“Then I think this conversation is finished, gentlemen.”
Mr. Kemble glanced at de Vendenheim with an
I-told-you-so
expression.
De Vendenheim returned his steady gaze to Nash. “It took some time to decode the cache of papers found on the dead man,” he said. “But when we did, we found a list of weapons to be smuggled, and a map to this specific house, with this address written on it. I do not think we will need a witness, Lord Nash.”
“
Weapons
to be smuggled?” Nash felt the blood literally drain from his face. “Good Lord. Weapons from where? And to whom?”
“We are not at liberty to say,” said de Vendenheim.
Nash jerked to his feet. “By God, this is a serious charge you have hurled at me,” he said. “I think honor compels you to explain it.”
For an instant, de Vendenheim considered it. “Very well,” he finally said. “American rifles. Carbines, to be precise. And they are believed to be going to the Greek revolutionaries via France. Does that sound in any way familiar?”
“Carbines?”
Dear God…
Nash could not get his breath. He paced toward the window, praying for clarity. For control. He had to think; to focus on what it all might mean. He knew he could not let de Vendenheim see him rattled. He set one hand on his hip and stared out into the brilliance of spring, at the innocence and gaiety holding forth on his lawns. How carefree everyone looked. And how very harsh the world could be.
Smuggled rifles!
He had been given a hard scrape from which to drag the family this time—if any of this were true…
“Lord Nash, these weapons are in transit even as we speak,” de Vendenheim continued from across the room. “I am warning you—our government will not allow them to reach Greece. We need to know where that ship is this very moment, so that the Royal Navy may board it. Lives are at stake here.”
The marquess whirled around. “And you think
I
know where the damned thing is?”
“Someone in this house does,” said de Vendenheim quietly. “And we know, Lord Nash, that you have connections in Russia. We know your family has a history of antipathy toward the Turks.”
“My family has a history of being
murdered
by the Turks, you fool,” spit Nash. “As do the Greeks. As do the Albanians. Tell me, de Vendenheim, have you interviewed every bloody foreigner in this country? Because that is what it may well take to get the answer you seek.”
De Vendenheim looked as if he might spring from his chair at any moment. Mr. Kemble must have sensed it, for he rose, went to his companion, and set a hand on his shoulder as if to restrain him. “Lord Nash, the map bore the address of this house,” he said quietly. “There is no escaping that fact. Now, perhaps if you would simply work with us to—”
“Who are you?” Nash suddenly snapped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just who the hell are you?” Nash stalked toward him. “By God, I
know
have seen you somewhere—and very recently, too.”
Mr. Kemble let his hand fall and made no answer.
Nash felt his vision begin to darken, as if he might faint. Or commit murder. “In Wapping!” he muttered. “Yes, you were in Wapping, were you not? At Neville Shipping. I saw you there.”
Mr. Kemble smiled faintly. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you would not remember,” he said quietly. “Most people would not have, you know. They never see the servants who are there, simply toiling in the background.”
A
servant
? This man was no servant.
“What were you doing there?” he rasped, already fearing the answer. “
What
? Tell me, by God!”
Again the visitors exchanged telling glances. De Vendenheim spoke first. “You must not blame Lord Rothewell or his sister,” he said quietly.
Nash tried to absorb the words, tried to find another meaning for them. He could not. His ire was turning into a strange sense of foreboding and to something worse. A sickening fear. Just then, a firm knock sounded on the door. Nash strode across the room and jerked open the door. In one sweep, his eyes took in the brace of pale footmen beyond, and Tony on the threshold. Across the great hall stood Xanthia and Rothewell. Rothewell looked grave. Xanthia was whispering something in his ear, her face bloodless, her expression urgent.
Xanthia. His eyes caught hers, beseeching.
Begging
. She looked away.
Nash’s knees felt suddenly as if they might buckle. A stake had just been driven into his heart. It was as if unconquerable waves of grief and anger were crashing down on him, as if his ship were sinking, splintering to jetsam beneath his very feet, leaving him to grasp at the wreckage as he wondered whom to save—and whom to let drown.
Good God.
Xanthia. It was not possible. It was
not
.
