Never Lie To A Lady Part 3

"She must have a chaperone," Pamela insisted. "Of course, there is always Christine. She is Sharpe's sister, after all. But she is thought to be-well, a little outre, is she not? I cannot think her a proper companion for a girl of Louisa's tender years."

"No, I think not," muttered Xanthia.

The truth was, Christine Ambrose was an amoral cat-one who from time to time had sunk her claws into Kieran. But Kieran knew the woman for what she was, and used her about as well as she used him. Sometimes Xanthia thought that perhaps they deserved one another. But Christine chaperoning Louisa? No, it would not do. Slowly, it dawned on her that Pamela's hand was holding hers in a near death grip. She looked down to see an unmistakable pleading in her cousin's eyes.

"Oh, Xanthia, my dear, may I count on you?"

Xanthia barely suppressed a gasp. "Count on me?" she echoed. "To...to do what, pray?"

"To see Louisa through the rest of her season."

"To...to take her about to b.a.l.l.s and a.s.semblies and such, do you mean?" said Xanthia hollowly. "Oh, Pamela. I do not think...no, I am not versed in such...I could not possibly..." But the desperation in Pamela's eyes was perfectly heart-wrenching.

Pamela sat up a little on the divan. "I shall arrange invitations to all the best houses in town," she wheedled. "And Almack's every Wednesday, of course."

Xanthia made a slight sound of exasperation. "Do not be silly, Pamela," she said. "We haven't a subscription and likely cannot get one."

Pamela laughed. "Oh, Rothewell will be admitted instantly, dear child," she said. "His t.i.tle ensures it. And I shall put it about that you are to be Louisa's chaperone and made as welcome as I would be. After all, I am not without influence in Town, my dear. And-and why, perhaps you will have fun, too! Oh, my dear, do say you will do it."

Xanthia hesitated. Dear heaven! Her hope of never seeing Mr. Nash again was on the verge of collapse. "But I am an unmarried woman," she protested. "That really is not ideal. Is it?"

"But you are a mature woman," said Pamela firmly. "It must be you or Christine. It must be family, and Mamma cannot do it. Besides, she and Louisa always quarrel. All you will need is Kieran's escort, or Sharpe's. There will almost always be a cardroom to pacify them."

Xanthia let out her breath on a sigh. Kieran would not like this any better than she, but he had an uncharacteristic fondness for Cousin Pamela. "Of course we shall be happy to help, Pamela," she answered. "But there are a few things, my dear, which you ought to consider."

Pamela's pale eyebrows lifted. "Yes? Of what sort?"

Xanthia dared not tell her about the intriguing Mr. Nash. "Well, you know that I am greatly involved with Neville s.h.i.+pping," she said instead.

"Oh, yes, dear," she said. "You so often speak of it."

"But what you may not realize is that I-well, I spend a good deal of time there. Literally. At the business."

Pamela seemed to consider it. "Well, you do own a third of it," she mused. "One must look after one's interests, I daresay."

"Actually, I own twenty-five percent," she said. "Kieran has twenty-five, and Martinique the twenty-five she inherited when Luke died. Gareth Lloyd, our business agent, now owns the remaining twenty-five percent."

"Does he indeed?" said Pamela. "I was not aware."

"Well, that is neither here nor there," Xanthia continued. "The truth is, I more or less manage Neville s.h.i.+pping."

Pamela nodded cheerfully. "Yes, you once suggested something of that sort."

Xanthia took her cousin's hand again and vowed to make her listen. "Pamela, I go into the East End in a carriage to work every day," she said, her voice firm. "I sit in an office surrounded by men, in a grimy little house in an especially grimy street in Wapping-which is filled with some of the most disreputable people imaginable-and I dearly love it. People stare at me, Pamela. One day a man near the London docks spat at me. Most of them do not think I belong-and no one amongst the ton is apt to disagree with that a.s.sessment."

