by Liz Carlyle
The thought inexplicably comforted Nash. But why? Xanthia had still led him a merry dance and betrayed him in the end. Hadn’t she? Nash shook his head to himself and almost stepped out in front of a brewer’s dray making the turn from Cockspur Street. The cart flew past, missing him but a few inches, the beefy, red-faced driver shaking his fist at Nash.
He stepped back onto the pavement and drew a deep breath. Good Lord. Had he survived a broken heart, a run-in with French police, and a fortnight in and out of Paris’s most notorious insane asylum simply to die beneath the wheels of a beer cart? The thought struck him as oddly hilarious. And the old adage was true. Life could be so bloody short.
Yes, life was short—and briefly, his had been sweet. Would it ever be so again? Would he ever feel the stirring of hope in his heart? Or the fleeting sense that there existed a perfect joy which was his for the taking? Would he ever dare to love again?
That might be difficult, when he had never stopped. No, despite his anger, he loved Xanthia still. But their joy had not been perfect. It had been flawed, just as life itself was flawed. Did he need perfection? Was that what he had loved? A perfect dream? A fantasy? Or was it just Xanthia, with all her human frailties and conflicted emotions?
She believed in you.
De Vendenheim had been emphatic. And really, what had she known about him at the first? Just two things: That he was the sort of man who would take shockingly intimate liberties with women whom he barely knew. And that he was arrogant enough to think he was being trapped into marriage because of it.
Yes, even then he had been leaping to conclusions about her character, whilst she had seemed to reserve judgment. The worst he had ever seen was mild irritation in her eyes—offset by her wry, quizzical smile. Yes, that day in her brother’s study, she had been all but laughing at his presumptuousness. She had teased him. But she had never truly upbraided him as he deserved.
Perhaps if she had judged his character on that one mistake—that angry, arrogant assumption which he had so quickly leapt to—then they would not now be in this mess. He would never have kissed her again. Never have made love to her. Never have decided that he wished to marry her.
Whatever her suspicions had been, whatever nonsense de Vendenheim had told her, in the end, he thought, she had been his. She had truly longed to be with him, he was almost certain. And he was not a man ordinarily given to flights of fancy, or to false hope. It was a part of what made him such a bloody good cardplayer. He could sense the essence of what people were, of what they were thinking.
What was Xanthia thinking now? he wondered. She was regretting all of it, he feared. She would take away precious little joy, perhaps not even a sliver of sweet memory, from all that they had shared together, given how things now stood between them. And suddenly, Nash found that heartbreaking.
Just then, somewhere above his head, a little bell jangled as if to recall him to the present. On his right, a white-aproned shopkeeper popped out of a tobacconist’s to sweep the front step, cutting a suspicious glance at Nash as he did so. It was only then that Nash realized that he was still standing at the foot of Cockspur Street. People were beginning to stream past him, en route to supper, or to a nearby coffee shop as their workday drew to a close. The tobacconist gave his broom a good whack against the step to shake out the loose dirt, went inside, and flipped over his CLOSED sign, then through the glass, shot Nash one last suspicious glower.
It was time to go home. Time to decide what must be done and what sacrifice his pride was willing to make. But suddenly, it seemed as if there was very little sacrifice involved. He went home, feeling a little hopeful but inordinately weary and emotionally drained.
Gibbons greeted him downstairs with a decanter of okhotnichya and a chilled glass.
With a rueful smile, Nash refused it. “What day is today, Gibbons?” he asked, collapsing into a chair.
“It is Tuesday, my lord,” said the valet.
Nash scrubbed at his day’s growth of beard thoughtfully. “Which means tomorrow is Wednesday,” he murmured.
“Yes, that’s generally how it works,” said Gibbons.
Nash did not even note the sarcasm. “Where is Swann?”
“In the library, my lord,” said Gibbons. “Shall I fetch him?”
“Yes, and send for my gig to be brought round,” he said. “Tell Swann we are going for a little drive into the City.”
“To the City, sir?” But Gibbons was halfway to the door. “At this hour?”
“Yes, to see my solicitors.” Nash’s rueful smile returned. “I don’t think they’ll shut the door whilst my foot is in it, do you?”
