Never Lie To A Lady Part 23

"I hope that you do not," said Nash. "It would be a true sign of repentance."

With a stubborn set of his jaw, Wescot stuffed it into Nash's coat pocket.

Nash pulled it out again. "Take it," he said more calmly. "Take it for your wife. Don't be a prideful fool twice, Wescot. Do you want her to live out her life as a grocer's wife when you know d.a.m.ned good and well she deserves something better?"

Wescot hung his head.

"Take it," said Nash again. "Take it for Anna. But if you b.u.g.g.e.r it up again, Wescot, I will cheerfully hunt you down and beat you within an inch of your life-if that makes you feel any better."

"Well...it does, rather." Wescot glanced at the paper, then took it from Nash's outstretched hand. "Thank you, sir. Anna thanks you. I-I won't b.u.g.g.e.r it up again. I promise."

Nash watched him go with a terrible sinking sensation in his heart. That poor, poor girl. So frail and lovely-and so full of hope when she had left him. Dear G.o.d, how fatal one little mistake-one small error in judgment-could be to one's happiness. And how very short life could be. He grieved for Anna Wescot even as he grieved for himself and all of his wasted days.

But he need waste no more-or at the very least, he might do something worthwhile with what was left of them. He knew, of course, what that something should be. It came to him with the clarity of a bucket of cold water tossed over one's head. He wanted to marry Xanthia Neville-or at the very least, try to marry her.

Good G.o.d. This was madness.

He had better think about this. He sat down on the sofa and poured a second teacup of brandy. It was not quite as insipid as he recalled. Judiciously, he eyed the decanter. There might be enough left to put him out of his misery. And perhaps when he awoke, this strange urge would have gone away.

No. No, it would not have. Because it was not an urge. It was a certainty which had been edging up on him slowly and steadily for some days now. The bottom of a bottle would not obscure it. Besides, what did he have to worry about, save for personal humiliation? Xanthia Neville would not have him, and his mind had already run through all the reasons. But the most telling reason of all was that Xanthia had already refused what little he had to offer her.

What, then, would you rather do with your life, Miss Neville? he had once asked her. Retire to the country and raise a brood of children, perhaps?

No, she had answered. No, Lord Nash, I am already doing what I please with my life.

And she was enjoying that life. He could see it in the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her business and her work.

But her eyes sparkled when she was with him, too. And she had admitted that she adored him. She trembled with pleasure when he made love to her. And, yes, she liked him. So it probably wasn't a matter of losing her altogether. It was not quite the horror which poor Wescot had faced. No, he could keep Xanthia, he thought-keep her in his bed, at least. Until someone's suspicion caught fire, and she was forced to choose.

Was that enough? If he bided his time, would he tire of her? Nash stared at the brandy and shook his head. So there was but one option left to him-and it was a slender reed at that. Xanthia was a businesswoman, and she understood the art of the deal as well as any businessman he knew. Therefore, he must offer her something better. Something which she could manage and make as successful as Neville Shipping.

Brierwood. It was one of the finest estates in England-and potentially the most profitable. Thousands and thousands of acres of fertile farmland and rolling timber. Half a dozen villages. Two miles of channel frontage. A chalk mine. A coal mine. Grain mills. A quarry. A fortune at his fingertips, had he ever bothered to tap it. Instead, he had chosen to let it limp along under the guardianship of an aged estate agent, whilst easing his conscience by rea.s.suring himself that someday the whole mess would pa.s.s on to a distant cousin-someone who would give a s.h.i.te for it. Instead, Brierwood could be Xanthia's. To manage and to build, and ultimately, to leave to her children.

Or...she could just keep her old job.

Did he give a d.a.m.n what society thought of his wife? Well, no. She could trot off to Wapping until those spiteful fishwives down at Almack's bolted the b.l.o.o.d.y doors in his face-he'd never been there anyway, and despite his long-ago wager with Xanthia, he wasn't going.

Still, Brierwood was one h.e.l.l of an ace for a chap to stick up his sleeve. It would take some time, however, and some delicate maneuvering to convince her. In fact, it would be best to begin simply by waving the temptation beneath her nose.

Nash pushed the brandy away and headed for the stairs. "Gibbons!" he bellowed up the stairwell. "Gibbons, fetch my boots, and my best riding coat!"

Gibbons met him at the door, a coat hanging from his fingertip.

"Not the brown," he barked. "That's the drabbest rag I own. Fetch the dark blue-oh, and a fresh shirt."