"Oh. Oh, I see." Pamela was blinking owlishly. "Is it...is it rather like having a shop, would you say? Mrs. Reynolds once had a shop, you know. But now she is Lady Warding."

"Yes, but I never shall be Lady Warding, or anything like it," Xanthia gently pressed. "I shall always be Miss Neville who has the utter lack of breeding to keep a job-and to do men's work. For that is what they shall say, Pam, if the word gets out. And it will sound worse, I fear, than being a mere shopkeeper."

Pamela pursed her lips, and shook her head. "You have a right, Xanthia, to look after yourself," she insisted. "If Kieran supports your doing that, then it is no one else's business."

"No, it is not," Xanthia agreed with asperity. "But if it gets out-which it will-then the gossips shall make it their business."

Pamela relaxed against the chaise and patted Xanthia's hand. "Oh, if it gets out, you will merely be thought an eccentric," she answered. "Indeed, my dear, with your charm and your dash, you might make it quite the rage. Perhaps it will become fas.h.i.+onable to have one's own company? I should choose hats, myself. How does one make them, do you suppose? In any case, I am not worried on Louisa's behalf."

Xanthia smiled faintly. Employment really was a foreign concept to her cousin, who had been raised every inch a lady. "Very well, then," she murmured. "You have been warned."

"So I have, and now that that is all settled, I want you to put your hand here," said Pamela, placing Xanthia's palm atop her belly. "Say h.e.l.lo to your new cousin, the future Earl of Sharpe."

Xanthia's smile deepened. "Am I to feel anything?" she asked, curious. "Will he...will he move? Or kick my hand?"

Pamela laughed. "Oh, Xanthia, you can be shockingly innocent," she said. "No, he shan't do a thing for weeks and weeks. But he is in there, all the same. Shall I tell you when he starts to move about? Would you like to feel him kick?"

Xanthia felt suddenly shy, and, to her shock, more than a little envious. "I would, yes," she admitted. "It is such a wonderful, unfathomable thing to me."

Pamela's face took on a serious expression. "You must have children of your own soon, Xanthia," she said quietly. "Time marches on. You are what? Seven-and-twenty now?"

Xanthia gave an embarra.s.sed laugh. "Oh, Pamela, I shall be thirty in a few months' time," she said. "And there is one serious flaw in your plan, my dear. One ought not have children without a husband."

Pamela's expression brightened. "Well, you are about to enter the marriage mart!" she answered. "Louisa is determined to look about quite carefully for just the right sort of gentleman. I would suggest, my dear girl, that you do the same."

Xanthia shook her head. "I do not mean to marry, Pamela."

"Well, why on earth not?" demanded her cousin. "It is the most natural thing in the world."

Xanthia looked away and chose her words carefully. "Gentlemen wish their brides to be...well, younger and more naive," she answered. "Besides, there is Neville s.h.i.+pping to worry about. If I marry, it becomes my husband's. Even if it did not, no husband would permit me to work as I do."

"Oh, heavens, let Kieran take care of Neville s.h.i.+pping!" said Pamela impatiently. "What else has he to do? He has sold his plantations, and he has leased out all of his estates. Honestly, Xanthia, if he cannot find something to occupy his time, Sharpe says he is going to drink and wh.o.r.e himself into an early grave."

Xanthia stiffened. "Kieran knows nothing of s.h.i.+pping, nor does he wish to," she replied. "He will simply sell the company to the highest bidder."

"Yes, as he did the Barbados properties," Pamela remarked. "I vow, that made no sense to me."

"He did not sell to the highest bidder, Pamela," Xanthia gently chided. "He leased the land in allotments to the men who had worked it year after year. And if you had lived all your life in Barbados as I have done, you would understand why he wanted to do that. The days of slavery, Pamela, are over. It is time we all accepted that. It is a vile and corrupting inst.i.tution, no matter how gentle one's hand."

