Never Lie to a Lady (5 page)

She was very troubled, however, when she arrived in Hanover Street to be told that Lady Sharpe was still abed. Instructions had been left to show Xanthia to her ladyship’s chamber, and a footman took her up at once.

Xanthia went in to see that Pamela was not precisely in bed, but on a long, velvet divan and wrapped in a woolen shawl. Her daughter Louisa sat rigidly in a chair beside her. Lady Louisa’s dainty blond ringlets seemed to have lost a bit of their bounce, and the girl’s eyes and nose were swollen to a pathetic shade of pink.

“Heavens, Pamela!” said Xanthia, stripping off her gloves as she came into the room. “And Louisa—? What on earth has happened?”

At that, Louisa burst into tears, sprang from her chair, and rushed toward the still-open door.

“Oh, my,” said Xanthia, watching the girl’s flounced skirts vanish.

Pamela looked up with a wry smile, and patted the empty chair. “Pay her no mind, Zee,” said her cousin. “The child is seventeen. Everything is a melodrama when one is that age.”

Xanthia tossed her gloves aside and sank into the chair. “Pamela, what is going on?” she demanded, taking her cousin’s hand. “This house seems perfectly topsy-turvy today. The servants are jumpy as cats—and you, in your dressing gown at teatime! You are unwell. I can see it in your eyes.”

The wry smile returned. “I am just a little weak, my dear,” said Pamela, squeezing her fingers. “But it shan’t last. Now, listen, Zee. I am going to tell you the most
amazing
thing! Sharpe is quite simply beside himself.”

Xanthia’s eyes widened. “What? Tell me, for I’m worried sick.”

Pamela set a hand on her somewhat ample belly. “Xanthia, I am with child.”

Xanthia gasped. “Dear heaven! Are you…are you quite sure?”

With a weak smile, Pamela nodded. “Oh, Xanthia,
can
you believe it? I am so excited—and so very frightened, too.”

Xanthia was a little frightened herself. Pamela was but a few years shy of forty, and after two decades of marriage and at least half a dozen pregnancies, she had carried but two children to term. Daughters. Lovely girls, but daughters all the same.

“Oh, Zee, do say you are happy for me!” exclaimed Pamela. “Oh, do not think what you are thinking, my dear, and think only of this wonderful chance which I have been given. A chance to give Sharpe his heir. Oh, my life would be quite perfectly complete!”

Xanthia smiled deeply and leaned over the divan to kiss her cousin’s cheek. “I am ecstatic,” she said. “I could not be more pleased. I cannot wait to tell Kieran. He will be so happy for you, Pamela. But my dear, you must be so very careful. You know that, do you not?”

“I do know,” she said grimly. “The midwives and doctors have already been here this morning to poke and prod me, and to confirm what I was afraid even to hope. And now, I’m not to be allowed to do anything—scarcely even go downstairs!—for the next six months. I shall go quite mad, of course. But it will be worth it if I can but give Sharpe a son.”

Suddenly, the vision of Louisa’s red nose and eyes returned to Xanthia. “Oh, dear!” she said. “Poor Louisa!”

Pamela’s eyes began to flood. “Frightful timing, is it not?” she said. “This is her come-out, Zee! This is
her
season! We’ve spent a small fortune dressing her, and she has taken quite nicely. And now I’m to be stuck abed until Michaelmas!”

“What is she to do, Pamela?” asked Xanthia. “There is her father, of course…but that is not quite the thing, is it?”

“She must have a chaperone,” Pamela insisted. “Of course, there is always Christine. She is Sharpe’s sister, after all. But she is thought to be—well, a little
outré
, is she not? I cannot think her a proper companion for a girl of Louisa’s tender years.”

“No, I think not,” muttered Xanthia.

The truth was, Christine Ambrose was an amoral cat—one who from time to time had sunk her claws into Kieran. But Kieran knew the woman for what she was, and used her about as well as she used him. Sometimes Xanthia thought that perhaps they deserved one another. But Christine chaperoning Louisa? No, it would not do. Slowly, it dawned on her that Pamela’s hand was holding hers in a near death grip. She looked down to see an unmistakable pleading in her cousin’s eyes.

