Never Lie to a Lady (22 page)

For long moments, they thrust and exhaled and melted to one another, the rhythm rising to an almost dizzying pitch until Xanthia’s heart was like a drumbeat in her ears. She felt her whole body begin to throb with it; felt her passion draw tight as a bowstring—and then his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of her hips, and he cried out, a guttural, almost agonizing sound. Xanthia went over the black precipice with him, her hands entangled with is, her leg still wrapped around his lean, taut waist.

She came back to the sounds of their roughened breath. After long, wordless moments had passed, Nash lifted his body from hers and shifted his weight to one side. She rolled over, and he curled himself almost protectively about her. Xanthia’s last thought, before she slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep, was of Nash’s hand, curling possessively beneath her right breast.

T
o sleep. Oh, to sleep the sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care!
Nash had not had such a night of rest in a score of years or better. And now, he was vaguely aware that someone—something—was set upon dragging him from it. He buried his face in Xanthia’s neck, forced the racket away, and drifted off again. But the clamor began anew.

It was Gibbons, devil take him. No one else could knock so hard. Or so relentlessly.
Nash tried to bestir himself from Morpheus’s depths. In his arms, Xanthia murmured something inaudible and rolled over. He felt her warm fingers touch his face and slide round the turn of his jaw.

“Nash?

His eyes fluttered open

“Nash, is there…someone downstairs?”

The relentless pounding came again, echoing through the empty house like a drum tattoo.

Alarm shot through him. It was not Gibbons. “Bloody hell!” He jerked upright, and scrubbed his hands down his face. Someone at the front door. And not a servant in the house.

“They…they will go away, won’t they?” said Xanthia hopefully.

But Nash was already drawing on his trousers. “It would appear not,” he said grimly. “It could be Rothewell, my dear. He may have discovered you are here. And if he has, ignoring him will not help matters.”

Xanthia sat up, her eyes wide. “Oh!” she said, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Oh, no, Nash, I think it cannot be. He would be gone from home at this hour. What is the time?”

The knocking came again, more rapid. More urgent.

“Almost eleven.” Nash was stabbing his shirttails in. He was sorely tempted to ignore the din, but a thousand troubling thoughts were running through his mind.
An accident. An illness. Tony. Edwina. The girls.

“Good God, the girls,” he said aloud.

“What girls?” she echoed from the bed.

“My sisters.” Nash was throwing on his waistcoat. “Something might have happened.”

Xanthia looked worried. “Perhaps it is just a late caller? A—A friend? Or your brother?”

“I think not,” said Nash. “Someone has been pounding on the door a while now. Tony wouldn’t dare—not unless someone was bleeding to death.” He leaned over the bed and swiftly kissed her. “But if it is Rothewell, love, and he shoots me dead on my doorstep—
you were absolutely worth it.
”

Xanthia could do nothing but stare after him. He had been perfectly serious.

Feeling more than a little anxious, she leapt from the bed the moment the door shut. Absent the warmth of Nash’s body, she felt cold to her bones. She looked down at the bed, and at the fringe of hibiscus blossoms which now lay haphazardly around it. How romantic and unreal it all seemed now. And how dreadfully cold it had suddenly become.

For a moment, she debated throwing back the bedcovers, but that seemed…oddly presumptuous. She gave a sharp, slightly hysterical laugh, then went into his dressing room. There was a cream silk dressing gown hanging from a brass hook. She put it on and wrapped it around her in voluminous, awkward folds. She crept to the door and heard nothing. She was sorely tempted to tiptoe partway down the stairs. But no, that would not do. Her eyes flew across the room to the mahogany escritoire.

Well. There could scarcely be a better opportunity to do what she had vowed to do. Feeling dreadfully guilty, Xanthia turned up the wick of Nash’s lamp and carried it across the room. One by one, she began to pull out the little drawers.

Nash approached the front hall uneasily, dragging his hands through his hair as he went, in some vague hope of neatening it. Now fully awake, his ire was quickly rising. By God, there had better be blood in the streets to justify this sort of intrusion. And damn it, if this was Tony—

He jerked open the door. It was not Tony.

It was a small, frail creature, damp from walking in the fog. She wore a limp gray cloak and carried a huge umbrella which had clearly seen better years—probably better decades. But when she lifted her gaze to the lamplight, he could not miss the righteous indignation which burned there.

