Never Lie to a Lady (19 page)

In frustration, she snapped the file shut and tossed it onto the bed. Would Kieran try to insist she put an end to this intrigue with Nash? For all his slipshod ways and
laissez-faire
attitude, her brother always put her happiness—and her safety—first. He had clearly decided she was wasting her time with Nash. Xanthia wished to God she felt the same. But slowly, by agonizing little increments, she had come to believe that no moment spent in Nash’s company was wasted.

The man was, however, dangerous. A hardened gamester and a well-practiced libertine. Possibly worse. But he was no traitor to his country. Again Xanthia wondered how close de Vendenheim was to making an arrest. Surely he would have to have proof? Or perhaps not. Perhaps de Vendenheim had decided that the mere allegation of treason would throw enough light on the smuggling operation to end it? Even more chilling was the fact that at Lady Cartselle’s masque, he had implied that he was no longer as concerned about Mr. Hayden-Worth’s influence in Parliament.

Unfortunately, the longer de Vendenheim’s hounds chased the wrong fox, the greater the risk to Nash—and the greater the chance that the real smuggler would continue unchecked. The precarious balance of power in the Mediterranean might easily be tilted toward chaos. On her fingers, Xanthia counted the number of Neville’s ships which could be passing through the Strait of Gibraltar within the next fortnight. She ran out of fingers.

Impulsively, but with a surprisingly clear head, Xanthia went to her writing desk, scratched out yet a third, nearly illegible note, and sealed it with red wax. Then before she could think better of it, she threw on her woolen walking cloak and rummaged through her wardrobe for a hat which would shadow her face.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Kieran had obviously gone out, for the lamp in his study was unlit. She was not above slipping out the back door, but it was unnecessary. The servants had apparently gone belowstairs for dinner. Xanthia let herself out and locked the door behind. She tried not to consider the rashness of her actions, and instead set a brisk pace along Upper Brook Street, thankful for what little light leached through the evening’s brume.

Number Six Park Lane was the address of the Marquess of Nash. Xanthia had learnt that much from Mr. Kemble, and it was but a few minutes’ walk from Berkeley Square. How odd to think that the object of her obsession lived scarcely a stone’s throw away. But Xanthia had learned that everyone who was anyone lived in Mayfair, and all of them right atop one another.

The spring fog clung to her face like damp cotton wool, the metallic scent of coal smoke acrid in her nostrils. Shivering, Xanthia pulled her cloak tighter and turned into Park Lane. The street below was quiet. She paced down a few yards, then back up again. Some five minutes into her vigil, a boy in a scruffy brown coat rounded the corner, whistling a merry tune.

She called him to her, and extracted her purse. “I wish you to run an errand for me,” she said solemnly. “Are you willing?”

“Are yer payin’?” He eyed her purse almost lasciviously.

Xanthia extracted a sixpence and pressed both it and the sealed note into the boy’s hand. “Take this down to Number Six,” she instructed. “The front door, mind, not the rear. Come back when you’ve done it, and I’ll have a shilling for your trouble.”

“Gor, mum!” Eyes wide, he tugged his forelock and went scurrying down the street.

In the gloom, she could barely make him out. His hunched form stood on the doorstep for what seemed an eternity. At last, the door must have opened, for she heard it shut again with a heavy thud. The lad leapt off the steps and hastened back up the hill.

“To whom did you give it?” she asked.

The lad shrugged. “Some stiff-arsed footman.”

“Mind your language,” Xanthia gently admonished. “Now, go home to your mother, young man. It is very late at night.”

The boy just grinned, snatched the shilling, and darted away into the fog.

Xanthia turned and retraced her steps to Park Lane, where she wound her way down some lesser-traveled lanes, across Piccadilly, and through the parks. On the opposite side of St. James’s Park, Westminster was quiet but far from empty. Fine carriages still rattled in and out, conveying important members of Parliament in splendid Tory isolation, no doubt. Xanthia preferred to walk—and in the opposite direction from Mayfair. Here, she was unknown. Anonymous. She could smell the river nearing now as she wound her way through the narrow streets unaccosted.

