"Anise?" said Xanthia sharply. "Like absinthe?"

Lord Nash shot her a strange look. "Ah, the French vice," he said. "Surely, Miss Neville, you do not partake? It is a dangerous business."

She shook her head. "I've never seen it," she admitted. "But I daresay you have."

He smiled faintly. "Yes, a time or two, in my misspent youth," he confessed. Then his voice seemed to drop another octave. "But taken to excess, my dear, absinthe is a poison and a convulsant. I am the sort of man who prefers always to indulge my vices to excess-and if someone is having convulsions, I prefer it to be of the more pleasurable sort."

Swiftly, she looked away. There was no mistaking the heat in his words, and if his intent was to make her heart flutter and her stomach bottom out, he had succeeded. Dear heaven! It was all too easy to imagine the sort of vices Lord Nash would enjoy to excess-and with a connoisseur's skill, too, she did not doubt. Somehow, Xanthia found the grace to return her gaze to his, and to feign a mischievous smile.

"Your overly indulged vices aside, my lord, might I a.s.sume that your vodka always bears a customs stamp?" she teased. "And what of your cheroots? Your tobacconist imports his goods from where? Virginia? North Carolina? And he dutifully pays his taxes, does he not?"

Nash looked faintly chagrined. "Actually, I get my vodka through a rather disreputable fellow in Whitechapel, and my cheroots by courier from Seville," he said. "I am very particular as to the taste."

"Ah!" said Xanthia. "Indeed you must be. Spanish tobacco comes mostly from Cuba, or Venezuela. Tut tut, Nash! I do not think the King would approve."

"Painting me a sinner and a tax cheat, are you, my dear?" he asked. "Really, what is a little untaxed tobacco? And vodka-it can scarce be had here, taxed or otherwise. But you, Miss Neville, are talking of doing something a good deal more dangerous."

"I did not say I did such things, but merely that I know how they are done." Driven by restless anxiety, Xanthia had left her chair to roam about the room. "It is not difficult, Nash, to circ.u.mvent a customs agent, or even to take on contraband cargo in a foreign port. A little grease to the right palm is usually sufficient-but one must choose that palm with great care. It is no business for amateurs."

He coughed discreetly. "My dear, you frighten me," he said.

But Xanthia could see she that she did not. Not really. There was a pensive light in Nash's eyes, but whether from ordinary curiosity or something more speculative, she could not say.

In any case, she had pushed this business far enough. Were Nash the man de Vendenheim thought him, another word might kindle suspicion. She whirled about and laughed lightly. "But why are we speaking of this nonsense?" she said. "It must bore you. Tell me, Nash, why did you really come here this afternoon? Not, I think, to discuss customs agents?"

As etiquette required, he, too, had risen. "I just wished to see this for myself," he said, making an expansive gesture about the room.

Xanthia opened her hands. "See what?" she demanded. "A woman doing an honest day's work? Have you no servants to watch, my lord?"

He stepped closer and studied her from beneath his hawkish black brows. "I think you have the makings of a shrew, Miss Neville."

"Thank you." She smiled. "I thought perhaps you were here to take me up on my offer."

He hesitated, as if surprised she had mentioned it again. "I am afraid not, my dear."

"Well," she said briskly, going to the map on the wall, "then I shan't humiliate myself by repeating it."

"Oh, but I wish you would," he returned in his deep, resonating voice. "Nothing feeds a man's psyche like a beautiful woman pleading for his s.e.xual favors."

Xanthia pulled out one of the yellow pins-the Mae Rose-and stabbed it a half inch nearer the Straits of Gibraltar. "I am not pleading, Nash," she said coolly. "Nor am I particularly beautiful-"

"No, not in any conventional way," he interjected.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. She liked him all the better for his honesty. "-and if you want me, Nash," she managed to continue, "then you will be the next to make an offer. I have no wish to continue flinging myself at a man who will let conventional notions about breeding and conduct and-and virginity get in the way of what ought to be perfectly healthy appet.i.tes."

Xanthia was still moving pins, sometimes just for the satisfaction of stabbing them into the wall again. She did not realize how close Nash was until she felt the heat of his body behind her. "Do you know," he said, his breath stirring the hair near her ear, "I believe I am done with conversing."

Caught in midstab, Xanthia's arm froze. At once, she felt the heat of his breath on her neck. Felt his warm hands slide around her waist. "Miss Neville," he murmured, "how you do intrigue me." Then his lips settled against the turn of her neck, searing and sure.

