Never Lie To A Lady Part 32

"She is quite the negotiator when she wants something," said the vicomte. "It was Miss Neville who found the evidence implicating Mrs. Hayden-Worth, though she had been telling us for weeks that you would never involve yourself in such a scheme. So I decided to cool my heels and let our emba.s.sy in Paris monitor events as they unfolded. The rest, of course, you know. But it is unfair to blame Miss Neville or her brother. We approached them because of the nature of their business, and they were simply trying to behave as any patriot might-whilst protecting their company's financial interests, too, of course."

"It was cleverly done, I'll grant you," said Nash. "I wondered why Sharpe had invited me to that ball. But to have the woman follow me onto the terrace-well, I am shocked I fell for it. But daresay we all of us have our moments of naivete."

De Vendenheim's brow had furrowed. "I think there must be some mistake," he said. "I did not approach Lord Rothewell until some days after Sharpe's ball. In any case, Miss Neville is an amazing and determined young woman."

"Indeed," murmured Nash coolly. "Perfectly amazing. Well, good day, de Vendenheim. Better luck catching your criminal next time, eh?"

De Vendenheim watched him through his heavy dark eyes for a moment. "Non ci credo!" he muttered, throwing up his hands in obvious disgust. He flipped open a folder which lay in the center of his desk, extracted a sheaf of well-creased letter paper, crossed the room, and thrust it at Nash. "I don't know why the devil I let Kemble talk me into this sort of nonsense."

Nash glanced at the paper. It was a letter-more of a note, really-but written on the letterhead of Neville Shipping. Swiftly, he read it. Then he looked at the date. "I see," he said, handing the paper back. "So Miss Neville was overcome by guilt and sent your cohort packing. But what does that change, really?"

Again, de Vendenheim lifted his hands in the air. "Nothing?" he suggested. "Everything? Dio mio, Nash, you figure it out. I am just here to do a job for Peel."

"Oh, and you have done it," said Nash a little bitterly. "Accept the thanks of a grateful nation and move on to your next inquisition."

De Vendenheim's long, serious face fell. "I am sorry," he said after a moment had pa.s.sed. "This has been h.e.l.l for you and your family. And none of it was your fault."

Nash's lips thinned. "Apology accepted."

"Yes, well, don't be too quick about it." De Vendenheim looked suddenly uncomfortable again. "Before you go, there is one last thing."

"Am I ever to leave here, de Vendenheim?" asked Nash dryly. "You seem just full of surprises."

De Vendenheim strode back to his desk. "Well, you may like this one a good deal less than my defense of Miss Neville."

Nash had slowly turned from the door. De Vendenheim extracted a small key from his waistcoat pocket and opened the top drawer. He withdrew a sheaf of folded papers which were tied together with a red ribbon. He pa.s.sed them across the desk with an acutely uncomfortable expression.

Lord Nash took the bundle. "What are these?"

"To be honest, I do not know," he said. "My a.s.sociate Mr. Kemble found them."

"Kemble?" said Nash. "Where?"

"After we heard of her arrest, Mr. Peel asked us to make a discreet search of the comtesse's home in Belgravia," said the vicomte. "We found nothing about the smuggling; she was wise enough to handle everything from her home in Cherbourg. But Mr. Kemble found those. They were locked in a desk in the library."

De Montignac's library? b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Nash sorted awkwardly through the pile, his apprehension growing. Letters-perhaps four or five-and all of them addressed to de Montignac in Tony's hand. "Dear G.o.d," he murmured, almost to himself.

"I have not read them," said de Vendenheim swiftly. "And I think, perhaps you ought not, either? Mr. Kemble a.s.sured me that the letters had nothing to do with smuggling, but were...well, of a personal nature."

"He read them?" asked Nash a little weakly. "All of them?"

"He had to give each at least a cursory glance, yes, or he would not have been doing his job," said de Vendenheim a little defensively. "He read them, he took them away, and he ordered me to lock them in my desk until such time as one of you might retrieve them. I have left several messages for your stepbrother, but he has not come. Frankly, I don't want the b.l.o.o.d.y things here, locked or otherwise."

"Tony has been with me," said Nash dully. "I left him at Southampton."

"Then you may rea.s.sure Mr. Hayden-Worth that Kemble is the soul of discretion."