Bloody hell
. Another moralizer of some ilk? And a damned determined one, it would seem.

“No reformers,” he said, pushing shut the door.

The frail creature rammed her umbrella into the crack, splintering its delicate stretchers. “My name is Mrs. Wescot,” she said over the awful crunching sound. “I’ve come to see the Marquess of Nash.”

Wescot
? Did he know any Wescots?

Mrs. Wescot shoved her umbrella in another inch. “Please, sir,” she begged. “If you’ve an ounce of Christian charity in your heart, let me in.”

Christian charity
? Foolish girl. The Marquess of Nash had none. And yet, as he looked down at the ten inches of black oilcloth and shattered bamboo which now protruded into the sanctity of his home, he knew he was going to regret what he was about to do. Why tonight, of all nights, must he actually
feel
that one ounce—for surely there was no more than that in his heart?

But she was damp, and the night was chill. He threw open the door and stepped back.

The girl dipped her head shyly, and set her dripping umbrella carefully to one side. She was terribly young, perhaps eighteen, and seemed to take no notice that she had been greeted by a man in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. “I must see the Marquess of Nash,” she said again. “I’m afraid I haven’t a card. Will you be so good as let him know I am here?”

“It is a dashed odd hour to pay a social call,” said Nash, gently lifting the sodden cloak from her shoulders. “What is the nature of your business?”

“It is a most personal matter,” she said, turning slightly. “He will doubtless recognize the name.”

Nash froze, holding the cloak aloft like something contaminated. He stared down at the young woman’s belly, and for an instant, the earth seemed to drop from beneath his feet.
Good God, surely not?

But absent the heavy garment, there was no mistaking the high, round swell for what it was. And yet, he did
not
recognize her. He would…
wouldn’t
he? Or had it come to this? Had he begun to forget the faces as well as the names?

No. It was not possible. He was almost absurdly careful of such things. And she was no more a whore than she was a lady. She was…something in between. Something which looked delicate and ephemeral and almost frighteningly alone. Then it struck Nash that
she
did not recognize
him
. Relief swept over him, washing away some of his ire with it.

Gently, he laid her cloak across his arm, and took up the lamp by the door. “Come into the parlor, child,” he said. “I am the Marquess of Nash.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, but he did not look back.

Nash had no idea what one did with a guest’s damp cloak, so he laid it across a chair. “Do sit down,” he said. Then he turned up the lamp’s wick and lit a branch of candles. He could see her better now, and there was no mistaking the lines of worry etched on what might otherwise have been a remarkably pretty face.

“Now,” he said, standing before her, “how may I be of service, Mrs…. Wescot, was it? Your business mustindeed be urgent if it calls me from my bed so late at night.”

“Your b-bed?” The girl had lost what little remained of her color. “I do beg your pardon. I-I was told…”

“What?”

She looked embarrassed. “Th-that you did not sleep, really,” she confessed. “That you kept late hours and—and b-bad habits.”

Nash looked at her very pointedly. “Perhaps I was not sleeping, Mrs. Wescot,” he suggested. “Perhaps I was indulging in one of my bad habits. Did you ever think of that?

She blushed profusely, making Nash feel instantly like the cad he was.

He clasped his hands behind his back and studied her. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “That was tactless. Why do you not state your business, ma’am? It really is quite late for a lady to be out alone—which, now that I think on it, begs the question: where is
Mr.
Wescot?”

At that, she burst into tears. No, not tears—
torrents
. Great, heaving sobs which made him wish to spring into some sort of heroic action—but what? Nash dug rather desperately through his pockets until he found a handkerchief.

“You…you are a widow?” he tentatively suggested.

“N-n-no,” she snuffled into the fine white lawn. “M-Matthew is in—is in—
oh, God
!—a sponging house!”

“Good heavens.” Hands still clasped, Nash began to pace before the settee. “Ma’am, I must ask you—do I
know
Mr. Wescot?”

At that, the girl’s eyes widened incredulously. “Do you
know
him?” she cried. “Yes, of course you know him, Lord Nash. You have driven him into near bankruptcy. How can you stand there, sir, and ask me such a thing?”

How could he indeed? Wescot.
Wescot
.