"Umm." It was an exhalation of pure pleasure.

Nash never lifted his mouth from her flesh, though it was only her throat, her ear, then her jaw he kissed. But when his mouth brushed over the pulse point beneath her ear, Xanthia melted. She let the pin in her hand go skittering across the floor and let her body sag backward against the hard wall of Nash's chest. Her head fell back onto his shoulder, giving him every opportunity to touch her.

His hands moved restlessly over her, stroking her waist, her ribs, then moving higher. He palmed the weight of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then lightly thumbed her nipples, which were already peaked with desire. In the slanting afternoon light, neither spoke-fearing, perhaps, to destroy the strange spell. Instead, he still nuzzled her throat, planting feverish kisses down the length, all the way to her shoulder whilst her breath ratcheted ever higher.

At last, when he touched her earlobe with the warm tip of his tongue, a sigh escaped her lips. In response, Nash drew a hitching breath and set one wide palm over her belly as the other slid lower. And lower-until Xanthia wished desperately to tear away her clothes, to give him free rein. To feel the heat and pa.s.sion of his mouth in other, more secret, places.

Apparently, they were of a mind. Xanthia shivered when cool air breezed over her calves. Inch by inch, Nash was fisting up one side of her skirts, sending them slithering over her knee and up her thigh. A tremble of raw desire ran through her then, bone-deep and eviscerating.

Xanthia set her hands flat against the map, steadying herself. And then his mouth was on the nape of her neck, biting just hard enough to heighten her awareness. And his hand-oh, G.o.d, his hand. The froth of her petticoat and the fine lawn of her drawers was no barrier. Already Nash was sliding one finger back and forth in her wet, silken heat. The man was a master, wicked and tormenting as he twisted the fine thread of her desire to the breaking point.

Xanthia's breath began to hitch with little gasps of pleasure. Nash sensed her need, easing his finger higher, stroking and teasing, ever so lightly brushing the swollen nub of her desire. As the intensity heightened, she collapsed fully against the wall, setting her feverish cheek against the chill of the map, her hands planted wide. She was trapped against the wall by his weight, the hard ridge of his c.o.c.k pressing firmly and insistently into the cleft of her backside.

"G.o.d," he rasped against her neck. "Good G.o.d, what I would not give to rip off those drawers and lift you onto-"

But it was too late. Xanthia's. .h.i.tching breath had become a soft, rhythmic sob. She could not wait. He was drawing her, making her throb and ache and pulse with need. Her entire being convulsed. She raked her hand wide, sending more pins scattering across the floor. Then, flat against the wall, with his hand working her into madness, Xanthia felt the world spin away. Felt the grime and grit and mustard yellow paint of her tawdry office whirl about her, then explode into shards of white light. The trembling rocked her, and washed over her, leaving everything pure and perfect in its wake.

When she came back to herself, still trembling, Nash had turned her in his arms, and was swallowing her gasping breath with his kisses. "Shush, shush," he crooned, his mouth stroking over her brow bone. "Careful, love."

Then it struck her. The office. The staff. Good G.o.d, Gareth.

Xanthia tried to nod, but Nash chose that moment to ignore his own advice and take her mouth on a tormented groan. Still greedy, she opened to him at once, and felt his tongue slide deep, plumbing the secrets of her mouth. He twisted his fist in her skirts again, and held her to him as if he were a drowning man and she his only hope. Over and over he kissed her, his nostrils wide, his breath rough, and one hand firmly grasping her derriere. Lifting her body firmly to his, he tore his mouth away, his eyes filled with something which looked like a mix of chagrin and regret.

Unable to look at him, Xanthia fell against him, and set her forehead to his shoulder. "I thought you were a sybarite, my lord," she whispered. "I understood you thought only of your own pleasure."

"It was enough of a pleasure, my dear, simply to watch you," he murmured into her hair.

"Liar," she said on a spurt of laughter. And somehow, the embarra.s.sment was over. She lifted her head, and held his gaze. "I think I should quite like to make love with a sybarite. To...be caressed by the hands of a man bent only on his pleasure-and mine."

"Are you inviting?" He whispered the words into her ear.

Xanthia swallowed again, and squeezed her eyes shut. "No," she rasped. "I-I shan't ask again, Nash. You know what I want."

He smiled. "I obviously know what you need," he admitted, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. "Though whether or not it is what you ought to have remains un-"

There was a sharp knock at the door.

