The Wickedest Lord Alive (28 page)

Xavier put fingertips to his temples, massaging them, as if that would help his mind calculate his mother’s next move. “Nerissa cannot know Lizzie’s true identity. She may suspect. Or she might be coming here to remind me I am already wed and that rumors of my courting another lady have given her cause for concern.”

“The sooner you make that marriage public, the better,” said Lydgate. “You know as well as I do that when Nerissa sets her mind on vengeance, there’s no stopping her.”

Lydgate did not need to remind him how determinedly single-minded, how vicious, his mother could be. “Yes, I had intended to announce our false betrothal at dinner tonight, but it seems hardly appropriate in the circumstances.”

He would bide his time, see if he could gauge which way the wind blew. Was his mother here to stop him procreating before his demise, as he assumed, or was she here from some other equally nefarious purpose?

“Have to say, I don’t envy you, Coz,” said Lydgate as he crossed to the looking glass and gave his cravat a gentle tweak. “But never forget you have a whole parcel of Westruthers standing behind you.”

Xavier inclined his head. “Thank you, Lydgate.”

He meant it. Though he knew that this was a battle he must fight alone.

*   *   *

Despite his extreme reluctance to receive them, Xavier appeared in the drawing room in plenty of time to greet their unwanted guests.

He managed a brief, hurried conversation with Lizzie before the rest of the company came down to the drawing room.

“My mother is here,” he said.

Lizzie’s frame tensed. “What should I do? Will she expose me?”

He caught her hand and pressed it. “She might not recognize you. Even if she does … I cannot tell how she will react but whatever happens, follow my lead.”

“But what if—”

“There’s no time to explain,” he said, as he heard the other guests approaching. “Trust me.”

She looked up at him soberly. “Yes, Xavier. I trust you.”

There was no more time for private discussion. That brief exchange had fortified him for the coming confrontation. She’d given him the great gift of her trust.

A gentleman with innocent blue eyes, a ruddy complexion and a head of fair hair that was rapidly receding from his high forehead joined the company, bowing and murmuring urbanely.

“Uncle Bernard, this is a surprise,” said Rosamund. Her greeting was cordial, if not overly warm. Her gaze flicked to Xavier, and he knew she’d question him about this development later.

Wait until she saw their mama. He hadn’t had time to warn his sister of Nerissa’s imminent arrival. Thoughtless of him. Rosamund would not like it, and nor would her husband Griffin, whose animosity toward Nerissa wasn’t bound by the rules of decorum.

“You here, Papa?” said Cyprian, emerging from his trance with a start. He bore the marks of one who had received a nasty surprise.

If Xavier had ever doubted his cousin’s innocence, he was sure of it now.

“Yes, my boy,” said Bernard. “Why shouldn’t I be? Always open house at Harcourt at this season, eh?”

He looked up to see a footman hovering at his elbow. “Sherry, yes, that’s the ticket.”

Taking a glass of amber liquid from the tray, he downed its entire contents in one gulp.

So he was nervous, thought Xavier. Well he might be, with attempted murder on his conscience. Besides, it was one thing to plot to do away with the one man standing between him and vast wealth. It was another to do so in the midst of the formidable Westruther clan.

On top of that, dealing with Nerissa, with her mood swings and her ruthless selfishness must be nerve-racking.

Xavier smiled grimly to himself. Well, it would all be at an end very soon. He was looking forward to putting his uncle out of that particular misery.

The footman offered the tray of drinks to Xavier.

“Ah. Now, which one is the poison in?” He pretended to deliberate, then took a glass at random.

Rosamund gave him an odd look. Uncle Bernard laughed too heartily at what he must have assumed was a witty quip. “Always ready with the bons mots, eh, my boy?”

As the footman turned away, Bernard grabbed another drink and downed that one too. “If they are poisoned, I’m done for now, ain’t I? Ha!”

Xavier curled his lip. He couldn’t help but reflect how different Bernard was from his eldest brother, Xavier’s father. Where Lord Steyne had been the epitome of a heartless aristocrat, Bernard behaved more like a bluff soldier. Not that he’d any military experience to speak of.

Bernard was a handsome fellow in a florid way, despite the receding hairline. Xavier hoped his mother knew she could not legally wed her late husband’s brother. Wasn’t that where Catherine of Aragon had come to grief?