"Well, we shall see, shan't we?" murmured Nash, tucking the letters into his coat pocket.

"You may have to see," said de Vendenheim. "I already know. Whatever personal information is contained within those letters, one would have to pry it out of Kemble under torture."

"That honest, is he?"

"No," said de Vendenheim slowly. "He isn't honest in the least. He just lives by his own rules-honor among thieves and all that rot, I collect."

"Indeed? I like him better already." Nash paused and stared down at the pile. "Do you imagine that he got them all?" he asked a little hopefully.

"I am certain of it," said de Vendenheim. "Kemble is very thorough. He rolled up the carpets, pried up the floorboards, and took the mirrors off the walls. There is nothing left in that house which one of us has not seen."

Nash felt a sagging sense of relief. At last. He had them all.

"Do you know, Nash, we are an awfully lot alike, you and I," remarked de Vendenheim out of nowhere.

"Indeed?" Nash lifted his gaze from the letters. "How so?"

De Vendenheim flashed an acerbic smile. "Oh, I suspect we both often feel like outsiders here," he answered. "We will never really be English, you and I, despite my position in the Government, despite your lofty t.i.tle or your father's name. And society will always account us different."

"The latter little troubles me," said Nash.

De Vendenheim's smile faded. "We are alike in another way, too," he continued. "We are arrogant, and entirely too certain of our opinions. I hope you will think long and hard, Lord Nash, before you close any doors which cannot be reopened. I very nearly did that once, a few years past. And now I thank G.o.d every day that I did not do so. My life...it would have been ruined, I now realize."

Nash did not know how to reply to that. After a few parting words, he bowed his way out of de Vendenheim's office, feeling far more charitable toward the man, and walked slowly toward Mayfair, his mind a whirling chaos.

Tony was safe. Jenny would never dare show her face in England again. Both those realizations were a relief to Nash. But it was not enough. The questions about Xanthia still tormented him.

He hoped he had hidden the depth of his despair from de Vendenheim. What Xanthia had done had hurt him, and more deeply than he wished anyone to know. But the letter de Vendenheim had shown him was a bit of a balm to his wounds, he supposed. Perhaps she had begun their affaire for all the wrong reasons, but it seemed she had come to believe in him. That was something, wasn't it?

Actually, it was quite a lot. Her letter to de Vendenheim had been cold and concise. She was washing her hands of the matter and ordering Mr. Kemble off her property. Nash tried to think it through. Had she meant it? She must have done; there was no other reason to say it.

Nash remembered something else de Vendenheim had said-something which, in the midst of Nash's hurt and anger, had not properly registered. The Home Office agents had approached Xanthia-and Rothewell-but only after Sharpe's ball. A few days after, de Vendenheim had said. The pa.s.sionate kiss which they had shared, then, had not been a setup at all. Perhaps the sudden desire which had flared between them had been as real as he had once believed.

The thought inexplicably comforted Nash. But why? Xanthia had still led him a merry dance and betrayed him in the end. Hadn't she? Nash shook his head to himself and almost stepped out in front of a brewer's dray making the turn from c.o.c.kspur Street. The cart flew past, missing him but a few inches, the beefy, red-faced driver shaking his fist at Nash.

He stepped back onto the pavement and drew a deep breath. Good Lord. Had he survived a broken heart, a run-in with French police, and a fortnight in and out of Paris's most notorious insane asylum simply to die beneath the wheels of a beer cart? The thought struck him as oddly hilarious. And the old adage was true. Life could be so b.l.o.o.d.y short.

Yes, life was short-and briefly, his had been sweet. Would it ever be so again? Would he ever feel the stirring of hope in his heart? Or the fleeting sense that there existed a perfect joy which was his for the taking? Would he ever dare to love again?

That might be difficult, when he had never stopped. No, despite his anger, he loved Xanthia still. But their joy had not been perfect. It had been flawed, just as life itself was flawed. Did he need perfection? Was that what he had loved? A perfect dream? A fantasy? Or was it just Xanthia, with all her human frailties and conflicted emotions?

She believed in you.

De Vendenheim had been emphatic. And really, what had she known about him at the first? Just two things: That he was the sort of man who would take shockingly intimate liberties with women whom he barely knew. And that he was arrogant enough to think he was being trapped into marriage because of it.