At the foot of Queen Anne’s Gate, she could see the sconces which flanked the entrance to the Two Chairmen. They flickered unsteadily, casting the corner in eerie light. As she approached, the pub’s taproom door swung wide, staccato laughter cutting through the fog. A pair of staggering nightingales came out and turned toward the park. Xanthia pulled her hat a fraction lower, stepped into the shadows, then headed toward the river.

It took but a few moments to make her way to the Westminster wharves. Here, vast quantities of stone and timber were off-loaded and carted into greater London to build the new homes and shops which the wealthy required. Pallets of brick and carts laden with coal lined the narrow lane which edged the water. The river was quiet tonight, the tide high and turning. A lighter came skimming past, taking advantage of the tide to sail back down to await tomorrow’s cargo.

She turned and paced again. He was not coming. Xanthia bit her lip. No, he probably had not even been at home. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. The stench of mud and rot was strong along the wharf, but inured to it, Xanthia drew her cloak tighter and paced down to the water’s edge. Below, a faint wake sloshed incessantly at the stone steps, which descended into the murky current. In the distance, she could see the lights of Lambeth glowing like gauzy yellow cotton balls in the murk.

It must be nearing midnight now. No self-respecting sybarite would be alone at such an hour. He was likely throwing the dice in Covent Garden—or wallowing in the arms of some dasher. At that thought, Xanthia squeezed her eyes shut. What a pathetic gudgeon she was! Of course the man had lovers. Many lovers—and he tired of them easily. He had told her so, in plain language. He certainly need not bestir himself in the middle of the night to stroll the riverbank in search of a clandestine romance—or whatever it was Xanthia meant to offer him.

No, he was not coming. And it was just as well. She was only fooling herself if she believed that this late-night escapade had been about nothing but the security of Neville’s shipping routes. It was about Nash—about her fascination with him. But she, too, had her pride. Besides, she was freezing to death in the damp.

Along Abingdon Street above, she could hear a watchman calling the hour, his voice strangely disembodied in the fog. Almost an hour had passed since she had set off on this ill-thought escapade. It felt like an eternity.

Xanthia was securing her cloak in preparation to go when she heard the footsteps on the cobblestones, as disembodied as the watchman’s cry. She was not perfectly sure from which direction they came until a dark form materialized from the fog, and stepped briskly past her. His height and lean grace were unmistakable. Xanthia reached out and touched the Marquess of Nash on the arm.

He froze, and turned around as she pushed back the brim of her hat. “My dear Miss Neville.” Despite the chill, he swept off his hat. “Once again, you shock me.”

In her agitation, Xanthia did not quite catch the worried edge to his tone. She drew him between a towering pile of stone and a cart laden with coal. “You received my note?”

“No, I came down to queue up early for the next coal barge,” he said. “We’re fresh out in Park Lane.”

Her shoulders fell. “I have disturbed you,” she said coolly. “My apologies.”

“No.” He set one hand on her arm, and gentled his voice. “No, my dear, never that. But it is not safe for a lady to be out so late at night. I would drag you home this minute, could I do so without risk to your reputation.”

“Let me worry about my reputation,” she answered. “I wished to see you—and I knew you would not come to me.”

“Oh, my dear girl,” he said softly. “Whatever for?”

Xanthia shook her head, uncertain of her answer. “After last week—” she began, then faltered. “After what we did together…I, well, I have been unable to think clearly.”

“Last week.” His voice had grown quiet.

The tension inside Xanthia snapped. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “We are not going to pretend, Nash, it did not happen.”

He fell silent for a long moment, then exhaled sharply in the gloom. “No, that would not do at all, would it?” he said almost to himself. “It did happen. And given our nature, I very much fear it is apt to happen again.”

“You sound as if you regret it,” Xanthia whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t do that to us, Nash. That is worse than pretending it never happened. It is like…like wishing we did not know one another at all. But it is too late for that.”

His grip on her arm tightened. “My dear, that is the very point.” His voice was raw now, and tinged with some powerful emotion. “You do not know me. And I—well, I should never have come to your office that day. Certainly I should not have followed you to Lady Cartselle’s masque. My intentions were far from honorable. And by God, they aren’t honorable now.”

On some wild, insane impulse, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him hard on the lips. His body stiffened, but his mouth softened. His fingers curled into the wool of her cloak. And then the fire burst hot and fierce between them.

