“Yes, that’s another thing I’m well aware of,” said the vicomte dryly. He returned his attention to Nash. “My lord, I must ask again that you remain in England, on your honor as a gentleman.”
“But my dear fellow, like you, I am scarcely a gentleman,” said Nash. “Indeed, I am scarcely an Englishman.”
De Vendenheim frowned. “Lord Nash, I really think—”
“And I think you have a lot of gall, invading the sanctity of my home,” Nash coolly interjected. “I am going to France, gentlemen—specifically, to Cherbourg—where I shall have the French police do what you people seem incapable of. And when I return, if I am feeling charitable, perhaps I will even bring you your foreign spy, de Vendenheim.”
De Vendenheim’s lips thinned with irritation, and he stepped away. It was only then that Nash noticed Xanthia’s brother hovering in the depths of the salon.
“Lord Rothewell,” he said curtly, “you and your sister will be so good as to leave my house—tonight if at all possible. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Do I make myself plain?”
Lord Rothewell stood impassively in the shadows, his face as veiled as his character. “You are making a grave mistake, Nash.”
“No, thank God, I am not,” Nash returned, his voice dangerously soft. “But it was a near-run thing.”
Just then, the clatter of a carriage sounded beyond the front door, which still stood open. Cutting one last look of contempt toward de Vendenheim, Lord Nash went down the stairs, Mr. Hayden-Worth and the servants on his heels. In an instant, the coachman snapped his whip, and they were off.
“
Maledizione!
” spit de Vendenheim, pounding his fist on the doorframe.
“Well!” said Kemble with false brightness. “That could hardly have gone worse.”
Lord Rothewell and de Vendenheim glowered at him. Kemble was saved, however, by Xanthia. The carriage had not quite vanished by the time she came back down the stairs. She ran to the open door, and set one hand against the doorjamb, watching forlornly as the trail of dust vanished.
When both carriage and dust had disappeared, she slowly turned around. “He has gone to France, has he not?”
Mr. Kemble looked at her strangely. “Yes. How did you know?”
Xanthia dropped her chin, and blinked back what was left of her tears. “Come with me into the salon,” she said. “I want to prove to you Lord Nash’s innocence.”
Mr. Kemble set a hand over hers. “Miss Neville, you are distraught,” he murmured. “There is no need to do this now.”
Xanthia jerked away from him. “But I
must
do it now, don’t you see?” she cried. “Listen to me, Mr. Kemble—do you remember how you once told me about how conversational things written in letters might have special meanings?”
Kemble followed her into the salon. “Yes, but both parties must know which words mean what,” he said. “It is the simplest sort of code there is—and more or less impossible to break.”
Rothewell slid a hand beneath her elbow. “Nash has asked us to leave, Zee,” he said softly. “Perhaps we had best do so now?”
“No.” Xanthia sat down in a chair by the front windows and extracted the letter from Mrs. Hayden-Worth’s prayer book. She handed it to Kemble. “I wish Mr. Kemble to read this first.”
“What is it?” asked de Vendenheim, craning over Kemble’s shoulder.
Xanthia bit her lip. “It is a letter to Mrs. Hayden-Worth from her father,” she answered. “She is American. Did you know that?”
De Vendenheim and Kemble exchanged worried looks.
“No, I thought not,” she retorted. “Her father is a wealthy American industrialist. He lives in Connecticut, I believe. That is rather near Boston—precisely where your ordnance is being smuggled from, is it not?”
“Yes,” de Vendenheim admitted.
Kemble’s eyes were swiftly running over the words. “The letter is oddly brief,” he said, handing it back to Xanthia. “But other than that, what am I to see?”
Xanthia held the letter in one hand, and the prayer book in the other. “Do you not think the tone of the letter is strangely stiff?” she asked. “And the mention of a specific date—how was Mrs. Hayden-Worth to know that she was to be in Cherbourg on that particular day, so many months beforehand?”
“I cannot say.”
