Never Lie to a Lady (8 page)

“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 said. “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.”

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 Trammel 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.

“I work for whoever is willing to pay my price,” said Mr. Kemble, who had settled himself with exquisite grace into the chair next to Xanthia’s. “In this case, it happens to be Mr. Peel.”

Lord de Vendenheim shifted uncomfortably in the chair adjacent. “Mr. Kemble is—er, something of an expert in a field which has lately become of great interest to the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister,” he explained.

Kieran looked bored. “And what, pray, would that be?”

Vendenheim looked grim. “The transportation and illegal importation of misappropriated, untaxed, and—er, usually illicit goods.”

“Good heavens!” said Xanthia.
“Smuggling?”

Kieran’s face went tight. “Now see here, de Vendenheim—Neville’s is an honest business,” he snapped, shoving his brandy glass so roughly it scratched the wood. “And my sister is of unimpeachable charac—”

Mr. Kemble threw up one hand. “Lord Rothewell, please!” he cried, his face a mask of horror. “Good brandy bruises! And your desk! That finely grained mahogany! I must beg you to think of it.”

Kieran’s mouth fell open.

“And I must beg your pardon,” Xanthia interjected firmly. “What, pray, are we talking about? Surely not the furniture?”

De Vendenheim glowered at Mr. Kemble again. There was a decided tension between the two men. “Miss Neville, Lord Sharpe has suggested that your family’s firm might be in a unique position to help the Home Office with an enquiry,” he said. “You are doubtless aware that Sharpe chairs Peel’s Select Committee on—”

Xanthia held up a forestalling hand. “I fear we know very little of English politics,” she answered. “We understand Sharpe is active in the House of Lords, but we have lived here only a short while.”

“Which makes you all the more desirable, for Peel’s purpose.” De Vendenheim folded his long, elegant hands neatly one across the other, an ornate signet ring glinting from one finger. “May I ask both of you to hold this discussion in highest confidence, whatever your decision?”

“I was not aware there was a decision to be made,” said Kieran. “But we are patriots, for pity’s sake, if that is what you are asking.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said de Vendenheim, “it is.”

“Then pray continue,” said Kieran, with an impatient gesture of his hand. “We’ll hear you out, at the very least.”

De Vendenheim and his associate exchanged glances. “Might we close the window?” asked the vicomte.

Kieran did so at once.

“You are aware, are you not, of the ongoing difficulties between Greece and Turkey?” asked the vicomte when Kieran returned to his chair.

“Barbados is not quite the back side of the moon,” said Kieran wryly. “I am aware the Greeks revolted against their Turkish rulers some years past, and that things are not much improved. But Neville’s goes to neither of those places—do we, Xanthia?”

“Yes, to Constantinople,” she murmured. “And to Athens on occasion, when the political climate permits. But what can this possibly have to do with Neville Shipping?”

De Vendenheim leaned intently forward. “The peace forced upon Turkey last year by Canning has proven nearly worthless,” he said. “Once again, the Greek revolutionaries are said to be regrouping. They mean to seize Athens and Thebes in one bold strike, and we think Russia is back to her old tricks, supplying covert assistance.”

“There will be open rebellion again?” asked Xanthia.

“Wellington fears so,” said de Vendenheim. “And to add fuel to a smoldering fire, plans were recently uncovered to smuggle American-made rifles into Greece—one thousand Carlow carbines, one of the most accurate and lethal weapons on earth.”

Kieran propped one elbow casually on his desk. “And we should care?”

“You, more so than most,” warned de Vendenheim. “The balance of power in the Near East grows more precarious by the day, and now there is a traitor in our midst—a traitor whose acts will do nothing but encourage the Greeks to fight on, and perhaps persuade the Russians to jump fully into the fray on their behalf.”

“But why is that a problem?” Xanthia was tapping one finger thoughtfully on her chair arm. “Isn’t England in sympathy with the Greeks?”

De Vendenheim frowned. “There is popular sentiment, Miss Neville,” he said grimly. “And then there is the economic and political reality. England can ill afford an expanding Russia, and what Russia really wants is not to help Greece but to gain control of the Turkish Straits and threaten our Mediterranean trade routes.”

Kieran frowned. “But aren’t the Russians our allies?”

De Vendenheim shrugged. “Ostensibly, perhaps,” he said. “But the reality is that the fall of Constantinople would lay open a clear path for Russian expansion in the East. Eventually, perhaps even India could be jeopardized. Given the nature of your family’s business, Lord Rothewell, surely you can comprehend the significance of such trade disruptions?”

Perhaps Kieran did not, but Xanthia comprehended the significance with disturbing clarity. A war in the Mediterranean? That could prove to be a devastating economic blow to Neville Shipping.

“In time, the whole of Europe might explode into conflict again,” added Mr. Kemble. “The Continent cannot sustain such strife again so soon—not politically, and not economically.”

“That I know firsthand,” said de Vendenheim vehemently. “And that is precisely why it is in England’s best interest to support the Turks, even though popular British sympathy still lies with the Greeks.”

“Well, you may thank Lord Byron for that nonsense,” said Mr. Kemble with a simpering smile. “Just add together one hideous headdress and some frightful poetry, stir in a measure of political intrigue with a dash of premature death—and
voilà
! A
cause célèbre
!”

“He was not helpful,” admitted de Vendenheim. “But let us not speak ill of the dead.”

Kiernan was toying with the wax jack which sat upon his desk. “I do not understand,” he said as if to himself. “Why is the Home Office concerned about a war in a foreign nation?”

De Vendenheim straightened in his chair. “An excellent question,” he said. “It has to do with those rifles. And a plot which was recently uncovered on British soil, which suggests many more such shipments are planned. The money is being laundered through diplomatic channels in London—by the French, we think, though it makes no sense. But we are certain that a vast deal of ordnance is being moved out of Boston, perhaps directly into Athens, or more likely via an obscure Eastern European port.”

“An interesting theory,” Xanthia mused. “There are several ports which could be used for unlading contraband. What was the tonnage on the vessel which was seized, my lord? I am wondering, of course, about its draft. That might tell us which ports could be used most inconspicuously.”

De Vendenheim looked embarrassed. “Ma’am, you catch me short on technicalities.”

“It might be important,” said Xanthia, keenly interested now.

De Vendenheim cleared his throat. “No doubt,” he conceded. “I shall endeavor to discover those details for you, Miss Neville. In any case, Peel has reason to believe the perpetrator is a British citizen who is gunrunning for profit—and perhaps for personal reasons. But it little matters. He is still a traitor under British law.”

“And what will happen to him when caught?” asked Xanthia.

“He will be hanged,” said de Vendenheim.

“And very slowly,” added Kemble rather too cheerfully.

“Dear me!” said Kieran drolly. “A nasty business.”

De Vendenheim looked at Kieran from beneath carefully hooded eyes. “Which is why we would understand, Lord Rothewell, if you want no part of it,” he said. “It is nasty, and it is dangerous. But after speaking with Sharpe, and learning of your unique situation—well, the temptation to come straight here was simply too great.”