by Liz Carlyle
“I would not do that,” he answered. “Oldfield is a good tenant, and Brierwood is profitable enough without my stepping up on the backs of my own farmers.”
“Then perhaps you should tell him so,” Xanthia suggested. “At Neville’s, we sometimes pay a premium in order to retain a more experienced captain for a certain voyage. In the end, it is for the best, even though the man may sit idle a few weeks more than he otherwise might. Perhaps Mr. Oldfield should begin looking about for a fine, strong husband for one of those daughters? Perhaps he would do precisely that had he some guarantee of retaining his lease.”
Nash laughed, and covered her hand with his most protectively. “You are always planning and strategizing, aren’t you, my dear?” His mood seemed considerably lightened. “And as usual, you are not wrong. I will speak to my estate agent, and we will see what can be arranged for Oldfield.”
“I think it will be to your advantage,” she said. “A farm is like any other business. One must always think long-term.”
He drew her closer, and tightened his grip on her hand. “Do you know, Xanthia, how much I like having you here?” he asked quietly. “I value your thoughts and ideas. Your enthusiasm is almost contagious.”
Another crack of the bat rang out, and a second cheer went up from the field. Xanthia barely heard it. As if by mutual agreement, she and Nash had slowed to a halt. She had turned on the graveled path to face him and to study the harsh, lean planes of his face. He lowered his thick black eyelashes, and something in her heart leapt. Her stomach twisted with an ache which was not sexual desire, but something deeper and more fearsome. It was a yearning—a wish to spend every day of her life like this. With this man. Simply hanging on his arm and discussing the events of the day together.
She set one hand against his chest, an intimate and instinctive gesture. But she dropped it at once, remembering where they were. Nash’s dark eyes snapped opened, and his gaze drifted over her, searching her face.
What was he asking of her? she wondered again. Where was this going? There was something…an unasked question. A hesitation. Something. Or perhaps it was but wishful thinking on her part. Xanthia blushed and turned away.
Just then, the sound of a carriage reached her ears. She looked past Nash’s shoulder to see a solid black barouche drawn by four glossy black horses come hurling down the carriage drive. There was a flash of recognition, and then…uncertainty. With a slightly unsteady hand, she pointed. “Stefan, who is that?”
Nash glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. “Just another of Edwina’s friends, I daresay.”
But it was not a friend of Lady Nash’s. Xanthia somehow sensed it. A little numbly, she turned and watched the carriage draw up before the massive double staircase. Two footmen went down the steps to meet them. With a cheerful wave, Lady Nash hastened from the white tent and started across the gardens. They were expecting guests. Luggage. Conviviality.
But these were not guests. Xanthia suddenly remembered where she had seen the carriage. She closed her eyes on a wave of nausea. Nash’s hands come out to steady her shoulders.
“My dear, are you all right?”
She set the back of her hand to her forehead. “Yes, I—I think…it is just the sun.”
“How thoughtless of me,” he murmured, his grip tightening. He escorted her to a nearby bench. “I wished to have you all to myself for a moment,” he said, fanning her with his hat. “When you are feeling better, I shall return you to Edwina’s tent.”
She nodded, but within moments, she heard footsteps crunching in the gravel. It was one of Brierwood’s footmen. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said. “There are two gentlemen just down from London who urgently wish to speak with you.”
Nash’s expression darkened. “I have guests.”
“Yes, sir,” the footman acknowledged. “But they say it is an emergency, my lord. They have come from Whitehall in some haste.”
“Good Lord, Whitehall?” Nash shook his head. “You’ve misunderstood. It’s my stepbrother they want.”
The footman shook his head. “No, my lord,” he answered. “They were very clear. Shall…shall I ask them to leave, sir?”
Nash looked down at Xanthia, who was still fighting the urge to retch. She let her hand slide from his arm. “You had better go,” she said quietly.
“Walk with me back to the house.” His face was lined with worry.
Xanthia drew away. “No, I—I am feeling better now,” she murmured. “I had best find my brother. People are staring. Please go.”
