Never Lie to a Lady (16 page)

“Perhaps we can negotiate something to our mutual benefit,” she answered, as they entered the first turn. “I wish only to be of help to you, Nash. Tell me, shall we see your beautiful stepbrother tonight?”

“I have no notion,” he said, drawing her deeper into the crowd. “My brother’s comings and goings are none of my concern.”

At that, she laughed. “Come now, Nash,” she said. “We both know that is not so.”

He swept her into the next turn, their gazes locked. He realized in some shock that she was not wearing powder after all. Her skin tonight was parchment pale, her throat more swanlike than ever. Yes, the comtesse’s frail beauty was becoming more frail than beautiful.

She realized he was still staring and licked her lips almost lasciviously. “I wish to see you, Nash.” Her voice was suddenly low and sultry. “For more than just…a business arrangement.”

“I am afraid that is not possible.”

The comtesse drew him nearer and set her mouth very near his ear. “I have invited a group of friends,
mon cher
—very close friends—to join me later tonight,” she whispered. “And Pierre has brought me a very fine absinthe from Paris—his little way of atoning for his sins. My friends have certain…predilections. So bring your mask, Monsieur Satan. I think you know what I mean?”

The comtesse had pressed herself inappropriately close. He regarded her with thinly veiled disgust. “And in exchange for my…
performance
, you will what? Reward me with more of your treasures?”

“
Oui
, I could doubtless be persuaded.” He drew her into the next turn, and the comtesse brushed her pelvis quite deliberately across his. “Is it true, Nash, that you have tired of the lovely Lisette?”

“Certainly not,” he answered. “Miss Lyle has tired of me.”

The comtesse laughed so hard she drew stares. “Oh, there is not a man in a hundred here who would admit such a thing,” she said. “Even were it true—and of you, it cannot be.”

But Nash had grown weary of her cloying scent and gaunt, pressing body. He wished he had never fallen victim to her scheming. “
Madame
,” he said quietly, “you could not recognize the truth if it bit you in that lovely arse of yours, so little acquaintance with it do you have.”

Her expression froze. “I beg your pardon?”

He took the unpardonable step of stopping and dropping her hand. “No, it is I who beg yours,” he said stiffly. “I have decided that I no longer wish to dance to your tune, Comtesse de Montignac. Whatever the price.” With that, he nodded curtly and stepped away. “I give you good evening,
madame
.”

“Nash,” she hissed beneath her breath. “Nash, you will regret this. I swear it to God.”

He probably would, he thought, turning away. But in his anger and disgust, he did not care. The dancers nearest them were already staring. The one thing he had wished for—to remain unnoticed—had slipped from his grasp. Good God, he had wanted to choke the breath of life from that bitch.

He started up the gallery steps, intent on putting as much space between them as was possible. It was then that he noticed her. Not Xanthia Neville. No, the first person who caught his eye—a little slip of a girl—looked suspiciously like Sharpe’s chit. Then again, he’d seen the girl but once. Whoever she was, she was dressed in solid white, and wore white paint instead of a mask. She carried a golden lute, and was adorned with a vast deal of feathery plumage.

But the woman beside her—ah, there he was less certain. She was very tall and reed-slender, a look which was further emphasized by the close-fitting Grecian gown she wore. The white bodice was cut almost to her nipples, and over it she wore a sheer purple robe, the train of which she caught over one wrist. The gown and robe were encircled by a golden girdle which rose to a peak between her full breasts, lifting them most tantalizingly. The woman’s dark hair hung to her waist in thick waves, which were entwined with gold ribbons. Before her, she carried a golden bowl, and in her opposite hand she held a long, gold chain which was leashed to…
a pink pig
.

Yes, it was a very large, very bald man dressed, unmistakably, as a pig.

Just then, someone brushed by him on the stairs. “An impressive show, is it not?” said a Napoleon Bonaparte. “That chap in the pig suit must have ballocks the size of Brazil.”

“Yes, but the woman—” Until that moment, Nash had not realized he had stopped on the stairs. “Who the devil is she? Or
what
the devil is she?”

“Circe the Sorceress, someone said,” answered Napoleon casually. “And by Jove, she can cast a spell over me if she pleases. That’s a Siren on her left, and one of Odysseus’s sailors. Circe changed them into pigs and led them around by their snouts, did she not?”