“It must have been a very important appointment,” said Xanthia. “And yet, when I first arrived here, she claimed to have forgotten she needed to be in France altogether. She flew out of here two days past in a very distracted state—almost on the eve of her mother-in-law’s house party.”
“What is your point?” asked de Vendenheim.
“How long does it take the post to go back and forth to America?” asked Xanthia. “This appointment was important enough that Mrs. Hayden-Worth wrote to father and remarked upon it. And important enough that he wrote back, repeating it. And then
she forgot it
?”
“Or perhaps not,” said Kemble in a low undertone. “You are suggesting that perhaps this letter was in fact the first time Mrs. Hayden-Worth had seen that date? That the letter might actually be a form of instruction?”
“Collusion or instruction—either is possible, I suppose.” Xanthia sighed. “Or neither. I am probably just clutching at straws.”
“Probably,” said de Vendenheim. But he was leaning over Xanthia’s shoulder now, and there was a little edge of hope in his voice.
Xanthia handed him the letter. “Are you a married man, Lord de Vendenheim?” she suddenly asked.
The vicomte’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Yes, happily so.”
Her eyes ran over his obviously expensive clothing. “I daresay your wife is very lovely, and dresses elegantly,” said Xanthia. “Does she ever wear seed pearls? The little ones which are sometimes stitched onto one’s gowns?”
De Vendenheim nodded. “Catherine often wears them on her evening dresses.”
“And where does she get them?”
De Vendenheim looked at her oddly. “They come that way from the dressmaker,” he said. “But wait—I see your point. Catherine keeps a little boxful on hand, for repairs and such. She sews them on herself. But I haven’t a clue where she gets them.”
“In Oxford Street, I daresay,” said Xanthia. “They are unaccountably common, and not frightfully expensive.”
“So why would she write to her father and ask for them?” murmured Mr. Kemble. “Any woman would know that seed pearls can be had almost as easily in London.”
Xanthia lifted her gaze to Kemble’s. “When I met Mrs. Hayden-Worth, she seemed preoccupied,” she mused.
“And she has gone to Cherbourg,” murmured Kieran. “What an odd coincidence.”
De Vendenheim’s olive skin had slowly turned a strangely ashen shade. “There is no such thing as coincidence,” he said grimly. Without another word, he tucked the letter into the pocket of his coat.
“Cherbourg,” muttered Mr. Kemble. “It is a reasonable location for American merchant ships to refit on this side of the Atlantic, is it not?”
“Not the most likely,” said Xanthia. “But reasonable, yes.”
Kem lifted his gaze to Max’s. “Perhaps we have the wrong brother, old chap,” he suggested. “Perhaps we should look more closely at Mr. Hayden-Worth’s loyalties. It would not be the first time an M.P. had his hand in someone else’s pocket.”
“Or perhaps he is as ignorant of all this as his stepbrother,” interjected Rothewell.
Suddenly, the salon doors flew open, and Lady Nash rushed in, Phaedra on her heels. “Oh! Oh! What has happened?” she cried, clutching her hands together. “Where has Nash gone in such a rush? Where is my Tony?”
Xanthia went to her at once, and took one of her hands. “Do not worry, Lady Nash,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “They have had to go to France. A minor emergency—but all will be well, I do assure you.”
“An emergency?” Lady Nash pressed one hand to her cheek. “Oh, dear! What has happened?”
Xanthia was scrambling for a good lie when Mr. Kemble approached. “Mrs. Hayden-Worth has been taken ill,” he said.
“Ill?” shrieked Lady Nash.
Kemble seized the other hand, and began to pat it. “She
was
ill,” he corrected. “But she is better now. Just a little
mal de mer
. Still, Mr. Hayden-Worth was worried.”
“As well he should be!” cried her ladyship.
“And you
know
how he does dote on her,” said Mr. Kemble.
“Yes. Yes. He does indeed!” said her ladyship. “Tony is a devoted husband.”
“Oh, what a pack of nonsense!” said Phaedra, looking at Kemble suspiciously.