"Yes, it is very dreadful, to be sure, but could he not just-"

A sound at the door cut her off. Pamela's maid came into the room. "The girl from Madame Claudette's has come with Lady Louisa's new gowns, ma'am," she said after curtsying. "Shall you wish her to try them on before the girl goes?"

Pamela and Xanthia exchanged vaguely apologetic glances. Clearly, there would be no more talk of slavery's evils on this particular afternoon. It was time to get back to that evil which was far more troubling to the ladies of Mayfair-the unspeakable horror of a badly fitted ball gown.

Chapter Three.

A Grave Misunderstanding in Mayfair Baron Rothewell was savoring a brandy and a black, nasty humor when he heard the knocker drop upon his elegant front door in Berkeley Square. He had been savoring his brandy since teatime, actually, and was not now disposed to break what had thus far been a solitary interlude.

Rothewell was the sort of man who believed very firmly the old adage that silence was the true friend that never betrayed. He made few acquaintances and kept far fewer. Nor was he a man with any fondness for idle conversation-and it was all idle, so far as Rothewell could see.

But he likely needn't be concerned, the baron consoled himself, going to the small sideboard in his study to pour himself another tot. He knew almost no one in London, and certainly had invited no one to call upon him. He was surprised, therefore, when one of his newly employed footmen came in bearing the card of a gentleman whose name he had never before heard.

"I am not at home," he growled.

But the servant looked ill at ease. "I think he means to wait, my lord," said the footman. "After all, it is Lord Nash."

Rothewell scowled. "Who the devil is Lord Nash?" grumbled the baron. "And why should I give a d.a.m.n?"

"Well, he is the sort of fellow who generally gets what he wants," said the footman.

This was enough to pique Rothewell's curiosity. "Oh, very well," he said. "Show the fellow in."

Naturalists say that when certain carnivores meet in the wild, they circle and scent one another, each a.s.sessing the other's willingness to back away. Rothewell never backed away from anyone, and his hackles went up the moment the man crossed his threshold.

The man called Nash was whipcord-lean and moved with a controlled strength which was rather more formidable than outright brawn might have been. His hair was black as a raven's wing, with perhaps a suggestion of silver at the temples. He carried an expensive-looking driving cape over one arm, and his gloves in one hand, as if his stay was to be brief.

"Good evening, Lord Rothewell." The man had eyes like obsidian ice. "How kind of you to receive me."

Glittering eyes. Expensive clothes. A voice too soft-and not quite English, either, he thought. This, at least, should be interesting.

Rothewell waved a hand toward a chair. "Do sit down," he said. "How may I a.s.sist you?"

As if to make a point, Nash repositioned the chair nearer the desk. "I am here on a matter which is of a personal nature."

"I can't think what the devil that might be," said Rothewell, "since I never before laid eyes on you."

The man smiled faintly, as if he did not believe him. "No, I have not the pleasure of a formal acquaintance," he answered coolly. "But I believe I had the honor of meeting your sister last night at Lord Sharpe's ball. Miss Xanthia Neville-she is your sister, is she not?"

The man, Rothewell decided, looked like a wolf; a wolf with a lean and hungry look about him. "I do not remember you from Sharpe's ball," he said, holding the man's gaze. "But yes, Miss Neville is my sister. What of it?"

"I collect you are her guardian," said Lord Nash in his too-quiet voice. "I should like your permission to pay court to her."

"You should what-?"

"I should like to court Miss Neville." If anything, his voice was even quieter, and more ominous. "I somehow feel certain that my suit will be acceptable to you."

Rothewell was not remotely intimidated. "It certainly is not," he barked. "Why should it be? My sister is an exceptional woman. And she is not in need of-nor, so far as I know, even in want of-a husband. Moreover, it is Xanthia's permission you'll need-and if you knew a b.l.o.o.d.y thing about her, you would already know that."

"Ah, an independent-minded young lady," remarked Nash. "How very charming."

