by Liz Carlyle
Nash glanced down at the valet. “You have been quite civil yourself these last few weeks, Gibbons,” he said. “Feeling sorry for me, were you?”
“Yes, but it won’t last,” said Gibbons. “Do not accustom yourself to it.”
Nash grinned and set off on foot for Whitehall. Yes, everything was settling down. In that regard, at least, he was glad to feel life returning to normal. In other ways, however…Ah, well. He could drink himself into a stupor when this vile business with de Vendenheim was done.
He was fortunate enough to find the gentleman in his office—and in a state which could only be described as extreme civility, or restrained fury. Nash couldn’t tell, and he didn’t much give a damn. He had tried to let go of his anger these last few weeks, and for the most part, he had done so. Jenny’s nefarious scheme had cast blame upon him unfairly—but had he been in de Vendenheim’s shoes, Nash supposed he might have drawn a similar conclusion.
He relayed the story of the Comtesse de Montignac’s smuggling operation, and Jenny’s complicity in it, with words which were succinct and unembellished. “I have brought with me the statements from le commissaire de police, should you doubt my veracity,” he finished, placing the man’s card on de Vendenheim’s desk. “But I imagine your contacts at our embassy in Paris have kept you fully abreast.”
De Vendenheim, who had been pacing back and forth before the windows, made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Yes, yes, the embassy took care of everything,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But two women, gunrunning and smuggling! What is the world coming to?”
Nash smiled faintly. “You must have known very few women in your day, de Vendenheim,” he answered. “They can be as cool, competent, and patently cruel as any man when they wish to be.”
“And the Comtesse de Montignac—she will not live?” De Vendenheim asked the question almost hopefully.
Nash shook his head. “There is no chance,” he said. “Her disease is advanced, and l’hospice de la Salpêtrière is notoriously infectious. If syphilis doesn’t get her, cholera likely will.”
Some of the tension seemed to drain out of de Vendenheim. “I don’t wish her dead, but thank God the French are our allies,” he said. “And that they were willing to arrest her.”
Nash gave a muted smile. “The French are the allies of the French,” he said. “The ship was sitting loaded in their harbor—hard evidence to ignore. Besides, it always comes down to money, does it not?”
The vicomte gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Oh, to be sure,” he said. “But to what, specifically, do you refer?”
Nash relaxed in de Vendenheim’s very comfortable armchair. “The French have lucrative trade deals with the Turks,” he said. “And French investors are knee deep in Turkish state bonds. None of it will be worth a sou if Russia overruns the Turks.”
De Vendenheim looked at him appraisingly. “You are remarkably well informed.”
“From time to time, it pays to be a citizen of the world,” said Nash. “And to understand that there is a little more to it than just England. But I somehow suspect I am telling you little you did not know.”
“No, you are not,” he admitted. “And alas, I must now bring up a far more delicate matter—that of your stepbrother’s involvement.”
“There was none,” said Nash swiftly. “Anthony knew nothing. Didn’t your contacts at the embassy make that plain?”
“They did…but I was not sure I believed it.”
“You may believe it,” said Nash. “Whatever my stepbrother’s shortcomings, Tony is a fervent patriot. As to his wife—well, that I should rather forget.”
De Vendenheim looked at him skeptically. “How could he not know what she was doing?” the vicomte gently challenged. “She was a wealthy heiress, and he was her husband. What was hers was his.”
“The estate supports Tony with a generous allowance,” Nash replied. “And Jenny supplemented her expenses with whatever she could wheedle from her father—or so we believed. Have you any idea, de Vendenheim, what it costs to be a member of the Commons? I speak not of just the palms which must be greased, but the life one must maintain. The campaigns. The carriages. The clothing. Tony had little left—apparently not enough to appease his wife.”
De Vendenheim coughed discreetly. “Yes, I have learnt a little more of her American connections,” he said. “Carlow Arms is quite an operation. I am sorry to say that we will, of course, have to prosecute her.”
