But Kemble was just shaking his head morosely. "You really are quite head over heels, aren't you?" he muttered. "Lord Nash is conveniently innocent. You are madly in love. And Max is going to blame this-all of this-on me!"

At two in the afternoon, Lord Nash still sat in his dressing gown, sipping at his morning coffee. It was, he thought, his third pot, but he was not perfectly sure. The first he'd managed to make himself. Of course, the day before, one of the servants had kindly ground the beans, set the pot on the hob, and laid the kindling beneath it. Even Nash was capable of lighting a fire.

The house seemed oddly empty today. Nash didn't know why. All the servants had returned promptly at noon, poker-faced and subservient, save for Gibbons. He was puttering about in the dressing room now, after making a great deal of fuss over all that had gone undone in his absence and the mess which had been left behind. The hibiscus petals Gibbons had ordered swept up at once, but curiosity still lay thick on the ground.

Well, let that curiosity run rampant. Nash had no intention of sharing even a hint of what he had experienced last night. He closed his eyes, cradled the warm coffee cup in his hands, and thought again of Xanthia lying naked across his bed, hibiscus petals in her hair. The entire evening seemed almost otherworldly to him now. A time out of place. A mood-a sense of serenity, really, which would likely never be recaptured.

Or would it? For a moment, Nash let himself consider it. Xanthia was not immune to his charms. In fact, she seemed to like him very well-and for himself, too, rather than for what he might give her. Unless one counted the s.e.x, of course. Still, from the very first, Xanthia had brought with her a sort of quiet, which he found deeply comforting. But she was not, in the strictest sense of the word, a quiet woman. No, she was vibrant with life. Beautiful and confident. Gentle, but whip-smart, too, and- Gibbons came trotting out of the dressing room with Nash's best evening clothes draped over his arm, whistling a merry tune-always a bad sign.

"What are you doing with those?" Nash asked suspiciously.

"Checking for moths," replied the valet testily. "We go to Brierwood next week, you will recall."

"Not in that rig."

"But there is to be a ball," sniffed Gibbons. "I had it from Mr. Hayden-Worth. Honestly, if I waited for you to tell me anything-"

"Next week," Nash interjected. "That, Gibbons, is the operative word."

"And if there are moths?" challenged the valet. "Have you any idea how long it would take to get a new suit of evening clothes made up?"

Nash shrugged. "I must have a dozen more in there somewhere," he said, picking up his coffee. "Just drag out a set of old ones."

"They mightn't fit," said Gibbons with another sniff. "None of us, I fear, are quite the men we once were."

Nash put his coffee down, and turned sharply in his chair. "What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

Gibbons smiled faintly. "You are almost five-and-thirty, sir," he said. "Things begin to shift-or spread-perhaps even sag."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," said Nash, leaping from his chair. He loosened the dressing gown and jerked it off.

"Really, my lord!" Gibbons rolled his eyes.

"The tape measure!" Nash growled, stripping off his shirt and hurling it to the floor. "Get me the G.o.dd.a.m.ned tape measure!"

Gibbons sighed, went into the dressing room, and returned with the tape, curled like a little snake in the palm of his hand.

Nash loosened the fall of his trousers, and held up his arms. "All right," he said. "Measure it."

"Sir, this really is not nec-"

"No, by G.o.d, I said measure it."

Gibbons wrinkled his nose and wrapped the heavy ribbon around Nash's waist.

"Ah-ha!" said Nash. "Thirty-two inches, is it not?"

"Tsk, tsk," said Gibbons.

"What?" Nash demanded.

"They do say a man's eyesight is the second thing to go," said Gibbons mournfully. "This tape plainly says thirty-three."

Nash gasped in horror. "You must be lying." He squinted down. Yes, Gibbons was lying. The tape very plainly said thirty-four.

"Oh, G.o.d!" said Nash.

"Not to worry, sir," said Gibbons placatingly. "Before your sucking gasp of horror, it was an even three-and-thirty."

And that was the beginning of Nash's new reality.

He spent the next two days wrestling with it-whilst already mired in the collective quagmire of all his other nascent emotions. Two days of soul-searching; two days to ponder the fact that his life was changing inexorably. For a man steeped in indulgence and hardened in habit, it was a bit much to take. But there was no escaping the truth. He was no longer young, but approaching middle age. His temples bore one or two strands of gray, and trousers which he'd worn for years were now an inch too snug. And in being forced to look back on his lost youth, he was beginning to wonder what, if anything, he had accomplished.

On top of all that, he was very much afraid that, for the first time in his life, he was in love. And he did not care. Or rather-he cared rather too much, and he had not a clue what to do about it. Indeed, of late his nights had been disturbed by tantalizing visions of Xanthia. Not the torrid sorts of nighttime visions he was accustomed to experiencing-though there had certainly been a few of those. No, the more tantalizing visions of Xanthia had been those of the most mundane-and more troubling-sort. Xanthia poking through his sideboard and looking very much at home. Xanthia in his dressing gown. Xanthia feeding him slices of cuc.u.mber from her fork.