“Oh, Xanthia, my dear,
may
I count on you?”

Xanthia barely suppressed a gasp. “Count on
me
?” she echoed. “To…to do what, pray?”

“To see Louisa through the rest of her season.”

“To…to take her about to balls and assemblies and such, do you mean?” said Xanthia hollowly. “Oh, Pamela. I do not think…no, I am not versed in such…I could not possibly…” But the desperation in Pamela’s eyes was perfectly heart-wrenching.

Pamela sat up a little on the divan. “I shall arrange invitations to all the best houses in town,” she wheedled. “And Almack’s every Wednesday, of course.”

Xanthia made a slight sound of exasperation. “Do not be silly, Pamela,” she said. “We haven’t a subscription and likely cannot get one.”

Pamela laughed. “Oh, Rothewell will be admitted
instantly
, dear child,” she said. “His title ensures it. And I shall put it about that you are to be Louisa’s chaperone and made as welcome as I would be. After all, I am not without influence in Town, my dear. And—and why, perhaps you will have fun, too! Oh, my dear,
do
say you will do it.”

Xanthia hesitated. Dear heaven! Her hope of never seeing Mr. Nash again was on the verge of collapse. “But I am an unmarried woman,” she protested. “That really is not ideal.
Is
it?”

“But you are a mature woman,” said Pamela firmly. “It must be you or Christine. It
must
be family, and Mamma cannot do it. Besides, she and Louisa always quarrel. All you will need is Kieran’s escort, or Sharpe’s. There will almost always be a cardroom to pacify them.”

Xanthia let out her breath on a sigh. Kieran would not like this any better than she, but he had an uncharacteristic fondness for Cousin Pamela. “Of course we shall be happy to help, Pamela,” she answered. “But there are a few things, my dear, which you ought to consider.”

Pamela’s pale eyebrows lifted. “Yes? Of what sort?”

Xanthia dared not tell her about the intriguing Mr. Nash. “Well, you know that I am greatly involved with Neville Shipping,” she said instead.

“Oh, yes, dear,” she said. “You so often speak of it.”

“But what you may not realize is that I—well, I spend a good deal of time there. Literally. At the business.”

Pamela seemed to consider it. “Well, you do own a third of it,” she mused. “One must look after one’s interests, I daresay.”

“Actually, I own twenty-five percent,” she said. “Kieran has twenty-five, and Martinique the twenty-five she inherited when Luke died. Gareth Lloyd, our business agent, now owns the remaining twenty-five percent.”

“Does he indeed?” said Pamela. “I was not aware.”

“Well, that is neither here nor there,” Xanthia continued. “The truth is, I more or less manage Neville Shipping.”

Pamela nodded cheerfully. “Yes, you once suggested something of that sort.”

Xanthia took her cousin’s hand again and vowed to make her listen. “Pamela, I go into the East End in a carriage to work every day,” she said, her voice firm. “I sit in an office surrounded by men, in a grimy little house in an especially grimy street in Wapping—which is filled with some of the most disreputable people imaginable—and I dearly love it. People stare at me, Pamela. One day a man near the London docks
spat
at me. Most of them do not think I belong—and no one amongst the
ton
is apt to disagree with that assessment.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Pamela was blinking owlishly. “Is it…is it rather like having a shop, would you say? Mrs. Reynolds once had a shop, you know. But now she is Lady Warding.”

“Yes, but I never shall be Lady Warding, or anything like it,” Xanthia gently pressed. “I shall always be Miss Neville who has the utter lack of breeding to keep a job—and to do men’s work. For that is what they shall say, Pam, if the word gets out. And it will sound worse, I fear, than being a mere shopkeeper.”

Pamela pursed her lips, and shook her head. “You have a right, Xanthia, to look after yourself,” she insisted. “If Kieran supports your doing that, then it is no one else’s business.”

“No, it is not,” Xanthia agreed with asperity. “But if it gets out—which it will—then the gossips shall make it their business.”

