Foolishly, she slowed. Was it Nash? Perhaps he had decided to follow her? Or perhaps her imagination had just run wild.
No. The steps were closer now. Xanthia picked up her pace, her heels sharp and quick on the pavement. She could sense St. James’s Park just ahead. In a few more minutes, she would be back in Berkeley Square. There would be a good fire in her bedchamber. A decanter of sherry on the night table. Warmth. Security. Comfort.
Suddenly, something—
someone
—snared her arm, spinning her roughly around. “Yer money or yer life,” rasped an almost inhuman voice. “Scream, and I’ll slit yer from ear ter ear.”
“Unhand me,” ordered Xanthia, giving a hard try. “Let go!”
The man merely jerked her closer. His breath was sour and reeked of onions. “Let’s ’ave it, now,” he ordered, laying something cold and menacing against her throat. “That little leather purse full of coins? Toss it onto the pavement, milady, afore yer gets a nasty bloodstain on that fine cloak.”
Her blood was running cold now. The blade against her throat was like ice. Like death. “Release me,” she whispered. “And I shall reach insi—”
Suddenly, the man’s arm jerked high, as if God himself had seized it. He cried out, grabbing his elbow as the knife clattered to the pavement. “What the bloody—?”
The question was never finished. Something black—a boot?—flashed in the gloom, catching the man square across the throat. His head snapped back like a broken doll’s, then he slithered to the pavement.
“Good God,” said a dark, deeply irritated voice. “Where
is
your pistol, Miss Neville?”
Xanthia sagged with relief as Mr. Kemble materialized from the gloom. “Oh, thank heaven!” she said. “My pistol—oh. Oh, dear. I left it.”
“And did you leave your common sense behind to keep it company?” he snapped. The urbane coxcomb was gone, and Kemble was all business. “Do not ever flash a purse in the street again, Miss Neville. Especially not in the middle of the night. Indeed, you should know better.”
Xanthia had grabbed hold of a lamppost to steady herself. “But—but I didn’t flash it.”
The man on the pavement began to moan. Without missing a beat, Kemble set his boot firmly against the man’s throat. “The boy you hired,” he said irritably. “He was not out for a midnight stroll, Miss Neville. He was making marks.”
“Making…marks?”
“Looking for victims to rob,” Kemble clarified. “He works for a ring. Pickpockets, cracksmen, common ruffians. They all come out at night, Miss Neville—and the daylight, too. How in God’s name have you survived down in Wapping?”
She blushed. “My mind…it was elsewhere tonight.”
“Yes,” said Kemble dryly. “I noticed.”
“You—you were following me?” Xanthia had finally stopped shaking, her fear succumbing to her indignation. “You were
spying
on me?”
“I am watching out for you,” Kemble corrected. “With good reason, as it happens.”
“But—but how dare you?” Xanthia sputtered.
“Go home, Miss Neville,” said Kemble almost wearily. “Go home, find your pistol, and put it in your reticule. Never flash your purse in the street again. Burn that hideous excuse of a hat as soon as you arrive home. And for God’s sake, do not ever turn your back on the Marquess of Nash. Peel wishes you merely to serve your country—not to die for it.”
“Are you following me everywhere?” she demanded.
“Someone is,” he said. “Max has seen to it.”
For an instant, Xanthia shook with fury. “Then
someone
may prepare to follow me back to Park Lane tomorrow night,” she hissed. “For I am going back—and I am going to prove once and for all that Nash had
nothing
to do with this gunrunning business.”
“Miss Neville, I urge you to be cautious.”
“Yes, as de Vendenheim is being cautious?” Xanthia retorted. “He has all but convicted Nash.”
Across the street, a shade had flown up, and a lamp now hovered at the window. The man on the pavement moaned again, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up, saw Kemble, and raw fear sketched across his face.
“Good evening, Mr. Tomkins,” said Kemble, hauling the man to his feet. “Working nights again, are we?”
“Georgie Kemble!” he gritted. “God rot yer, yer sneaky peachin’ bastard!”
Kemble smiled. “Yes, I have missed you, too, Tommy,” he said, deftly twisting the man’s arm up behind his back. “Let’s have a little stroll up to the Queen’s Square Magistrate’s Office, shall we? The weather is so lovely tonight.”
The man writhed. “Sod off, yer son of a bitch.”