But Nerissa would not tie herself to Bernard in any case. Blackmail was so much easier and less restrictive. Yes, Xavier truly would be doing Bernard a favor tonight.

“Well, well, well,” murmured a drawling, low-pitched voice. “If it isn’t the Westruthers in all their aristocratic glory.”

All heads turned, as she’d meant them to do. Nerissa stood in the doorway, magnificent in a black silk gown that had all the luster and sheen of her midnight tresses and emphasized her deep blue eyes.

Nerissa’s unique interpretation of mourning would win her no approval from the denizens of English society, but Xavier suspected she didn’t care for that. She made an impact on everyone present and that was always her aim.

A pity that the only males in the room who appreciated her were Bernard and a rather slack-jawed Cyprian. Xavier glanced around at the other Westruthers. Beckenham was stony-faced with disapproval; Davenport observed Nerissa with cynical amusement. Montford’s frigid countenance might crack if he spoke.

But Griffin deVere, Earl of Tregarth, was not so reticent. “What the bloody hell is she doing here?” he demanded, his thick black eyebrows slamming together.

Griffin was a colossus of a man. As Rosamund’s husband, he had every reason to loathe and despise Nerissa for what she’d put Rosamund through. Griffin could break Nerissa like a twig. He looked as if he’d like very much to do so, but his wife held on to his arm with a firm grip.

“Don’t, Griffin,” Rosamund said quietly. “It’s not worth it.”

Nerissa surveyed the company. Xavier tensed, watching for a sign of recognition when his mother’s eye alighted on Lizzie, but Nerissa made no sign she remembered her daughter-in-law. Whether she truly did not know Lizzie to be Lady Alexandra, or whether she went along with the charade for reasons of her own, only time would tell.

Finally, a self-satisfied smile curled Nerissa’s lips. “Your Grace.”

She curtsied deeply to the duke, giving any gentleman who cared to look a magnificent view of her breasts, which seemed scarcely contained by her low-cut bodice.

Black beads scintillated in the candlelight as she moved. The king’s ransom’s worth of diamonds at her throat were flagrantly inappropriate for mourning, but he supposed that was the point. Her costume was a celebration of her late husband’s death, not a tribute to his passing.

By what means Montford had forced her to wed a diplomat whom Montford then had posted to St. Petersburg, Xavier didn’t know.

But Nerissa had shed the husband, escaped her exile. She was back now, and out for bloody vengeance.

Montford, urbane as ever, bowed to the former Lady Steyne. “Mrs. Paxton,” said the duke, no doubt knowing addressing her as a commoner would annoy her. She still considered herself Lady Steyne. “We are honored.” The words dripped irony, but Nerissa took them as her due.

Xavier put down his glass with an audible click.

That seemed to set Bernard in motion. He surged forward to take Nerissa’s arm. “My dear lady, you must be fatigued from your journey. Indeed, had I not met you most fortuitously upon the road…”

He blathered on in that disingenuous style, tenderly shepherding Nerissa in to dinner as if she were made of spun glass rather than tempered steel, while the rest of the company strove to appear normal.

Beckenham murmured in Xavier’s ear, “What
is
she doing here?”

Xavier turned to regard his cousin. “You are speaking of my revered mama, Beckenham. Try for a little respect.”

“Hmm. Nothing good, I’ll be bound,” said Beckenham, as if Xavier had not spoken. “Watch yourself there.”

And Xavier knew that if he didn’t, he’d have Beckenham at his back.

With a sudden, strange clarity, he truly saw the members of his family who sat around this table. Not as the cozy group from which he always felt himself excluded, but as his blood, a family of which he was a part.

Georgie, whose experience as the toast of London made her an old hand at dealing with women like Nerissa, engaged their unwanted guest in the politest of verbal battles, swatting away Bernard’s attempts to make peace with well-practiced ease.

Rosamund made every effort to keep her husband amused and occupied enough to stop him lunging across the table to throttle Nerissa.

Hilary, sweet little soul that she was, slid concerned looks at him as Davenport spoke to her in low tones. No doubt filling her in on the family history. What an edifying tale that was.

Xavier watched his mother, whose color seemed to have risen, as had Georgie’s. The one’s eyes glinted like sapphires, the other like emeralds as the two beauties faced one another down.