Pamela relaxed against the chaise and patted Xanthia’s hand. “Oh, if it gets out, you will merely be thought an eccentric,” she answered. “Indeed, my dear, with your charm and your dash, you might make it quite the rage. Perhaps it will become fashionable to have one’s own company?
I
should choose hats, myself. How does one make them, do you suppose? In any case, I am not worried on Louisa’s behalf.”

Xanthia smiled faintly. Employment really was a foreign concept to her cousin, who had been raised every inch a lady. “Very well, then,” she murmured. “You have been warned.”

“So I have, and now that that is all settled, I want you to put your hand here,” said Pamela, placing Xanthia’s palm atop her belly. “Say hello to your new cousin, the future Earl of Sharpe.”

Xanthia’s smile deepened. “Am I to feel anything?” she asked, curious. “Will he…will he move? Or kick my hand?”

Pamela laughed. “Oh, Xanthia, you can be shockingly innocent,” she said. “No, he shan’t do a thing for weeks and weeks. But he is in there, all the same. Shall I tell you when he starts to move about? Would you like to feel him kick?”

Xanthia felt suddenly shy, and, to her shock, more than a little envious. “I would, yes,” she admitted. “It is such a wonderful, unfathomable thing to me.”

Pamela’s face took on a serious expression. “You must have children of your own soon, Xanthia,” she said quietly. “Time marches on. You are what? Seven-and-twenty now?”

Xanthia gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, Pamela, I shall be thirty in a few months’ time,” she said. “And there is one serious flaw in your plan, my dear. One ought not have children without a husband.”

Pamela’s expression brightened. “Well, you are about to enter the marriage mart!” she answered. “Louisa is determined to look about quite carefully for just the right sort of gentleman. I would suggest, my dear girl, that you do the same.”

Xanthia shook her head. “I do not mean to marry, Pamela.”

“Well, why on earth not?” demanded her cousin. “It is the most natural thing in the world.”

Xanthia looked away and chose her words carefully. “Gentlemen wish their brides to be…well, younger and more naive,” she answered. “Besides, there is Neville Shipping to worry about. If I marry, it becomes my husband’s. Even if it did not, no husband would permit me to work as I do.”

“Oh, heavens, let Kieran take care of Neville Shipping!” said Pamela impatiently. “What else has he to do? He has sold his plantations, and he has leased out all of his estates. Honestly, Xanthia, if he cannot find something to occupy his time, Sharpe says he is going to drink and whore himself into an early grave.”

Xanthia stiffened. “Kieran knows nothing of shipping, nor does he wish to,” she replied. “He will simply sell the company to the highest bidder.”

“Yes, as he did the Barbados properties,” Pamela remarked. “I vow, that made no sense to me.”

“He did not sell to the highest bidder, Pamela,” Xanthia gently chided. “He leased the land in allotments to the men who had worked it year after year. And if you had lived all your life in Barbados as I have done, you would understand why he wanted to do that. The days of slavery, Pamela, are over. It is time we all accepted that. It is a vile and corrupting institution, no matter how gentle one’s hand.”

“Yes, it is very dreadful, to be sure, but could he not just—”

A sound at the door cut her off. Pamela’s maid came into the room. “The girl from Madame Claudette’s has come with Lady Louisa’s new gowns, ma’am,” she said after curtsying. “Shall you wish her to try them on before the girl goes?”

Pamela and Xanthia exchanged vaguely apologetic glances. Clearly, there would be no more talk of slavery’s evils on this particular afternoon. It was time to get back to that evil which was far more troubling to the ladies of Mayfair—the unspeakable horror of a badly fitted ball gown.

B
aron Rothewell was savoring a brandy and a black, nasty humor when he heard the knocker drop upon his elegant front door in Berkeley Square. He had been savoring his brandy since teatime, actually, and was not now disposed to break what had thus far been a solitary interlude.

Rothewell was the sort of man who believed very firmly the old adage that silence was the true friend that never betrayed. He made few acquaintances and kept far fewer. Nor was he a man with any fondness for idle conversation—and it was all idle, so far as Rothewell could see.

