There was, however, one small thing which Swann had left undone, Nash thought, as Gibbons went haring off in search of the letter. But during Nash's visit to Miss Neville's offices last Wednesday, he had answered the question for himself. Her former fiance-if he had ever been quite that-was Mr. Gareth Lloyd. Nash was quite sure of it.

A proposal of long standing from a family friend, Lord Rothewell had said. How many people in London had known Miss Neville in the West Indies? Very few, Nash guessed. But it little mattered. Lloyd had given himself away with his cold, hard gaze and abrupt manners. He had disliked Nash on sight, and his every gesture toward Xanthia had spoken of patronization and, less perceptibly, of possession.

He marveled Xanthia put up with it. Perhaps she still had a tendre for the fellow? The thought sent an uncomfortable chill down Nash's spine. At once he jerked himself back from that emotional precipice. The woman's past was none of his concern-nor was her future. If they were to have anything together, which he doubted, it would be in the here and now.

Nash had kept his distance from the woman these last few days and cleared his head enough to play a hand or two of cards. He had also begun looking about for Lisette's replacement. But to his eye, none could compare with the intriguing Miss Neville. Where she was concerned, however, he was unsure of what next he ought to do-or even what he wanted to do. The woman was still dangerously unwed, and he was having a devil of a time making out her...well, her character. And what a strange thing with which to concern himself! He wanted only to bed Xanthia Neville-wanted it quite desperately, in fact-and character had heretofore been of no importance in choosing a woman to f.u.c.k.

d.a.m.n. He did not even like that choice of word. Not when it was used in the same sentence as her name. Where had these finer feelings come from? They were b.l.o.o.d.y annoying. And he could not escape the suspicion that such things probably mattered more to him than they did to Xanthia, for if one believed all that the lady said, her morals were decidedly ambiguous.

It was not just her obvious willingness to have s.e.x without benefit of clergy-a notion which was shocking in itself-but in her business dealings, she seemed more than a little ruthless, which made her seem to him like...well, like your average businessman, he supposed.

Nash threw down his pen in disgust. What right had he to question someone else's moral fiber? He had made a career of bankrupting fools for sport. He was not above bedding other men's wives and, indirectly, impoverishing their children. He had always had his choice of highly skilled courtesans with whom to slake his baser needs. In years past, he had favored the most lecherous entertainments imaginable-with females both high and low, and sometimes all at once. Was his horse any higher than Miss Neville's? What was the difference between them?

Ah, from society's standpoint, that question was easy to answer. She was a gently bred, unwed female. She should be demure, kind, and not just virtuous, but naive, too. Her innocence was to be preserved at all cost, for it was the vehicle by which blue-blooded privilege would be borne forth into the next generation. Once she had married and performed that n.o.ble duty, however, Miss Neville could wh.o.r.e herself pretty much as she pleased. That was the dirty little secret of British aristocracy. And the thought of her being-good G.o.d...

He prayed Rothewell meant what he said. He hoped no one would push that vibrant creature into a marriage of convenience. For so sensual a woman, it would be like trapping an exotic bird and throwing a dark cloth over the cage. It would be h.e.l.l. But she was almost thirty. She really was quite on the shelf, and of her own doing, too.

All this left him with too many unanswered questions. Who was Xanthia Neville? Was she the cunning, perhaps faintly duplicitous business owner? Or was she the sensual, breathless almost-innocent he had found in his arms? The duality of her nature troubled him. There was something...something lurking there, just beyond his mental grasp. Something which did not ring true-but it would come to him in good time.

Just then, Gibbons came back into the room, a folded piece of foolscap in hand. "Here we are, my lord," he said, placing it on the escritoire.

Nash thanked him and picked it up. "Gibbons, you have been handling my invitations in Swann's absence," he murmured. "Tell me-what became of that card for Lady Cartselle's masque?"

"It is still on your desk downstairs." The valet had commenced thrashing the frock coat again. "I am to send your regrets, I collect?"

Nash was tapping the edge of Swann's letter pensively on the desktop. "Actually, Gibbons, I think I shall go."

"My lord, it is Lady Cartselle," Gibbons cautioned. "I fear the affair will be a little tame for your-er, your tastes."

Nash flashed a wry smile. "Ah, but perhaps my tastes are changing?" he suggested. "Or perhaps it is just old age setting in. In any case, I shall need a costume-something which does not involve the total annihilation of my dignity."