“We all of us show our fondness in our own unique way,” said Mr. Kemble a little snidely. “Mr. Hayden-Worth is worried sick.”
Phaedra drew back. “Who
are
you?” she demanded. “And what are you doing in our house?”
Lord de Vendenheim stepped forward. “We are with the Home Office.” Smoothly, the vicomte made the introductions. “We work for Mr. Peel.”
“Oh!” said Lady Nash. “Mr. Peel is very important, is he not? And Tony is very well thought of in the Government. I daresay they must have sent you?”
Kemble was still patting her hand. “Lord Wellington himself insisted, ma’am,” he answered. “He wished Mr. Hayden-Worth to hear the news at once.”
“Oh?” Phaedra set her hands on her hips. “And just how did Lord Wellington catch wind of this dire tragedy?”
Xanthia caught Phaedra’s gaze and lifted her finger to her lips.
Phaedra’s brow furrowed in confusion, but Mr. Kemble seized the moment. “The Prime Minister heard of it through his
important secret channels
,” he said knowingly. “He had a spy, I daresay, on the very same ferry. And even though Mrs. Hayden-Worth is feeling much better, he knew her husband would not rest until he was by her side and reassured of his wife’s good health.”
Phaedra crossed her arms over her chest. “And Nash had to go along to help, did he?”
Kemble smiled down at Phaedra as if she were a prodigy. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Mr. Hayden-Worth was in no shape to travel alone.”
“Just because Jenny cast up her accounts on a ferryboat?” Phaedra clarified.
“Quite so.”
“Yes, it all makes perfect sense now.” Lady Nash was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “And Nash is always so very thoughtful. Poor, poor Jenny! I daresay she will wish now she had stayed for my birthday party!”
“Yes,” murmured Lord de Vendenheim dryly. “I daresay she soon shall.”
Xanthia crossed the room to Phaedra’s side. “I rushed upstairs to get this,” she said, handing Phaedra the prayer book. “I thought it might comfort her, but they drove off before I could return. It is Jenny’s, is it not?”
Phaedra took it. “Yes, where did you find it?”
“Inside the sitting room secretary,” said Xanthia. Lightly, she touched the gilt initials. “This must have been Jenny’s before she married.”
“Oh, yes, she brought it from America,” said the girl. “See? J-E-C. Jennifer Elizabeth Carlow.”
Mr. Kemble’s head jerked up, and his gaze snapped to Xanthia’s. “Carlow?”
Phaedra looked at him disdainfully. “Yes? What of it?”
De Vendenheim stepped nearer. “Her father is a wealthy American industrialist,” he murmured, as if to himself. “How remarkable. I do not suppose…”
“Yes?” said Phaedra impatiently.
De Vendenheim lifted his eyes to Phaedra’s. “That would not be the Carlow of Carlow Arms Manufacturing, would it? The rifle works in Connecticut?”
“Why, just so!” cried Lady Nash. “Rifles! I have had the most frightful time recalling it. In any case, Mr. Carlow is such a dear—and he just
adores
Jenny.”
Mr. Kemble and Lord de Vendenheim exchanged dark glances and started at once toward the door.
Phaedra’s confusion suddenly cleared. “Oh, dear,” she murmured to Xanthia. “Jenny’s bollixed something up again, hasn’t she?”
“We must hope not,” said Xanthia quietly. “And if she has, we must trust that Lord Nash can set it to rights.”
Phaedra strolled to the window, peering out as the two gentlemen in black piled back into their carriage. “Well, I don’t know how Nash will manage it,” she muttered, “but I somehow get the feeling that dear old Jenny is going to be saying a few prayers—with or without this book.”
S
ummer spread up the Seine Valley like a damp blanket, layering the land with a thick, unseasonable warmth. In Paris, the streets were stifling but tolerable. Inside
l’hospice de la Salpêtrière
, however, the stillness and stench were almost overpowering. Lord Nash stood beside one of the narrow windows which overlooked the deceptively verdant lawns, pinched the bridge of his nose, and did his best to shut out the groans and screams which resonated through the ancient building.
