonjour, mon Père.”
Father Michel studied his face. “My son, how are you?” he murmured. “Tired, I think?”
Nash bowed his head. “Je vais bien, Father,” he said. “But yes, tired. The comtesse, I can see, still knows my name.”
The priest smiled wanly. “Oui, she will do so for some time yet.” He made the sign of the cross. “But she is now—how do you say it? Caught with the arms?”
“Bound?”
“Oui, bound—so as to do herself no harm. But her temper will soon cool.”
Nash felt a moment of grief. “Pray for her, Father.”
“I do, my son,” he said gravely. “And for the other woman, your American sister.”
“Merci, mon Père.”
The priest gave another faint smile. “Come, my lord, and walk with me back to the chapel,” he said. “I believe there is much on your mind.”
Father Michel clasped his hands behind his back and set a sedate pace down the seemingly endless corridor. If the occasional moaning and screaming gave him pause, one could not discern it. Perhaps he had been so long at la Salpêtrière, he was inured to the horror. Or perhaps God had simply given him the grace to bear it.
“Le commissaire de police has released your sister, I hear,” said the priest conversationally.
“Yes, Father,” said Nash. “She has been given into my custody—with certain understandings.”
The priest looked surprised. “Then your family is most fortunate, Lord Nash,” he said. “France has shown you mercy.”
“Yes,” said Nash dryly. “For a price.”
Father Michel cut a swift, assessing glance at Nash. “Ah! Je comprends.”
Nash carefully considered his next words. “Father, the comtesse…do you really think she is insane? From what I have seen, she still has her wits about her.”
The priest puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully. “Some would say that to use her name and position to violate the laws—not to mention the economic interests—of her homeland was in itself insane,” he answered. “But is she insane from her disease? No, not yet, I do not think.”
“And yet the doctors have confined her.”
The priest smiled hugely. “Oui,” he said. “For a price.”
“Ah!” said Nash. “Her husband’s doing?”
“Far better she should be here than prison,” said the priest, as they started down the stairs. “Here, our rats are smaller.”
Nash was not perfectly sure he believed that. In the past fortnight, he had seen more of la Salpêtrière’s infamous vermin than he cared to count.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Father Michel pushed through the door into sunshine, and to air which smelled marginally better. Here, the crisscrossing paths teemed with people—the doctors in their black frock coats, the plainly clad clerks scurrying from building to building, and the white-aprons maids who trotted to and fro with buckets the contents of which Nash had rather not know.
He paused on the path. “Thank you for agreeing to look after the comtesse, Father,” he said. “In my absence, may I…reimburse your expenses?”
It was an offer of a bribe, and they both knew it. But the priest merely smiled beatifically. “I take on such obligations often, my son, and only for the glory of God,” he said. “He will recompense me. You do not need to.”
Nash narrowed his eyes against the sun. “How long will it be, mon Père?”
The priest shrugged, lifting his black cassock on his narrow shoulders. “Syphilis is an unpredictable malady, my son,” he said. “But it is as good an excuse as any to keep her from the prison cell, non?”
“I daresay,” answered Nash quietly.
The priest patted him soothingly on the arm. “But if I had to guess, my lord, I think la comtesse will not know her own name by Christmastime. The thinness of the body. The whiteness of the skin. The beginnings of la démence—the brain madness. No, my son, the end is not far for her.”
“Will she feel pain?”
“No, my son,” he said. “Only the pain of purgatory. I will ensure that the doctors see to it. De Montignac has paid them well for the proper medicines.”
“Her husband—he does not seem overly distressed.”
Again, the shrug, and a Gallic lifting of the hands. “A convenient solution for le comte, is it not?” he said. “But a mortal danger to his soul. I think you know the sin of which I speak?”
Nash nodded. “Yes, Father.”
His expression solemn, the priest leaned very near. “De Montignac is a depraved man, my lord,” he murmured. “His unholy desires are a weakness of the flesh, which is like a poison. In the future, you must keep your brother far from him.”
Nash’s mouth pulled into a scowl. “Ah, the comtesse has been carrying tales, I see,” he said. “Tales she was well paid to keep secret.”
“Oui, oui, there were some lettres d’amour, I understand,” murmured the priest sympathetically. “A very dangerous business for a politician to engage in, my lord. And in England, the penalty for such unnatural acts between men is still death, is it not?”
“Whatever his feelings for de Montignac, my stepbrother should never have written them down,” said Nash grimly.
“And you, a good brother, have very deep pockets, I am sure,” said the priest. “Do not worry. There will be no more talk, for I have given her absolution. But in any case, la comtesse has syphilis, so she says many things which may not be true, n’est-ce pas? And here, well, whom would she tell?”
Nash closed his eyes, and tried to bite his tongue—but if one could not trust a priest, who else was left to him? “The comtesse asked to be generously compensated for her risk,” he said quietly. “She claimed that her husband would be insane with anger once he realized she had stolen his love letters, but that she wished to help me protect Tony. It was blackmail, of course—but of the politest sort.”
