Never Lie to a Lady

by Liz Carlyle

  Ah, but his life was in England now. Nash had been fourteen when his father had married Edwina, his very distant, very English cousin in a match arranged within the family. It was a far cry from his first marriage, for Edwina was a pale, pretty girl, newly widowed by a blue-blooded, black sheep of a husband. She had a small child in tow and scarcely two shillings to rub together.

  Nash’s mother had descended from the noble houses of Russia and Eastern Europe. The blood of czars, vladikas, and the great khans had coursed hot and fierce through her veins—and told in her temper, too. She had been a dark, vibrant beauty. But she had also been spoilt, given to terrible tantrums, and entirely too certain of her own worth. And never, ever had she been satisfied with her lot in life.

  She had been particularly dissatisfied with her short life in England, and had made no secret of her disdain. Perhaps that was why society so often cut Nash a sidelong glance. Perhaps they were wondering just how alike he and his volatile mother were.

  Nash was stirred from his reverie by the sound of someone softly clearing his throat. He looked up to see Swann hovering in the gloom, already wearing his overcoat and clutching his tall beaver hat. “You wished to see me, sir?”

  “Working late again, eh?” Not that he left the poor devil much choice, Nash reminded himself. “Pour yourself a dram, Swann, and sit down.”

  His man of affairs did as he was bid. “What may I do for you, my lord?” he asked when he was settled.

  Nash gently swirled his vodka in his glass. “What do you hear, Swann, from our friend in Belgravia?” he asked. “Has the Comtesse de Montignac returned to England?”

  “Not yet, my lord,” said Swann. “She remains in Cherbourg, so far as it is known.”

  “And what of her husband?”

  “He remains with her,” said his man of affairs. “De Montignac has quarreled again with the French foreign minister—a lover’s spat, or so ‘tis whispered—and it is believed he has been sent away in disgrace.”

  Nash relaxed into his chair. “Excellent news,” he murmured. “Perhaps they will both stay in Cherbourg.”

  Swann smiled ruefully. “I doubt it, my lord,” he said. “They love too well the diplomatic limelight and the privilege it grants them.”

  “Not to mention the opportunities it gives them,” said Nash sourly. He put it from his mind, however, and turned the topic to the one which he found inexplicably more pressing. “The woman I was enquiring about this morning, Swann,” he began. “I wish to learn one thing more—something which you may more discreetly discover than I.”

  “You are speaking of Miss Neville?”

  “Indeed,” said Nash. “I paid the lady’s brother a call this afternoon.”

  “Did you?” said Swann in mild surprise. “May I ask, sir, what manner of man you found him to be?”

  “A man who lives hard, by the look of him,” said Nash grimly. “A hulking, rather rough-edged fellow, with the hands of a farm laborer—and yet he possessed no artifice which I could see. What is it the English call such a man? Ah, yes, a colonial.”

  “One ought not be surprised, I daresay,” said Swann. “He was not above five or six years when sent out to the West Indies.”

  “Yes, but do you not find it odd the girl was sent as well?” mused Nash. “She must have been an infant. One wonders a more genteel situation could not have been found for her.”

  “I’m told their aunt is Lady Bledsoe,” said Swann. “Hardly the most charitable of women.”

  “Yes, she’s an old battle-axe, as I recall,” Nash murmured. “But her daughter, Lady Sharpe, is thought quite kind, is she not?”

  “So it is said,” Swann agreed. “In any case, the children were sent out to Lady Bledsoe’s elder brother, who had been exiled to the West Indies by the family when quite a young man.”

  “Exiled, eh?”

  “He shot a man dead, sir,” said Swann. “Not in a duel, but in a drunken rage. The family had to cover it up, and now, no one seems to remember much about him.”

  “Rothewell and his sister have been back in England but four months,” said Nash, almost to himself. “I wonder what brought them?”

  “Was that what you wished to learn, my lord?”

  “Actually, no.” Nash set his glass aside with an awkward clatter. “No, the young lady is said to be betrothed—or something just short of it. I should like to know to whom.”

  “To whom she is betrothed?” Swann was staring at him.

  “Yes, if it can be learnt discreetly,” Nash snapped. “What of it?”