But he likely needn’t be concerned, the baron consoled himself, going to the small sideboard in his study to pour himself another tot. He knew almost no one in London, and certainly had invited no one to call upon him. He was surprised, therefore, when one of his newly employed footmen came in bearing the card of a gentleman whose name he had never before heard.

“I am not at home,” he growled.

But the servant looked ill at ease. “I think he means to wait, my lord,” said the footman. “After all, it
is
Lord Nash.”

Rothewell scowled. “Who the devil is Lord Nash?” grumbled the baron. “And why should I give a damn?”

“Well, he is the sort of fellow who generally gets what he wants,” said the footman.

This was enough to pique Rothewell’s curiosity. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Show the fellow in.”

Naturalists say that when certain carnivores meet in the wild, they circle and scent one another, each assessing the other’s willingness to back away. Rothewell never backed away from anyone, and his hackles went up the moment the man crossed his threshold.

The man called Nash was whipcord-lean and moved with a controlled strength which was rather more formidable than outright brawn might have been. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, with perhaps a suggestion of silver at the temples. He carried an expensive-looking driving cape over one arm, and his gloves in one hand, as if his stay was to be brief.

“Good evening, Lord Rothewell.” The man had eyes like obsidian ice. “How kind of you to receive me.”

Glittering eyes. Expensive clothes. A voice too soft—and not quite English, either
, he thought.
This, at least, should be interesting.

Rothewell waved a hand toward a chair. “Do sit down,” he said. “How may I assist you?”

As if to make a point, Nash repositioned the chair nearer the desk. “I am here on a matter which is of a personal nature.”

“I can’t think what the devil that might be,” said Rothewell, “since I never before laid eyes on you.”

The man smiled faintly, as if he did not believe him. “No, I have not the pleasure of a formal acquaintance,” he answered coolly. “But I believe I had the honor of meeting your sister last night at Lord Sharpe’s ball. Miss Xanthia Neville—she
is
your sister, is she not?”

The man, Rothewell decided, looked like a wolf; a wolf with a lean and hungry look about him. “I do not remember you from Sharpe’s ball,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “But yes, Miss Neville is my sister. What of it?”

“I collect you are her guardian,” said Lord Nash in his too-quiet voice. “I should like your permission to pay court to her.”

“You should
what
—?”

“I should like to court Miss Neville.” If anything, his voice was even quieter, and more ominous. “I somehow feel certain that my suit will be acceptable to you.”

Rothewell was not remotely intimidated. “It certainly is not,” he barked. “Why should it be? My sister is an exceptional woman. And she is not in need of—nor, so far as I know, even in
want of
—a husband. Moreover, it is Xanthia’s permission you’ll need—and if you knew a bloody thing about her, you would already know
that
.”

“Ah, an independent-minded young lady,” remarked Nash. “How very charming.”

“She is not independent-minded,” said Rothewell. “She is
independent
. And stubborn. And imperious, when she’s in the right—which she is, more often than one wishes to admit. Good God, Nash, she’s nearly thirty years old. Moreover, she…she is not
like
other women. Have you any notion what you are asking?”

“I am asking if I may court your sister.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why Xanthia?” he demanded. “If you want a wife, why not chose some young, biddable miss, Nash? Life will go a damned sight easier for you, trust me.”

Lord Nash was looking faintly uncomfortable now. “Miss Neville is the managing sort, is she?”

“Yes, and quite good at it,” said Rothewell. “Indeed, I believe I would back her ten to one against any man I know—but press your attentions where they are not wanted, Lord Nash, and you will answer to
me
.”

Nash looked truly puzzled. This meeting obviously was not going as he had planned. But what the devil had he expected? Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck Rothewell. He let his eyes drift over Lord Nash’s expensive attire, and pondered it. “Frankly, Nash,” he finally said, “now that I think on it, I know of but one reason why you might have an interest in my sister—and it is not flattering.”

Nash’s eyes glittered. “Pray speak plainly, Rothewell.”