They burst apart like the conspirators they were. Gareth Lloyd entered and dropped a stack of green baize account books onto his desk. He said nothing to Nash, who had returned to the window to stare at the river below. With a stiff nod to Xanthia, Gareth went to the map and frowned at it. "I have sent for your carriage, Zee," he said without looking at her. "Otherwise, you will be late."

Xanthia went to her desk, and ran a finger down her calendar. "Oh, Lord!" she said. "My fitting for Lady Cartselle's masque! What is the time?"

"Half past three."

Nash turned from the window. "You mean to attend Lady Cartselle's masque next week?"

Xanthia was shoving papers into her bulging leather satchel. "Yes, Lady Louisa fancies herself desperately in love with Cartselle's heir." She jerked her head up. "Why? Shall you go?"

Nash gave a muted smile. "I never attend such larks," he admitted. "But forgive me, Miss Neville. I am now detaining you from your work." He turned and bowed stiffly in Gareth's direction. "Mr. Lloyd, it was a pleasure."

Gareth grunted at him dismissively. He was picking the yellow pins from the floor where Xanthia had dropped them. Almost ruthlessly, he began jamming them into the Arabian Sea, as if Neville's had a whole fleet positioned strategically off the coast of India.

Nash took his hat from Xanthia's desk. "Good afternoon, my dear," he said quietly. "And thank you again for the lovely...view."

The door closed quietly behind him, leaving a terrible emptiness in the room.

Gareth's posture was rigid, a sure sign of his temper. At last he turned from the map and returned to his desk.

"Are we declaring war on Bombay?" she asked, her voice light.

Something inside him seemed to snap. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Xanthia!" He picked up one of the ledgers and slammed it so hard pages flew. A shock of heavy gold hair had fallen forward, shadowing his face. "Just what do you think you are doing? What?"

"I beg your pardon," she said, stalking toward the desk. "To what are you referring?"

"To your acting like a common gutter s.l.u.t," he snapped. "For G.o.d's sake, do you know who that man is?"

Before she knew what she was doing, Xanthia had drawn back her arm and slapped him full through the face. "Yes, I know who he is." Her voice was low and tremulous. "How dare you, Gareth? How dare you speak to me that way?"

"You know why I dare." His words were laced with pain. "Because you should be mine, Xanthia. And you know it."

Xanthia leaned over his desk. "So let me understand this-if I allow you certain liberties, I am 'yours,'" she said. "But if I allow them to another man, then I am a s.l.u.t? Have I fully grasped your meaning, Gareth?"

He tore his gaze from hers and looked away. She was horrified to see the mark her hand had left. "I did not call you a s.l.u.t, Zee," he whispered. "I said that-or what I meant was-"

"Never mind what you meant."

Xanthia returned to her desk and hefted the stuffed satchel from her chair. "And by the way, Gareth, I had reason to believe that Lord Nash might require our services. This was business-at least it began that way. And if it ends as something else, then...then it really is none of your business, is it?"

He looked at her with hurt in his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "No, apparently it is not."

"Then I will wish you good day, Gareth," she said. "I am sorry I struck you. It was no more excusable than your words, and I am ashamed, as I hope you are."

With that, Xanthia pushed through the door and went down the stairs. Her entire body seemed to tremble with repressed emotion. Below, the painters were still at work-a pale yellow this time. The clerks had their heads down, pens skritch-skritching diligently across their desks, and Mr. Kemble was nowhere to be seen. She burst out into the last golden light of afternoon, and climbed into the waiting carriage, strangely blinking back tears.

Dear G.o.d, she was so angry and confused! She did not want trouble with Gareth, nor did she wish to hurt him. So often she wished that she did love him, that she loved him enough to be what he wanted her to be-a benevolent wife and mother, not just a businesswoman with a bad temper. But she did not love him enough, and it was a shame. He was a good man. A shrewd business partner. And perhaps, seen through his eyes, what she had just done was quite beyond the pale. She pondered her alternatives as the driver cracked his whip, jerking the carriage into motion.

No, she still did not mean to tell Gareth of Lord de Vendenheim's suspicions. There was no reason to blacken Lord Nash's name when he mightn't be guilty of anything worse than leading a hedonistic life. And he was not guilty of worse. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly, certain.

Yes, Nash possessed a fondness for his homeland. He was filled with nationalistic pride. But were those not honorable things? He wished fervently that the Greeks would prevail in their struggle-as did the overwhelming majority of the English people. He was an unrepentant gambler and libertine-and though he apparently raised decadence to an art form, it was a behavior not unusual in London.

