Never Lie to a Lady (4 page)

The whole of London’s Docklands was still a constant fascination to her. Even now, some four months after her arrival, she was awed by the industry and commerce of the East End. To Xanthia, England was Wapping. She remembered nothing of her infancy in Lincolnshire. Indeed, she had never in her memory ventured beyond the West Indies until five years past, when she and Kieran had visited London to open a second office for Neville Shipping.

But the moment her trunk hit the dock in this teeming city, she had felt at once as if she belonged. Not in the countryside, nor even in Mayfair, where their home was, but here, amidst all this grime and stench and pulsating activity. If the Thames was London’s main artery, then surely Wapping was its heart.

Six days a week, Kieran’s barouche brought her from the luxurious confines of Berkeley Square, along the Strand and Fleet Street, and thence into another world. This was the world of the workingman; the mastmakers and the coopers, the lightermen and the watermen. The place where black-garbed customs clerks with ink-stained fingers brushed shoulders with aldermen and bankers. Where the East End merchant princes strode down from their opulent town homes in Wellclose Square to watch their fortunes sail into the Pool of London.

Along this part of the Thames, the languages, the shops, and even the churches were as apt to be foreign as English. The Swedes and the Norwegians were preeminent. The Chinese and the Africans brought strange music and exotic foods. The French and the Italians were as at home in Wapping as in Cherbourg or Genoa. It was a glorious melting pot of humanity.

Just then, the door behind Xanthia opened, sending another chill through the room. She turned from the window to see Gareth Lloyd, their business agent, coming into the office. He went at once to his desk in the corner and slapped down the baize ledger he had carried into the room. “The
Belle Weather
is in,” he said matter-of-factly. “She’s coming up Limehouse Reach just now.”

Xanthia’s eyes widened. “What a splendid run!” Inordinately pleased, she left the window and went to her own desk to check the schedules. “All went well? Or has anyone come ashore?”

“The boatswain came in. He says Captain Stretton took on an extra ton of ivory when she rounded the Cape.” Lloyd dragged a hand through his thick, golden hair. “Unfortunately, there’s been spoilage in the citrus. A black fungus. About a third has been lost, I collect.”

That was unfortunate, but not wholly unexpected. Xanthia settled into her chair and began to rub her hands absently up and down her arms.

Lloyd crossed to the fireplace and knelt. “You are freezing again.” He spoke without looking at her and began to poke at the coals. “I shall build up the fire.”

“Thank you.”

She watched him in silence. When the fire was thoroughly rekindled, Lloyd went to the huge map which all but covered the adjacent wall, and began to study the bloodred lines dotted with bright yellow pins, each of which represented one of Neville’s ships at sea. The red lines were their preferred trade routes, and Lloyd could likely have traced them in with a fingertip in the dark of night, so well did he know them.

Gareth Lloyd had been with Neville Shipping since before her elder brother’s death a dozen years past. Luke had taken him on as an errand boy in the counting house. But Lloyd had quickly shown an uncanny knack for all things financial, and the West Indies was not precisely awash in talent. Those who risked the treacherous journey came to make their own fortunes, not someone else’s. A few succeeded, as Kieran had. Sugar was a lucrative business, often more lucrative than shipping.

Gareth Lloyd, however, had continued to toil quietly in the service of another. After Luke’s death, Neville Shipping had floundered under a series of business agents, each more dishonest than the last. Kieran had profoundly disliked the company their brother had begun, and he was already worked to the bone by the plantations and mills which provided the bulk of the family’s wealth. But Xanthia had grown up at Luke’s feet, going regularly with him to the shipping office. It had been the best place to keep a little sister occupied and out of trouble when there were no female relations to depend upon.

Xanthia did not even remember when she had ceased to play at working and had begun to work in earnest. She could not recall the first occasion when one of the men had come to her with a problem to be solved or a decision to be made. Or when she had fired the first worthless business agent and watched disbelief sketch across his face. But at some point, even the bankers and the merchants and the sea captains had ceased patting her on the head and begun to accept that she was a force with which to be reckoned.

By slow default, the management of Neville Shipping had fallen to Xanthia and the operations to Gareth Lloyd. Kieran had not strongly objected. It was Barbados; one did what one must with whatever resources one had. Moreover, they were good—both of them—
bloody good
at what they did. Negotiate and strategize. Invest and hedge. They could send ships and money and commodities flying halfway round the world with the ease of falling off a ladder.

