"Ooh, Crete," she agreed. "Now all we need is a ship. Why do I never have one to hand when I need it?"

"Ah, but you are not the only one with a fleet at your command, my love," he said.

She looked at him in mild surprise. "Am I not?"

"My yacht is at anchor in Southampton," he suggested, throwing out his arm as if to direct her down a path. "My lady, the Dangerous Wager awaits your pleasure."

Xanthia laughed so loudly she was compelled to slap a hand over her mouth. "The Dangerous Wager?"

"That's how I won her," said Nash. "Some fool in Brooks's made such a wager one night and did not heed his friends' advice."

"And you won her from him?"

"Yes, and changed her name in honor of his folly," said Nash. "The Mary Jane just didn't have the right cachet."

"No, indeed," she said. "I must call on you, my dear, when next we christen a ship."

"Ah, some small way in which I can further Neville's business interests," he said, smiling. "Alas, I fear it is the only skill I have. You will not need to worry, my love, that I will ever meddle in your work."

"Oh, I think you have other skills which I can put to better use," she murmured.

"Have I?" he asked. "I wonder what they are?"

He chuckled again, then drew her to him. Instinctively, she turned, and nestled her back to his chest. His arm came around, firm and strong, and his hand settled warmly on her belly. Xanthia had never known such comfort-or such joy. In her drowsy, satiated state, she wondered vaguely at some of his words. He spoke with such hope and such certainty-almost as if he knew something she did not. Certainly he did not sound like some casual philanderer who meant to break her heart and move on. But Xanthia was so physically sated by his lovemaking, she could barely think coherently.

She gave in to the sweet lethargy and relaxed in his embrace. In short order, Nash's breathing shifted to the slow, rhythmic exhalations of deepening sleep. Xanthia lay still, drifting. This had been a wonderful, almost magical evening. She was not at all certain of where this strange liaison was going-but wherever it was, she was beginning to believe it was meant to be. She was beginning to believe that together, she and Nash might just be able to overcome any obstacle. Besides, what choice had she now? She, too, was head over heels. And Nash, she knew, would be worth it.

Chapter Fifteen.

Terrible Trouble in Hampshire By midday on Sat.u.r.day, all of Lady Nash's extended family had arrived at Brierwood. Xanthia could already see that the affair would be much larger than she had antic.i.p.ated. Lady Henslow's grandchildren alone were numerous enough to field a cricket team of sorts-which they did, with the good-humored a.s.sistance of Mr. Hayden-Worth. Shortly after noon, he herded a group of them out onto one of the few patches of lawn in Brierwood's front gardens and began to set up the wickets.

Caught up in the spontaneity, Lady Nash ordered a white tent and a pair of tables to be set up along the edge of the impromptu cricket ground, for the day had turned gloriously bright. Ladies began to drift from the house in light summer frocks, and carrying lace-trimmed parasols, as servants moved sedately through the sculpted gardens bearing wide silver trays of lemonade. Xanthia wandered along the edges, feeling neither a part of the festivities nor precisely an outsider, either.

Xanthia knew many of the guests vaguely, having met them at Lady Henslow's picnic. All were friendly enough. But after a brief introduction to Xanthia, their surrept.i.tious glances and the inevitable whispers always followed. Clearly, speculation was running rampant as to precisely why she had been invited. Xanthia did not know whether to curse Kieran or kiss him for having had the audacity to agree to this visit.

At that very moment, Lady Henslow's eldest grandson, a long-legged young man named Frederick swung the bat with a most impressive crack. Xanthia looked up to see a streak of red go flying through the air toward one of the more distant fountains. The crowd sent up a loud cheer as Frederick and his second batsman went streaking up and down the field-not once, but twice. A moment later, the ball came in, shattering the wicket as the young men pa.s.sed, but it was too late. The damage was done.

"Oh, bravo!" cried Xanthia appreciatively.

"An impressive lad, is he not?" said a quiet voice at her elbow.

She looked up to see Nash, still in his boots and breeches, standing at her side. He looked imposingly large today in a snug brown riding coat and glossy black boots, which seemed to have molded to his calves-and a fine sight they were, too.

She felt a faint blush settle over her face. "Good afternoon," she said, smiling as he offered his arm. "I have missed you."

"And I you, my love." He patted her hand gently.

"I hear you have been paying tenant calls today," she said lightly. "Did any of them recognize you?

Nash laughed ruefully. "Barely, I should think." But he looked oddly somber.

"How did you find them?" she asked more seriously. "The crops have made a good beginning, I hope?"

Nash lifted one shoulder. "The Oldfields lost their eldest last week," he said. "The most foolish thing-the boy fell from an apple tree and fractured his skull-and they are simply devastated. They have only daughters now. Oldfield is worried sick about the family's future."

Xanthia lifted one eyebrow. "Can a daughter not take over the farm eventually?"

"I cannot see how," he admitted. "The sheer physical strength required-well, I don't know, Zee. It is not for me to decide."

"But the Oldfields fear you might decide it, I daresay," Xanthia continued. They were strolling away from the billowing white tent and along the edge of the cricket field now. "You could choose not to renew the lease, and look for a more long-term tenant when the time comes."