"Indeed, sir." There was a hint of excitement in the valet's voice. "Something in keeping with your character?"

"Precisely," said Nash. "Have you an idea?"

Gibbons had tossed the coat down on the bed, and was already rummaging about in the dressing room. "You have only to put yourself in my hands, sir," he said through the door. "I shall prepare just the perfect thing."

"Well, Xanthia, you are nothing if not creative." Lord Sharpe stood in the center of his wife's sitting room, turning this way and that before her gilt cheval gla.s.s.

Xanthia and Lady Louisa circled him a.s.sessingly. From the divan, Pamela clapped her hands. "Oh, Sharpe, pink flannel really does become you," she said. "And your bald head-well, it does look perfectly porcine once the little ears are attached."

Louisa knelt behind her father. "Hold still, Papa," she said. "I am going to pin your tail on now."

"A tail?" Sharpe craned his head to see. "Oh, good Lord, must you?"

"I think it's very fetching," said his wife.

"There!" said his daughter, standing.

"Mind your tail feathers, Louisa," said Xanthia, stooping to untangle Louisa's costume. "They are getting caught in my purple train."

Pamela laughed. "My dears, I hope you make it to Lady Cartselle's with all your bits and pieces intact," she said. "Circe and the Sirens! And Circe's pig! What a mythological trio you make. Now, Louisa, which siren are you again?"

"Pisinoe," said Lady Louisa. "The one with the lute, I think? It seemed best, since my singing would not lure anyone to do anything-except flee."

Xanthia looked on admiringly. "Nonetheless, you make a beautiful half human half bird, my dear," she said. "Your wings and your tail feathers-well, Lord Cartselle's son cannot but notice you tonight, I am sure."

"Let us pray he is quick about his business, then," said Sharpe a little peevishly. "I shall never hear the end of this in the House."

"But it takes a bold, confident man to wear a pig costume, my love," said his wife solemnly. "Besides, you will be masked. Oh, I wish quite desperately that I was going."

Lady Louisa's smile fell. She bent low to kiss her mother's cheek. Just then, one of Sharpe's footmen appeared. "Your carriage has come round, my lord."

"Oh, wait! Wait!" Pamela was shaking something jingly. "Pray do not forget Circe's bowl of magic herbs. And here is Sharpe's leash!"

Xanthia took the long, gold chain, and the elegant footed bowl, which Pamela's cook had filled with what was probably just bay leaves and thyme. Sharpe bent to kiss Pamela's cheek, too. "Thank you, my dear," he said gruffly. "But I think I may go safely across to Belgravia without being leashed."

Amidst much laughter, they made their way downstairs and into Sharpe's barouche. They arrived to find Belgrave Square choked with elegant carriages. Along the pavement, all manner of fictional and historical characters were being disgorged onto the red carpet which ran up Lord Cartselle's marble steps.

Lady Louisa's nose was pressed to the window. "Look, a Marie Antoinette!" she cried. "And a Robespierre! And who is that man giving out apples?"

"Sir Isaac Newton, perhaps?" said Xanthia. "Come now, Louisa, sit up straight and let me fluff your wings. It will soon be our turn."

Nash arrived among the last of Lady Cartselle's guests, stepping into her entrance hall amidst much curtsying and t.i.ttering from the good lady's daughters. Lady Cartselle herself looked both stunned and gratified by his presence. As Gibbons had pointed out, this one was to be a relatively genteel entertainment, and save for his forays into White's, Nash was rarely seen in genteel society. He was quite confident his reputation had preceded him here tonight, but apparently, it little mattered. A wealthy, unattached marquess was a much-sought-after guest.

Inside the grand ballroom, Lady Cartselle's orchestra had struck up a waltz. Nash positioned his mask carefully and waded into the crowd, his eyes searching for a good vantage point. A handful of guests had trickled up the steps and onto the narrow gallery which encircled the room. An excellent place to see but not be seen. Save for his greeting to Lady Cartselle, Nash had no intention of making himself known, and no intention of seeking anyone out-not whilst wearing the d.a.m.nable rig which Gibbons had forced upon him. In keeping with his character, indeed! He felt so b.l.o.o.d.y silly he was not sure he could approach Miss Neville even if he recognized her.