Lloyd moved the pin to show the relocation of the
Belle Weather
, then set one shoulder against the mantelpiece, surveying Xanthia across the room with a gaze which was steady but unreadable. “You went to Lord Sharpe’s last night?” he finally said.

“Reluctantly, yes.” Xanthia laid aside her pen.

“A Mayfair ball at the height of the season, attended by the height of society,” he murmured. “Was it all that a woman might dream of?”

“Some women, perhaps.” Xanthia closed the schedule she’d been looking at and stood.

He crossed the room and set one hand beside her on the desk. The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. “You do know that you cannot live two lives, Xanthia, do you not?” he said coolly. “You cannot be both society belle and business owner. This is England. The
ton
will not accept you.”

“Then the
ton
be damned,” she answered. This was not the first time these past four months this particular issue had arisen. “If my choices did not suit you, Gareth, then you should have stayed in Bridgetown.”

“And do what?” he returned.

She lifted her accusing gaze to his. “You had prospects, Gareth,” she said quietly. “Fine ones, too. Hancock’s offered you a good deal more than Neville’s pays you, even with your minority ownership. Did you think me fool enough not to know that? So why are you still here? That’s what I wonder.”

“Damn it, Xanthia, you know
why
.” His hands seized her shoulders before she could shove him away, and his mouth took hers roughly. Demandingly.

For an instant, she let herself give in, let her weight fall against him, giving in to the strain and the loneliness. He was rock solid and warm. Against her will, the memory of a long-ago passion stirred in her chest. Gareth sensed her surrender and deepened the kiss, claiming her—or so he thought.

But he could never claim her. Whatever there had once been was no more, and she dared not rekindle it. She needed him—needed his friendship, his wisdom—but no,
not
this. Desire was nothing without love. Xanthia, set her hands against his shoulders and forced him back with surprising strength.

He lifted his head, his wild, hot gaze holding hers.

“I ought to slap you senseless.” Xanthia’s voice trembled.

The wildfire died. “Have at it, my dear,” he said. “If it will make you feel better about being a woman—and having a woman’s needs.”

Incensed, she drew back her arm, but Gareth’s eyes dared her. Chilled her. Somehow, she found the presence of mind to lower her hand and set her palm flat on the back of her chair instead, so that he would not see how it trembled.

“Get out, Gareth,” she said, refusing to look at him. “I have grown weary of this. Draw yourself next quarter’s pay, and go. You are sacked.”

“You cannot sack me, Xanthia,” he said as he turned and walked stiffly away. “Not without a two-thirds vote of your directors. And that would be you, me, and Rothewell. Do you want to solicit his vote, my dear? Do you want to tell him why? And do you want to tell him what we’ve been to one another?”

“I begin to think it might be worth it,” she snapped, addressing his back. “Sometimes, Gareth, I despise you.”

It was his turn to stare blindly out the window. “No, you don’t,” he said, setting one hand on his hip. “I almost wish, Xanthia, that you did, for it would be easier. But good God, sometimes I despise myself enough for the both of us.”

She was utterly shaking inside now. Dear heaven, she had played this badly! She really did not want to lose Gareth, either as a friend or as an employee. It was a horrid, horrid balancing act she played.

“I have to go,” she said, shoving her chair abruptly to her desk. The argument was over for now, and they both knew that neither had won.

“Go where?” he said, almost as if nothing had happened. “Captain Stretton and the purser will be coming ashore with the manifest and cashbox.”

“Lady Sharpe is expecting me,” said Xanthia, piling her files together untidily.

“Very well.” Lloyd went to the door. “I’ll deal with Stretton. Shall I call your carriage?”

“I shall take a skiff from Hermitage Stairs,” she said abruptly. “It will be quicker. The rain has let up, and the tide is coming in.”

Lloyd turned from the door, frowning. “In London, you are a lady, Xanthia,” he said. “Overlooking the fact that ladies do not work, they certainly do not hail watermen unaccompanied.”

“And what would you have me do, Gareth?” she snapped. “Loll about in Mayfair tatting sofa cushions and leave you to run Neville Shipping?”