"I would not do that," he answered. "Oldfield is a good tenant, and Brierwood is profitable enough without my stepping up on the backs of my own farmers."

"Then perhaps you should tell him so," Xanthia suggested. "At Neville's, we sometimes pay a premium in order to retain a more experienced captain for a certain voyage. In the end, it is for the best, even though the man may sit idle a few weeks more than he otherwise might. Perhaps Mr. Oldfield should begin looking about for a fine, strong husband for one of those daughters? Perhaps he would do precisely that had he some guarantee of retaining his lease."

Nash laughed, and covered her hand with his most protectively. "You are always planning and strategizing, aren't you, my dear?" His mood seemed considerably lightened. "And as usual, you are not wrong. I will speak to my estate agent, and we will see what can be arranged for Oldfield."

"I think it will be to your advantage," she said. "A farm is like any other business. One must always think long-term."

He drew her closer, and tightened his grip on her hand. "Do you know, Xanthia, how much I like having you here?" he asked quietly. "I value your thoughts and ideas. Your enthusiasm is almost contagious."

Another crack of the bat rang out, and a second cheer went up from the field. Xanthia barely heard it. As if by mutual agreement, she and Nash had slowed to a halt. She had turned on the graveled path to face him and to study the harsh, lean planes of his face. He lowered his thick black eyelashes, and something in her heart leapt. Her stomach twisted with an ache which was not s.e.xual desire, but something deeper and more fearsome. It was a yearning-a wish to spend every day of her life like this. With this man. Simply hanging on his arm and discussing the events of the day together.

She set one hand against his chest, an intimate and instinctive gesture. But she dropped it at once, remembering where they were. Nash's dark eyes snapped opened, and his gaze drifted over her, searching her face.

What was he asking of her? she wondered again. Where was this going? There was something...an unasked question. A hesitation. Something. Or perhaps it was but wishful thinking on her part. Xanthia blushed and turned away.

Just then, the sound of a carriage reached her ears. She looked past Nash's shoulder to see a solid black barouche drawn by four glossy black horses come hurling down the carriage drive. There was a flash of recognition, and then...uncertainty. With a slightly unsteady hand, she pointed. "Stefan, who is that?"

Nash glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. "Just another of Edwina's friends, I daresay."

But it was not a friend of Lady Nash's. Xanthia somehow sensed it. A little numbly, she turned and watched the carriage draw up before the ma.s.sive double staircase. Two footmen went down the steps to meet them. With a cheerful wave, Lady Nash hastened from the white tent and started across the gardens. They were expecting guests. Luggage. Conviviality.

But these were not guests. Xanthia suddenly remembered where she had seen the carriage. She closed her eyes on a wave of nausea. Nash's hands come out to steady her shoulders.

"My dear, are you all right?"

She set the back of her hand to her forehead. "Yes, I-I think...it is just the sun."

"How thoughtless of me," he murmured, his grip tightening. He escorted her to a nearby bench. "I wished to have you all to myself for a moment," he said, fanning her with his hat. "When you are feeling better, I shall return you to Edwina's tent."

She nodded, but within moments, she heard footsteps crunching in the gravel. It was one of Brierwood's footmen. "I beg your pardon, my lord," he said. "There are two gentlemen just down from London who urgently wish to speak with you."

Nash's expression darkened. "I have guests."

"Yes, sir," the footman acknowledged. "But they say it is an emergency, my lord. They have come from Whitehall in some haste."

"Good Lord, Whitehall?" Nash shook his head. "You've misunderstood. It's my stepbrother they want."

The footman shook his head. "No, my lord," he answered. "They were very clear. Shall...shall I ask them to leave, sir?"

Nash looked down at Xanthia, who was still fighting the urge to retch. She let her hand slide from his arm. "You had better go," she said quietly.

"Walk with me back to the house." His face was lined with worry.

Xanthia drew away. "No, I-I am feeling better now," she murmured. "I had best find my brother. People are staring. Please go."

Nash nodded curtly and moved away.

Xanthia watched him stride across the gardens, tears pressing against her eyes, hot and desperate. Her every instinct screamed at her to go. To follow him. To protest his innocence-if indeed it was an accusation which had brought de Vendenheim so far from London.

But of course it was an accusation. And once Nash heard it-once he fully grasped all that had gone on-the very last person whose support or consolation he would wish for would be hers. Her only hope was that he would not fully grasp it-that he would never know just what had gone on or who had been involved-but it was a faint hope indeed. Xanthia set her hand on her diaphragm in an attempt to quell the nausea and set off in search of Kieran.

Nash escorted his unexpected guests into the Chinese salon, the room nearest the great hall, and bade them be seated. He glanced at the cards which the gentlemen had presented. "I hope you will understand, Lord de Vendenheim-Selestat, that I have a houseful of guests," said the marquess without sitting down.

"Just de Vendenheim will do," said his guest.

The man was both leaner and taller, even, than Nash himself, which was most unusual. His eyes were heavy and hooded, and his olive skin was certainly not that of an Englishman.