Yes, even then he had been leaping to conclusions about her character, whilst she had seemed to reserve judgment. The worst he had ever seen was mild irritation in her eyes-offset by her wry, quizzical smile. Yes, that day in her brother's study, she had been all but laughing at his presumptuousness. She had teased him. But she had never truly upbraided him as he deserved.

Perhaps if she had judged his character on that one mistake-that angry, arrogant a.s.sumption which he had so quickly leapt to-then they would not now be in this mess. He would never have kissed her again. Never have made love to her. Never have decided that he wished to marry her.

Whatever her suspicions had been, whatever nonsense de Vendenheim had told her, in the end, he thought, she had been his. She had truly longed to be with him, he was almost certain. And he was not a man ordinarily given to flights of fancy, or to false hope. It was a part of what made him such a b.l.o.o.d.y good cardplayer. He could sense the essence of what people were, of what they were thinking.

What was Xanthia thinking now? he wondered. She was regretting all of it, he feared. She would take away precious little joy, perhaps not even a sliver of sweet memory, from all that they had shared together, given how things now stood between them. And suddenly, Nash found that heartbreaking.

Just then, somewhere above his head, a little bell jangled as if to recall him to the present. On his right, a white-ap.r.o.ned shopkeeper popped out of a tobacconist's to sweep the front step, cutting a suspicious glance at Nash as he did so. It was only then that Nash realized that he was still standing at the foot of c.o.c.kspur Street. People were beginning to stream past him, en route to supper, or to a nearby coffee shop as their workday drew to a close. The tobacconist gave his broom a good whack against the step to shake out the loose dirt, went inside, and flipped over his CLOSED sign, then through the gla.s.s, shot Nash one last suspicious glower.

It was time to go home. Time to decide what must be done and what sacrifice his pride was willing to make. But suddenly, it seemed as if there was very little sacrifice involved. He went home, feeling a little hopeful but inordinately weary and emotionally drained.

Gibbons greeted him downstairs with a decanter of okhotnichya and a chilled gla.s.s.

With a rueful smile, Nash refused it. "What day is today, Gibbons?" he asked, collapsing into a chair.

"It is Tuesday, my lord," said the valet.

Nash scrubbed at his day's growth of beard thoughtfully. "Which means tomorrow is Wednesday," he murmured.

"Yes, that's generally how it works," said Gibbons.

Nash did not even note the sarcasm. "Where is Swann?"

"In the library, my lord," said Gibbons. "Shall I fetch him?"

"Yes, and send for my gig to be brought round," he said. "Tell Swann we are going for a little drive into the City."

"To the City, sir?" But Gibbons was halfway to the door. "At this hour?"

"Yes, to see my solicitors." Nash's rueful smile returned. "I don't think they'll shut the door whilst my foot is in it, do you?"

"Given what you pay them, I doubt it," the valet agreed. "Shall I tell Swann why?"

"Yes, I have a new challenge for him," said Nash musingly. "I need some important papers drawn up by tomorrow evening."

"Indeed, sir?" said Gibbons. "Swann will need to know which files to take. What sort of papers do you require?"

"If I knew that, Gibbons, I would not need Swann, now, would I?" said Nash. "Now go on, you noisy old hen, and fetch the man in here. As you say, the day grows late."

The valet sniffed affectedly. "Well, really, sir! I am only trying to help."

"Oh, I doubt it," said Nash evenly. "You are looking for gossip to trade over dinner tonight, more likely. But if you wish to help, brush and press my best suit of evening clothes for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, sir?"

"Yes, and I wish them to be perfect."

The valet looked surprised. "You have a formal engagement, my lord?"

"No, Gibbons, I'm going wear them down to Mother Lucy's wh.o.r.ehouse," he returned. "Yes, I have a formal engagement. In point of fact, old chap, I am going down to Almack's."

The valet recoiled with horror. "To...to Almack's, my lord?"

"Yes," said Nash with mild satisfaction. "And with any luck at all, you'll really have something to gossip about when I get back."

Chapter Seventeen.