Lloyd drew back as if she had slapped him. “That was beneath you, Xanthia,” he said. “And I did not deserve it.”

“I am sorry.” Xanthia returned to the window, crossing her arms over her chest, as if she were cold again. “You are right, of course. My remark was uncalled for.”

He followed her, and turned her roughly by the shoulders. “You do not have to live like this, Xanthia,” he said. “Here, in England, you can be what you really are—a lady by birth.”

“As opposed to what?” she retorted. “The impoverished ward of Bridgetown’s most disgusting wastrel?”

Even Gareth knew better than to bring up the topic of her uncle, the vile man who had reluctantly taken in Xanthia and her brothers. “You are the sister of Baron Rothewell,” he gritted. “Cousin by marriage to the Earl of Sharpe. The blood niece of that grand dragon, Lady Bledsoe. Why can’t you give this up, Xanthia? Why can’t you be what you were destined to be?”

“Because, Gareth, I can never forget what I was.” Her voice was low and hard now. “Nothing but my uncle’s unwanted refuse. This company
made me
. By the grace of God, my brother gave me a chance—and now Neville Shipping defines me in a way a man could never understand. I will never, ever give it up, Gareth—not for any reason on God’s earth—and if you think otherwise, you’ll have a long, miserable wait ahead of you.”

His eyes held hers for a long, expectant moment, then, with an awkward jerk, he drew open the door. “I am not waiting for anything,” he said. “I was done with the waiting years ago. I shall send Bakely down for your skiff.” And then he was gone.

Angry and shaken, Xanthia gathered the papers she would need for the evening, stuffed them into her leather bag, and hastily threw on her cloak. When she went downstairs, into the clerks’ domain, Gareth had vanished. She tucked her portfolio under one arm, bid the staff a good evening, and went out into the late-day bustle along Wapping High Street.

The rhythmic
clank! clank! clank!
which rang from the cooperage echoed off the towering walls of the buildings and warehouses lining both sides of the street. The sour scent of fermenting hops from the brewery upriver filled her nostrils. And overlying all of it was the sharp stench of low tide.

A cart rumbled by, laden with wooden slats, destined for the cooperage, no doubt. Xanthia let it pass, then turned down the narrow, cobbled lane which led to Hermitage Stairs. Gareth Lloyd awaited her at the top, and below, the skiff he had summoned bobbed against the slapping current. It looked to be new and sturdy, and the waterman bore his brass license badge proudly on his coat sleeve.

Clearly, Gareth meant to accompany her. “It is late,” he said, his voice emotionless. “I’ve sent Bakely down to the dock. He’ll send a lighter out when the
Belle Weather
drops anchor and tell Stretton to report tomorrow.”

For an instant, she considered refusing his company. But Xanthia was nothing if not practical. It would look far better to arrive in Westminster in the company of a gentleman—or a man who certainly looked the part—rather than to arrive alone, and she did have Pamela to think about. So she placed her hand in Gareth’s, as she had done perhaps a thousand times before. “You really needn’t do this, you know.”

“I know,” he said, and took her carefully down the stairs.

They settled themselves into the boat, and the waterman pushed away from the stairs, stroking his oars deeply and powerfully into the roiling murk.

Xanthia tried to focus on the riverbank and not on the man who sat beside her. She loved this view of London. This was not the stiff, elegant world of Mayfair and Belgravia, but the living, breathing world of commerce, dominated by the vast East India warehouses, and the tall construction cranes of the new St. Katharine’s Docks. In the pool, massive merchantmen and sleek clippers rocked on the turning tide, their towering masts now stripped bare. Lighters hastened to and fro to off-load precious cargo from the larger vessels, then see it safely ashore. And if man were dwarfed by this great, teeming world, a woman was…well, blatantly out of place. Gareth was not wrong on that score.

Oh, Xanthia felt as if she belonged—but the occasional sidelong stare told her that she still did not blend in. Of course there were women in the docklands. But they were shopkeepers, seamstresses, and merchants’ wives, or the ubiquitous prostitutes who frequented every inch of every port on God’s green earth. They were a part of life from which the ladies of Mayfair would undoubtedly have recoiled. Xanthia was well accustomed to them. Gareth was wrong. She was not a lady, she thought, craning her neck in search of the
Belle Weather
. Not really. And that did not trouble her as much as it perhaps should have done.