Something began to stir in the dark depths of his mind. A few days past, there had been a game of pharaoh at a very low hell in Fetter Lane—quite near most of the sponging houses, much to the convenience of many. Nash had been in a foul mood, angry with himself for lusting after Xanthia and none too eager to play. But Mr. Mainsell had brought an acquaintance—a chap of some five-and-twenty years, with a bold tongue and a cocksure manner. His arrogance had struck Nash very ill, and braggadocio had proven an expensive vice. The fellow had lost something rather large—Nash searched his mind—yes, a
mill
.

“Some sort of mill?” he said, scarcely aware he spoke aloud. “In—good God,
Yorkshire
? Is that it?”

The girl gave a sharp cry. “A finishing mill!” she said. “It was his grandfather’s.”

Nash scarcely knew where Yorkshire was—and he certainly did not know what a finishing mill was. He had come home, stripped off his gloves, poured himself a healthy measure of
okhotnichya
, and tossed Wescot’s note of hand onto the teetering heap of detritus which awaited Swann’s return. And there, so far as he knew, it lay to this moment. Swann would finalize the conveyance, then sell it, or trade it—or do whatever it was he did with such things.

But that night—ah, yes, that night! Perhaps, had he not been angry with himself over his own behavior, he would have cared very little about Mr. Wescot’s. Perhaps he would have refused to play with him altogether, for it had come clear early on that the chap was but a rustic and in well over his head.

Nash became vaguely aware that the girl was still yammering on about Yorkshire.

“—and so, you see, his grandfather really felt that Matthew
should
have the mill,” she was explaining. “And he did die shortly thereafter. But then Matthew found out about the babe”—here, she paused to set a hand on her swollen belly—“and I am persuaded that he wants only the best for the child.”

“Are you indeed?” said Nash dryly.

The girl blinked back fresh tears and nodded. “That, you see, is why we
came
to London,” she said. “Matthew wants us to live here—to take our place in society, you see—for the child’s sake. He swears he shan’t squander a dime, no matter what his papa fears—and that with the income from the mill, he really
can
pay off his debts, and buy us a fine town house…b-but then
he lost the mill
!”

Good God, what a nightmare! An early widowhood, he feared, was the girl’s best hope—and if Wescot’s insolent mouth were any indication, that day might not be too far distant. But in the meantime, what was to be done about her? And the child?

Damn it, why was this
his
problem? By God, he had played an honest game—as he always did. And if Wescot’s family starved in the street, why must he now be troubled with it? Nash gritted his teeth. “And you are hoping, are you not, that I shall simply give you the mill back?” he said. “Is that it?”

Somehow, the girl managed to nod. She was softly crying now, not the heaving sobs of a few moments past, but the quiet snivels of hopeless resignation. At last, Nash sat down. He felt as worn as she looked—which was a damned shame when, not a moment earlier, he had been wallowing in the greatest pleasure of his life. He stared across the tea table at the girl, and braced his elbows on his knees. “Look, Mrs. Wescot, I am going to do you the favor of being honest,” he began.

She looked up at him accusingly. “But you are not an honest man, are you?” she said. “Indeed, they say you are perfectly wicked.”

“I am far more honest than most,” he returned. “And whilst you may hear many things of me—most of them true—you will hear no one name me a cheat or a sharper or a liar. So here, my dear, is the awful truth—you have a babe in your belly and an arrogant young fool for a husband.”

“I beg your pardon!”

But in his anger and frustration, Nash had no intention of stopping. “What your husband lost, Mrs. Wescot, he lost through conceit. What I took was a damned sight less than I might have done. The man played cards as if he had a dozen mills to spare and no family to feed. You must get him out of London—tomorrow would not be too soon—and keep him out. Mill owners from Yorkshire, Mrs. Wescot, rarely find any ‘place’ in society—and if you did, it would be the last thing you would wish for your child.”

She crumpled his handkerchief, and her face crumpled with it. “Oh, I knew it!” she wailed. “I tried to tell him so. We do not belong here.”

“When is the child due?” he asked bluntly.

She blinked a little uncertainly. “Why, the end of next month.”

“Have you any relations at all nearby?”

She nodded. “My cousin Harold is a greengrocer in Spitalfields,” she said almost sheepishly. “I did marry
up
, you see.”

Nash was not at all sure of that. “Is he a decent man, this cousin?”

The girl nodded. “He is plainspoken,” she said. “But kind—and honest.”

“Then you must send Harold to me, Mrs. Wescot, when the babe is born,” he ordered. “He will give to me the full legal name of the child—be it male or female—and I shall give you back your mill.”