Gibbons trotted dutifully back to the dressing room again. The man had a surprising knack for knowing when to keep his mouth shut. After the coat, there were the boots to be decided on. And then Nash decided that his cravat was just a tad too lifeless after all. But eventually, he was dressed, his best horse was brought round from the mews, and Lord Nash was off in pursuit of his future.

A few minutes later, he found himself sequestered in Lord Rothewell's study, feeling foolish and more than a little frustrated. Xanthia was not at home. How had he imagined otherwise? She was not like the other women of his acquaintance, who rose at noon and did little thereafter. Xanthia had a business to run. But Lord Rothewell was in, his servant reported, and would be happy to receive him.

Nash questioned the word happy, however, upon seeing the gentleman himself. Rothewell entered with his usual determined stride, but his eyes were shot with blood, and his deeply tanned face would have been politely described as haggard.

"Afternoon, Nash," said the baron, going to the sideboard. "Will you have a drink?"

"No, I thank you, it is too early for me," he said. "I've been up but an hour or two."

"Ah, and I have not yet been to bed," remarked the baron, returning to his desk with a snifter of brandy. "Sit down, Nash. I don't imagine this is a social call?"

Nash looked at him curiously. "What other sort of call would it be?"

Rothewell hesitated, then smiled faintly. "One never knows," he murmured vaguely. "I rather a.s.sumed-but never mind. What brings you?"

"Frankly, I came to call on both you and your sister," he confessed. "I forgot she would not likely be at home."

Rothewell set his brandy down. "No, my dear fellow, you must rise at c.o.c.kcrow for that."

Nash felt suddenly at a loss for words. Never had anything so seemingly small mattered so much-and he was loath to ask anything at all of Lord Rothewell. And yet, he must. "I am having a house party at the end of the week." His voice was surprisingly calm, faintly bored. "The party is at my estate in south Hampshire. I know it is a tad late, but I wondered if...well, if you and your sister mightn't care to join us?"

Rothewell's expression was unreadable. "We barely know one another, Lord Nash."

"Let me be frank, Rothewell," he said. "I wish your sister to come-I do know her well enough, I think, to ask such a thing. But I think she ought not come alone. It would be unseemly, particularly given my...my reputation, if you will."

Rothewell had begun to toy with various objects on his desk. "I thank you, Nash, for making my sister's good name your foremost concern," he said quietly. "Let me remind you that sometime past, you asked permission to court her. I discouraged it. She concurred. Have you some reason to hope that her opinion of you might have changed?"

"No, but on those brief occasions when we've met, I have enjoyed her company," said Nash. "And I think it would do her good to get out of London for a day or two. We are having party for my stepmother to celebrate her birthday. And I have two young sisters whom I should like Miss Neville to meet."

"This sounds a serious business," murmured the baron.

"No, pure pleasure, I do a.s.sure you," said Nash, feigning obtusity. "There is to be a dinner party, some dancing, and...and a picnic, I believe. Most of the guests shan't arrive until Sat.u.r.day. But I should account it a personal favor if you and your sister might come down a day or two earlier-Thursday, perhaps?"

Rothewell laid aside the pen he had been toying with and lifted a pair of piercing eyes to Nash's. "Thank you, Lord Nash," he said softly. "I shall endeavor to ascertain my sister's wishes in this regard. But in fairness to you, perhaps I should make my position clear?"

"By all means.

"Xanthia is the most precious thing on earth to me," said Rothewell quietly. "I cannot know your true purpose in issuing this invitation, Nash. But if you toy with my sister's affections-if you cause her heart to be broken, or even the little nail on her pinkie finger to be broken-I will gut you like a hog at harvest."

Nash did not frighten easily, but he felt a slight chill settle over him.

Rothewell smiled. "So, with that in mind, Nash, do you wish to rescind your invitation?"

"Not in the least."

"Indeed," murmured Lord Rothewell. He took another drink of his brandy. "Then we have only to determine Lord Sharpe's plans. As you know, Xanthia is chaperoning Lady Louisa."

Nash kept his gaze firm and steady. "I think your sister deserves a social life of her own, Rothewell," he said. "Perhaps you ought to see to that?"

Some dark emotion sketched over Rothewell's face, then relented. "Yes, perhaps I should," he said quietly. "In any case, my sister will return home sometime after five, I daresay. I shall send round our answer at once."

Nash rose. He thanked Rothewell with perhaps somewhat less enthusiasm than he had greeted the man and took his leave.