“Given what you pay them, I doubt it,” the valet agreed. “Shall I tell Swann why?”
“Yes, I have a new challenge for him,” said Nash musingly. “I need some important papers drawn up by tomorrow evening.”
“Indeed, sir?” said Gibbons. “Swann will need to know which files to take. What sort of papers do you require?”
“If I knew that, Gibbons, I would not need Swann, now, would I?” said Nash. “Now go on, you noisy old hen, and fetch the man in here. As you say, the day grows late.”
The valet sniffed affectedly. “Well, really, sir! I am only trying to help.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” said Nash evenly. “You are looking for gossip to trade over dinner tonight, more likely. But if you wish to help, brush and press my best suit of evening clothes for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, sir?”
“Yes, and I wish them to be perfect.”
The valet looked surprised. “You have a formal engagement, my lord?”
“No, Gibbons, I’m going wear them down to Mother Lucy’s whorehouse,” he returned. “Yes, I have a formal engagement. In point of fact, old chap, I am going down to Almack’s.”
The valet recoiled with horror. “To…to Almack’s, my lord?”
“Yes,” said Nash with mild satisfaction. “And with any luck at all, you’ll really have something to gossip about when I get back.”
Chapter Seventeen
A Waltz in St. James
X anthia was waiting by the front windows and wearing her favorite ball gown, a rather frothy creation in ice blue satin, when Lord Sharpe’s carriage drew up in Berkeley Square. Knowing full well Lady Louisa’s tendency toward tardiness, Xanthia had anticipated her late arrival. She hastened down the front steps just as Sharpe’s footman opened the carriage door. But when she climbed up into the carriage, it was to find both forward seats occupied.
“Oh!” she said in some surprise. “Aunt Olivia.”
Her aunt glared imperiously through her lorgnette. “Sit down, girl,” she said. “What is that on your bosom? Cake icing and whipped cream?”
“Grandmamma, it is ruching and lace,” Lady Louisa complained. “I think she looks very fetching.”
Xanthia ignored both of them. The pair had been squabbling for the last month, and each day Xanthia assumed, would be her aunt’s last. Spending the latter half of the season in London had done nothing for Olivia’s haughty disposition. Still, her continued presence had got Xanthia off the hook, socially speaking, on several occasions.
“I thought you had planned to return to Suffolk today, Aunt,” she said, carefully arranging her skirts.
Aunt Olivia sniffed disdainfully, making her diamond earbobs jiggle. “What, and leave a job half-done?” she answered. “This chit needs a husband, and the season is nearly over.”
It was on the tip of Xanthia’s tongue to tell the old woman to suit herself, then clamber back out of the carriage. Xanthia would have much preferred to stay home and lick her wounds in private. But she hesitated a moment too long. The steps went up, the door thumped shut, and they set off toward St. James with a jerk and a jingle of harnesses.
“Well, what a treat this is,” Xanthia managed, settling her spine against the velvet banquette. “Almack’s, with my favorite cousin and my only aunt.”
The drive down to St. James was but a short one,
thank heaven, since Olivia and Louisa continued to peck at one another for the duration. Inside the ballroom, the air was already growing stuffy, and if there had been any ice at all in the orgeat, it had long ago melted, leaving the dreadful concoction more insipid than ever.
Aunt Olivia had her lorgnette up again and was surveying the room. “Where is he?” she muttered to herself, thumping her walking stick on the ballroom floor. “Show yourself, you fainthearted fool.”
“To whom are you speaking, Aunt?” asked Xanthia. Louisa was fanning herself furiously.
“Cartselle’s boy,” grunted Aunt Olivia from behind the glass. “The chit wants him—and so she shall have him. Before the season is out, too, I vow. And then I shall go home.”
“And how do you plan to do it?” asked Xanthia.
“I shall employ the green-eyed monster,” said Aunt Olivia, dropping her lorgnette. “Ah, he is just there, Louisa, by the windows! Come along now. I wish you to dance with every gentleman in attendance whilst I go exchange gossip with Lady Cartselle.”