Nash nodded curtly and moved away.
Xanthia watched him stride across the gardens, tears pressing against her eyes, hot and desperate. Her every instinct screamed at her to go. To follow him. To protest his innocence—if indeed it was an accusation which had brought de Vendenheim so far from London.
But of course it was an accusation. And once Nash heard it—once he fully grasped all that had gone on—the very last person whose support or consolation he would wish for would be hers. Her only hope was that he would not fully grasp it—that he would never know just what had gone on or who had been involved—but it was a faint hope indeed. Xanthia set her hand on her diaphragm in an attempt to quell the nausea and set off in search of Kieran.
Nash escorted his unexpected guests into the Chinese salon, the room nearest the great hall, and bade them be seated. He glanced at the cards which the gentlemen had presented. “I hope you will understand, Lord de Vendenheim-Sélestat, that I have a houseful of guests,” said the marquess without sitting down.
“Just de Vendenheim will do,” said his guest.
The man was both leaner and taller, even, than Nash himself, which was most unusual. His eyes were heavy and hooded, and his olive skin was certainly not that of an Englishman.
The man’s piercing black gaze caught Nash’s. “Italian,” he said. “And Alsatian.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are speculating as to my origin,” said the man calmly. “No, I am not English.”
“I daresay that’s no one’s business save yours,” Nash returned.
“Nonetheless, sometimes it is easier simply to dispense with the curiosity,” said de Vendenheim.
“You must suit yourself.” Nash smiled faintly, then returned his gaze to the cards. “And…Mr. Kemble, is it? Do we know one another, sir?”
“Perhaps we’ve met,” said the man vaguely.
“Ah.” Nash laid the cards aside and sat down. “Well, I cannot imagine what the Government wants with me. After all, I take so little interest in it. In any case, how may I help?”
The man called de Vendenheim looked suddenly ill at ease. He cleared his throat roughly. “The Home Office has been making certain enquiries, Lord Nash, regarding some irregularities within the diplomatic community,” he began. “We would like to ask you certain questions in relation to those irregularities.”
“I do not know anyone to speak of within the diplomatic corps,” said Nash calmly.
There was a flicker of satisfaction in de Vendenheim’s eyes. “Oh, but we think you do,” he responded. “The Comte de Montignac, an attaché to the French embassy, has been in receipt of a large sum of money—your money, to put it plainly.”
Lord Nash went perfectly still. Alarm surged, but somehow he managed to suppress it. The memory of that tawdry night in Belgravia came back to him—and the threat which had followed some weeks later at Lady Cartselle’s masque. But it had been the Comtesse de Montignac’s threat, not her husband’s. And why would the Home Office give a damn about what was little more than a case of subtle blackmail?
“Lord Nash?” said de Vendenheim.
The marquess cleared his throat. “Whatever lies the Comtesse de Montignac may have told you are simply that,” he said quietly. “Lies.”
“But you gave her money to pass on to her husband, did you not?” said Mr. Kemble certainly. “A large sum of money. We should simply like to know why.”
Nash glowered at
the man, wishing to the devil he could place him. “It is none of your damned business, sir,” he said stiffly. “I do not owe you any explanation, and indeed, I shan’t give you one. And no matter how one looks at it, it is hardly the business of the Home Office.”
De Vendenheim’s frown deepened. “Diplomats are prohibited from accepting bribes from citizens of the country to which they are assigned.”
At that, Nash threw back his head and laughed. “Prohibited by whom, de Vendenheim?” he asked, incredulous. “By their home country? Surely you are not so naive. In any case, the Home Office should concern itself with English law—none of which I have broken. As to French law, why, the entire government of France would collapse were bribery and blackmail to cease.”
He could see de Vendenheim’s frustration growing. “You do not seem to take this matter with the gravity it warrants, Lord Nash,” he snapped. “I can assure you, England still considers treason a hanging offense.”