Beckenham had the frozen aspect of a man who is caught between two warring females and unwilling to move in case he attracts their attention.

“They will do nothing here,” Xavier said finally. “Not with everyone watching them like hawks.”

“Not personally, no. Not unless they are very stupid,” Montford agreed. “Well, Bernard
is
stupid. Your mother is erratic, but on the rare occasion, brilliant.”

The duke bent his head while he cut into his trout. “It is high time Bernard received his congé,” said the duke. “I trust you agree.”

“Yes. Tonight,” said Xavier. And not a moment too soon. It was time for his mother to be shown how truly alone she was.

Xavier noticed that Cyprian was far more alert than usual, now that his father was at table. Xavier experienced a strange and unprecedented surge of protectiveness toward the silly boy.

Lizzie admired Cyprian’s poetry. Even Lydgate said the boy had talent. And what an inconsequential thought that was at such a juncture.

“I mean to leave tomorrow. Draw them off,” said Xavier. “Who knows which of them may be caught in the crossfire if our conflict plays out here.”

“You make it sound like a pitched battle,” said Montford.

“More like guerrilla warfare,” Xavier said dryly.

“It is safer here,” said Montford. He cleared his throat. “If my wishes count for anything, allow me to say that I wish you to remain at Harcourt.”

Silence stretched between them as Xavier regarded his former guardian in astonishment. Then he glanced at the others and said in a lower voice, “No. I must leave here. I must do this alone.”

He thought of Lizzie, and of the few perfect hours he’d spent in her arms. An all too brief interlude, though complicated by his inability to give her what she needed.

When the ladies left the table, so did most of the gentlemen. No doubt Montford had prearranged this.

Bernard rose also, but Montford requested him to remain behind. “A matter of some moment, you understand.”

Well might Bernard look discomfited. His gaze darted to the doorway through which Nerissa had left. He’d get no help from her now.

Montford nodded a dismissal to the servants. Then he drew the same letter he’d shown Xavier from his pocket and placed it on the cleared dining table between himself and Bernard. “I really think you owe us an explanation, don’t you?”

Snatching up the missive, Bernard read. The ready color in his cheeks fluctuated so violently, Xavier wondered if he’d do them all a favor and expire of apoplexy then and there.

“This is preposterous!” the older man spluttered, throwing the letter down as if he rejected its contents. “I—Where did you get—? That is, I did
not
write that letter.”

Content to let Montford take the lead, Xavier selected a walnut from a silver dish and lounged back in his chair, rolling the nut between finger and thumb.

Really, it was hardly fair to poor Bernard to pit the duke against him. But then Bernard had hardly played fair when he’d used Madeleine to do away with Xavier.

“No?” Montford tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “How very strange. I could have sworn it was in your handwriting. The signature, too.” Montford’s expression showed no sign of disbelief. “Well, well, it is a most
excellent
forgery.”

He reached out a hand and turned the letter over. His chin lifted as he examined the blob of red wax there, imprinted with a familiar crest. “It even bears your seal.”

The walnut cracked beneath the pressure of Xavier’s fingers.

Bernard jumped at the sound. His attention shifted from Montford to Xavier and back again. The man truly was too stupid to bear the name Westruther. The runt of the litter, his father used to say, in that supercilious way he had.

“Did you lose your seal, dear sir?” said Montford solicitously. “Did someone steal it? You ought not to be so careless, you know. If it were to be thought that you did, indeed write this letter, you would be in serious trouble.”

Xavier frowned down at his hands, fully occupied with extracting the walnut from its shell.

After listening to Bernard sputter for some time, he looked up. He did not attempt to mask his derisive smile as he watched his uncle’s mouth open and shut like the mouth of a landed fish.

“Cut line, Your Grace,” said Xavier. “There’s no sport in this.”

“Most disappointing,” the duke agreed.

“Bernard,” he said, clasping his hands together loosely on the table, “you have no choice in the matter, so listen to me carefully. There is enough evidence here to put you in prison for conspiracy to murder. Of course, you will not go to prison. None of us wants that. But you
will
board the next ship for the Americas.”

“What?” said Bernard, starting up from his chair so violently, it toppled over. “You can’t mean … You can’t do this!”