“I am referring to her fortune,” Rothewell answered. “As you doubtless know, my sister is quite a wealthy woman. But she will not give it up, Nash—and a marriage would require her to do just that.”

The marquess drew back an inch, his confusion replaced by outright hauteur. “You dare to suggest I am a fortune hunter?” he snapped. “Good God. Certainly not.”

Rothewell steepled his fingers together thoughtfully. “Then I beg your pardon, of course,” he said curtly. “I suppose Xanthia is not precisely what one would consider parson’s bait, however lovely she may be. And her strong personality…well, I daresay I have made my point in that regard.”

Nash’s posture was so rigid now, he looked as if he’d swallowed a poker. “Perhaps there has been some mistake,” he finally acknowledged. “I begin to collect that your Miss Neville would not make an ideal wife after all.”

Rothewell flashed a faint smile. “For the right man, Xanthia would make an admirable wife indeed,” he said. “But I am relatively confident that you are not that man. I will not see such an intelligent and lovely woman wasted on someone who neither loves her nor deserves her.”

Nash lifted a piercing, steady gaze to meet his host’s. “You make it sound as if you had someone else in mind.”

It was Rothewell’s turn to shift uncomfortably in his chair. “My sister has an offer, yes,” he admitted. “A proposal of long standing from a family friend. I daresay they will get round to tying the knot one of these days.”

“I see.” Abruptly, Nash rose, his eyes suddenly flat and inscrutable. “My apologies, Lord Rothewell. I have inconvenienced you quite unnecess—”

Suddenly, the study door burst open, and a whirlwind carrying a stuffed leather folio swept in. “Kieran, I have the most
shocking
news ever!” said his sister as both men rose. “And the
Belle Weather
is in six weeks early, so I thought that we might—” Her eyes had shied wild in the direction of Rothewell’s guest. “Oh. Good Lord. I…I do beg your pardon.”

She was halfway out the door when Rothewell caught her. “Not so fast, old thing,” he said. “I take it you know our new friend Lord Nash?”

“
Lord
Nash?” Xanthia had flushed three shades of pink. “I—no, I do not. That is to say…that is to say I did not perfectly understand who…or why…”

Rothewell could not recall ever having seen his sister at a loss for words. He let his eyes drift over her face, to reassure himself that she did not fear this man.

No, there was nothing but grave embarrassment etched on her face. “Obviously, this unfortunate business does not concern me,” he said, releasing his sister’s arm. “I shall leave you to it.”

“Leave us to what, pray?” Xanthia was looking at Nash with a sidelong suspicion now.

“I’m damned if I know.” Rothewell shrugged, and took up his brandy glass. Then, thinking better of it, he snared the bottle, too. It might be a long night.

“Good evening, Miss Neville,” said Nash, when the door was closed. “We meet again.”

Nash watched Miss Neville’s suspicion shift to outrage. “Oh,
Lord
Nash, is it?”

“Please do not claim you did not know,” he said.

“I did not know.” Each word was crisply enunciated. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“You have been much on my mind, my dear, since abandoning me last night,” he said. “So I asked a few discreetly placed questions and was a little disturbed by what I discovered.”

Anger sketched across her face. “As I am a little disturbed to have been run to ground as if I were some sort of prey,” she returned. “I apologize, sir, as I hope you do, for what happened last night. However, when a lady abruptly leaves a gentleman under such circumstances, there are but a few conclusions one can draw.”

“Are there indeed?” he murmured. “I could think of only one.”

“And yet you followed me here?” she challenged, entirely missing his point. “Followed me into the privacy of my home? That, sir, is unacceptable.”

Nash watched her warily for a moment. Even amidst his confusion, he could not help but be aware of her proximity and of her almost palpable allure. She was an unconventional beauty to be sure, with her dark chestnut hair, thin nose, and eyes too widely set—eyes which were focused on him unblinkingly, demanding an answer to her challenge.

“You must pardon me, Miss Neville,” he finally said. “I have misjudged the situation.”

“It would seem so,” she returned. “What on earth possessed you to call upon my brother?”