“What a moving offer,” said Kemble, “but you are not quite my type. Now
move
.”
The man moved, his eyes shying over one shoulder like a nervous horse’s. He clearly feared his captor. But Mr. Kemble seemed quite thoroughly at ease. Chattering amiably about the weather, he frog-marched Xanthia’s assailant into the gloom.
Xanthia stared after them in amazement and clutched her reticule to her chest. “Mr. Kemble,” she said into the swirling haze, “
you
are a very strange man.”
A
cross Westminster, the day dawned fair, the morning sun quickly burning off the last of the evening’s fog and bathing the verdant slopes of Hyde Park in shafts of light which shifted gently as the clouds drifted overhead. Today, Lord Nash was up at dawn, much to his staff’s surprise, for he had a few errands to run. By the late afternoon, however, he had returned to Park Lane to dress for the evening and await his fate.
A fine, strong breeze periodically ballooned the draperies about his shoulders, bathing him in cool air as he braced his palms on the window frame. The shafts of late sunlight across the park reminded him, he decided, of a scene from a Constable exhibit which he’d admired at the Royal Academy. Fleetingly, he was struck with the strangest impulse to take Miss Neville to see it.
Good Lord. What a notion!
“There,” said Gibbons, giving one last tug upon the back of Nash’s collar. “It looks splendid, sir, if I do say so myself. Now, are you quite sure you can extract yourself from this finery without my help?”
“I shall manage.” Nash turned to give himself one last going-over in the pier glass, then picked up his cup of coffee. It was his third; he kept pouring them, then forgetting to drink them.
Gibbons was looking at him slyly. “It will be no trouble at all, my lord, for me to return in time to help you undress.”
Nash glowered at him over the cold coffee. “I said you were to have the evening off,” he replied. “Let me rephrase that.
Go away
—and do not come back until noon tomorrow.”
Gibbons trembled with feigned indignation. “Well!” answered the valet. “Such ingratitude!”
Nash handed him the coffee. “But whilst you’re still here, be so good as to pour this out,” he said. “It’s gone cold.”
With a tight smile, Gibbons went to the window and summarily dumped it.
Below, someone shrieked.
Nash glowered at the valet. “Bloody hell!” he said, hastening toward the window. “Sorry! Very sorry!” he called out.
“Yes, gardy-loo!” shouted Gibbons, with a waggle of his fingers. “Have a lovely day!”
Nash withdrew from the window. “You needn’t take your snit out on innocent passersby,” he said. “If you must ruin someone’s wardrobe, let it be the usual one—
mine
.”
Gibbons threw his arms over his chest. “Oh, this is all about your scorched cravat, isn’t it?” he said. “Well, you can thank Mr. Vernon for that one! It was he who overheated the irons, then set them on the worktable, innocent as a little lamb!”
“Vernon has the evening off, too,” Nash reminded him. “And he’s damned grateful for it.” He had returned to the pier glass to stare at the lapels of his frock coat. “What do you think? Ought I have chosen the bottle green?”
“It depends,” said Gibbons, “on whether or not she’ll be sober enough to notice what color you are wearing.”
Nash drew away from the mirror, and this time his glower made Gibbons blanch. “She is
not
that sort of woman,” he said coldly.
The valet clasped his hands together. “Oh, I knew it,” he said. “I just knew it! You have planned some sort of tryst!”
“Of course I have,” Nash snapped. “Why else would I suffer the inconvenience of waiting on myself?”
Gibbons’s elation faded to curiosity. “Have you got rid of the Henrietta Street house?”
“No.” Nash felt a faint heat rise to his face. “She is not
that
sort of woman, either.”
Gibbons’s expression faltered. “Dear God!” he said. “Oh, heavens!”
“What now?”
“Monsieur René will not approve.”
“I had not planned to ask his permission,” said Nash, turning his head to brush his knuckles assessingly over his fresh shave.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Gibbons. “He does not approve of females.”
“He’s the bloody chef,” said Nash. “What business is it of his?”
“He will give you the sack,” warned Gibbons.
“I am the employer,” Nash reminded him. “I do the sacking. And remind me again, Gibbons—why is it I don’t sack
you
?”
“Because your last three valets quit,” he answered. “You are difficult to work for. You have
moods
, sir. And you keep odd hours. You come home with your person and your clothes in a shambles. And you definitely don’t do the sacking where René is concerned.”
