Never Lie to a Lady (9 page)

“Why such urgency?” asked Xanthia. “What has happened?”

Again, de Vendenheim and Mr. Kemble exchanged glances. “Two nights ago, at a village inn south of Basingstoke, a man was found with his throat slit,” said de Vendenheim.

“From ear to ear,” chimed Mr. Kemble, drawing an illustrative finger across his neck.

“Dear God!” Xanthia shuddered.

“The killer was looking for something,” Kemble continued. “Something he did not find. Sewn inside the lining of his portmanteau, agents of the Home Office found papers detailing—or allowing Peel to extrapolate—much of what we have just told you.”

“But most of it was in code,” de Vendenheim added. “Government cryptographers are working on it even as we speak. In any case, the dead courier was very near the country house of a somewhat notorious nobleman; a gentleman who is not without power and influence, and who has many contacts in Eastern Europe and Russia. It is not the first time such coincidences have occurred, yet Peel dares not investigate him openly.”

“Why?” said Kieran bluntly. “What is another bloody nobleman in this country? England seems awash in them.”

De Vendenheim’s eyes flashed with frustration. “This one has a family member who is well placed in the Commons, and becoming increasingly influential within the party,” he answered. “The family is very close. Peel can hardly suggest this man is a traitor by word or deed—certainly not without irrefutable evidence. If Peel is wrong—
if
—then great damage might be done on any number of fronts.”

Kieran appeared unsympathetic. “In Barbados, we would just hang him.”

Xanthia shot Kieran a chiding look, then turned to de Vendenheim. “The man is wealthy, too, I collect?”

“His marquessate is a rich one,” the vicomte admitted. “And he has multiplied the family fortune many times over, ostensibly by means of high-stakes gaming. It is said he has nerves of steel at the table, and can anticipate his opponent’s every move. But he could just as easily be feathering his nest by smuggling and gunrunning. Who would be the wiser?”

Mr. Kemble gave an impatient toss of his hand. “You are going to have to give them a name, Max,” he warned. “We can go no further with this until you do.”

De Vendenheim hesitated. He looked at Kieran very directly. “May I have your word as a gentleman that neither you nor your sister will divulge this name?”

“To whom would we divulge it?” asked Kieran. “We scarcely know anyone. But my cousin Sharpe sent you here, so of course you have our word.”

De Vendenheim paused to consider it. “The man’s name is Stefan Mihailo Northampton,” he said quietly. “But he is called Nash. The Marquess of Nash.”

Xanthia suppressed a gasp. Kieran set the wax jack down awkwardly, and cut his eyes toward her. “Lord Dark-and-Dangerous,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon?” said de Vendenheim.

“A little jest between us,” said Kieran, shifting his eyes away. “We do know him vaguely. He…he was at Sharpe’s ball.”

“Yes, Sharpe invited him for a reason,” admitted the vicomte. “He is keeping an eye on the fellow.”

Kieran studied their visitors. “Nash is an imposing sort of man,” he went on. “However, I found him a tad presumptuous. What do you know of him?”

“His background is unusual,” said the vicomte. “He was born in Montenegro, to an old and very noble family with a good bit of Russian blood on one side.”

“Montenegro?” Kieran echoed.

“The
black mountain
,” murmured Xanthia. “It is a rugged place between the Adriatic and the southern Carpathians.”

“Do you know it, Miss Neville?” asked Mr. Kemble.

“Not well,” said Xanthia. “But I know that the Bay of Kotor is the largest on the Adriatic—a sort of fjord, and very deep—yet it is extremely well hidden.”

“Yes, a point which has not escaped us,” said Mr. Kemble.

“The country was once known as the ancient principality of Zeta,” the vicomte went on. “His family’s estate was in Danilovgrad—and still is, I daresay. Nash’s maternal grandfather was a renowned military leader who fought with Vladika Petar I, and helped crush the Turks at Martinici. Amongst the region’s nobility, the family is both powerful and wealthy—and more than a little dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” said Kieran. “In what way?”

“The region has a violent history, and deep clan loyalties which are often incomprehensible to us,” the vicomte said. “The family has close ties to Russia and no love lost for the Turks.”

“But is Lord Nash close to that side of his family?” asked Xanthia pointedly.

De Vendenheim lifted one shoulder. “It was once assumed not,” he admitted. “But with Eastern Europe perched on the edge of this nasty little war, we can ill afford assumptions.”