  Despite the gloom, Swann looked to be blushing. “I—I beg your pardon, sir,” he said swiftly. “I shall make enquiries. Discreet enquiries.”

  “Yes, damned discreet,” gritted Nash. “I shall meet you here tomorrow at—say, half past four?”

  “Tomorrow, sir?” Swann shifted uneasily in his chair.

  Nash lifted one eyebrow. “Have you a problem with that?”

  “My…my mother, sir?” he gently prompted.

  Nash cursed beneath his breath. Just this morning, a message had arrived to say that Swann’s mother had been taken ill. That, no doubt, was the reason the man had worked so late tonight. “Bloody hell,” he said. “Swann, my apologies. Never mind this foolishness. What time do you go?”

  Swann swallowed hard. “Tomorrow morning at five, my lord. On the Brighton coach.”

  Nash rose, forcing Swann to do likewise. “I shall bid you a safe journey, then,” he said, offering his hand. “And your mother a swift recovery. Go and snatch a few hours’ sleep while you may.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Swann already had his hat in hand. His vodka sat untouched.

  Nash watched him depart, feeling altogether too self-centered, and more than a little sheepish. To whom she was betrothed indeed! What difference did it make? The woman was plainly no threat to him.

  Or was she?

  There were many kinds of threats, Nash considered, going to the nearest window and drawing back one of the drapes. He wondered at the twist of fate which had left it to him to guard himself and his family from all of them—some nebulous, and some frightfully well defined. There was Edwina’s regrettable habit of taking too much wine, then playing too deep at the card table. His elderly aunts’ predilection to believe every rotter and scoundrel with a tale of misfortune to tell and a pair of pockets to let. And then there was Tony’s unfortunate tendency to—

  Oh, how ridiculous! This threat fell into none of those categories, did it? This could not taint his stepmother’s good name, or ruin his brother’s political career. No, the only thing threatened by Miss Neville seemed to be Nash’s peace of mind. But peace of mind could be bought with enough vodka and enough sex.

  Nash took one last look at the flickering lamps along Park Lane, then let the heavy drape fall and returned to his shadows and his decanter. The coals were half-dead now, their fierce glow reduced to a mere tracery of crimson, blood-bright against the heap of dark cinders. Ashes to ashes. And thus went the world and everything in it, eventually. Nash took up his vodka again and resolved to think no more of Miss Neville’s breathless sighs. His lust, too, would eventually burn down to nothing.

  Just then, there was a faint sound at the library door. He looked up to see Vernon in the shadows. “Your pardon, my lord, but Mrs. Hayden-Worth has called.”

  Jenny? How very odd. “Show her in, Vernon.”

  A moment later, Tony’s wife swept in. She wore a carriage dress of deep blue, and her fiery hair was swept up beneath a small but elaborate hat. “Nash!” she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “I was trying to catch up with Tony, but Vernon tells me I have missed him.”

  “Yes, gone back to Whitehall, I’m afraid.” Nash gestured toward the fire. “Will you join me, my dear? I shall send for a little sherry.”

  “Oh, no, I can stay but a moment.” Jenny smiled and seated herself on the very edge of the chair. “How do you go on, Nash?”

  “Quite well, I thank you,” he sai
d. “What of you? I thought you were in Hampshire.”

  “I’ve just this instant got back from Brierwood,” she said brightly. “Nash, you really must see Phaedra. She is looking quite the grown-up lady nowadays.”

  “I saw her at Christmastime,” Nash reminded her. “Yes, Phae is a beauty—but a clever beauty, thank God.”

  Jenny shot him a chiding look. “That’s all very well, Nash,” said his sister-in-law. “But she must be clever enough to hide it. Men do not wish to marry intelligent girls, but merely young and pretty girls.”

  “I do not think you speak for all men, Jenny,” Nash countered.

  Jenny was undeterred. “And the spectacles must go,” she continued. “They are not in the least becoming. You must speak to her, Nash. Edwina is perfectly cowed by the chit.”

  “Edwina leans on Phae,” said Nash. “There is nothing wrong with that.”