“Treason?” said Nash very quietly. “By God, that is a dangerous word to bandy about, sir. You must hold your life cheap indeed if you dare come into my home and fling it at me.”
De Vendenheim did not look especially concerned. “I won’t give you satisfaction, Nash, if that’s what you are after,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “I am no gentleman, and I do not feel compelled to behave as stupidly as some of them do.”
Nash started from behind the desk. “Actually, I would feel pretty well satisfied to simply throttle you here and—”
“Please, Lord Nash!” Mr. Kemble held up a staying hand. “Might I suggest we all pause a moment to collect ourselves? My friend here has let his concern get the better of his tongue.”
“Yes, and his sense, too,” said Nash, “—if he has any.”
“But certain facts do remain, my lord,” Mr. Kemble calmly continued. “And some of them are, on their face, treasonous. French and English couriers have been secretly coming and going from the vicinity of this house for over eight months now, and—”
“What, you people have set spies on me?” Nash roared. “You have been watching my house? What else, I wonder, have you been up to?”
For an instant, Kemble faltered. “Only what was thought necessary, my lord,” he finally said. “You see, a few weeks past, one of the couriers was murdered at the White Lion Inn, just five miles south. He carried, as most of them likely did, some very interesting information well hidden upon his person, much of it in code.”
A grave unease was creeping over Nash, but he fought it down. “But you said from the vicinity of this house,” he repeated. “Not from this house.”
“We have no witness who can put any of them within the walls of this house, no,” Kemble admitted.
“Then I think this conversation is finished, gentlemen.”
Mr. Kemble glanced at de Vendenheim with an I-told-you-so expression.
De Vendenheim returned his steady gaze to Nash. “It took some time to decode the cache of papers found on the dead man,” he said. “But when we did, we found a list of weapons to be smuggled, and a map to this specific house, with this address written on it. I do not think we will need a witness, Lord Nash.”
“Weapons to be smuggled?” Nash felt the blood literally drain from his face. “Good Lord. Weapons from where? And to whom?”
“We are not at liberty to say,” said de Vendenheim.
Nash jerked to his feet. “By God, this is a serious charge you have hurled at me,” he said. “I think honor compels you to explain it.”
For an instant, de Vendenheim considered it. “Very well,” he finally said. “American rifles. Carbines, to be precise. And they are believed to be going to the Greek revolutionaries via France. Does that sound in any way familiar?”
“Carbines?” Dear God…
Nash could not get his breath. He paced toward the window, praying for clarity. For control. He had to think; to focus on what it all might mean. He knew he could not let de Vendenheim see him rattled. He set one hand on his hip and stared out into the brilliance of spring, at the innocence and gaiety holding forth on his lawns. How carefree everyone looked. And how very harsh the world could be. Smuggled rifles! He had been given a hard scrape from which to drag the family this time—if any of this were true…
“Lord Nash, these weapons are in transit even as we speak,” de Vendenheim continued from across the room. “I am warning you—our government will not allow them to reach Greece. We need to know where that ship is this very moment, so that the Royal Navy may board it. Lives are at stake here.”
The marquess whirled around. “And you think I know where the damned thing is?”
“Someone in this house does,” said de Vendenheim quietly. “And we know, Lord Nash, that you have connections in Russia. We know your family has a history of antipathy toward the Turks.”
“My family has a history of being murdered by the Turks, you fool,” spit Nash. “As do the Greeks. As do the Albanians. Tell me, de Vendenheim, have you interviewed every bloody foreigner in this country? Because that is what it may well take to get the answer you seek.”
De Vendenheim looked as if he might spring from his chair at any moment. Mr. Kemble must have sensed it, for he rose, went to his companion, and set a hand on his shoulder as if to restrain him. “Lord Nash, the map bore the address of this house,” he said quietly. “There is no escaping that fact. Now, perhaps if you would simply work with us to—”
“Who are you?” Nash suddenly snapped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just who the hell are you?” Nash stalked toward him. “By God, I know have seen you somewhere—and very recently, too.”