Alas, he barely noticed Marie Antoinette, who had followed him up the red carpet and into the house. Indeed, she was following him still. Nash finally realized it, for the scent of her perfume was strong and unpleasantly familiar. She caught his arm at the foot of the gallery steps.

"Alors, speak of the devil!" said the woman in a French accent. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Satan. You look splendid in your black silk cloak. And those horns! Oui, I always thought you would have a very fine pair."

Despite her powder and patch, the Comtesse de Montignac was easily recognized. "Bonsoir, madame," said Nash stiffly.

She had not released his arm, but her hand felt faintly tremulous. "Come, my lord, and finish this waltz with me, s'il vous plait?"

"Thank you, no." His voice was cold.

The comtesse smiled up at him, a dangerous, devious look. "Ah, monsieur, I think you must," she said, still holding his arm. "I have something you should see. Something better discussed, I think, on the dance floor, oui?"

Nash's very last wish was to make a scene. "Very well," he said coolly, drawing the comtesse's slender frame into his arms. "How much is this to cost me?"

"Perhaps we can negotiate something to our mutual benefit," she answered, as they entered the first turn. "I wish only to be of help to you, Nash. Tell me, shall we see your beautiful stepbrother tonight?"

"I have no notion," he said, drawing her deeper into the crowd. "My brother's comings and goings are none of my concern."

At that, she laughed. "Come now, Nash," she said. "We both know that is not so."

He swept her into the next turn, their gazes locked. He realized in some shock that she was not wearing powder after all. Her skin tonight was parchment pale, her throat more swanlike than ever. Yes, the comtesse's frail beauty was becoming more frail than beautiful.

She realized he was still staring and licked her lips almost lasciviously. "I wish to see you, Nash." Her voice was suddenly low and sultry. "For more than just...a business arrangement."

"I am afraid that is not possible."

The comtesse drew him nearer and set her mouth very near his ear. "I have invited a group of friends, mon cher-very close friends-to join me later tonight," she whispered. "And Pierre has brought me a very fine absinthe from Paris-his little way of atoning for his sins. My friends have certain...predilections. So bring your mask, Monsieur Satan. I think you know what I mean?"

The comtesse had pressed herself inappropriately close. He regarded her with thinly veiled disgust. "And in exchange for my...performance, you will what? Reward me with more of your treasures?"

"Oui, I could doubtless be persuaded." He drew her into the next turn, and the comtesse brushed her pelvis quite deliberately across his. "Is it true, Nash, that you have tired of the lovely Lisette?"

"Certainly not," he answered. "Miss Lyle has tired of me."

The comtesse laughed so hard she drew stares. "Oh, there is not a man in a hundred here who would admit such a thing," she said. "Even were it true-and of you, it cannot be."

But Nash had grown weary of her cloying scent and gaunt, pressing body. He wished he had never fallen victim to her scheming. "Madame," he said quietly, "you could not recognize the truth if it bit you in that lovely a.r.s.e of yours, so little acquaintance with it do you have."

Her expression froze. "I beg your pardon?"

He took the unpardonable step of stopping and dropping her hand. "No, it is I who beg yours," he said stiffly. "I have decided that I no longer wish to dance to your tune, Comtesse de Montignac. Whatever the price." With that, he nodded curtly and stepped away. "I give you good evening, madame."

"Nash," she hissed beneath her breath. "Nash, you will regret this. I swear it to G.o.d."

He probably would, he thought, turning away. But in his anger and disgust, he did not care. The dancers nearest them were already staring. The one thing he had wished for-to remain unnoticed-had slipped from his grasp. Good G.o.d, he had wanted to choke the breath of life from that b.i.t.c.h.

He started up the gallery steps, intent on putting as much s.p.a.ce between them as was possible. It was then that he noticed her. Not Xanthia Neville. No, the first person who caught his eye-a little slip of a girl-looked suspiciously like Sharpe's chit. Then again, he'd seen the girl but once. Whoever she was, she was dressed in solid white, and wore white paint instead of a mask. She carried a golden lute, and was adorned with a vast deal of feathery plumage.

