Never Lie To A Lady Part 1

Never Lie to a Lady.

Liz Carlyle.

Prologue.

An a.s.signation in Crescent Mews Late Winter 1828.

The library was hushed in every possible way, its heavy velvet drapes long since drawn against the flickering gaslight beyond. The lush Turkish carpet silenced every footfall, and the room's cavernous depths would have swallowed every whisper, had there been any. Certainly there was no light, save that which was cast in a pool before the hearth.

Lord Nash was many things, but he was not remotely naive. The stage was set, and he knew it. He kept his back to the fire and his eye on the door, which was barely discernible in the shadows.

The door, when it opened, was as soundless as it had been upon his arrival. The Comtesse de Montignac came toward him, her fine, frail hands outstretched as if she were greeting her dearest friend. She wore a red silk peignoir, which was far more suited to the boudoir, and her heavy golden hair swung seductively about her waist.

"Bonsoir, my lord," she purred, the red silk s.h.i.+mmering in the firelight as she moved. "At long last, I am to have the pleasure, oui?"

He did not take her hands, forcing her to let them drop. "This is not a social call," he said. "Show me what I have come for."

Her smile deepened almost mischievously. "I like a man who knows his business," she purred. Before he knew what she was about, the comtesse's elegant fingers went to her shoulders, and drew the silk peignoir down her arms. It caught on her fingertips just an instant before it slithered to the floor.

Nash cursed the little stab of l.u.s.t which needled him. But by G.o.d, the woman was beautifully made, and she wore a negligee so thin it served but one purpose. Beneath it, her delicate, milk white b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose as the breath shuddered expectantly out of her. She touched one hardened nipple through the gossamer fabric.

"Many men have paid well for this," she said throatily. "But for you, Nash-oh, mon dieu! A woman almost wishes to give it away."

Nash slid a hand beneath her left breast, and squeezed-not hard enough to hurt her. Not quite. A strange melange of fear and l.u.s.t sketched across her face. "The papers," he gritted. "Get them. Do not toy with me."

She backed away, cutting him a dark, sidelong glance as she moved into the shadows. He heard a drawer slide open, then slam shut again. She returned with a thick fold of foolscap. Nash took the papers and unfolded them toward the firelight. His eyes swept over the first, then the others, more quickly. "How much?" he asked emotionlessly.

"Ten thousand."

He hesitated.

The comtesse stepped so near he could smell the scent of jasmine in her hair. "This bargain was hard earned, my lord," she said. "My every feminine wile was required in order to obtain what you needed."

"All save one, I daresay," murmured the marquess.

The comtesse did not so much as blush. "And I am sure I need not tell you, my lord, the political ramifications which this could have," she purred, drawing a warm hand down his arm. "Ten thousand, and the pleasure of my body for the evening?"

Nash tried to divert his eyes from the rise and fall of the woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I cannot think your husband would appreciate being cuckolded beneath his own roof, madame."

She smiled, pressed the length of her body to his. "Pierre is very understanding, mon cher," she murmured. "And I have...particular needs. Needs which I will gladly demonstrate-if you can be persuaded into my bed?"

"I cannot," he said.

She drew her hand from his arm-in surrender, he thought. Until it settled firmly and warmly in an altogether different location. To his humiliation, his rigid c.o.c.k twitched insistently against her palm. "Are you quite sure, mon cher?" she whispered. "You feel very firmly persuaded-and I cannot but wonder, Nash, if you are all that rumor claims."

He tossed the papers aside. "You play a dangerous game, madame."

"I live a dangerous life," she returned. But with a muted smile, she dropped her hand and stepped away.

He watched her in silence for a time, as one might watch a snake in the gra.s.s. She cut an uncertain glance at him. "Mon dieu, do not look so sanctimonious, Nas.h.!.+" she finally snapped. "We are alike, you and I. We are not of this restrained, oppressive English world. We never shall be, you know. Come, why may we not learn to pleasure one another?"

Nash did not answer, but instead bent down and picked up the red silk peignoir. "Just put it on, comtesse," he answered. "There is very little anyone could teach a woman of your experience."

Again, the coquettish smile. "Oui, my lord, c'est vrai," she agreed. She took the red silk robe from his outstretched hand.

They concluded their transaction swiftly enough, the comtesse making no further overtures, save for the occasional torrid, sidelong glance-and not at his face. Nash was relieved to make his way back through the house and out into the damp, silent streets of Belgravia. The mist had grown heavier now, rolling in off the Thames with a cutting January chill. Nash turned up his collar and set off along Upper Belgrave Street. Behind him, the newly minted church bell at St. Peter's tolled twice, the sound oddly sharp in the drizzle.

The broad, elegant thoroughfares were empty at this hour, at this time of year. No one observed Nash as he made his way soundlessly into the rabbit warren of Crescent Mews. This was an old place which the new perfection of Belgravia had swallowed up and risen above. A place not easily found, which made it perfect for his purpose.