Tony stepped into the room. Nash drew in a ragged breath and somehow forced his attention to his stepbrother, who still wore his cricket whites. “Stefan, you look ill,” asked Tony very quietly. “Mamma said there was angry shouting. Is everything all right?”
Nash seized Tony by the arm. “You will excuse me,” he said to de Vendenheim over his shoulder. “I wish a moment of privacy with my brother.”
Nash propelled Tony away from Rothewell and down the opposite corridor in haste. He had to force himself to walk, to think. His hands were shaking now. He wanted to run back to Xanthia, and demand the truth. But the truth would kill him. Indeed, it already had.
“Where are we going?” Tony’s voice was edged with alarm. “Who the devil are those fellows?”
“They are your worst nightmare, Tony,” Nash gritted, pushing open the library door. “And we must decide just what’s to be done about it—and we must decide now.”
With the door closed, Nash dragged both hands through his hair. But it was not Tony’s decision to make, was it? It was his life which lay in tatters, for Tony’s might yet be saved. Nash wanted to sob. To let his fists fly at someone—Tony, Kemble, de Vendenheim, anyone—anyone but
her
—and hurt them badly. He had been spied upon. The man named Kemble had not been at Neville Shipping by accident. And Xanthia had not been in his bed by accident. The inescapable horror of it was pressing down upon him.
“What did I do, Nash?” asked Tony quietly. “And what can I do to help?”
“Tony,” said Nash grimly, “if you had done what I have been asking you to do these last five years—to take hold of your wife, and keep her in check—you would need do nothing now.”
Tony’s face paled until it matched his cricket whites. “Dear God,” he rasped. “What has Jenny done this time?”
“I think I can guess,” Nash growled. “But I cannot yet prove it. Look, Tony, we have no time. I wish you to go upstairs and collect your things. We must go.
Now.
”
“Go?” he said incredulously. “But what about Mamma’s party?”
“I am sorry,” said Nash curtly. “This is your political career we are talking about, Tony. I think I know what your choice will be. Now go find Gibbons and tell him he’s to put up my kit—and my cashbox. I want them downstairs in five minutes. I am going to the stables to have your carriage made ready and brought round.”
He had Tony’s full attention now. “In two minutes,” he agreed. “But where, Nash, do we go?”
“To France,” said Nash tightly. “We are following Jenny to Cherbourg. My yacht lies at anchor in Southampton. If we hurry, Tony, we can be there by dusk.”
Her stomach still churning with nausea, Xanthia watched Nash practically drag Mr. Hayden-Worth down the passageway in the direction of the library. She had been unable to miss the hurtful accusation in his eyes. Dear God.
He knew
. It was over.
Unthinkingly, she left her brother’s side and stalked into the Chinese salon. “How could you?” she hissed at de Vendenheim. “How could you do this to me?”
“To
you
, Miss Neville?”
“Yes, and to Lord Nash, for God’s sake!” she answered. “How dare you violate the sanctity of a man’s home—and under such circumstances? He has a houseful of guests—important guests. What are these people to think?”
“It is most regrettable, Miss Neville,” said de Vendenheim calmly. “But we received some urgent information. A load of American rifles is thought to be en route to Cherbourg—but we do not know precisely when, or under whose flag the ship will be sailing.
“And your interrogation simply could not wait?” she demanded.
“It could not,” said the vicomte quietly. “This ship must be stopped. Matters in Greece grow more perilous by the day. And I think, Miss Neville, that for your own sake, you should not be in this room.”
She felt Kieran take hold of her arm. “He is right,” Kieran warned. “If you remain, my dear, Nash will know you were a part of this.”
Xanthia whirled on him. “He already knows!” she cried. “Because he has brought Mr. Kemble!” She thrust a finger at de Vendenheim. “He
saw
him Kieran—
weeks
ago. It was at a distance, but yes, but he saw the man in my office. Nash already knows the truth, and it is
his
fault.”
“Miss Neville, how was Max to know we would find you here at Brierwood?” said Kemble soothingly. “Seeing both you and I here—yes, Lord Nash will likely put it all together. I daresay he has already done so. I am so very sorry.”
Xanthia wanted to weep with despair. “And you are so certain he is guilty!” she cried. “Yet you two have looked no further than the nose upon your face.”