He scarcely heard the sound of the door, which opened behind him—but he heard his name, a distant, bloodcurdling cry, over and over, like that of a wounded animal. It echoed down the hall, then was mercifully muted again by the thud of the closing door. The hand which touched his was cool.
Nash looked down at the slender wrist which extended from the sleeve of a starched white alb. He turned slowly from the window. “
Bonjour, mon Père.
”
Father Michel studied his face. “My son, how are you?” he murmured. “Tired, I think?”
Nash bowed his head. “
Je vais bien
, Father,” he said. “But yes, tired. The comtesse, I can see, still knows my name.”
The priest smiled wanly. “
Oui
, she will do so for some time yet.” He made the sign of the cross. “But she is now—how do you say it? Caught with the arms?”
“Bound?”
“
Oui
, bound—so as to do herself no harm. But her temper will soon cool.”
Nash felt a moment of grief. “Pray for her, Father.”
“I do, my son,” he said gravely. “And for the other woman, your American sister.”
“
Merci, mon Père.
”
The priest gave another faint smile. “Come, my lord, and walk with me back to the chapel,” he said. “I believe there is much on your mind.”
Father Michel clasped his hands behind his back and set a sedate pace down the seemingly endless corridor. If the occasional moaning and screaming gave him pause, one could not discern it. Perhaps he had been so long at
la Salpêtrière
, he was inured to the horror. Or perhaps God had simply given him the grace to bear it.
“
Le commissaire de police
has released your sister, I hear,” said the priest conversationally.
“Yes, Father,” said Nash. “She has been given into my custody—with certain understandings.”
The priest looked surprised. “Then your family is most fortunate, Lord Nash,” he said. “France has shown you mercy.”
“Yes,” said Nash dryly. “For a price.”
Father Michel cut a swift, assessing glance at Nash. “Ah!
Je comprends.
”
Nash carefully considered his next words. “Father, the comtesse…do you really think she is insane? From what I have seen, she still has her wits about her.”
The priest puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully. “Some would say that to use her name and position to violate the laws—not to mention the economic interests—of her homeland was in itself insane,” he answered. “But is she insane from her disease? No, not yet, I do not think.”
“And yet the doctors have confined her.”
The priest smiled hugely. “
Oui,
” he said. “For a price.”
“Ah!” said Nash. “Her husband’s doing?”
“Far better she should be here than prison,” said the priest, as they started down the stairs. “Here, our rats are smaller.”
Nash was not perfectly sure he believed that. In the past fortnight, he had seen more of
la Salpêtrière
’s infamous vermin than he cared to count.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Father Michel pushed through the door into sunshine, and to air which smelled marginally better. Here, the crisscrossing paths teemed with people—the doctors in their black frock coats, the plainly clad clerks scurrying from building to building, and the white-aprons maids who trotted to and fro with buckets the contents of which Nash had rather not know.
He paused on the path. “Thank you for agreeing to look after the comtesse, Father,” he said. “In my absence, may I…reimburse your expenses?”
It was an offer of a bribe, and they both knew it. But the priest merely smiled beatifically. “I take on such obligations often, my son, and only for the glory of God,” he said. “He will recompense me. You do not need to.”
Nash narrowed his eyes against the sun. “How long will it be,
mon Père
?”
The priest shrugged, lifting his black cassock on his narrow shoulders. “Syphilis is an unpredictable malady, my son,” he said. “But it is as good an excuse as any to keep her from the prison cell,
non
?”
“I daresay,” answered Nash quietly.
The priest patted him soothingly on the arm. “But if I had to guess, my lord, I think
la comtesse
will not know her own name by Christmastime. The thinness of the body. The whiteness of the skin. The beginnings of
la démence
—the brain madness. No, my son, the end is not far for her.”
“Will she feel pain?”
“No, my son,” he said. “Only the pain of purgatory. I will ensure that the doctors see to it. De Montignac has paid them well for the proper medicines.”