Mr. Kemble let his hand fall and made no answer.
Nash felt his vision begin to darken, as if he might faint. Or commit murder. “In Wapping!” he muttered. “Yes, you were in Wapping, were you not? At Neville Shipping. I saw you there.”
Mr. Kemble smiled faintly. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you would not remember,” he said quietly. “Most people would not have, you know. They never see the servants who are there, simply toiling in the background.”
A servant? This man was no servant.
“What were you doing there?” he rasped, already fearing the answer. “What? Tell me, by God!”
Again the visitors exchanged telling glances. De Vendenheim spoke first. “You must not blame Lord Rothewell or his sister,” he said quietly.
Nash tried to absorb the words, tried to find another meaning for them. He could not. His ire was turning into a strange sense of foreboding and to something worse. A sickening fear. Just then, a firm knock sounded on the door. Nash strode across the room and jerked open the door. In one sweep, his eyes took in the brace of pale footmen beyond, and Tony on the threshold. Across the great hall stood Xanthia and Rothewell. Rothewell looked grave. Xanthia was whispering something in his ear, her face bloodless, her expression urgent.
Xanthia. His eyes caught hers, beseeching. Begging. She looked away.
Nash’s knees felt suddenly as if they might buckle. A stake had just been driven into his heart. It was as if unconquerable waves of grief and anger were crashing down on him, as if his ship were sinking, splintering to jetsam beneath his very feet, leaving him to grasp at the wreckage as he wondered whom to save—and whom to let drown.
Good God. Xanthia. It was not possible. It was not.
Tony stepped into the room. Nash drew in a ragged breath and somehow forced his attention to his stepbrother, who still wore his cricket whites. “Stefan, you look ill,” asked Tony very quietly. “Mamma said there was angry shouting. Is everything all right?”
Nash seized Tony by the arm. “You will excuse me,” he said to de Vendenheim over his shoulder. “I wish a moment of privacy with my brother.”
Nash propelled Tony away from Rothewell and down the opposite corridor in haste. He had to force himself to walk, to think. His hands were shaking now. He wanted to run back to Xanthia, and demand the truth. But t
he truth would kill him. Indeed, it already had.
“Where are we going?” Tony’s voice was edged with alarm. “Who the devil are those fellows?”
“They are your worst nightmare, Tony,” Nash gritted, pushing open the library door. “And we must decide just what’s to be done about it—and we must decide now.”
With the door closed, Nash dragged both hands through his hair. But it was not Tony’s decision to make, was it? It was his life which lay in tatters, for Tony’s might yet be saved. Nash wanted to sob. To let his fists fly at someone—Tony, Kemble, de Vendenheim, anyone—anyone but her—and hurt them badly. He had been spied upon. The man named Kemble had not been at Neville Shipping by accident. And Xanthia had not been in his bed by accident. The inescapable horror of it was pressing down upon him.
“What did I do, Nash?” asked Tony quietly. “And what can I do to help?”
“Tony,” said Nash grimly, “if you had done what I have been asking you to do these last five years—to take hold of your wife, and keep her in check—you would need do nothing now.”
Tony’s face paled until it matched his cricket whites. “Dear God,” he rasped. “What has Jenny done this time?”
“I think I can guess,” Nash growled. “But I cannot yet prove it. Look, Tony, we have no time. I wish you to go upstairs and collect your things. We must go. Now.”
“Go?” he said incredulously. “But what about Mamma’s party?”
“I am sorry,” said Nash curtly. “This is your political career we are talking about, Tony. I think I know what your choice will be. Now go find Gibbons and tell him he’s to put up my kit—and my cashbox. I want them downstairs in five minutes. I am going to the stables to have your carriage made ready and brought round.”
He had Tony’s full attention now. “In two minutes,” he agreed. “But where, Nash, do we go?”
“To France,” said Nash tightly. “We are following Jenny to Cherbourg. My yacht lies at anchor in Southampton. If we hurry, Tony, we can be there by dusk.”