But was he a traitor to his adopted country? No. He had shown no interest whatsoever in rising to her bait-and she had offered it most generously. Oh, she had piqued his interest, yes, but it had been interest in her, she could have sworn. Xanthia had watched his mind mulling through it. He had been studying her face. Weighing her nature. Wondering if he dared take her up on her offer.

If anything more nefarious than that had crossed Lord Nash's mind, then Xanthia was not the judge of character she believed herself-and she had staked half her family's fortune on her ability to do just that. But would de Vendenheim believe her?

No. He would not. Indeed, he could scarce afford to. The Home Office had too much at stake. And that left but one possibility: Xanthia could find proof of Nash's innocence. If she had imagined it possible to find evidence of his guilt, why was not the opposite possible? Or was she just a fool? Had she simply allowed his lips and his touch and his whispered words to addle her brain?

Lord, surely not? Xanthia collapsed against the plush banquette of Kieran's carriage. Suddenly, it all seemed too much. She was utterly exhausted. She had a business to run; she did not have time for a life. Certainly she had no time for de Vendenheim's intrigues. And now she had not just her costume fitting to survive, for this was the dreaded Wednesday-which meant she and Kieran must take Lady Louisa to Almack's tonight.

Cursing men in general, Nash in particular, and praying Almack's would soon be struck by lightning, Xanthia let her eyes drop shut and her fatigue and her worry and the rhythm of the rocking carriage lull her into a fretful sleep.

Chapter Seven.

A Flap in Park Lane There's been a letter from Swann, my lord." Gibbons was brushing-well, thrashing, actually-the previous evening's frock coat at Nash's bedchamber window. "I am afraid the news is not good."

Still in his dressing gown and slippers, Nash looked up from his newspaper. "Lord, what now?"

"It is his mother," said Gibbons, energetically flapping the coat out the open window.

"I know about his mother," Nash snapped. "Good G.o.d, man-what are you doing to my coat?"

Gibbons straightened up, b.u.mping his head on the window frame. "Making a futile attempt to dispel the stench of tobacco smoke and cheap eau de toilette," he said over his shoulder. "It utterly reeks, my lord. Where in G.o.d's name did you go last night?"

Nash gave a disgusted grunt. "Played macao with Struthers at some Soho h.e.l.lhole," he answered, returning his gaze to the paper. "Now stop waving my coat at Hyde Park before you spook a horse."

"My lord, it stinks."

"Take it down to the butler's pantry."

Gibbons shot him a testy look. "I cannot," he said. "Agnes has asthma. If I take it belowstairs, she'll wheeze for a week."

Nash put the paper down with a crush. "Just how long, Gibbons, have you been brushing soiled clothes in my bedchamber?" he complained. "And precisely when did my servants become masters and I their slave?"

Gibbons s.n.a.t.c.hed the coat back inside. "Very well, my lord," he responded. "If you cannot spare a thought for poor Agnes, then I shall take it down at once."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake!" Nash waved his hand in obviation. "I don't mean it. You know I do not. I'm just...out of sorts."

Gibbons looked inordinately self-satisfied. "I know, my lord," he said more solicitously. "We've all noticed it."

"Aye, and gossiped about it no end, too, I daresay," muttered Nash, snapping his paper back into form. "Now what were you saying about a letter?"

"She died," said Gibbons.

Nash felt another burst of impatience. "Who died?"

"Swann's mother." Gibbons frowned censoriously. "He's to be away at least another se'night, arranging the funeral and letting the cottage. He sends his profuse apologies and hopes you have no urgent need for his services."

Nash scowled down at his coffee. The truth was, he could do without Swann for another week though he did not like it. He very much wished to know what the Comtesse de Montignac was up to nowadays, but he had not thought to ask Swann to set up a meeting before leaving town. Then there was the paperwork on his desk, which was fast becoming a dangerously teetering pile.

Still, a mother's death was a hard thing at any age, and presumably Swann cared for his mother as much as Nash had cared for his-which was to say, quite a lot. Like many women too beautiful for their own good, his mother had been at times cruel, and always selfish, but he had loved her. Her death had marked the end of his innocence and the beginning of his new life. Life as the English heir. Life without Petar. Until she had abandoned him in England, Nash had thought himself a mere visitor to this place.

He cleared his throat and laid the paper aside. "Have you Swann's direction to hand, Gibbons?" he asked, going to the mahogany escritoire. "I shall send my deepest condolences and rea.s.sure him there is nothing pressing."