The man's piercing black gaze caught Nash's. "Italian," he said. "And Alsatian."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are speculating as to my origin," said the man calmly. "No, I am not English."

"I daresay that's no one's business save yours," Nash returned.

"Nonetheless, sometimes it is easier simply to dispense with the curiosity," said de Vendenheim.

"You must suit yourself." Nash smiled faintly, then returned his gaze to the cards. "And...Mr. Kemble, is it? Do we know one another, sir?"

"Perhaps we've met," said the man vaguely.

"Ah." Nash laid the cards aside and sat down. "Well, I cannot imagine what the Government wants with me. After all, I take so little interest in it. In any case, how may I help?"

The man called de Vendenheim looked suddenly ill at ease. He cleared his throat roughly. "The Home Office has been making certain enquiries, Lord Nash, regarding some irregularities within the diplomatic community," he began. "We would like to ask you certain questions in relation to those irregularities."

"I do not know anyone to speak of within the diplomatic corps," said Nash calmly.

There was a flicker of satisfaction in de Vendenheim's eyes. "Oh, but we think you do," he responded. "The Comte de Montignac, an attache to the French emba.s.sy, has been in receipt of a large sum of money-your money, to put it plainly."

Lord Nash went perfectly still. Alarm surged, but somehow he managed to suppress it. The memory of that tawdry night in Belgravia came back to him-and the threat which had followed some weeks later at Lady Cartselle's masque. But it had been the Comtesse de Montignac's threat, not her husband's. And why would the Home Office give a d.a.m.n about what was little more than a case of subtle blackmail?

"Lord Nash?" said de Vendenheim.

The marquess cleared his throat. "Whatever lies the Comtesse de Montignac may have told you are simply that," he said quietly. "Lies."

"But you gave her money to pa.s.s on to her husband, did you not?" said Mr. Kemble certainly. "A large sum of money. We should simply like to know why."

Nash glowered at the man, wishing to the devil he could place him. "It is none of your d.a.m.ned business, sir," he said stiffly. "I do not owe you any explanation, and indeed, I shan't give you one. And no matter how one looks at it, it is hardly the business of the Home Office."

De Vendenheim's frown deepened. "Diplomats are prohibited from accepting bribes from citizens of the country to which they are a.s.signed."

At that, Nash threw back his head and laughed. "Prohibited by whom, de Vendenheim?" he asked, incredulous. "By their home country? Surely you are not so naive. In any case, the Home Office should concern itself with English law-none of which I have broken. As to French law, why, the entire government of France would collapse were bribery and blackmail to cease."

He could see de Vendenheim's frustration growing. "You do not seem to take this matter with the gravity it warrants, Lord Nash," he snapped. "I can a.s.sure you, England still considers treason a hanging offense."

"Treason?" said Nash very quietly. "By G.o.d, that is a dangerous word to bandy about, sir. You must hold your life cheap indeed if you dare come into my home and fling it at me."

De Vendenheim did not look especially concerned. "I won't give you satisfaction, Nash, if that's what you are after," he said with a dismissive gesture. "I am no gentleman, and I do not feel compelled to behave as stupidly as some of them do."

Nash started from behind the desk. "Actually, I would feel pretty well satisfied to simply throttle you here and-"

"Please, Lord Nash!" Mr. Kemble held up a staying hand. "Might I suggest we all pause a moment to collect ourselves? My friend here has let his concern get the better of his tongue."

"Yes, and his sense, too," said Nash, "-if he has any."

"But certain facts do remain, my lord," Mr. Kemble calmly continued. "And some of them are, on their face, treasonous. French and English couriers have been secretly coming and going from the vicinity of this house for over eight months now, and-"

"What, you people have set spies on me?" Nash roared. "You have been watching my house? What else, I wonder, have you been up to?"

For an instant, Kemble faltered. "Only what was thought necessary, my lord," he finally said. "You see, a few weeks past, one of the couriers was murdered at the White Lion Inn, just five miles south. He carried, as most of them likely did, some very interesting information well hidden upon his person, much of it in code."

A grave unease was creeping over Nash, but he fought it down. "But you said from the vicinity of this house," he repeated. "Not from this house."

"We have no witness who can put any of them within the walls of this house, no," Kemble admitted.

"Then I think this conversation is finished, gentlemen."

Mr. Kemble glanced at de Vendenheim with an I-told-you-so expression.

De Vendenheim returned his steady gaze to Nash. "It took some time to decode the cache of papers found on the dead man," he said. "But when we did, we found a list of weapons to be smuggled, and a map to this specific house, with this address written on it. I do not think we will need a witness, Lord Nash."

"Weapons to be smuggled?" Nash felt the blood literally drain from his face. "Good Lord. Weapons from where? And to whom?"

"We are not at liberty to say," said de Vendenheim.

Nash jerked to his feet. "By G.o.d, this is a serious charge you have hurled at me," he said. "I think honor compels you to explain it."

For an instant, de Vendenheim considered it. "Very well," he finally said. "American rifles. Carbines, to be precise. And they are believed to be going to the Greek revolutionaries via France. Does that sound in any way familiar?"