"She is not independent-minded," said Rothewell. "She is independent. And stubborn. And imperious, when she's in the right-which she is, more often than one wishes to admit. Good G.o.d, Nash, she's nearly thirty years old. Moreover, she...she is not like other women. Have you any notion what you are asking?"

"I am asking if I may court your sister."

"Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why Xanthia?" he demanded. "If you want a wife, why not chose some young, biddable miss, Nash? Life will go a d.a.m.ned sight easier for you, trust me."

Lord Nash was looking faintly uncomfortable now. "Miss Neville is the managing sort, is she?"

"Yes, and quite good at it," said Rothewell. "Indeed, I believe I would back her ten to one against any man I know-but press your attentions where they are not wanted, Lord Nash, and you will answer to me."

Nash looked truly puzzled. This meeting obviously was not going as he had planned. But what the devil had he expected? Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck Rothewell. He let his eyes drift over Lord Nash's expensive attire, and pondered it. "Frankly, Nash," he finally said, "now that I think on it, I know of but one reason why you might have an interest in my sister-and it is not flattering."

Nash's eyes glittered. "Pray speak plainly, Rothewell."

"I am referring to her fortune," Rothewell answered. "As you doubtless know, my sister is quite a wealthy woman. But she will not give it up, Nash-and a marriage would require her to do just that."

The marquess drew back an inch, his confusion replaced by outright hauteur. "You dare to suggest I am a fortune hunter?" he snapped. "Good G.o.d. Certainly not."

Rothewell steepled his fingers together thoughtfully. "Then I beg your pardon, of course," he said curtly. "I suppose Xanthia is not precisely what one would consider parson's bait, however lovely she may be. And her strong personality...well, I daresay I have made my point in that regard."

Nash's posture was so rigid now, he looked as if he'd swallowed a poker. "Perhaps there has been some mistake," he finally acknowledged. "I begin to collect that your Miss Neville would not make an ideal wife after all."

Rothewell flashed a faint smile. "For the right man, Xanthia would make an admirable wife indeed," he said. "But I am relatively confident that you are not that man. I will not see such an intelligent and lovely woman wasted on someone who neither loves her nor deserves her."

Nash lifted a piercing, steady gaze to meet his host's. "You make it sound as if you had someone else in mind."

It was Rothewell's turn to s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in his chair. "My sister has an offer, yes," he admitted. "A proposal of long standing from a family friend. I daresay they will get round to tying the knot one of these days."

"I see." Abruptly, Nash rose, his eyes suddenly flat and inscrutable. "My apologies, Lord Rothewell. I have inconvenienced you quite unnecess-"

Suddenly, the study door burst open, and a whirlwind carrying a stuffed leather folio swept in. "Kieran, I have the most shocking news ever!" said his sister as both men rose. "And the Belle Weather is in six weeks early, so I thought that we might-" Her eyes had s.h.i.+ed wild in the direction of Rothewell's guest. "Oh. Good Lord. I...I do beg your pardon."

She was halfway out the door when Rothewell caught her. "Not so fast, old thing," he said. "I take it you know our new friend Lord Nash?"

"Lord Nash?" Xanthia had flushed three shades of pink. "I-no, I do not. That is to say...that is to say I did not perfectly understand who...or why..."

Rothewell could not recall ever having seen his sister at a loss for words. He let his eyes drift over her face, to rea.s.sure himself that she did not fear this man.

No, there was nothing but grave embarra.s.sment etched on her face. "Obviously, this unfortunate business does not concern me," he said, releasing his sister's arm. "I shall leave you to it."

"Leave us to what, pray?" Xanthia was looking at Nash with a sidelong suspicion now.

"I'm d.a.m.ned if I know." Rothewell shrugged, and took up his brandy gla.s.s. Then, thinking better of it, he snared the bottle, too. It might be a long night.

"Good evening, Miss Neville," said Nash, when the door was closed. "We meet again."

Nash watched Miss Neville's suspicion s.h.i.+ft to outrage. "Oh, Lord Nash, is it?"

"Please do not claim you did not know," he said.