“Her husband—he does not seem overly distressed.”
Again, the shrug, and a Gallic lifting of the hands. “A convenient solution for
le comte
, is it not?” he said. “But a mortal danger to his soul. I think you know the sin of which I speak?”
Nash nodded. “Yes, Father.”
His expression solemn, the priest leaned very near. “De Montignac is a depraved man, my lord,” he murmured. “His unholy desires are a weakness of the flesh, which is like a poison. In the future, you must keep your brother far from him.”
Nash’s mouth pulled into a scowl. “Ah, the comtesse has been carrying tales, I see,” he said. “Tales she was well paid to keep secret.”
“
Oui, oui,
there were some
lettres d’amour
, I understand,” murmured the priest sympathetically. “A very dangerous business for a politician to engage in, my lord. And in England, the penalty for such unnatural acts between men is still death, is it not?”
“Whatever his feelings for de Montignac, my stepbrother should never have written them down,” said Nash grimly.
“And you, a good brother, have very deep pockets, I am sure,” said the priest. “Do not worry. There will be no more talk, for I have given her absolution. But in any case,
la comtesse
has syphilis, so she says many things which may not be true,
n’est-ce pas
? And here, well, whom would she tell?”
Nash closed his eyes, and tried to bite his tongue—but if one could not trust a priest, who else was left to him? “The comtesse asked to be generously compensated for her risk,” he said quietly. “She claimed that her husband would be insane with anger once he realized she had stolen his love letters, but that she wished to help me protect Tony. It was blackmail, of course—but of the politest sort.”
“Eh bien!”
muttered Father Michel. “We French are known for our
politesse
. All the same, one hand usually knows what the other is doing. I doubt
le comte
was innocent.”
“I fear you are right.” Nash shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the graveled path. “Some weeks past, she hinted that de Montignac may have more letters. We shall see, I daresay, if he has the audacity to play the blackmail card himself—and this time to my brother’s face.”
“Your brother has ended this…this forbidden liaison,
j’espère
?”
“He swears it,” said Nash. “And if he has not, this time I shall leave him to deal with the aftermath.”
“A fool must learn from experience,” said the priest sadly. “Only a wise man can be told. I hope, my son, that your brother repents and turns from these sins of the flesh. The salvation of his soul will depend upon it.”
Nash said nothing, for he was in no position to throw stones at Tony. He had committed too many mortal sins himself. Besides, it was de Montignac whom Nash objected to—beyond that, Tony’s choices were his own. “Thank you,
mon Père
, for looking after the comtesse,” he said. “I must leave you now. I am to sail for England in the morning.”
The priest reached up and clasped Lord Nash’s shoulder. “Then
bon voyage et bonne chance
, my son,” he said. “I will look after
la comtesse
as best I can, until the end of her time comes.”
“
Merci, mon Père
.”
Father Michel smiled, and tightened his grip. “And for you, my son, it is time to go home,” he said reassuringly. “It is time to get on with your life.”
It was a wet, blustery day when the
Dangerous Wager
sailed with the tide into the Pool of London, en route to the more exclusive portals of Westminster. Despite the nasty drizzle, Nash stood topside, hatless, with the wind in his hair, looking starboard as Wapping and all of its bittersweet memories went sailing past. He had been less than a month in Paris straightening out the mess Jenny had left them, but already it seemed a lifetime.
The pain, however, had not dulled. The aching sense of loss was the very same; keener, perhaps, in this moment, when he could almost make out the very window which looked out from Xanthia Neville’s office. For an instant, he imagined that he saw her, saw her standing at the window, staring out into the rain with her fingertips lightly touching the glass. In his mind, it was a girlish, wistful gesture—as if she were hoping for something.
But Nash was not hoping for anything. Not any longer. He had but one duty left to carry out, then it would be back to life as usual for him. He told himself he looked forward to it. Again, he turned and looked at the window. No. There was no one there. And there never had been.
