Never Lie to a Lady (7 page)

Xanthia loved her brother desperately. For so long, it had been just the three of them—she, Kieran, and Luke—fighting against the world. They had lived for one another. Sacrificed for one another. She could not count on all her fingers and toes the times when her elder brothers had literally taken the brunt of their uncle’s wrath for something she had done, or later, the times they had hidden her away from his dangerously drunken friends. Kieran, of course, had always taken the worst of it, for even as a young man, he’d been rash, and far too bold. Luke had possessed a degree of diplomacy. Kieran had possessed a soul filled with passion and anger.

Xanthia was not perfectly sure what was to become of her brother.
He is going to drink and whore himself into an early grave
, Cousin Pamela had said. Pray God she was wrong. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud had troubled Xanthia. She had been thoroughly unsuccessful in drawing Kieran into the shipping business, for he had claimed—and not wrongly—that she and Gareth did not need him. Xanthia then tried to convince him not to renew the lease on his vast estate in Cheshire. He would not listen, saying he had no wish to live in the country watching the sheep and grass grow.

And that was that. Xanthia had her hands full with the business, which occupied most of her waking moments in one way or another. Indeed, with dinner all but done, it was time to attend to it. Mentally, she began to recount the papers she had brought home for review. There was a suspiciously high invoice from the victualling yard for six of Neville’s ships which had gone out in January and were not due back in port for another fortnight at best. She was disinclined to pay the bill until she had compared it to the inventory of provisions they had taken on. There was a stack of insurance forms from Lloyd’s, and a proposal from an insolvent competitor to sell them three dilapidated merchantmen—but at a price Xanthia found hard to resist. She needed to do a little arithmetic to make sure the time in dry dock for refurbishment would not eat significantly into Neville’s profit, for the cost of—

“Ah,” said a quiet voice. “I see I have lost you again.”

Xanthia looked up to see that Kieran was already pouring his port, which one of the footmen had carried in on a tray.

“My apologies,” she said mechanically. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

Kieran’s mouth turned up at one corner. “Yes, in Wapping, I suspect.”

Xanthia moved to slide back her chair. “I fear so,” she said, rising as the footman leapt forth to assist her. “Which reminds me, I have a raft of papers I must see to by evening’s end. You will be going out, I collect?”

He smiled faintly and tossed off a portion of his port. “I daresay I shall.”

“Then I will bid you good night.”

“Yes. Good night, Zee.”

At his elbow, however, Xanthia hesitated, then impulsively, she bent and brushed her lips over his cheek. “Do be careful, Kieran,” she murmured. “Promise that you shall?”

He tossed a dark, sidelong look up at her as if he might snap at her with one of his ugly retorts, but at the last instant, the expression faltered. “All right, old thing,” he said quietly. “I shall be careful.”

In Park Lane, the evening was drawing to a close. Working London had long since gone home to dinner, and traffic up and down the hill had waned to little more than the occasional brisk rattle of a fine carriage passing by. Agnes, the first-floor parlor maid, was working her way through the house, methodically sweeping the hearths and drawing the draperies as she went.

In Lord Nash’s vast library, she hesitated. Coals yet glowed in the grate, casting an eerie red light along the mantelpiece. She began instead with the floor-to-ceiling curtains, drawing snug the weighty velvet panels using a long brass rod. When the last was drawn against the evening’s chill, she put down the rod and turned to the hearth.

“Thank you, Agnes,” said a deep voice in the shadows.

Agnes shrieked, nearly leaping from her skin.

“Thank you, Agnes,” Lord Nash repeated. “You may go now.”

Agnes bobbed unsteadily. “Beg pardon, m’lord,” she squeaked. “I d-did not see you. D-Do you not wish a lamp lit?”

“Thank you, no.” There was the sharp
chink
of a vodka decanter as he refilled his glass. “The dark can cover a multitude of sins, can it not?”

Agnes bobbed again, as if for good measure. “I—I daresay, sir,” she whispered. “Am I to do the hearth now?”

“See to it tomorrow.” The marquess’s voice rumbled in the gloom. “You are excused. No—wait.”

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Is Mr. Swann still in, by chance?”

“I—I don’t know, sir,” admitted the parlor maid. “Shall I send a footman to fetch him, sir?”

“Please do.”

The girl darted out, leaving Nash alone again with his thoughts. He slid deeper into his armchair, cradling his snifter of
okhotnichya
against his shirtfront. He had been sitting thus more or less since his return from Rothewell’s mansion in Berkeley Square, his solitude broken only by dinner. Perhaps he would not have thought to eat at all, but Tony had come to dine, blowing in and out like an August thunderstorm.

Nash wished he had not invited him. Not tonight.

Though they had always been close, they were like chalk and cheese, he and his stepbrother. Tony lived in the present, Nash in the past—or somewhere in between. They shared little by way of personality, and nothing at all in appearance. Tony was fair and handsome to Nash’s dark glower. Tony was slender, elegant, blue-eyed, and Oxford-educated. Yes, Tony was the one thing Savile Row’s finest tailoring would never make Nash—the perfect English gentleman. But like most of them, Tony held a provincial view of the world, and England’s place within it. To him, there was nothing which mattered beyond Albion’s white shores.

So whilst Tony was left to fight and finesse and scrap his way up the government ladder, here was Nash, being…well,
Nash
—a title almost as old and as grand as fair Albion herself. It seemed contrary to the laws of nature. It seemed…a little unjust, really. Tony was the grandson of a duke—which in England counted for quite a lot, even if two dozen cousins would have to perish to put him within sniffing distance of the title.

It was a pity, Nash often thought, that Tony could not simply have had the marquessate—and he could not escape the feeling that Nash’s late father had probably thought so, too. The perfect English gentleman for the perfect English title. And by now, left to his own devices, Nash might have been a major in the czar’s Imperial Guard. Or left in peace to stroll the hills of home with his favorite wolfhound.

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.”