Nash made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “That I cannot allow,” he said coolly. “Much as I might like to see the old girl hang, de Vendenheim, my stepbrother’s career would be ruined if this business is not hushed up.”
“I fear, Lord Nash, that you shall have little say in the matter,” said the vicomte. “Mrs. Hayden-Worth will be detained and interrogated by agents of the British government upon her reentry. I am sorry.”
Nash smiled faintly. “You may save your sympathy, de Vendenheim,” he replied. “I sent Jenny back to Boston with her father’s carbines. She will not be returning. Ever. And do not even think of extradition.”
De Vendenheim looked grave. “It was not your place to interfere, Lord Nash,” he said. “Moreover, our government can apply a great deal of pressure when it chooses to do so.”
Nash laughed. “Have you any notion, de Vendenheim, just how dependent the American government is on their arms manufacturers?” he asked. “Carlow’s rifleworks is a part of America’s military might. Had the woman assassinated old Prinny himself, you would not get her back on British soil in this lifetime—nor the next, I daresay.”
A sour smile twisted de Vendenheim’s face. “Checkmate, Lord Nash,” he murmured. “That was brilliantly done. I will, of course, discreetly pursue extradition and arrest, but you are likely right. Your stepbrother will attempt to divorce her, I collect?”
“He cannot,” said Nash. “Again, his career would suffer. My stepmother is putting it about that Jenny has returned to her father’s sickbed. It seems Mr. Carlow has recently discovered that his heart is slowly—very slowly—failing. I expect it will be quite a prolonged illness. I gather Jenny will be happy to be back in her homeland, and I don’t think Tony will really notice she is gone.”
Nash finished the meeting by presenting the few papers which le commissaire de police had bade him provide the English authorities. And at last the tawdry business was settled, with de Vendenheim giving Nash a stern lecture about his interference in government affairs. Nash, however, got the last word—he thought.
“But I am a peer of the realm, de Vendenheim,” he said. “If I wish to interfere in the affairs of government, I have only to turn up in the House and exercise my right to do so. In effect, as frightening as it sounds, I am the Government.”
Indignation flared in de Vendenheim’s eyes again. “And why do you not do precisely that, my lord?” he returned. “If you don’t care for how we do things, you have a right to participate in your government—notice I said your government, for it is yours, much as you might disdain it. You are an English peer, like it or not. You are stuck with the job. Just do it.”
“Dear me, you sound bitter,” murmured the marquess.
“I bloody well am bitter,” de Vendenheim agreed. “I can do none of those things, Nash. My government—indeed, my very land—was burnt to ashes before my eyes. My elaborate title isn’t worth a shovelful of horse shite, and by God, yes, I resent it when I see you English lords pissing your lives away. But the French nobility was busy eating cake and letting their country crumble, a fate which the English have avoided—thus far.”
“Well,” said Nash coolly. “I shall keep that in mind if gambling, carousing, and womanizing ever begin to bore me—which I doubt.”
De Vendenheim’s temper had not much cooled. “Yes, and that’s another thing,” he began. Then he checked himself and practically bit his tongue.
“Yes?” said Nash. “Don’t stop now, old fellow. You are on such a tear.”
De Ve
ndenheim was pacing again. “It is about Miss Neville,” he began. “It is none of my business, of course—”
“No,” Nash interjected. “It is not.”
“—but I involved the poor woman, as I’m sure you gathered.”
“Yes, I gathered,” said Nash grimly. “Had I not, the guilty look on her face—and her brother’s—would have been quite a clue.”
“Yes, and I feel a grave obligation about that now.”
“Do you?” asked Nash bitterly. “To do what?”
“To…to set to rights anything that is wrong,” said the vicomte vaguely. “To correct any misimpressions you may have regarding her involvement in this sordid mess.”
Nash rose from his chair. “Oh, I think I have quite a clear grasp of her involvement,” he said. “But I am a gentleman—or at the very least, I mean to behave like one.” He paused to snatch his hat from the vicomte’s desk. “I give you good afternoon, de Vendenheim. Convey my warmest regards to the Home Secretary.”