“Eh bien!” muttered Father Michel. “We French are known for our politesse. All the same, one hand usually knows what the other is doing. I doubt le comte was innocent.”
“I fear you are right.” Nash shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the graveled path. “Some weeks past, she hinted that de Montignac may have more letters. We shall see, I daresay, if he has the audacity to play the blackmail card himself—and this time to my brother’s face.”
“Your brother has ended this…this forbidden liaison, j’espère?”
“A fool must learn from experience,” said the priest sadly. “Only a wise man can be told. I hope, my son, that your brother repents and turns from these sins of the flesh. The salvation of his soul will depend upon it.”
Nash said nothing, for he was in no position to throw stones at Tony. He had committed too many mortal sins himself. Besides, it was de Montignac whom Nash objected to—beyond that, Tony’s choices were his own. “Thank you, mon Père, for looking after the comtesse,” he said. “I must leave you now. I am to sail for England in the morning.”
The priest reached up and clasped Lord Nash’s shoulder. “Then bon voyage et bonne chance, my son,” he said. “I will look after la comtesse as best I can, until the end of her time comes.”
“Merci, mon Père.”
Father Michel smiled, and tightened his grip. “And for you, my son, it is time to go home,” he said reassuringly. “It is time to get on with your life.”
It was a wet, blustery day when the Dangerous Wager sailed with the tide into the Pool of London, en route to the more exclusive portals of Westminster. Despite the nasty drizzle, Nash stood topside, hatless, with the wind in his hair, looking starboard as Wapping and all of its bittersweet memories went sailing past. He had been less than a month in Paris straightening out the mess Jenny had left them, but already it seemed a lifetime.
The pain, however, had not dulled. The aching sense of loss was the very same; keener, perhaps, in this moment, when he could almost make out the very window which looked out from Xanthia Neville’s office. For an instant, he imagined that he saw her, saw her standing at the window, staring out into the rain with her fingertips lightly touching the glass. In his mind, it was a girlish, wistful gesture—as if she were hoping for something.
But Nash was not hoping for anything. Not any longer. He had but one duty left to carry out, then it would be back to life as usual for him. He told himself he looked forward to it. Again, he turned and looked at the window. No. There was no one there. And there never had been.
He had set Tony ashore at Southampton, with orders to go back to Brierwood until he could determine how matters stood in Town. If there had been any news, any hint of gossip or any blackening of Jenny’s name, Nash had thus far heard nothing of it. The letters from Edwina and Phaedra had been filled with questions but no news. But would they have heard anything, isolated in the country as they were?
He thought that they would have. Lady Henslow was well connected. Had she chanced to hear her favorite nephew’s name aspersed in any way, she would likely have gone haring off to Brierwood on her next breath. Yes, Tony was probably unscathed. But Nash had learned one thing for himself from this tawdry little mess—it was time to stop playing the big brother to a man who had probably never wanted one in the first place. God knew his own childhood grief had been little assuaged by it. And now Tony’s secret—the secret which had never really been a secret to Nash—was out, and the two of them had got past what little embarrassment there had been.
He had believed, Nash supposed, that by being a good brother to Tony he could expunge some of the guilt for having survived his own. But Petar was still just as dead. Nash had not honored his memory. Perhaps he had even hampered Tony by giving him a crutch to lean on. It was odd how clearly he saw it all now.
Yes, it was time to let Anthony Hayden-Worth, dashing bon vivant and up-and-coming M.P., sink or swim of his own accord. And Tony, he got the impression, would not object. Perhaps, left to his own devices, Tony would even be capable of making some hard choices—choices which would be needed in order to preserve his political career. But that would be up to Tony. Having a disgraced, sexually ambiguous stepbrother was no impediment to Nash’s sort of life. And as to Phaedra and Phoebe, Nash could dower them well enough to overcome most any social obstacle.
And that was just what he would do, Nash decided. It was as good a use as any for his ill-gotten gains. Better by far than bailing Tony out of trouble. Nash bowed his head against the spitting rain, and tried to feel joy at his homecoming. But it was hard. Yes, very hard indeed.
Xanthia barely heard the creak of the door which opened behind her. She leaned into her office window and watched the tide come in, heedless of all else. She felt a strong, warm hand touch her arm.
“Come away from the window, Zee.” Gareth Lloyd’s body seemed to radiate heat. “You cannot keep standing in the draft. You’ll get cold. You know you will.”
“No,” she said faintly, lifting her hand to touch the glass. “I’ve become used to it, I think—the cold of England, I mean. I think my blood has finally thickened. Or thinned. Which is it?”
Gently, he set an arm about her shoulder as if to turn her. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I am quite certain you’ll get sick standing here.”