“Xanthia, calm yourself,” her brother commanded. “Still, I think she is right, you know,” he said aside to de Vendenheim. “I have been asking a few questions of my own about this business. And Nash knows nothing. I am quite certain of it.”
“Regrettably, my lord, the facts rather speak for themselves,” said de Vendenheim.
Xanthia almost lunged at him. “There are other people who live here!” she interjected. “Mr. Hayden-Worth, for example? What of him? Have you thoroughly investigated his background?”
“We have not.”
“No, because he is wholly English—
and
a politician,” she said derisively. The tears were flowing now. “You suspect Lord Nash because of his foreign blood. And that is just
vile
, Lord de Vendenheim. It is bigotry, plain and simple.”
The vicomte’s mouth turned into a sneer. “I assure you, Miss Neville, that no one is more acutely aware of the difficulties foreigners face in this country than I,” he answered. “My suspicion of Lord Nash is based on fact. He
does
have regional ties to Eastern Europe. His family is
known
to hate the Turks. He
has
funneled at least one large sum of money to the French diplomats who are serving as liaison to the Greeks. And Brierwood is
his
home, no matter who may live here.”
Later, Xanthia was never sure just what it was that drove her. Instinct, perhaps? She jerked from Kieran’s grasp. “Stay here—all three of you,” she commanded, dragging a hand beneath her eyes. “There is something I wish to show you.”
Propelled by her anger, Xanthia flew up the stairs. She passed Mr. Hayden-Worth coming back down with two servants on his heels. She was so ashamed, she felt compelled to look away. And so she did not see the portmanteaus, which the servants carried, or the stark, bloodless expression on Mr. Hayden-Worth’s face.
Nash strode back through the west wing of Brierwood, his mind in turmoil. He had left the grooms in a panic, but by God he would have his carriage within moments—of that, he was sure. Of all else, he was less certain. But he pressed on, striding up the hill like an automaton, in part because he was afraid to slow down. Afraid to think. Afraid of the awful knowledge which was bearing down upon him.
But there was no escaping it. The bittersweet vignettes kept reappearing in his mind. Xanthia, chatting so casually about the turmoil in Greece. Teasing him about customs and taxation. Subtly suggesting that there were ways around such things. He had wondered at it, even then. Her words had seemed so disparate from her nature. But apparently, the woman was well schooled in deception. And it explained why she had followed him onto the terrace that very first night at Sharpe’s.
Yes, she had been very clever indeed. She had played hard to get like one of Drury Lane’s best. He recalled how he had seen her bent over the desk in his library, looking for the letter paper which had lain in plain view in the top drawer. Then there was the matter of Vladislav’s missing correspondence. She had probably taken it. But why? Was there no end to the woman’s audacity? How had he not seen it? Had he not chanced to see Mr. Kemble today—had something in the man’s face not driven him to distraction—good God. What a fool he had been about to make of himself.
His life—the life he had never really known he wanted—was over. He was a little ashamed to feel the hot press of tears behind his eyes. His hands curled into tight fists as he willed them to recede. And slowly, the grief began to boil down to a righteous fury, a simpler, safer emotion.
Nash strode into the great hall to find his stepbrother waiting. Tony still wore his whites, but Gibbons and Tony’s valet were ready with portmanteaus in hand, and fresh suits of clothing over their arms. Both servants looked unflappable.
“I apologize for the haste,” said Nash to the three of them. “The carriage will be coming round shortly. We should make the coast by nightfall.”
Just then, de Vendenheim stepped from the shadows of the salon, his footsteps ominous on the marble floor. “I hope, Lord Nash, that you do not mean to leave the country,” he said
sotto voce
.
“That is precisely what I mean to do,” Nash answered. “Have you sufficient evidence on which to hold me?”
De Vendenheim hesitated. “Not quite.”
“Then stand aside, sir,” Tony ordered, injecting himself into the conversation. “I scarcely know who you are, but I daresay you do know who
I
am.”
“Yes, Mr. Hayden-Worth.” De Vendenheim sounded inordinately weary. “I am all too aware.”
“Then impede us at your peril,” Tony snapped. “And kindly remember that I am not without influence in Whitehall.”