Xanthia hung back, half-afraid of what her aunt might do. But most likely, she would achieve her objective. For all her absence from Town, Lady Bledsoe was still a grand dragon of the ton, and few had the strength to stand in her way. Xanthia gave an inward shrug and looked about for something with which to amuse herself—well, perhaps amuse was not the right word. What she needed was something which would keep her from bursting into tears at an inopportune moment—a habit she seemed to have developed of late.
Just then, across the crowded ballroom, she spied some neighbors from Berkeley Square who had a daughter Louisa’s age. They looked as weary as Xanthia felt. Perhaps it was time to commiserate? Xanthia set her orgeat on the tray of a passing footman and hastened off in their direction.
Lord Nash presented himself at Almack’s at precisely a quarter to eleven, fashionably late, yet just early enough to avoid incurring the wrath of the persnickety patronesses. He made his way into the ballroom as languidly as possible whilst pretending he did not notice the stares and whispers which came his way.
He nodded in acknowledgment to the few gentlemen he knew. Then, taking up a place opposite the orchestra, he looked about the room. It took but a moment to catch sight of Lord Sharpe’s chit. She was dancing a quadrille with a fresh-faced lad who possessed a startling shock of red hair. Her smile was almost falsely bright as they bobbed and weaved their way through the delicate steps of the dance.
Xanthia was here, then. Nash was sure of it, though he saw her nowhere. Already he felt her presence in the room. He was suddenly very grateful that Swann had kept up the subscription to this frivolous little affair. Nash had expected to have to bludgeon his way in—if one could bludgeon past Almack’s steely-eyed gorgons. But good old Swann, ever determined to keep up appearances, had once again laid smooth his path.
And so he was here—and feeling more than a little nervous, though he would have admitted it to no one this side of the afterlife. His unease aside, however, Nash had given quite a lot of thought to what he was about to do. If only he could find Xanthia, perhaps the nervousness would pass, and his visceral certainty would return.
Suddenly, he noticed an elderly woman leaning on a gold-knobbed walking stick near the windows. His heart sank. It was Lady Bledsoe, he was unutterably certain, though he had met her but two or three times in his youth. And if she was here, it probably meant Xanthia was not…
No. Xanthia was here. His every nerve was vibrating with the certainty of it. On impulse, he set a determined course for Lady Bledsoe. The old battle-ax caught sight of him and lifted a bejeweled lorgnette to her eyes.
“Lord Nash is it?” she said, peering haughtily at him. “Or do my eyes deceive?”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Nash bowed stiffly. “I trust I find you well?”
The old lady sniffed, and lowered the glass. “Well enough, I daresay,” she replied. “You know Lady Cartselle, do you not?”
He leaned forward to see her ladyship standing on Lady Bledsoe’s opposite side. “Indeed, I attended her delightful masque a few weeks past.”
“Did you?” said Lady Bledsoe archly.
“How do you do, Lord Nash?” twittered Lady Cartselle.
“What a shock to see you here,” said Lady Bledsoe, when her companion had turned away again. “Tell me, how is that silly mother of yours, my boy?”
“I believe you mean my stepmother, ma’am?”
“Yes, whatever,” said Lady Bledsoe. “Still as scatty as ever, is she?”
“Edwina does have her own sort of charm,” said Nash. “But I am excessively fond of her.”
Lady Bledsoe harrumphed. “I daresay,” she answered.
Nash was saved from a further reply by Sharpe’s chit, who returned to her aunt’s side on the arm of her red-haired partner, breathless.
“Ah, there you are, my pet!” said Lady Bledsoe a little loudly. “Make your curtsy, Louisa, to Lady Cartselle and Lord Nash.”
Lady Louisa did so. The red-haired lad accepted his dismissal with grace.
“Now who is your next partner, my pet?” asked Lady Bledsoe, snatching her granddaughter’s card. “Oh, excellent! The Marquess of Langtrell! What a lovely man!” Then, aside to Lady Cartselle, she said, “Lady Louisa has been engaged for every dance this season, you know. She has taken very well indeed. One can hardly walk through Sharpe’s drawing room without tripping over another vase of flowers, or some puppy awaiting an audience.”
“Indeed?” said Lady Cartselle. “What an inconvenience that must be.”
Lady Bledsoe smiled. “So I should think, but her papa is thrilled.”