Following his guest's departure, Lord Rothewell and his boon companion, the brandy gla.s.s, paced the floor of the study for a time. After some thirty minutes had pa.s.sed, he went to his desk and, with broad, decisive strokes, penned a few sentences on a sheet of his best letter paper. Then he went to the bellpull and summoned Trammel.

"I wish my coach made ready for a journey to Suffolk," he said.

"Yes, my lord," said the servant. "Will you take the coupe or the traveling coach?"

"The coupe but I do not go with it," he answered. "I shall have need of the big coach myself on Thursday."

"Very well, my lord," said the servant. "But where is the coupe to go?"

"To my aunt's house," he answered. "I have written Lady Bledsoe's address on this letter. I wish the coachman to deliver it to her in person. He is to await my aunt whilst she packs, then deliver her ladyship to her daughter's house in Grosvenor Street."

"To-to Lady Sharpe's, my lord?"

"Yes," said Rothewell in some satisfaction. "To Lady Sharpe's."

"But...but what if she won't cooperate, my lord?" asked Trammel.

"Oh, I think she will," he murmured, taking up his brandy again. "Yes, I think that this time, for once, Aunt Olivia will do the right thing-instead of the selfish thing."

Chapter Twelve.

A Rendezvous in Hampshire Xanthia leaned her head against the gla.s.s of her brother's finely appointed traveling coach and watched the neatly whitewashed houses of Old Basing go flying past. Unfortunately, the jostling motion of the carriage proved too much. Xanthia sat up again and tried to focus on the world beyond. It was difficult, for she was burning with impatience-and with curiosity, too.

Three days had pa.s.sed between the morning she had left Nash's bed, and the afternoon he had arrived unexpectedly in Berkeley Square. Three days of utter agony. Three days of being unable to focus on her work, or anything else which mattered. Oh, she had gone through the motions, accompanying Louisa to a ball, a tea, and two musicales. Nonetheless, she could not have said with whom she had conversed, or what she had worn. Even her days in Wapping had been a blur. Everything, including her next breath, seemed to hang by a silken thread, awaiting Nash's next move-if there was to be one.

Well, move he had. And now she was en route to his home-and not in the dead of night, whilst hidden behind a veil, but as an invited guest. To his stepmother's birthday party. It seemed the sort of affair to which one would invite only one's closest and most significant friends. Did Nash hold her in such regard? Certainly he barely knew her brother. Kieran had insisted, however, that they go-which, the more she thought on it, seemed very odd indeed. He had made all the arrangements. He had written something to Aunt Olivia, though he wouldn't say what, precisely. And today they would arrive at Brierwood.

Already they had been five hours on the road, but it felt as if they were no closer to Nash. Xanthia was on tenterhooks-and yet filled with a sort of dread, too. Would Nash seem the same person when they were in the company of other people? What would his stepmother be like? Or his sisters? Would they like her? Did it matter? Good heavens, would people say they were courting?

It was all too much. Xanthia leaned against the window again, looking for something which might distract her. In the distance, she could see an ancient church, its squat gray tower stark against a near cloudless sky. Well-dressed men were streaming from the wide-arched doorway, and beyond them, by the churchyard, two gentlemen held open the lych-gate. They looked mournfully down the green slope at the pallbearers who were carrying the bier high on their shoulders. A funeral, then. Kieran's coachman had already slowed in deference to the dead.

"You look sad, Zee." Her brother was paging absently through one of the magazines he had brought along. "I hope I have not made a mistake in insisting on this trip?"

She smiled faintly. "No, there was a funeral," she said, gesturing at the window. "That's why we slowed."

"Ah." Kieran lowered his head to better see, but the churchyard was vanishing in the distance. "Nevertheless, you have been squirming like an impatient child this last hour or better," he remarked. "It makes me think of the old days, when Luke would dress us up and drag us into Bridgetown for Sunday services-trying, I suppose, to be a parent."

Xanthia sighed. "It really does feel as if we have been traveling for weeks," she complained. "Why must England be such a vast place? And why must it always be so cold when one travels?"

Kieran turned his gaze from the window and laughed. "Zee, England is a very small country," he answered. "You are used to the distances and temperatures of Barbados. And perhaps you are just a little anxious, too?"

Xanthia drew her cashmere shawl a little tighter and turned again to the scenery, this time the fertile, rolling fields of Hampshire. "What did you say, Kieran, to Aunt Olivia in that letter?" she asked. "Why won't you tell me?"