On a raw moan, Nash drew his tongue across the seam of her lips. Xanthia opened her mouth at once, thrilling to the taste of him. Her hands found his waist, worked their way into his coat, and slid round to the small of his back. His fine beaver hat fell to the cobblestones. One of his arms banded her to him, strong and resolute, while the other hand cradled the back of her head in a kiss which was infinite in its sweetness. Unmistakable in its desperation.

They came apart with small, lingering kisses, lovers parting with an enduring reluctance. “My dear, you are dangerously tempting,” he whispered.

“I wish to see you again, Nash,” she said fervently. “
Alone
. Let me come to you. Who will know?”

He drew back to look at her. “I am too much the cad to refuse you, my dear,” he murmured. “But I will at least remind you that you deserve better. Or at the very least, you deserve
more
.”

She looked up at him unflinchingly. “More than you can give?” she whispered. “That is what you mean, I know. But would it not be fairer to let
me
decide what enough is? Would it not be more equitable to let me determine how daring I wish to be?”

He leaned toward her and set his forehead to hers. “I begin to think, my dear, that you are very daring indeed,” he murmured. “Very well then. Suit yourself. I think you know the address. Number Six Park Lane.”

She brushed her lips along his jawline. He pulled her more tightly against him. “My poor girl, come here. You are shivering.”

“It is this dreadful English damp,” she said on half a laugh. “I never imagined one could be so homesick for a place one did not like all that well.”

He set his lips to her forehead. “In Barbados, I daresay, the tropical flowers would be bursting with blooms, the days would be long, and the sun would be hot,” he murmured. “Yes, I know what it is to be homesick for something far different from this, my dear. You have my sympathy.”

She pulled away, and grinned. “Ah, but in Barbados, the men are not nearly so handsome,” she said. “Or so skilled. I believe I will put up with this vile weather for a while.”

“I hope, Xanthia, that you will.” He kissed her again, feverishly and a little desperately. “Now for God’s sake,
go home
.”

“Tomorrow evening, then?” she whispered. “I shall claim a headache and go to bed early—and I will wear a veil, I swear it. No one will recognize me.”

“You will wear a veil, yes,” he firmly repeated. “And I shall send my servants away.”

“You would do that for me?”

“I will do whatever I must to live with the guilt,” he said.

“Where shall I meet you?” she asked breathlessly. “What time?”

“Come up through King Street Mews, if good sense does not overtake you first,” he said. “There is a gate into the yard, and the rear door which is always lit. I will await you there. If you have not come by eight o’clock, I will assume you have come to see reason—and I will try to be glad of it.”

“Oh, I fear that reason and I parted ways in Lady Cartselle’s livery room,” said Xanthia honestly. “I will be there.”

His eyes softened and lingered on her face. “I will be waiting for you,” he said. “Now kindly appease the less daring amongst us by going home. I promise to make it worth your while tomorrow night.”

Xanthia shivered, half from the chill and half from anticipation. “Good night, then,” she whispered. On impulse, she rose onto her toes and kissed him swiftly. “Until tomorrow.”

“Good night…
Zee
.” Nash turned, snatched up his hat and, with one last look of regret, melted into the gloom.

He wished, she knew, to escort her home. But it would not do for her to be seen alone after midnight on the arm of any man, and certainly not Nash’s. A pity she had not thought of a veil sooner. Pulling her cloak snugly about her, she left the wharf and set a quick pace back up toward St. James’s. Her mind was awhirl with plans and possibilities.
She had done it
. She had convinced him.

She wanted, of course, to prove his innocence. To herself. And to de Vendenheim. Surely, once inside his home, she would see something—at the very least, some sort of sign—which would cast doubt upon the Government’s theory? Her shoulders fell. What if she had no opportunity? Or what if she did—and found nothing? Would it matter to her? No, very little, she admitted. De Vendenheim had by far the easier task. Guilt was so much easier to prove than innocence.

At the corner of Great George Street, she turned left, but here the fog seemed to have thickened, if such a thing were possible. Even the gaslights were useless. Keeping a careful eye on the pavement, Xanthia quickened her pace. But something behind caught her ear.
Footsteps
. They echoed hollowly off the towering town houses which lined the street.