Lady Cartselle turned a vague smile upon the chit. “How lovely you look tonight, my dear,” she said. “I do hope you saved a dance for Peter?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, I fear I did not,” she said almost rotely. “Ought I have done?”
Her grandmother patted her hand. “There, there, dear child,” she said. “The early bird gets the worm, does he not?”
The chit wrinkled her nose. “Eww, Grandmamma!”
Lady Cartselle opened her mouth as if to protest the oversight; but just then, true to her grandmother’s prediction, the girl’s next partner swooped in to claim her.
With a fleeting but satisfied smile, Lady Bledsoe returned her narrow gaze to Nash. “And what of you, my boy?” she murmured. “The rumor mill has it that you have been petticoat-chasing in earnest—and a lady of quality this time. I should have a care, if I were you.”
“How kind of you to give advice,” said Nash dryly. “I have so little experience with petticoats.”
The old woman cackled. “I said in earnest,” she reminded. “And yes, you have too much experience to suit me. Tread cautiously, Nash. Sometimes the only thing which truly tempts us is the thing which we cannot have.”
“My, you are practically oozing sage advice, ma’am,” he murmured, his eyes running over the crowd. “But I think you need not worry yourself on my behalf.”
“Oh, I shan’t,” she reassured him. “But poor Edwina—now, there’s the rub! Lady Henslow has frequently mentioned how often her sister frets herself into a state over you—not to mention that glad-handing stepbrother of yours.”
Nash breathed a small sigh of relief. It seemed Lady Bledsoe had caught wind of a rumor but no name to go with it. Thank God Edwina’s relatives had kept their mouths shut about the debacle at Brierwood. No one but immediate family knew Xanthia had been there—he hoped.
Nash plucked a glass of something dubious from the tray of a passing footman and carefully considered his next words. “I think Edwina may soon cease her fretting, ma’am,” he murmured over the rim of the glass. “Indeed, I shall do my best to ensure it.”
“Shall you?” The old lady looked at him suspiciously. “I rather doubt that, my boy. And now that I think on it, what is a man of your ilk doing in Almack’s anyway?”
Nash hesitated but an instant. “I have decided to look about f
or a wife, Lady Bledsoe,” he coolly answered. “Is this not the proper venue for such an endeavor?”
“Do not be ridiculous.” She rapped his knuckles with her lorgnette, almost causing him to drop his glass. “You are not the marrying type.”
Nash turned to look at her pointedly. “A man can reform, can he not?” he murmured. “Tell me, Lady Bledsoe—who amongst this fair gathering would you recommend?”
“None of them!” she responded. “If you must marry, Nash, for God’s sake, chose someone of experience if you can find her. A widow. Or a woman of common sense. I vow, you would scare a debutante to death.”
“Then introduce me to your niece, Miss Neville,” Nash suggested. “Is she here?”
Lady Bledsoe’s visage stiffened. “Xanthia?” she answered. “Surely you jest?”
Nash shrugged. “Is she not an uncommonly sensible woman?”
Lady Bledsoe looked at him askance. “Well, yes, but…”
Nash smiled. “Surely, ma’am, you worry unnecessarily,” he said. “A sensible woman could hardly be lured in by a man of my reputation.”
The old woman laughed. “No, not that one, I’ll vow,” she said. “You are quite right. She won’t give you the time of day—though perhaps she ought, given how long she’s been on the shelf.”
“A small wager on it, then, ma’am?” Nash suggested. “Twenty pounds, perhaps? Just to make your victory ever more sweet?”
Lady Bledsoe considered it. “Very well, you upstart,” she said. “Twenty pounds says the girl won’t so much as dance with you.”
Lord Nash extended his hand. “You are on, ma’am.”
Lady Bledsoe put her nose in the air, lifted her lorgnette, and went clomping across the ballroom at a healthy clip despite her stick. In a distant corner, tucked behind some withering palms, Xanthia was parting company with a smiling, middle-aged couple. Upon seeing her aunt’s approach with Nash in tow, she stiffened, color flooding her face.
Swiftly, Lady Bledsoe made the introductions.
“I—yes, thank you, Aunt,” Xanthia stammered. “But I already have the pleasure of Lord Nash’s acquaintance.”