“I was entering the lion’s den, I thought,” he answered. “I am not the sort of man who waits for trouble to find me, and I wished to see which way the wind blew.”

“Oh, how ridiculous!” she answered. “What did you say?”

“Very little that made sense,” Nash confessed.

“I wish you to stay away from him,” she commanded. “Rothewell eats dandies like you for breakfast, Lord Nash. Trust me, you do not want to irritate him.”

Nash drew in his breath sharply. “I beg your pardon. Did you say
dandy
—?”

Miss Neville colored. “Well, a fashion plate, then. Or a tulip. Or an exquisite, perhaps?” She stopped and pursed her lips. “I beg your pardon. I meant no insult, and I obviously don’t know the proper words. But whatever you are, just stop antagonizing my brother.”

Nash stepped closer, and grasped her arm. “And talking about what we were doing on Sharpe’s terrace might antagonize him?”

“Good God!” Her eyes sparked with blue fire. “Surely you did not?”

He set his head to one side and studied her, still gripping her arm quite firmly. “No, I did not,” he answered musingly. “Tell me, Miss Neville, what do you think his reaction would have been?”

She jerked her arm away, and stepped back. “I cannot say,” she confessed. “Nothing, perhaps. Or perhaps he would have shot you dead where you stood. That is the very trouble with Rothewell, don’t you see? One never knows. Kindly go away, Lord Nash. And stay away. I think you will be saving all of us from a vast amount of grief.”

He stepped closer, strangely unwilling to let her escape. “Tell me, Miss Neville, why did you kiss me last night?” he asked quietly. “Indeed, what in God’s name were you doing alone on that terrace in the first place?”

“England is a free country,” she responded. “I went out for air.”

“Miss Neville, you are an unmarried woman,” he protested. “Society generally expects—”

“Kindly save your breath,” she interjected. “I neither need nor want another lecture about what English society expects. I am unwed, sir, not witless. If I wish a breath of fresh air, I shall have it, and your
beau monde
will simply have to wrestle with their ridiculous notion of propriety.”

Against his will, Nash’s mouth began to tug into a grin. “Well, it would appear our discussion here is finished,” he said, taking up his cape and gloves. “You are, if I may say so, Miss Neville, a most fascinating woman. I wish to God you were a willing widow—or even some poor devil’s willing wife—but you aren’t, are you? And now I’m to suffer for it.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Lord Nash.” She looked at him uncertainly. “No one need suffer.”

“Alas, there is but one way to avoid that,” he murmured. “And it is quite out of the question. Thank you, my dear, for a remarkable evening—two of them, actually.”

He heard a sound of relief escape her lips as she turned toward the door. But at the last instant, she caught him by the arm. “Wait, Lord Nash.” Her eyes were still wary. “I should like to know—what was your conclusion?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“On the terrace,” she reminded him. “You said you could think of but one conclusion to draw. Obviously, it was the wrong one.”

“Ah, that!” He smiled faintly. “When I learnt you were unmarried, I supposed that I had been followed onto the terrace and entrapped.”

“Entrapped?” It took her a moment to comprehend, then understanding dawned. “
Entrapped?
Good Lord, what an insult.”

He lifted one shoulder. “It is a constant threat to a man in my position.”

She glowered at him. “You flatter yourself, Lord Nash. Were I a man, I might just call you out for such an affront and put a period to both you and your self-absorbed concerns.”

“I begin to wonder you don’t do it anyway,” he said honestly. “Are you a very good shot?”

“Yes, but a tad out of practice,” she said. “I’d likely miss your heart and hit your bowels, so it would be a long, painful, and putrefying death.”

He winced. “Then I have been saved from a terrible fate indeed,” he said, bowing to her. “You are a rare beauty, my dear, but not worth dying for—slowly or otherwise. I give you good evening, Miss Neville. And I wish you joy of your unwed state. Long may it continue.”

Xanthia watched Lord Nash suspiciously, but his regret did indeed seem sincere. She gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment, then escorted her unexpected visitor to the door. Nash set his hand on the brass doorknob, but on impulse, Xanthia covered it with her own. “Will you answer one last question for me?”