But the woman beside her-ah, there he was less certain. She was very tall and reed-slender, a look which was further emphasized by the close-fitting Grecian gown she wore. The white bodice was cut almost to her nipples, and over it she wore a sheer purple robe, the train of which she caught over one wrist. The gown and robe were encircled by a golden girdle which rose to a peak between her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, lifting them most tantalizingly. The woman's dark hair hung to her waist in thick waves, which were entwined with gold ribbons. Before her, she carried a golden bowl, and in her opposite hand she held a long, gold chain which was leashed to...a pink pig.

Yes, it was a very large, very bald man dressed, unmistakably, as a pig.

Just then, someone brushed by him on the stairs. "An impressive show, is it not?" said a Napoleon Bonaparte. "That chap in the pig suit must have ballocks the size of Brazil."

"Yes, but the woman-" Until that moment, Nash had not realized he had stopped on the stairs. "Who the devil is she? Or what the devil is she?"

"Circe the Sorceress, someone said," answered Napoleon casually. "And by Jove, she can cast a spell over me if she pleases. That's a Siren on her left, and one of Odysseus's sailors. Circe changed them into pigs and led them around by their snouts, did she not?"

"So the legend says," murmured Nash.

He turned and followed Napoleon down the stairs, then plunged into the crowd. But by the time he had crossed to the ballroom's entrance, the pig, the bird, and the woman in purple were gone. Perhaps it was just as well, he thought. Still, it had been Xanthia. He was unaccountably certain of it. Nash decided to return to the gallery and keep watch. The evening was growing late. If she had not appeared within the hour, he would strip off his dramatic black costume and its silly accoutrements, then go up to White's in search of Tony.

The orchestra had struck up a lively country dance, the merry strains of the violins carrying up the steps. On the dance floor below, the dancers whirled, clapped, and circled one another with high steps and flashes of color. Nash strolled along the bal.u.s.trade, taking in the crowd's jovial chatter. He watched from a distance-in more ways than one. Sometimes he thought that that was the one thing he had in common with Xanthia Neville; the thing which perhaps drew him so inexorably to her. In their own ways, they were outsiders. They would never truly fit in.

He wished, d.a.m.n it, that she were here. If she were, he might simply ask her what manner of spell she had cast over him. Perhaps she was Circe in the flesh. G.o.d knew she tormented him. And yes, for her he was beginning to fear that even he might wear the golden leash.

Oh, the feeling would pa.s.s. But while he waited for the inevitable, Miss Xanthia Neville haunted him, those deep blue eyes beseeching him, taunting him-and yes, even comforting him, in his dreams, and sometimes in his waking moments, too. He wished the woman did not seem so...so sane. So steady and dependable. She was a woman, he thought, that a man could trust-and Nash had had little enough of that in his life.

Just then, a pair of Barbary pirates brushed past, loudly laughing and drawing him from his reverie. He scanned the dance floor again and saw no sign of the woman in purple. But from the corner of his eye, he spied a Queen Elizabeth in deep green satin. Her bright, burning hair was unmistakable, as were the heavy circles of pearls which she wore.

Lord, it was Jenny. The pearls had been his wedding gift to her. He wondered, fleetingly, if Tony were here, but dismissed the notion. The couple lived rather independent lives, an arrangement which apparently suited both. Nash did not approve, though he could not have said why. It could scarcely be argued that he held the sanct.i.ty of marriage especially high-he had helped too many women violate it.

Tony married, Nash supposed, for political reasons. Jenny had been a great heiress whose money had helped launch her husband's career. But to Nash it seemed a bit like a deal with the devil. And he feared there was an equally fiendish deal being struck below at this moment, for the Comtesse de Montignac was whispering in Jenny's ear. Seen beside Jenny's vivid coloring, the comtesse looked more pale and more wraithlike than ever. She looked...otherworldly. And dangerous.

Jenny and the comtesse had once been fast friends-a double entendre if ever there was one-but until a few weeks past, Nash had believed the friendship had faded. Had it resumed? And if so, when? Nash's hands tightened on the bal.u.s.trade, as if they might crush it to splinters. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, this was an inconvenient time for Swann to be away. The women linked arms most companionably and set off across the ballroom toward a group of young bucks who were idling about near the champagne fountain. Alarm bells began to ring in Nash's head.

Good G.o.d. This would not do. He would have to speak to Tony.

As midnight neared, Xanthia found herself left to her own devices. Lady Louisa had fallen in with a gaggle of young people who were being closely chaperoned by Lady Cartselle's sister. Sharpe, after being unleashed, had trotted off to Lord Cartselle's billiards' room to smoke cheroots and talk of politics.