In the distance, Nash could see a lamp swinging from its bra.s.s bracket, casting a feeble light down the steps of a small and unimportant-looking establishment. As he neared the entrance, a man in a brilliantly hued Guards uniform staggered from the shrubbery, hitching up the fall of his trousers. They nodded politely, and Nash pressed on. From the foot of the steps, Nash could hear raucous laughter ringing out. He stepped beneath a tree just beyond the lantern's glow, lit a cheroot, and settled in for a wait. He had long ago learned patience.

From time to time a military man or a gentleman would burst from the laughter to make his way down the narrow stairs and stagger up the mews. But eventually, a man came out and made his way to the tree. He was slight and quick, and his gait held the sureness of sobriety.

"Good evening, sir."

"Good evening," said Nash. "Is every drunken soldier from the Guards' barracks in there tonight?"

The smaller man smiled faintly. "It would seem so, my lord," he said. "Swann says you wish to engage my services?"

Nash withdrew his purse and jerked his head toward Wilton Crescent. "Do you know the woman who lives in the third house this side of Chester Street?"

"Who does not?" he answered. "The Comtesse de Montignac."

"Yes," said Nash. "Is that her real name?"

The smaller man smiled faintly. "It is thought unlikely," he said. "But she has well-placed friends, and her husband is an attache to the French emba.s.sy. What is it you wish, my lord?"

"Three men observing the house night and day," said Nash, his voice emotionless. "The names of everyone who comes and goes, from the chimney sweep to the dinner guests. Should she leave the house, I wish to know where she goes, with whom, and for how long. Report to Swann once a week. I shan't seek you out again."

The smaller man bowed. "It shall be arranged." Then he hesitated. "My I speak frankly, my lord?"

Nash's dark, harsh eyebrows went up a notch. "By all means."

"Have a care, sir," he said quietly. "The diplomatic corps is a nest of vipers-and the Comtesse de Montignac writhes at its center. For a price, she would betray her own mother."

The marquess's mouth curved with bitter satisfaction. "As I am too well aware," he said. "But I thank you for the warning all the same."

Chapter One.

A Gala in Hanover Street Spring 1828.

Miss Xanthia Neville was thinking of having an affaire. Thinking of it quite vividly, in fact, as she watched the tide of handsome, elegantly attired gentlemen sweep their partners through the intricacies of the waltz. Cutaway coats and diaphanous skirts swirled and unfurled beneath the glow of a thousand candles. Champagne gla.s.ses clinked, and sidelong gazes lingered. Everyone was lighthearted. No one was alone.

Well, that was not quite true, was it? She was alone. At the great age of not-quite-thirty-a brittle precipice indeed-Xanthia was a confirmed spinster. Nonetheless, tonight she had worn red; the deepest, most daring shade of claret-colored velvet to be found in the whole of Pall Mall, as if doing so might send some subtle signal within the rarefied confines of Lord Sharpe's ballroom.

Ah, but perhaps she was just deluding herself. Perhaps she'd had too much of Sharpe's champagne. In this country, unmarried ladies did not have liaisons. They had weddings. Even her cynical-hearted brother would not tolerate a scandal. Moreover, Xanthia, the consummate negotiator, had no notion how one went about parlaying that sort of deal. She could finesse the flintiest of customs agents, consign cargo in three languages, and spot a thieving purser with a doctored manifest at fifty paces. But this-her personal life-so often felt beyond her.

So this romance of hers was just another fantasy. Another unattainable thing which, while painfully absent from her life, simply came at too great a price.

Was she lonely? She hardly knew. She knew only that her life had required hard choices-and she made them, for the most part, with her eyes open. Lord Sharpe's ballroom was awash in pretty, virginal debutantes. They were not wearing red. Life's many possibilities were still open to them. Xanthia was envious, and yet she would not have traded places with even the most beautiful amongst them.

She turned away from the ocean of beautiful men and pretty virgins and went out onto the terrace in search of solitude. The heels of her slippers sounded softly on the flagstones, until at last the strains of the orchestra faded, and the murmur of voices quieted. Even the illicit lovers had not ventured so deep into the gloom as this. Perhaps she ought not have, either-the English ton did seem to frown on the oddest things-but something in the silence drew her.

At the distant end of the terrace, Xanthia at last paused to lean against the brickwork and let her shoulders relax against the masonry, which still held a hint of heat from an unseasonably sunny day. She had been all of four months in London now, but never once had she been warm. She let her head tip back and her eyes close as she savored the faint heat, and swallowed the last of her champagne.

"Ah, if only I were the cause of that expression!" murmured a deep, rueful voice. "Rarely do I see a woman so enraptured-unless she is in bed with me."

Xanthia's eyes flew open on a faint gasp.

A tall, elegantly built man blocked the terrace before her, and even in the dark, she could feel the heat of his gaze drifting over her. She recognized him vaguely, for she had noticed him earlier, reclining languidly in a chair deep inside the cardroom-and she had seen the female heads turning as he left it, too. He was the sort of man who caught a woman's notice; not for his beauty, but for something far more primitive than that.