“So the legend says,” murmured Nash.

He turned and followed Napoleon down the stairs, then plunged into the crowd. But by the time he had crossed to the ballroom’s entrance, the pig, the bird, and the woman in purple were gone. Perhaps it was just as well, he thought. Still, it had been Xanthia. He was unaccountably certain of it. Nash decided to return to the gallery and keep watch. The evening was growing late. If she had not appeared within the hour, he would strip off his dramatic black costume and its silly accoutrements, then go up to White’s in search of Tony.

The orchestra had struck up a lively country dance, the merry strains of the violins carrying up the steps. On the dance floor below, the dancers whirled, clapped, and circled one another with high steps and flashes of color. Nash strolled along the balustrade, taking in the crowd’s jovial chatter. He watched from a distance—in more ways than one. Sometimes he thought that that was the one thing he had in common with Xanthia Neville; the thing which perhaps drew him so inexorably to her. In their own ways, they were outsiders. They would never truly fit in.

He wished, damn it, that she were here. If she were, he might simply ask her what manner of spell she had cast over him. Perhaps she was Circe in the flesh. God knew she tormented him. And yes, for her he was beginning to fear that even he might wear the golden leash.

Oh, the feeling would pass. But while he waited for the inevitable, Miss Xanthia Neville haunted him, those deep blue eyes beseeching him, taunting him—and yes, even comforting him, in his dreams, and sometimes in his waking moments, too. He wished the woman did not seem so…so
sane
. So steady and dependable. She was a woman, he thought, that a man could trust—and Nash had had little enough of that in his life.

Just then, a pair of Barbary pirates brushed past, loudly laughing and drawing him from his reverie. He scanned the dance floor again and saw no sign of the woman in purple. But from the corner of his eye, he spied a Queen Elizabeth in deep green satin. Her bright, burning hair was unmistakable, as were the heavy circles of pearls which she wore.

Lord, it was Jenny. The pearls had been his wedding gift to her. He wondered, fleetingly, if Tony were here, but dismissed the notion. The couple lived rather independent lives, an arrangement which apparently suited both. Nash did not approve, though he could not have said why. It could scarcely be argued that he held the sanctity of marriage especially high—he had helped too many women violate it.

Tony married, Nash supposed, for political reasons. Jenny had been a great heiress whose money had helped launch her husband’s career. But to Nash it seemed a bit like a deal with the devil. And he feared there was an equally fiendish deal being struck below at this moment, for the Comtesse de Montignac was whispering in Jenny’s ear. Seen beside Jenny’s vivid coloring, the comtesse looked more pale and more wraithlike than ever. She looked…
otherworldly
. And dangerous.

Jenny and the comtesse had once been fast friends—a double entendre if ever there was one—but until a few weeks past, Nash had believed the friendship had faded. Had it resumed? And if so, when? Nash’s hands tightened on the balustrade, as if they might crush it to splinters. Bloody hell, this was an inconvenient time for Swann to be away. The women linked arms most companionably and set off across the ballroom toward a group of young bucks who were idling about near the champagne fountain. Alarm bells began to ring in Nash’s head.

Good God. This would not do. He would have to speak to Tony.

As midnight neared, Xanthia found herself left to her own devices. Lady Louisa had fallen in with a gaggle of young people who were being closely chaperoned by Lady Cartselle’s sister. Sharpe, after being unleashed, had trotted off to Lord Cartselle’s billiards’ room to smoke cheroots and talk of politics.

Xanthia wandered the fringe of the ballroom, feeling rather pathetically alone. She knew almost no one, and could bestir little interest in making new acquaintances. After her third circle, Xanthia decided to slip onto the veranda. Picking up her train, she sneaked out the nearest door, acutely aware of what had happened the last time she had done such a thing.

It seemed a lifetime ago, she thought, as the breeze caught her hair. Her rash behavior with Lord Nash that night had been inordinately foolish, she knew. But in hindsight, she was not at all sure she regretted it. She had met a man she might otherwise never have known, a man who stirred her in a way nothing else ever had, not even her work. And she had learned some things about herself, and about desire.