  Jenny made a pout with her lips. “Well, I am going to haul the child off to Paris one day,” she warned, “and have some decent gowns made up. She looks depressingly drab.”

  “Thank you, Jenny,” said Nash. “You may send the bills to me, of course.”

  Jenny’s warm smile returned. “I shall, then,” she said. “What fun. Thank you, Nash.”

  Nash tapped thoughtfully on his chair arm. “That reminds me, Jenny,” he said. “The bills for Edwina’s house party next month—you must send them to me as well. I was thinking that since this is her fiftieth, there should be a nice gift. A tiara, perhaps? Or a diamond necklace? Tony will wish you to choose it, of course. Your taste in finery is impeccable.”

  Jenny tossed her hand dismissively. “Yes, but that’s eons away,” she said. “I shall think of something.” She had already begun to shift restlessly in her chair.

  “Well,” said Nash, setting his hands on his thighs as if to rise. “I mustn’t keep you. I am sure you must be road-weary.”

  Jenny was out of her chair in an instant. “A little, yes,” she admitted. “So sorry to trouble you.”

  “It is no trouble whatsoever,” said Nash, showing her to the door. “If I should run into Tony at White’s later, may I give him a message?”

  Jenny smiled again. “Just tell him that I am back in London for a few days, that is all.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, as they strolled down the passageway. “I am sure he will wish to come straight home.”

  “No, he needn’t,” said Jenny, as Vernon came forward with her cloak. “I am just going home to dress. I’ve a little soiree in Bloomsbury to drop in on.” She stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek again. “Good night, Nash.”

  “Good night, Jenny.”

  Nash watched her go down the steps with a little sadness in his heart. Jenny, he feared, was not particularly satisfied with her marriage—not that she had put forth much effort in that regard. But Nash did not especially blame her. It was Tony who had begun this debacle. Their marriage had been a mistake from the outset. But then, most marriages were, weren’t they?

  Perhaps there was a lesson there somewhere, Nash thought, as Jenny’s carriage began to roll down Park Lane. But did he need a lesson? Certainly not. The notion was almost laughable.

  “Shut the door, Vernon,” he said dully. “And ring for Gibbons. I believe I shall go out for the evening after all.”

  Chapter Four

  An Intrigue in Berkeley Square

  L ess than a se’night after her promise to Cousin Pamela, Xanthia found herself in Kieran’s study, wading through a fresh tide of invitations. Thus far they had attended only small, rather intimate events, save for one dreadful foray into Almack’s, but the season was nearing full swing. The reclusive Baron Rothewell and his spinster sister were suddenly the most popular couple in town—or so it felt—and Kieran was none too pleased about it.

  Today Xanthia had left Wapping a few minutes early, stealing away with a bolt of pale pink shantung which had arrived on the Maiden Fair just in from Shanghai. She’d glimpsed it being off-loaded, and found it irresistible. The shade was the perfect foil for Pamela’s eyes and hair, and would make up admirably into a dressing gown for her later months of confinement. When she delivered it to Hanover Street, Pamela cried most affectedly and thanked her again for helping Louisa.

  But in Berkeley Square, things were not so amiable. Her brother was in one of his cold moods and drinking as heavily as usual. With a flick of her wrist, Xanthia tossed the latest envelope onto the “unavoidable” pile as a heavy cart went rumbling past the open window. “Another musicale,” she said. “I know you despise them, but it’s Mrs. Fitzhugh, so there’s little to be done for it.”

  Her brother cursed beneath his breath. “Another evening of overweening prigs sawing back and forth on fiddles like a pair of cats mating?” he snarled. “Good God, I think I should rather be shot.”

  Do not tempt me, thought Xanthia. “I do not have time for this, either, Kieran,” she said warningly. “I feel as if am leaving everything to Gareth, merely to go gadding about London in satin and silk. Indeed, I can scarce sleep for thinking of what’s been left undone. And tomorrow is Lady Henslow’s picnic, which will consume the whole of my day.”

  Her brother’s dark glower did not abate. He sat in stony silence as a newsboy cried the day’s headlines, the rapid patter borne on the spring breeze from the depths of Berkeley Square. A sleek black gig whirled past the window, a pair of matched grays stepping high and sharp on the cobbles.