So. There it was. He had had the unfortunate luck to fall in love with perhaps the one woman in all of London who would not have him. His t.i.tle and his money meant nothing to her, of that he was utterly certain. Nonetheless, there were a great many things they both shared. A less-than-happy childhood. That constant sense of being different, of being an outsider. And, he believed, a sincere affection for one another. Surely those things were something on which one might build?

On the third day following his pa.s.sionate tryst with Xanthia, Nash realized he would shortly be expected at Brierwood. G.o.d how he hated to leave without seeing her again. He had been half-hoping for another of her smuggled missives, even as he acknowledged how dangerous they were. Perhaps she had come to realize it?

"By the way, my lord," said Gibbons, who was just finishing off Nash's neckcloth, "there's been another letter from Swann."

Nash scowled. "I think it is high time we had something besides a letter from him."

Gibbons acted as if he had not spoken. "Most unfortunate news," he continued, giving the cravat one last fluff. "He fell off the roof of his mother's cottage."

Nash lowered his chin. "He fell?" he echoed incredulously. "Good G.o.d, what is a man of affairs doing on a roof-anyone's roof?"

Gibbons smiled tightly. "You will recall he is trying to let the cottage, my lord, but the roof was leaking prodigiously," he said. "He a.s.sures me that the break is not bad, but-"

"Break? What break?"

"The break in his shoulder," the valet clarified. "Well, the clavicle, perhaps? I believe that is a little less dire? In any case, he cannot be jostled in a horse or a carriage for a week or so."

"I am not fond of this long-distance relationship we seem to be having with Mr. Swann," Nash complained. "I need him here."

"I am sure, my lord, that you do," said Gibbons. "But the stagecoach is a rough, miserable way to travel. Those contraptions could jolt one's intact bones out of place."

"I know! I know!" Nash grumbled. "I am dashed sorry he's hurt. But I have the most frightful pile of things heaped up on my desk. I have begun to forget, quite honestly, what's to be done with half of it."

Gibbons smiled solicitously. "Yes, you have had other things on your mind, haven't you?" he murmured. "Might I suggest we travel with Mr. Hayden-Worth to Brierwood? We won't be too snug, I think-and then you may send your well-sprung traveling coach to fetch Mr. Swann home in comfort."

"Oh, very well," said Nash. "Poor devil! Where is his letter?"

"On your escritoire, my lord."

Nash gave himself one last look in the mirror, then went to the little desk. "I shall tell him to expect the carriage on Sat.u.r.day," he said. "Will that be too soon, do you-"

Gibbons approached. "My lord?" he murmured. "Is something amiss?"

Nash turned from the escritoire. "Gibbons, there were a couple of letters tucked in the front of this drawer," he said. "From my cousin Vladislav. Have you any idea what went with them?"

Gibbons shook his head. "Not a clue, sir."

Nash frowned. "See? This is what it comes to when Swann is away."

"Were they important, my lord?"

Nash shrugged. "Not really," he admitted. "But he's old and in the gout-and I do owe him a long letter soon."

"And his letters were to remind you?" said Gibbons. "Never fear, sir. I shan't let you forget."

"Thank you, Gibbons," he said earnestly. "I would really appreciate that."

A sound by the door caused them both to turn around. Vernon, the footman, stood on the threshold. "My lord, there is a caller downstairs," he said. "A young man by the name of Wescot."

"Wescot? Wescot! Oh, h.e.l.l!" Nash jerked out his watch. "Vernon, I'm to meet my stepbrother at White's within the hour. What the devil does the chap want? Did he say?"

"No, my lord." Vernon shifted his weight uneasily. "But he looks...unwell."

"Unwell?"

"As if...well, as if he's been crying, my lord."

"Crying?" The last thing Nash wished to do was spend another moment with one of the infamous wailing Wescots. He rolled his eyes heavenward. "Do you know, Vernon-if this is G.o.d's way of telling me to quit gambling, it just might work," he said.

"He wants only ten minutes of your time, sir," the footman replied. "He really does look...unwell."

"Yes, unwell," said Nash dryly. "I have grasped that. Fine, Vernon. Put him in the library, and send for tea-and perhaps something a little more fortifying, just in case."

Nash followed Vernon downstairs. A moment later, Matthew Wescot was shown into the library. His country-scrubbed cheeks had succ.u.mbed to what looked like the pallor of death, and he had not recently shaved. Yes, just out of the sponging house, it would appear.

Nash offered his hand, but his greeting was cool. If the man were here to quarrel about the conveyance of his mill to his child, he would soon rue it.

"I've come to thank you, Lord Nash," said Wescot the moment their hands dropped.