“He won’t know a thing about this, Gibbons, unless you open your big mouth.”
The valet laughed. “Oh, sir, you are deluding yourself if you think it will stop at this.”
Nash looked at him incredulously. “If
what
will stop at
what
?”
“A female in the house.” Gibbons was holding a finger in the air now. “Once you’ve let
that
sort in, my lord, they never go out again. Not really.”
“What
sort
?” he demanded. “I told you, she is extremely respectable.”
“And that, sir, is the very trouble,” said Gibbons. “You are having a tryst with a respectable lady. Next you know, you’ll be caught in the parson’s mousetrap—and perfectly pleased about it, I daresay. But René shan’t be pleased. He’ll be on the first mail packet out of Dover.”
Nash grunted. “René shall have nothing to worry about,” he replied, returning to his mirror. “There will be no mousetrap—of anyone’s making.”
Gibbons drew in his breath sharply. “My lord! I am shocked. Simply shocked.”
“You’ve never been shocked a day in your life,” muttered Nash, wondering if perhaps breeches and boots would look more—well, more
dashing
than ordinary trousers. “What the devil are you squawking about, anyway?”
“I am shocked that you would invite
a lady
into your home with dishonorable intentions.”
“You know nothing of my intentions, Gibbons,” he snapped. “We’ll be playing piquet for all you know.”
“Now, that I truly doubt,” said the valet. “Has she a husband?”
“Well…no,” he admitted. “Those are the sort I
do
take to Henrietta Street.”
“Then this is an outrage!” said the valet. “Sir, I must insist you make an honest woman of this well-bred young lady.”
“You do not know if she is young or well-bred or has two heads, Gibbons, so mind your own business.”
But his valet was making Nash dashed uneasy. Was this not the very argument he’d already had with himself a dozen times over the last week? And neither side had won. Instead, he had let Miss Neville sink her claws back into his hide—his weak-willed, quixotic hide—whilst he surrendered to desire.
Well, weak-willed he might be, but this argument was over. He went to the chair by the dressing room door, and picked up Gibbons’s portmanteau. Just then, Vernon, the footman, entered. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but there’s a van round back.”
“A van?”
“Yes, my lord. He said he came round to the front as he was told, but someone threw cold coffee on his head.”
Nash scowled at Gibbons.
“In any case, he’s round back now, unloading boxes,” said Vernon. “He says they are for you.”
“Boxes?” said Gibbons as the footman vanished. “What sort of boxes?”
“Bloody greenhouses
!” said Nash under his breath.
Gibbons looked at him incredulously. “I beg your pardon? Did you say greenhouses?”
Nash turned to look at him. “I might have done,” he said. “What of it?”
“A greenhouse with
boxes
?”
Nash shrugged sheepishly. “I got rather carried away,” he answered. “And the fellow’s turned up an hour early.”
“I think,” said Gibbons, “that you have lost your mind.”
Nash was afraid to answer that. He rather thought perhaps he
had
lost his mind. Nowadays, his every deed—and his every thought—seemed most out of character. This entire plan reeked of scandal and danger—not to mention absurdity. And now the flowers were starting to arrive. What in God’s name had possessed him to order them? Perhaps Gibbons was right. Perhaps he was simply poking one toe over a dangerous, slippery slope.
Ah, well! Too late to worry about it now.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the portmanteau at Gibbons. “Give my regards to your sister.”
Xanthia arrived home that evening and went straight upstairs to her bedchamber. “Tell my brother that I have a headache and shan’t be dining with him tonight,” she instructed the housemaid who answered her bell. “And be so good as to send up hot water for my bath—lots of it, please.”
The maid nodded sympathetically. “A hot bath’ll do you good, miss, to be sure.”
Once the old brass slipper-tub was pulled from the dressing room and filled, Xanthia dismissed the servants, saying she was going straight to bed and did not wish to be disturbed again. Then she slipped into the deep, hot water and tried to steady her nerves—or perhaps her
anticipation
was a better word.
Tonight she would make love with Nash
. Not some impulsive, illicit act performed in haste and desperation, but a slow and deliberate savoring of one another. And Nash was a man well worth savoring. With a deep exhalation, Xanthia let her head fall back against the high rim, and slid deeper into the bath.