A Waltz in St. James Xanthia was waiting by the front windows and wearing her favorite ball gown, a rather frothy creation in ice blue satin, when Lord Sharpe's carriage drew up in Berkeley Square. Knowing full well Lady Louisa's tendency toward tardiness, Xanthia had antic.i.p.ated her late arrival. She hastened down the front steps just as Sharpe's footman opened the carriage door. But when she climbed up into the carriage, it was to find both forward seats occupied.

"Oh!" she said in some surprise. "Aunt Olivia."

Her aunt glared imperiously through her lorgnette. "Sit down, girl," she said. "What is that on your bosom? Cake icing and whipped cream?"

"Grandmamma, it is ruching and lace," Lady Louisa complained. "I think she looks very fetching."

Xanthia ignored both of them. The pair had been squabbling for the last month, and each day Xanthia a.s.sumed, would be her aunt's last. Spending the latter half of the season in London had done nothing for Olivia's haughty disposition. Still, her continued presence had got Xanthia off the hook, socially speaking, on several occasions.

"I thought you had planned to return to Suffolk today, Aunt," she said, carefully arranging her skirts.

Aunt Olivia sniffed disdainfully, making her diamond earbobs jiggle. "What, and leave a job half-done?" she answered. "This chit needs a husband, and the season is nearly over."

It was on the tip of Xanthia's tongue to tell the old woman to suit herself, then clamber back out of the carriage. Xanthia would have much preferred to stay home and lick her wounds in private. But she hesitated a moment too long. The steps went up, the door thumped shut, and they set off toward St. James with a jerk and a jingle of harnesses.

"Well, what a treat this is," Xanthia managed, settling her spine against the velvet banquette. "Almack's, with my favorite cousin and my only aunt."

The drive down to St. James was but a short one, thank heaven, since Olivia and Louisa continued to peck at one another for the duration. Inside the ballroom, the air was already growing stuffy, and if there had been any ice at all in the orgeat, it had long ago melted, leaving the dreadful concoction more insipid than ever.

Aunt Olivia had her lorgnette up again and was surveying the room. "Where is he?" she muttered to herself, thumping her walking stick on the ballroom floor. "Show yourself, you fainthearted fool."

"To whom are you speaking, Aunt?" asked Xanthia. Louisa was fanning herself furiously.

"Cartselle's boy," grunted Aunt Olivia from behind the gla.s.s. "The chit wants him-and so she shall have him. Before the season is out, too, I vow. And then I shall go home."

"And how do you plan to do it?" asked Xanthia.

"I shall employ the green-eyed monster," said Aunt Olivia, dropping her lorgnette. "Ah, he is just there, Louisa, by the windows! Come along now. I wish you to dance with every gentleman in attendance whilst I go exchange gossip with Lady Cartselle."

Xanthia hung back, half-afraid of what her aunt might do. But most likely, she would achieve her objective. For all her absence from Town, Lady Bledsoe was still a grand dragon of the ton, and few had the strength to stand in her way. Xanthia gave an inward shrug and looked about for something with which to amuse herself-well, perhaps amuse was not the right word. What she needed was something which would keep her from bursting into tears at an inopportune moment-a habit she seemed to have developed of late.

Just then, across the crowded ballroom, she spied some neighbors from Berkeley Square who had a daughter Louisa's age. They looked as weary as Xanthia felt. Perhaps it was time to commiserate? Xanthia set her orgeat on the tray of a pa.s.sing footman and hastened off in their direction.

Lord Nash presented himself at Almack's at precisely a quarter to eleven, fashionably late, yet just early enough to avoid incurring the wrath of the persnickety patronesses. He made his way into the ballroom as languidly as possible whilst pretending he did not notice the stares and whispers which came his way.

He nodded in acknowledgment to the few gentlemen he knew. Then, taking up a place opposite the orchestra, he looked about the room. It took but a moment to catch sight of Lord Sharpe's chit. She was dancing a quadrille with a fresh-faced lad who possessed a startling shock of red hair. Her smile was almost falsely bright as they bobbed and weaved their way through the delicate steps of the dance.

Xanthia was here, then. Nash was sure of it, though he saw her nowhere. Already he felt her presence in the room. He was suddenly very grateful that Swann had kept up the subscription to this frivolous little affair. Nash had expected to have to bludgeon his way in-if one could bludgeon past Almack's steely-eyed gorgons. But good old Swann, ever determined to keep up appearances, had once again laid smooth his path.