"Do sit down," offered the marquess. "For what, pray, have you come to thank me?"

"For your kindness to Anna." Wescot settled onto the sofa's edge, looking as if he might spring up again at any moment. "Anna, my wife. She called on you late last week."

Nash was still standing. "I recall it," he said. "And you needn't have come. I shall keep my pledge to your wife."

Wescot looked up, and managed to collect himself. "No, you need not," he said softly. "That is why I've come today, you see."

"No, I do not see," said Nash stiffly. "If you mean to ask me to return the mill to you, I am afraid I simply cannot countenance-"

"No!" cried Mr. Wescot sharply. "G.o.d no! Your offer was more generous than I deserved. But...but I am afraid there shan't be a child after all."

"There shan't be a child?" said Nash.

"Anna fell ill," whispered Mr. Wescot. "It is entirely my fault, of course. Had I not gambled away everything we possessed, she would have felt no need to slip out into the rain and the fog the moment they hauled me off to the sponging house."

Dear G.o.d. Nash recalled how she had shivered in her damp cloak on his doorstep. He had been vaguely worried about the girl-worried enough to send her home in a cab. He wished now he'd found her a warm brick, or plied her with brandy.

At that very moment, Vernon came in with the tea tray, on which he'd prudently placed a decanter of that very spirit. Wescot looked as if he needed a dram. But Nash was still thinking about his wife. "So she...she lost the babe?" he said. "Is that what you are saying?"

"Yes, to a fever. It strained her poor body beyond tolerance, or so the midwife said." Wescot drew a handkerchief from his pocket and honked into it. "But I thank you, Nash, for hiring her a cab and having the good sense to send her to Harold's. I would likely have lost Anna, too, had you not done so."

"Lost her?" Nash felt oddly numb. "She must have been frightfully ill."

Wescot nodded. "At death's door these last two days," he said. "They did not believe she would live until the wee hours of this morning. Then the fever broke, thank G.o.d. But we...we have not told her about the child."

"I am so very sorry," he murmured. "The babe-it was almost due, was it not?"

"Yes, a beautiful boy," said Wescot sadly. "We named him Harold, after Anna's cousin. We prayed that he might survive, but his odds were-" Here, Wescot broke down into wracking sobs.

Nash sat down and sloshed one of the teacups full of brandy. "You'd best have a sip of this, old chap," he said. "You must buck up. Crying won't help your wife."

Wescot nodded, caught his breath, and drank. "You are right, of course," he said. "But I was about to say 'his odds were not good.'"

"Well, they weren't, I daresay."

"But do you not see the horrible irony in that word, Lord Nash?" he asked plaintively. "Odds? I swear, if I never hear it again, I will be thankful. I have learnt I have neither the stomach nor the fortune for gaming."

Nash slid back into his chair. "Well, it is hardly the sort of life I would recommend," he said. Then he realized on a start that he actually meant it. "It is a life built on the weaknesses of other men," he continued. "Your weaknesses have hurt you badly, Wescot, and put your wife in a most precarious position. Now you must be strong when she cannot."

Wescot gave a watery smile. "You are not a man who minces words, are you?"

"What good would that do you?" asked Nash honestly. "You are in a devil of a mess."

"No, my lord, I am not." Abruptly, Wescot stood, and Nash followed suit. "I am the most fortunate man on earth, for I still have my wife," he earnestly continued. "I cry for her, Lord Nash, not for myself. But there will be more children, eventually. When she is ready to hear that, I shall tell her so."

"Very wise," murmured Nash. "And for all her frail appearance, your wife does not lack for fort.i.tude or sense. In the future, I think you would do well to heed her advice."

Wescot offered his hand. "Thank you, Lord Nash," he said. "I shall. And now if you will excuse me, I'd best return to Anna's bedside."

They started toward the door. Wescot did indeed seem eager to be gone. "What happens now?" asked Nash. "Do you return to Yorkshire when your wife is well enough?"

Wescot looked sheepish. "No, I dare not go back and suffer my father's wrath," he said. "He feared I would do something foolish with the mill-and I am ashamed to have proven him right."

Nash furrowed his brow. "Then where do you go from here?"

"Back to Spitalfields." Wescot smiled faintly. "Harold has very kindly offered to take me into the greengrocer's business-and I am deeply grateful for it."

The greengrocer's business? Good G.o.d! Nash pinched at the bridge of his nose for a long minute, Wescot looking at him oddly. Nash let go of his nose. "Wait one moment," he said.

He went to the desk, suddenly grateful for Swann's protracted absence. Knowing he might well regret it, he shuffled madly through the heap of papers until, halfway down, he unearthed Wescot's note. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it and returned to the door. "Here," he said, handing it to the young man.

Wescot looked down incredulously. "No," he said firmly. "No, I do not want this."