This time, he answered. "I simply told her it was high time she came down to London and did her duty by Louisa," his eyes suddenly dark and hard. "And by Pamela, too. She is carrying the woman's grandchild, for G.o.d's sake. A week in town shan't kill her."

"And she really is coming?" said Xanthia quietly. "We have not abandoned poor Louisa, have we?"

"She really is coming," Kieran rea.s.sured her, tugging out his watch and glancing at it. "Actually, she is probably there by now. It is not so terribly far to Aunt Olivia's."

In the confines of the carriage, Xanthia tried to stretch. "I still think," she said on a yawn, "that you blackmailed her."

Kieran hesitated oddly. "Blackmailed her?" he echoed. "With what, pray?"

Xanthia collapsed against the banquette and regarded him across the carriage. "I've no notion," she finally said. "But I know Aunt Olivia cares for none but herself. To bring her to London in the midst of the season...oh, yes, I think you had some sort of trick up your sleeve, brother dear."

Kieran's mouth merely quirked with humor. He returned his gaze to his magazine. Xanthia wadded up the carriage blanket she'd been wearing over her knees, stuffed it against the window, and rested her cheek on it. She drifted off to the rocking of the carriage and slipped into a hazy dream about Nash, who was wearing the black cloak and horns he'd worn at Lady Cartselle's masque and leading her through some sort of dark, twisting pa.s.sageway.

When she stirred to awareness sometime later, the carriage was lurching left to make a turn between a pair of imposing stone gateposts. The ma.s.sive monoliths were crowned with glittering falcons which were clutching golden orbs in their claws.

Kieran stared up through the carriage window as their huge coach swung through the gate. "I wonder," he said dryly, "if Nash has to climb up there and polish those silly fandangles himself?"

She looked up at her brother, and blinked. "We...we are there?"

Kieran nodded. "We are there," he said. "And soon you may see Lord Nash in the flesh, my dear, and fly at him with all your burning curiosity."

Alas, it was not to be.

"I am frightfully sorry to say that Nash has been delayed," said Lady Nash in a cheerful, chirpy voice. She was escorting Xanthia and Kieran up the sweeping stone staircase, and into a ma.s.sive entrance hall laid with marble and dripping with gilt. "Tony did not know until the very last moment, you see, that Jeffers had even died."

Kieran's brow furrowed. "And Mr. Jeffers was who, again, ma'am?"

Lady Nash smiled and clasped her hands in an almost saintly gesture. "Their childhood tutor," she chirped again. "A lovely and most learned man. But he retired to Basingstoke, then he died. I have noticed that happens quite a lot."

"I beg your pardon," said Kieran. "What happens?"

"Retainers retire-then they die." Lady Nash seemed to take it as a personal affront. "I think the physicians should look into it. It is such a frightfully odd coincidence-and then one must deal with the funeral, mustn't one? It is such a dreadful inconvenience, but Tony and Stefan-Nash, I mean-well, they could hardly pa.s.s right by the service, could they, when it was to be on their way here? Of course they could not."

"Indeed not, ma'am," said Kieran, though it hardly seemed necessary. Thus far, Lady Nash had answered all her own questions-and quite thoroughly, too.

Xanthia could already see their hostess might not wear well with Kieran. She was the sort of overly cheerful, pleasantly dull woman who twittered, and emphasized every other word as if it might be her last-and her most important. But it would be neither. Five minutes into their visit, Xanthia was confident Lady Nash would go on yammering from beyond the grave. The woman had not flagged since the moment she'd greeted them in the carriage drive.

"Now!" said her ladyship brightly. "You really must be worn to a thread. Why do I not show you to your rooms? And then the girls would so much like to have tea with you, Miss Neville-and with you, too, Lord Rothewell."

Footmen were moving efficiently about the hall now, and sweeping up the double staircase with various bits of baggage, despite the fact that they had been given no instruction at all. Xanthia watched her dressing case vanish into the nether regions of Brierwood, and wondered if she would ever see it again. But one pile of luggage, a trunk and two portmanteaus in perfectly matched brown leather, remained untouched.

"I see that someone has arrived before us," Kieran remarked. "Do please ask the servants to see to their things first. We are in no hurry."

A frown sketched across Lady Nash's face. "Oh, those are Jenny's," she said lightly. "They came down hours ago. I mean, she is such a dear-but so dreadfully impatient and full of energy. I daresay she went down to the stables to see to her carriage. She does like things arranged just so, and the servants never do things quite perfectly, do they?"

Since Lady Nash had paused for breath, Xanthia turned around. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. Who is Jenny?"