  When at last Kieran spoke, his tone had gentled. “Perhaps I should just remove to Cheshire after all, Zee,” he said. “You can hardly go about in society without my escort. Were I to leave Town, you would have an excuse.”

  For an instant, Xanthia was tempted. “But what of your tenant?” she asked. “And where would poor Louisa be? No, it is our family duty, Kieran.”

  He grunted, and tossed off the last of his brandy. “Family duty, my arse,” he said. “Who gave a damn for family duty when we were children? I should think losing one’s parents is a bloody sight more tragic than missing one’s come-out season.”

  Xanthia was silent for a long moment. “You are quite right,” she finally said. “But that was not Pamela’s doing. She was but a child, too.”

  “Yes, and what of Aunt Olivia?” he snapped. “She could fly down here on her broomstick tomorrow and see to the chit herself. But Aunt Olivia has never been much given to inconveniencing herself.”

  “She is Louisa’s grandmother,” Xanthia admitted. “And yes, you are right. She should do it. But she will not, Kieran, and we both know it. Besides, she is old. And so it falls to us. We must do our duty, even if others have at times failed us. Besides, it is not as though we were left to starve. Uncle put food on the table. He put a roof over our heads.”

  Kieran looked at her with an old, long-remembered hurt in his eyes. “I cannot believe you just said that, Zee,” he said quietly. “You, of all people.”

  There was no more to be said on the topic. The long years in Barbados were in the past, and best left there, too. Xanthia turned her attention back to the teetering pile of invitations.

  “Here is a ball for next Tuesday,” she said placatingly. “There will be a cardroom for you there, I am confident. And surely Louisa would rather dance than sit? I shall send our regrets to Mrs. Fitzhugh.”

  Her brother said nothing, but instead got up and went to the sideboard to refill his brandy. The decanter thudded lightly on the silver gallery tray just as the door opened to admit Trammel, their butler. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said. “Two gentlemen have called.”

  Kieran turned, glass in hand. “At this hour?”

  “Indeed, sir. From the Home Office.” Trammel extended an oval salver, which held two calling cards and a letter sealed with red wax.

  “What, to see me?”

  “How very odd!” said Xanthia, laying aside the ball invitations. “What sort of missive have you there, Trammel?”

  “A letter of introduction from Lord Sharpe, I collect,” said T
rammel on something of a sigh. “The callers are a Lord Vendenheim de—something-or-other. I cannot pronounce it. And a Mr. Kemble, who looks like a French fop—begging your lordship’s pardon, sir.”

  “They sound a merry pair,” said Kieran.

  Trammel relaxed. “I’ve put them in the upstairs parlor.”

  One eyebrow raised, Kieran opened the letter. “Sharpe begs me to give these gentlemen a moment of my time on a matter pertaining to…yes, to urgent government business,” he murmured. “What the devil, Zee?”

  Xanthia leaned forward in her chair. “I cannot think what these men might want of you.”

  Kieran shook his head. “I’m damned if I can make heads or tails of it,” he answered as his sister rose to take her leave. “Sharpe’s clearly in a state. He says it’s something to do with shipping. Or…or with transporting something to…to Greece? Bloody hell! What do I know of such things?” He motioned her back to her chair. “No, no, you’d best stay put, Zee.”

  Slowly, she sat back down.

  “Show them in here, Trammel,” said Kieran, flinging himself back into his desk chair. “I am disinclined to go far from my brandy. I’ll lay you a monkey this will be dull as ditchwater.”

  But Lord Rothewell was soon to be proven wrong. The men came into the room with a clear sense of purpose. The taller of the two, a lean, rather sinister-looking man, led the way, and introduced himself as the Vicomte de Vendenheim-Sélestat. More surprising than his foreign name and exotic appearance was his position.

  “I should tell you that I am attached—in the vaguest sense of the word—to Mr. Peel’s staff in the Home Office,” he said after Xanthia had been introduced and refreshment offered. “This is my associate, Mr. Kemble.”

  Kieran turned to the second, more foppish gentleman. “And you work for the Home Office, as well?” he asked, laying aside the man’s thick ivory calling card.