He had set Tony ashore at Southampton, with orders to go back to Brierwood until he could determine how matters stood in Town. If there had been any news, any hint of gossip or any blackening of Jenny’s name, Nash had thus far heard nothing of it. The letters from Edwina and Phaedra had been filled with questions but no news. But would they have heard anything, isolated in the country as they were?
He thought that they would have. Lady Henslow was well connected. Had she chanced to hear her favorite nephew’s name aspersed in any way, she would likely have gone haring off to Brierwood on her next breath. Yes, Tony was probably unscathed. But Nash had learned one thing for himself from this tawdry little mess—it was time to stop playing the big brother to a man who had probably never wanted one in the first place. God knew his own childhood grief had been little assuaged by it. And now Tony’s secret—the secret which had never really been a secret to Nash—was out, and the two of them had got past what little embarrassment there had been.
He had believed, Nash supposed, that by being a good brother to Tony he could expunge some of the guilt for having survived his own. But Petar was still just as dead. Nash had not honored his memory. Perhaps he had even hampered Tony by giving him a crutch to lean on. It was odd how clearly he saw it all now.
Yes, it was time to let Anthony Hayden-Worth, dashing bon vivant and up-and-coming M.P., sink or swim of his own accord. And Tony, he got the impression, would not object. Perhaps, left to his own devices, Tony would even be capable of making some hard choices—choices which would be needed in order to preserve his political career. But that would be up to Tony. Having a disgraced, sexually ambiguous stepbrother was no impediment to Nash’s sort of life. And as to Phaedra and Phoebe, Nash could dower them well enough to overcome most any social obstacle.
And that was just what he would do, Nash decided. It was as good a use as any for his ill-gotten gains. Better by far than bailing Tony out of trouble. Nash bowed his head against the spitting rain, and tried to feel joy at his homecoming. But it was hard. Yes, very hard indeed.
Xanthia barely heard the creak of the door which opened behind her. She leaned into her office window and watched the tide come in, heedless of all else. She felt a strong, warm hand touch her arm.
“Come away from the window, Zee.” Gareth Lloyd’s body seemed to radiate heat. “You cannot keep standing in the draft. You’ll get cold. You know you will.”
“No,” she said faintly, lifting her hand to touch the glass. “I’ve become used to it, I think—the cold of England, I mean. I think my blood has finally thickened. Or thinned. Which is it?”
Gently, he set an arm about her shoulder as if to turn her. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I am quite certain you’ll get sick standing here.”
“Wait, Gareth,” she murmured, pointing through the glass. “Look—do you see that sloop just there? Coming up the near side of the Pool?”
Gareth leaned into the glass. “What, that forty-footer with the bowsprit?” he answered. “Yes. Why?”
“Can you make out her name?” asked Xanthia hopefully.
Gareth squinted into the rain, watching as the name-board came into view. Slowly, he shook his head. “Sorry, no. Not through this drizzle.”
The disappointment was oddly crushing. But why? It was just a pleasure boat like a dozen others which had passed by today. “Nor can I,” she said wistfully. “But for an instant, I thought perhaps…”
This time Gareth did turn her from the window. “You thought perhaps what, my dear?”
Her smile was wan as she looked up at him. “Oh, nothing.”
“You are cold, Xanthia,” he said with mild approbation in his voice. “I shall have Mr. Bakely bring up tea.”
“Tea would be nice,” she murmured, sitting down. “Thank you.” Xanthia began to shuffle through the papers on her desk. “Did you meet with Captain Rangle?” she asked absently. “I need his voyage expenditure sheets. His purser is late again.”
Gareth left the door and returned to Xanthia’s desk to pluck the documents from amongst the untidy mess. “You saw Rangle here yesterday, Zee,” he said worriedly. “You exchanged pleasantries. He gave you this list himself. Do you not remember?”
Xanthia set her palm to her forehead. “Yes, yes, of course I remember!” she insisted. “Really, Gareth, there is no need to be sharp.”