His hand was on the doorknob when de Vendenheim spoke again. “She believed in you, Nash,” he said quietly. “When no one else did, Miss Neville believed in you. And she fought for you. Even after your asinine behavior toward her brother at Brierwood, she fought, and she believed, until she thoroughly convinced the rest of us.”
“I do not care to hear this, de Vendenheim,” said Nash calmly. “Nor do I even credit it. But you are kind, I daresay, in trying to paint the woman in a favorable light.”
“Oh, I would not trouble myself,” said the vicomte. “My nature is not all that generous. So just tell me this, Nash, and I will drop the matter—why did I not follow you to France? Surely you do not believe I was afraid to do so?”
“No, you seem remarkably stubborn and heedless,” said the marquess.
He smiled faintly. “Worse has been said of me, I daresay,” de Vendenheim answered. “But I did not go to France because Miss Neville convinced me of your innocence.”
“I am amazed anyone could succeed in that.”
“She is quite the negotiator when she wants something,” said the vicomte. “It was Miss Neville who found the evidence implicating Mrs. Hayden-Worth, though she had been telling us for weeks that you would never involve yourself in such a scheme. So I decided to cool my heels and let our embassy in Paris monitor events as they unfolded. The rest, of course, you know. But it is unfair to blame Miss Neville or her brother. We approached them because of the nature of their business, and they were simply trying to behave as any patriot might—whilst protecting their company’s financial interests, too, of course.”
“It was cleverly done, I’ll grant you,” said Nash. “I wondered why Sharpe had invited me to that ball. But to have the woman follow me onto the terrace—well, I am shocked I fell for it. But daresay we all of us have our moments of naivete.”
De Vendenheim’s brow had furrowed. “I think there must be some mistake,” he said. “I did not approach Lord Rothewell until some days after Sharpe’s ball. In any case, Miss Neville is an amazing and determined young woman.”
“Indeed,” murmured Nash coolly. “Perfectly amazing. Well, good day, de Vendenheim. Better luck catching your criminal next time, eh?”
De Vendenheim watched him through his heavy dark eyes for a moment. “Non ci credo!” he muttered, throwing up his hands in obvious disgust. He flipped open a folder which lay in the center of his desk, extracted a sheaf of well-creased letter paper, crossed the room, and thrust it at Nash. “I don’t know why the devil I let Kemble talk me into this sort of nonsense.”
Nash glanced at the paper. It was a letter—more of a note, really—but written on the letterhead of Neville Shipping. Swiftly, he read it. Then he looked at the date. “I see,” he said, handing the paper back. “So Miss Neville was overcome by guilt and sent your cohort packing. But what does that change, really?”
Again, de Vendenheim lifted his hands in the air. “Nothing?” he suggested. “Everything? Dio mio, Nash, you figure it out. I am just here to do a job for Peel.”
“Oh, and you have done it,” said Nash a little bitterly. “Accept the thanks of a grateful nation and move on to your next inquisition.”
De Vendenheim’s long, serious face fell. “I am sorry,” he said after a moment had passed. “This has been hell for you and your family. And none of it was your fault.”
Nash’s lips thinned. “Apology accepted.”
“Yes, well, don’t be too quick about it.” De Vendenheim looked suddenly uncomfortable again. “Before you go, there is one last thing.”
“Am I ever to leave here, de Vendenheim?” asked Nash dryly. “You seem just full of surprises.”
De Vendenheim strode back to his desk. “Well, you may like this one a good deal less than my defense of Miss Neville.”
Nash had slowly turned from the door. De Vendenheim extracted a small key from his waistcoat pocket and opened the top drawer. He withdrew a sheaf of folded papers which were tied together with a red ribbon. He passed them across the desk with an acutely uncomfortable expression.
Lord Nash took the bundle. “What are these?”
“To be honest, I do not know,” he said. “My associate Mr. Kemble found them.”
“Kemble?” said Nash. “Where?”