Xanthia wandered the fringe of the ballroom, feeling rather pathetically alone. She knew almost no one, and could bestir little interest in making new acquaintances. After her third circle, Xanthia decided to slip onto the veranda. Picking up her train, she sneaked out the nearest door, acutely aware of what had happened the last time she had done such a thing.

It seemed a lifetime ago, she thought, as the breeze caught her hair. Her rash behavior with Lord Nash that night had been inordinately foolish, she knew. But in hindsight, she was not at all sure she regretted it. She had met a man she might otherwise never have known, a man who stirred her in a way nothing else ever had, not even her work. And she had learned some things about herself, and about desire.

Outside, the air was chilly, but Xanthia did not mind. She leaned back against one of the ma.s.sive columns and thought of Nash's kiss that night-and of his touch several days past. At the memory of what they had done together, she could feel a faint heat radiate up her throat to her cheeks, and a shiver of sensual awareness run down her spine. She was not ashamed. Indeed, she yearned to be with him again. If only he were- A sound from the rear startled her. "It is Circe, I believe?" said a low, steady voice.

Xanthia whirled about, fingertips pressed to her lips. For an instant, her heart stopped. Could it possibly be-? No. It was not he. This voice was unmistakable.

"There are not many women with your height, Miss Neville," said the Vicomte de Vendenheim from the depths of a monk's hood. "Nor with your elegance of bearing."

"Good evening, my lord," she murmured. "You have joined the Franciscan brotherhood, I see."

"Nay, madam, the Jesuits," he insisted. "Their philosophy is rather more to my liking."

Xanthia smiled knowingly. "Yes, I can believe that," she answered. "How may I be of service, sir?"

De Vendenheim leaned so close their shoulders brushed. "By keeping yourself safe at all times," he said, his words almost inaudible. "From what Mr. Kemble reports, I fear you have been overzealous in your task."

She shook her head. "No, in fact, I a.s.sure you-"

"Nonetheless," the vicomte interjected, "do you see the gentleman there? In the court jester's costume just beyond the French window?"

Xanthia nodded. One could not miss his sprouting, jingling hat and green tights. No one had seemed to know his ident.i.ty, but he had been drawing laughter all evening with his faintly ribald jokes and silly parlor tricks.

"That is Mr. Kemble," said the vicomte. "Lord Sharpe is in the billiards' room. Do not stray far from one of us, Miss Neville, I implore you."

"Then you have seen Lord Nash?" she asked a little breathlessly.

De Vendenheim shook his head. "No, and I think it unlikely he would put in an appearance at such an affair," he answered. "But his brother, Mr. Hayden-Worth, is here-and that makes me unaccountably ill at ease."

"His brother?" Xanthia looked at him blankly. "Oh, yes! I had almost forgotten. The M.P. whom you do not wish to antagonize."

Despite the shadows of his hood, de Vendenheim looked morose. "The likelihood of that is growing more slender every day," he answered. "There have been developments. Our cryptographers have broken a part of the code. But I cannot speak openly here." Swiftly, he bowed and kissed the air above her bare hand. "Good evening, Miss Neville. I will call in Berkeley Square as soon as I may."

Xanthia watched him go with a measure of concern. His suspicions, it seemed, had been renewed, and the vicomte was a man of remarkable determination. It would not be easy to convince him that his a.s.sumptions had been wrong. Xanthia must take him proof. But to do that, she must first find the proof-which would require gaining access to Nash's home. And thus far, gaining access to Nash-in any way at all-had proven a challenge. But matters were growing increasingly more urgent. De Vendenheim now seethed with frustration, and he would not wait long to strike. She would simply have to think of a way to get close-very close-to the Marquess of Nash.

In the end, it was the gentlemen's retiring room which proved to be Tony's undoing. Seeing a fellow in Elizabethan dress who looked vaguely familiar, Nash followed him and slipped in unnoticed to find Tony relieving himself in a vigorous torrent. At the sight of Nash, however, Tony almost p.i.s.sed on his shoe.

"Good G.o.d!" Tony's eyes ran down Nash's costume. "What the devil?"

Nash flashed a wry smile. "Yes, it is I. The Dark Prince himself."