“At present, Wellington hopes merely to keep the lid on an already-boiling pot,” said Mr. Kemble. “So, as you might deduce, the last thing England needs in the region is a gunrunner with uncertain loyalties.”

“It all sounds so very complicated,” said Xanthia. “But we did wonder at Lord Nash’s faint accent.”

Mr. Kemble looked at her oddly. “What do you know of him?”

“As my brother said, I met him at Sharpe’s ball,” she returned. “He is quite dramatic in appearance. And his dark eyes…yes, very exotic.”

“Yet his father was as English as yours or mine,” said Mr. Kemble. “He was a second son—a strikingly handsome man, by all accounts—who met his wife in Prague whilst making the Grand Tour. They drifted about Europe and Russia until Nash was perhaps twelve, then his father came into the title most unexpectedly.”

Kieran propped an elbow on his chair arm, and waved his hand vaguely. “And you wish us to do…what, precisely? Knock on his front door and offer to transport his munitions to Kotor? Bloody obvious, I should say.”

“Good Lord, no,” said de Vendenheim. “Just make his acquaintance, Lord Rothewell. And suggest, ever so vaguely, that your morals can be compromised.”

“That would be nothing new,” Kieran murmured.

“And you have been in England but four months,” said Mr. Kemble. “Play upon your colonial past. Complain about the King and his taxation policies. Suggest that Barbados should go the way of America. He will not think it odd if you feel little obligation to the Crown.”

Kieran was staring pensively into the distance, and tapping one finger on his desk. “It will not do,” he said, almost to himself. “He can too easily discover that I’ve nothing to do with Neville Shipping. I daresay I could not plot the ports of Europe on a map with a sledgehammer.”

De Vendenheim and Kemble looked at him in bewilderment.

Xanthia sat up stiffly in her chair. “I shall do it,” she said abruptly.

Their gazes turned to her in unison. “I beg your pardon?” said the vicomte. “You shall do what?”

She managed a look of cool competence. “I shall befriend Lord Nash,” she said. “I know rather more of this business than does my brother.”

Kieran nodded. “Regrettably true,” he acknowledged. “I am not at all sure poor Sharpe believes it, but I am just the family farmer. It is Xanthia here who tends our little world of wood and water—and she will do anything to keep her business interests from being threatened.”

Their initial confusion past, the two gentlemen did not look particularly disbelieving. “I see,” said de Vendenheim. “This rather complicates matters.”

“Or perhaps not,” murmured Mr. Kemble. “Indeed, perhaps it simplifies them.”

Kieran was frowning. “I think Xanthia’s getting involved with this Nash character might be unwise,” he said. “Gentlemen, you’d best find another bit of bait for your hook.”

“Oh, come now, Kieran!” Xanthia interjected. “Lord Nash can scarce be more unsavory than the sea dogs and scoundrels I am accustomed to. And I have Mr. Lloyd, our business agent, to help me.” She turned to Mr. Kemble and the vicomte. “Besides, I have already made the gentleman’s acquaintance.”

Kieran lifted one of his dark, haughty eyebrows quite high at that. “Yes, and quite thoroughly, I begin to think,” he murmured. “And you now propose to strike up a deeper acquaintance?”

Xanthia smiled coolly. “He was not altogether indifferent to my charms, Kieran,” she said. “And while Nash hardly strikes me as a traitor, any risk to England’s trade routes—indeed, to
our
trade routes—cannot be tolerated. Someone must get at the truth of this business, and quickly.”

De Vendenheim was looking both appalled and hopeful. “With all respect, Miss Neville, Lord Nash is not the sort—well, he is not a gentleman with whom one—”

“He is not thought quite
nice
, Miss Neville,” Mr. Kemble interjected. “And unmarried ladies dare not risk his acquaintance.”

Xanthia looked at him skeptically. “I must have seen a dozen mammas shove their daughters in his direction at Lord Sharpe’s,” she chided. “And I do not think his exchanging a word or two with a confirmed spinster will much discourage them, either. Gentlemen, I suggest you put this matter in my hands. I shan’t risk my neck, my good name, or my business, of that you may be certain.”

“Yes, especially the latter,” said Kieran dryly.

“But Miss Neville,” protested de Vendenheim. “Your reputation—”

“No, my
trade routes
,” she interjected.

“He may learn more about you, Zee, than you wish him to know,” warned her brother.

“Lord Nash is hardly the sort of man who gossips,” said Xanthia.

“Yes, and what if Nash turns up at Neville Shipping one day?” grumbled de Vendenheim. “What then? Is your Mr. Lloyd always in?”