“Wait, Gareth,” she murmured, pointing through the glass. “Look—do you see that sloop just there? Coming up the near side of the Pool?”
Gareth leaned into the glass. “What, that forty-footer with the bowsprit?” he answered. “Yes. Why?”
“Can you make out her name?” asked Xanthia hopefully.
Gareth squinted into the rain, watching as the name-board came into view. Slowly, he shook his head. “Sorry, no. Not through this drizzle.”
The disappointment was oddly crushing. But why? It was just a pleasure boat like a dozen others which had passed by today. “Nor can I,” she said wistfully. “But for an instant, I thought perhaps…”
This time Gareth did turn her from the window. “You thought perhaps what, my dear?”
Her smile was wan as she looked up at him. “Oh, nothing.”
“You are cold, Xanthia,” he said with mild approbation in his voice. “I shall have Mr. Bakely bring up tea.”
“Tea would be nice,” she murmured, sitting down. “Thank you.” Xanthia began to shuffle through the papers on her desk. “Did you meet with Captain Rangle?” she asked absently. “I need his voyage expenditure sheets. His purser is late again.”
Gareth left the door and returned to Xanthia’s desk to pluck the documents from amongst the untidy mess. “You saw Rangle here yesterday, Zee,” he said worriedly. “You exchanged pleasantries. He gave you this list himself. Do you not remember?”
Xanthia set her palm to her forehead. “Yes, yes, of course I remember!” she insisted. “Really, Gareth, there is no need to be sharp.”
Gareth pulled his chair to her desk. “Xanthia, I was not remotely sharp,” he said, straddling the chair backward. He crossed his arms over the back, and looked at her assessingly. “I mean this in the kindest way, Zee, but what the devil is going on?” he said more gently. “You’ve not been yourself of late, and it is getting worse, not better. Yesterday you snapped at poor old Bakely.”
“Yes, and I apologized,” she said defensively.
“So you did.” His tone was soothing. “Zee, we are friends, if nothing else, are we not? I am not worried about Neville’s. I am worried about you. Look—why do you not take a holiday? They say Brighton is lovely. Make Kieran take you. I can see to all this for a fortnight, truly.”
Damn it. Why did Gareth have to be so kind? Xanthia set her forehead on the heels of her hands, but she could not stop from heaving a deep, shuddering sigh.
“Oh, Zee!” Gareth whispered, leaning nearer.
Xanthia closed her eyes and willed it not to happen. But it was too late. “Damn you, Gareth,” she choked. “Just…don’t.”
“Oh, Zee,” he said again, more gently still. “Oh, I am so sorry. Please, my dear, please don’t cry.”
“I’m n-not crying,” she whimpered. But the tears were running down her face, hot and acrid now. “J-Just d-don’t be so nice, Gareth. Just st-stop.”
Gareth stood, drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and spun his chair around. “Look, sit up straight, then,” he ordered with mock severity. After a moment, she d
id so. He blotted the tears from her eyes and let his gaze drift over her. He tried to look stern, which made it all the worse. “It’s that Nash chap, isn’t it, Zee. The fellow who came here a few weeks past.”
“N-no,” she said, snatching the handkerchief, and blowing her nose furiously. “It is not him. I—I won’t let it be! I just won’t!”
A little dejectedly, Gareth sat back down. “Ah, Xanthia!” he murmured, propping one elbow on the corner of her desk. “Oh, my dear girl. Did no one ever tell you?”
She blotted her eyes again. “No,” she sniffed. “Tell me what?”
Gareth looked at her sadly. “We do not get to choose,” he said quietly. “No, we none of us do, my dear. Not even you.” He took her hand, and squeezed it hard. “I am sorry, Zee. I truly, truly am.”
Lord Nash’s welcome in Park Lane was warm—almost as warm as the bathwater which Vernon so cheerfully hauled up the stairs. Swann stuck his head inside the door to say that he had cleaned the piles of paperwork from Nash’s desk and that he appreciated Nash’s patience and understanding. Monsieur René sent up a tray with a slab of bloody beefsteak and a pile of escaloped potatoes a chap could have wallowed in. Agnes set a vase of fresh flowers on his escritoire, and remade his bed with fresh linen. And Gibbons was in alt—having all of twelve coats to choose from instead of just the two they had been stuck with—and he began laying out an ensemble suitable for an afternoon call at Whitehall.
Everything, in short, was back to normal in Park Lane. It should have been enough. For a man who loved nothing so well as the comfort of his own home and a life of uncomplicated leisure, this was bliss. So why did he feel…nothing. Or something painfully close to it?
But there was no point in pondering it, was there? What was done was done, and now, there were greater things than himself—and his own misery—which required attention.
In short order, Nash was dressed and ready for the meeting he had been dreading since setting sail from France. “There, sir,” said Gibbons as he patted the folds of Nash’s neckcloth. “From the look of you now, no one would guess you’d spent weeks with those uncivilized Frogs.”