Outside, the air was chilly, but Xanthia did not mind. She leaned back against one of the massive columns and thought of Nash’s kiss that night—and of his touch several days past. At the memory of what they had done together, she could feel a faint heat radiate up her throat to her cheeks, and a shiver of sensual awareness run down her spine. She was
not
ashamed. Indeed, she yearned to be with him again. If only he were—

A sound from the rear startled her. “It is Circe, I believe?” said a low, steady voice.

Xanthia whirled about, fingertips pressed to her lips. For an instant, her heart stopped. Could it possibly be—?
No
. It was not he. This voice was unmistakable.

“There are not many women with your height, Miss Neville,” said the Vicomte de Vendenheim from the depths of a monk’s hood. “Nor with your elegance of bearing.”

“Good evening, my lord,” she murmured. “You have joined the Franciscan brotherhood, I see.”

“Nay, madam, the Jesuits,” he insisted. “Their philosophy is rather more to my liking.”

Xanthia smiled knowingly. “Yes, I can believe that,” she answered. “How may I be of service, sir?”

De Vendenheim leaned so close their shoulders brushed. “By keeping yourself safe at all times,” he said, his words almost inaudible. “From what Mr. Kemble reports, I fear you have been overzealous in your task.”

She shook her head. “No, in fact, I assure you—”

“Nonetheless,” the vicomte interjected, “do you see the gentleman there? In the court jester’s costume just beyond the French window?”

Xanthia nodded. One could not miss his sprouting, jingling hat and green tights. No one had seemed to know his identity, but he had been drawing laughter all evening with his faintly ribald jokes and silly parlor tricks.

“That is Mr. Kemble,” said the vicomte. “Lord Sharpe is in the billiards’ room. Do not stray far from one of us, Miss Neville, I implore you.”

“Then you have seen Lord Nash?” she asked a little breathlessly.

De Vendenheim shook his head. “No, and I think it unlikely he would put in an appearance at such an affair,” he answered. “But his brother, Mr. Hayden-Worth, is here—and that makes me unaccountably ill at ease.”

“His brother?” Xanthia looked at him blankly. “Oh, yes! I had almost forgotten. The M.P. whom you do not wish to antagonize.”

Despite the shadows of his hood, de Vendenheim looked morose. “The likelihood of that is growing more slender every day,” he answered. “There have been developments. Our cryptographers have broken a part of the code. But I cannot speak openly here.” Swiftly, he bowed and kissed the air above her bare hand. “Good evening, Miss Neville. I will call in Berkeley Square as soon as I may.”

Xanthia watched him go with a measure of concern. His suspicions, it seemed, had been renewed, and the vicomte was a man of remarkable determination. It would not be easy to convince him that his assumptions had been wrong. Xanthia must take him proof. But to do that, she must first
find
the proof—which would require gaining access to Nash’s home. And thus far, gaining access to Nash—in any way at all—had proven a challenge. But matters were growing increasingly more urgent. De Vendenheim now seethed with frustration, and he would not wait long to strike. She would simply have to think of a way to get close—very close—to the Marquess of Nash.

In the end, it was the gentlemen’s retiring room which proved to be Tony’s undoing. Seeing a fellow in Elizabethan dress who looked vaguely familiar, Nash followed him and slipped in unnoticed to find Tony relieving himself in a vigorous torrent. At the sight of Nash, however, Tony almost pissed on his shoe.

“Good God!” Tony’s eyes ran down Nash’s costume. “What the devil?”

Nash flashed a wry smile. “Yes, it is I. The Dark Prince himself.”

His stepbrother shook his head. “You are turning up in the damnedest places, old man,” he said, restoring his costume to order. “And hard to miss, too, in that red damask waistcoat and sweeping black cloak.”

“Yes,” said Nash solemnly. “I am making a statement.”

“And that would be?”

“That my valet is a sadistic idiot.” Nash glanced at Tony’s attire. “White tights, old chap? At least you’ve got the knees for it. Who the hell are you?”

“The Earl of Leicester,” said Tony. “He was Queen Elizabeth’s lover.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said Nash. “I have learnt a little of your English history, you know.”

“Right, sorry.” Tony flashed an embarrassed smile, then opened the door for his stepbrother. “Anyway, Jenny insisted. She’s Elizabeth—the red hair and all that.”

“Yes,” said Nash quietly. “I saw her.”

Tony did not catch the concern in Nash’s tone. “By the way, Nash, you have not forgot, I hope, Mamma’s birthday party?” he said, as they strode toward the ballroom.