Xanthia lifted her chin. "Sharpe has a dreadful crush tonight," she said coolly. "I thought my escape had gone un.o.bserved."

"Perhaps it did." His voice was a low rumble. "I could not say. I have been hiding out here all of a quarter hour myself." There was chagrin in his voice, which unexpectedly made her laugh.

He stepped fully into the shaft of moonlight and glanced down at her empty flute. "Sharpe has unimpeachable taste in champagne, does he not?" he murmured. "And your intriguing expression aside, my dear, I wonder if it wouldn't be prudent for you to return to the ballroom?"

Xanthia, however, caught neither his suggestion, nor its subtle implication, for she was absorbed in the study of his face. No, he definitely was not beautiful. Instead, his features held a remarkable ruthlessness, with a hawkish nose, a too-hard jaw, and extraordinary eyes, which were set at just the slightest angle. His hair was dark, and far too long to be fas.h.i.+onable. More disturbing still, there was just the slightest aura of danger about him. Inexplicably, Xanthia did not heed it.

"No," she said quietly. "No, I think I shall stay."

He lifted one of his solid-looking shoulders. "Suit yourself, my dear," he said. "You looked like a cat soaking up warmth just now. Are you cold?"

Fleetingly, Xanthia closed her eyes and thought of the Bajan sun. "I am always cold," she answered. "I haven't been warm in an age."

"What a pity." He leaned nearer and offered his hand. "I believe I have not had the pleasure, ma'am. In fact, I am quite persuaded you are new to Town."

She looked down at his hand, but did not take it. "And do you know everyone?"

"It is my business to do so," he said simply.

"Indeed?" Xanthia set her gla.s.s down atop a nearby bal.u.s.ter. "What sort of business are you in?"

"The business of knowing people."

"Ah, a man of mystery," she answered a little drolly. "And from whom, I wonder, are you hiding? An angry husband? A woman scorned? Or that little coterie of matchmaking mammas which keeps eyeing you so greedily?"

He flashed a crooked, rueful smile. "Noticed that, did you?" he asked. "It's devilish awkward, really. They seem to keep expecting me to-ah, but never mind that."

She looked at him intently. "Expectations," she murmured. "Yes, that is the very trouble, isn't it? People are so very reluctant to surrender them, are they not? We are all expected to do certain things, make certain choices-and when we do not, well, we are accounted stubborn. Or eccentric. Or that most horrid euphemism of all-difficult. Why is that, I wonder?"

"Why indeed?" he murmured. The man's gaze held hers steadily. "I wonder, my dear-are you the sort of woman who does the unexpected? You strike me as being...oh, I don't know-a little different, perhaps, from those other people whirling about the ballroom."

Those other people.

With those three simple words, he seemed to draw a dark and certain line between the two of them and-well, everyone else. He was not like them, either. She sensed it. A sudden frisson of some unfathomable emotion slid down her spine. For an instant, it was as if he looked not at her, but at something deeper. His gaze was watchful. a.s.sessing. And yet understanding, all at once.

But what nonsense that was. What was she doing here in the dark, chatting with a perfect stranger?

His slas.h.i.+ng black eyebrows went up a notch. "You have grown very quiet, my dear."

"I fear I have nothing of interest to say." Xanthia relaxed against the brickwork again. "I lead a rather austere life and do not generally go about in society."

"Nor do I," he confessed, dropping his voice. "And yet...here we are."

He leaned so near she could smell his cologne, an intriguing combination of smoke and citrus. His gaze caught hers again, more heated now, and Xanthia felt suddenly as if the stone portico beneath her feet had s.h.i.+fted. Even in the dark, his eyes seemed to glitter. "I beg your pardon," she said a little breathlessly. "You...you are wearing amber oil, are you not?"

He inclined his head. "Amongst other things."

"And neroli," she said. "But the amber-it is quite a rare scent."

He looked vaguely pleased. "I am surprised you know it."

"I have some knowledge of spices and oils."

"Have you indeed?" he murmured. "My perfumer in St. James imports it for me. Do you like it?"

"I am not quite sure," she said honestly.

"Then I shan't wear it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"When I call on you," he said. "By the way, my dear, do you mean to tell me your name? Just the name of your husband will do. That way, I can ascertain his club hours and determine when he is most apt to be out."

"I do not know your name," she said archly. "But I see that you are quite forward."

"Yes, well, being backward gets one nowhere, does it?" he suggested, smiling.

Xanthia gave a bitter laugh. "Indeed, it does not," she answered. "I learnt that much the hard way."

He watched her warily for a moment. "No, you do not look the shy, retiring type," he said in a musing tone. "Tell me, my dear, are you as bold as that red dress you are wearing might suggest?"

"In some situations, yes," she confessed, holding his gaze. "If there is something one wants badly, one must often be bold."

Suddenly, he slid one hand beneath her elbow, and it was as if something electric pa.s.sed between them. "You are a most intriguing woman, my dear." His voice was raspy in the gloom. "Indeed, it has been a very long time since I felt...well, intrigued."