“After we heard of her arrest, Mr. Peel asked us to make a discreet search of the comtesse’s home in Belgravia,” said the vicomte. “We found nothing about the smuggling; she was wise enough to handle everything from her home in Cherbourg. But Mr. Kemble found those. They were locked in a desk in the library.”
De Montignac’s library? Bloody hell. Nash sorted awkwardly through the pile, his apprehension growing. Letters—perhaps four or five—and all of them addressed to de Montignac in Tony’s hand. “Dear God,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“I have not read them,” said de Vendenheim swiftly. “And I think, perhaps you ought not, either? Mr. Kemble assured me that the letters had nothing to do with smuggling, but were…well, of a personal nature.”
“He read them?” asked Nash a little weakly. “All of them?”
“He had to give each at least a cursory glance, yes, or he would not have been doing his job,” said de Vendenheim a little defensively. “He read them, he took them away, and he ordered me to lock them in my desk until such time as one of you might retrieve them. I have left several messages for your stepbrother, but he has not come. Frankly, I don’t want the bloody things here, locked or otherwise.”
“Tony has been with me,” said Nash dully. “I left him at Southampton.”
“Then you may reassure Mr. Hayden-Worth that Kemble is the soul of discretion.”
“Well, we shall see, shan’t we?” murmured Nash, tucking the letters into his coat pocket.
“You may have to see,” said de Vendenheim. “I already know. Whatever personal information is contained within those letters, one would have to pry it out of Kemble under torture.”
“That honest, is he?”
“No,” said de Vendenheim slowly. “He isn’t honest in the least. He just lives by his own rules—honor among thieves and all that rot, I collect.”
“Indeed? I like him better already.” Nash paused and stared down at the pile. “Do you imagine that he got them all?” he asked a little hopefully.
“I am certain of it,” said de Vendenheim. “Kemble is very thorough. He rolled up the carpets, pried up the floorboards, and took the mirrors off the walls. There is nothing left in that house which one of us has not seen.”
Nash felt a sagging sense of relief. At last. He had them all.
“Do you know, Nash, we are an awfully lot alike, you and I,” remarked de Vendenheim out of nowhere.
“Indeed?” Nash lifted his gaze from the letters. “How so?”
De Vendenheim flashed an acerbic smile. “Oh, I suspect we both often feel like outsiders here,” he answered. “We will never really be English, you and I, despite my position in the Government, despite your lofty title or your father’s
name. And society will always account us different.”
“The latter little troubles me,” said Nash.
De Vendenheim’s smile faded. “We are alike in another way, too,” he continued. “We are arrogant, and entirely too certain of our opinions. I hope you will think long and hard, Lord Nash, before you close any doors which cannot be reopened. I very nearly did that once, a few years past. And now I thank God every day that I did not do so. My life…it would have been ruined, I now realize.”
Nash did not know how to reply to that. After a few parting words, he bowed his way out of de Vendenheim’s office, feeling far more charitable toward the man, and walked slowly toward Mayfair, his mind a whirling chaos.
Tony was safe. Jenny would never dare show her face in England again. Both those realizations were a relief to Nash. But it was not enough. The questions about Xanthia still tormented him.
He hoped he had hidden the depth of his despair from de Vendenheim. What Xanthia had done had hurt him, and more deeply than he wished anyone to know. But the letter de Vendenheim had shown him was a bit of a balm to his wounds, he supposed. Perhaps she had begun their affaire for all the wrong reasons, but it seemed she had come to believe in him. That was something, wasn’t it?
Actually, it was quite a lot. Her letter to de Vendenheim had been cold and concise. She was washing her hands of the matter and ordering Mr. Kemble off her property. Nash tried to think it through. Had she meant it? She must have done; there was no other reason to say it.
Nash remembered something else de Vendenheim had said—something which, in the midst of Nash’s hurt and anger, had not properly registered. The Home Office agents had approached Xanthia—and Rothewell—but only after Sharpe’s ball. A few days after, de Vendenheim had said. The passionate kiss which they had shared, then, had not been a setup at all. Perhaps the sudden desire which had flared between them had been as real as he had once believed.