“No, he is often in the warehouses, or on the docks,” Xanthia admitted. “It is his job to oversee and account for the movement of freight. But we’ve a counting house full of clerks below.”

Lord de Vendenheim looked at Kieran, who smiled faintly. “She is bullheaded,” he said matter-of-factly. “But far from stupid.”

Mr. Kemble gave a slow, wicked smile. “I say let her have at it, old chap,” he said to de Vendenheim. “You know that old saw about women being the weaker vessel? Well, it’s a damned lie.”

“Then I shall leave you to explain that to the Prime Minister,” the vicomte snapped.

“Just remember, old chap, that there are but two things Nash cannot resist,” warned Kemble. “A well-staked card game and a beautiful woman.”

“I’ve yet to hear him accused of seducing unmarried ladies,” countered de Vendenheim.

Xanthia realized de Vendenheim had a point. She wished she’d had the forethought to invent a conveniently dead husband before clambering off the
Merry Widow
on All Saints’ Day. Her new life in London would have been far simpler—in any number of ways.

Just then, Kieran pushed back his chair. “Gentlemen, we will help you so far as we can, but I shan’t permit my sister to risk her safety. Is that understood?”

It was. After a few more moments of debate, the three gentlemen could not quite reach an agreement as to how best to proceed. De Vendenheim was clearly uneasy, and declared his intention of discussing the plan with Mr. Peel, whilst Mr. Kemble was already contemplating the best way to ensure Xanthia’s safety. They parted company agreeing that the vicomte would call upon them in two days’ time to tell them of any new developments.

Mr. Kemble bowed low over Xanthia’s hand as he went. “Cobalt, my dear, is your color,” he mused, his careful, assessing gaze running down her length. “Yes, accented with ice blue to match your eyes. Moreover, I have it on the best authority that blue is Nash’s favorite color.”

Xanthia smiled. “Well, we would not wish to see Lord Nash disappointed, would we?”

“No, we certainly would not.” And with that, Mr. Kemble bowed again and disappeared into the shadowy depths of the corridor.

“Kem,” said de Vendenheim as soon as the door was shut. “How would you fancy being a shipping clerk?”

“Why, I shouldn’t fancy it in the least!” Nose in the air, Kemble went down Lord Rothewell’s steps. “It must be sheer drudgery. Why do you ask?”

De Vendenheim set a brisk pace in the direction of Whitehall, more or less dragging Kem after him. “Well, it is like this, old chap,” he said. “You are the brilliant mind who encouraged this notion of Miss Neville’s helping us. But I can tell you right now that Peel will not let us troll through London using
her
as bait—not unless she is carefully guarded.”

Kemble came to an abrupt halt, causing a grumbling pedestrian to step off the pavement and into the street to avoid them. “Oh, no, Max,” he said. “No, no, no. I am a businessman—and a bloody busy one. Do not even think of it. I agreed to help you out with a few discreet enquiries and to do a little poking about, but no more.”

“Well,” said the vicomte equivocally, “we shall see how it all sorts out.”

“Oh, I can tell you,
mon ami,
how it will all sort out—with me going back to my shop in the Strand for a glass of Quinta do Noval ‘18 and a very expensive cheroot, and you going home to your put-upon wife and those drooling twins.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Kem.” The vicomte had set off again. “Children drool when they cut teeth. The stuff is hardly toxic.”

“Tell that to my best blue superfine morning coat!” said Kemble with a sniff. “Maurice was beside himself, Max, when he saw it! Simply
beside
himself!”

“Another of your Cheltenham tragedies,” muttered de Vendenheim, setting off again. “But on another topic, tell me, Kem, was that not a van Ruisdael landscape I saw being cleaned in your back office yesterday? Such a lovely piece. Those fluffy white clouds above the windmill. Those almost Turneresque trees. Yes, a van Ruisdael, surely?”

Kemble cut a chary, sidelong look at his companion. “You have a good eye, Max.”

“I do, don’t I?” De Vendenheim smiled and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. “And I also have a list of stolen property from an art theft which occurred in Bruges some six months past. The gentleman was quite a collector of van Ruisdael. Alas, not one piece has been recovered.”

“How perfectly dreadful for him,” said Kemble.

Suddenly, the vicomte jerked to a halt on the pavement again. “Kem, old fellow, I’ve a splendid notion!” he said. “Why do we not write to the poor chap and tell him about
yours
? He would doubtless be interested. Indeed, he might come over on the next Oostende packet, just to have a look.”