Perhaps she should have been more apprehensive. Nash was a connoisseur of female flesh. He had doubtless made love to many women; women skilled in the arts of arousal and satisfaction. Xanthia, by contrast, knew little about either. But strangely, she felt she
knew
Nash. He was intrigued with her, of that Xanthia had little doubt. Whether or not simple intrigue would become anything more remained to be seen. Xanthia accepted that life was fraught with uncertainties, and she had learned to take her pleasure—and her comfort—where and when she could. She would take all that Lord Nash could offer her, and be glad of it. She would not look beyond tonight.
So resolved, Xanthia took up the soap and her brush, and scrubbed herself head to toe, all the while thinking of Nash. In the warm, sudsy water, she lifted her breasts in her hands. She was no beauty, it was true, but she was made generously enough, she thought. She had the sort of trim, vigorous body which some men appreciated—Nash apparently amongst them. Last night, despite his obvious anger and frustration, the simmering heat in his gaze had been unmistakable.
And tonight…would he look at her again in just that way? Would his black eyes melt with ardor as he stripped the clothes from her body? At the mere thought, something in Xanthia’s stomach seemed to twist; it was a sweet, yearning sensation which melted through her body, leaving her longing for something ill defined. But Nash would know just what she needed. Xanthia understood that instinctively. She touched herself there—where his mouth had been but a few days past—and shivered with anticipation.
Good Lord, it was time to get dressed.
She dried, and drew on one of her few extravagances—hideously expensive silk undergarments. Soon, a dozen dresses had been drawn from her wardrobe, and rejected again. Xanthia, who scarce gave a thought to her wardrobe, was suddenly beset by doubt. She held up two gowns, studying each in the mirror. What did the well-dressed woman wear to an assignation? Red? She wrinkled her nose and tossed it aside. Deep blue silk? Xanthia lifted it higher and remembered Mr. Kemble’s advice. That shade of blue did indeed do wonders for her eyes.
When she was dressed in her dark cloak and veil, Xanthia slipped down the back stairs and out the rear door. She made her way through Mayfair, once again shrouded in fog, but not quite the all-enveloping pea soup of the previous evening. She wondered vaguely if Mr. Kemble was following her. Someone likely was—and for all his protestations, she rather doubted Kemble had entrusted the job to another.
But she would not think of that, nor of what de Vendenheim had asked of her. The intrigues of men no longer interested Xanthia; she wished only to prove Nash’s innocence and move on with her life. The identity of de Vendenheim’s mysterious villain was best left to the devices of those more clever—and more concerned—than she.
It was an easy enough task to go through the mews and identify Nash’s house. His was the only door lit. She made her way through the gloom, and went up the three steps to the stoop. But when she lifted her hand to knock, the door opened. Nash stood on the threshold, his wide, solid shoulders blocking the dimly lit passageway beyond.
“You came,” he said.
“Yes.” She stepped inside and lifted off the veiled hat, cutting a sidelong glance at him. Tonight he was dressed for the comfort of his own home, wearing no coat, but only a waistcoat of muted black brocade. His shirtsleeves billowed faintly around his arms, and he wore his hair caught back in a black silk cord, a look which was unfashionable yet, on him, quite striking.
He lifted her cloak from her shoulders. For an instant, they stood there awkwardly. Then Xanthia cupped his face in her hands and rose onto her tiptoes to set her cheek to his. “I came.”
A hard, strong arm banded about her waist, whilst his opposite hand settled almost comfortingly between her shoulder blades. He buried his face in her loosely arranged hair. “Is it wrong of me to wish to see you so desperately?” he whispered.
Xanthia laughed a little nervously. “What choice did you have?” she answered. “I have thrust myself upon you.”
Nash heard the edge in Xanthia’s voice. He set her away and slid his wide, warm palms around her face. “You mustn’t think that,” he whispered, his eyes roaming over her face. “I want you madly, Zee.” Nonetheless, at that moment, Nash was questioning his own sanity and wondering if there was any way he could summon the fortitude to kiss her quickly then send her back out the door.
No. He knew it the instant he felt her lush breasts against his chest. Their lips had not met, and yet the hot rush of desire already pooled heavily in his loins. She must have sensed it, for she lifted her chin, and parted her lips enticingly. Her rich blue eyes were soft and welcoming in the dim light of the corridor. He took her lips in a kiss which became endless in its sweetness. Over and over Nash kissed her, slanting his mouth over hers in caresses which left them both weak-kneed and a little shaken.