The vicomte's dark eyebrows lifted. "Yes, happily so."

Her eyes ran over his obviously expensive clothing. "I daresay your wife is very lovely, and dresses elegantly," said Xanthia. "Does she ever wear seed pearls? The little ones which are sometimes st.i.tched onto one's gowns?"

De Vendenheim nodded. "Catherine often wears them on her evening dresses."

"And where does she get them?"

De Vendenheim looked at her oddly. "They come that way from the dressmaker," he said. "But wait-I see your point. Catherine keeps a little boxful on hand, for repairs and such. She sews them on herself. But I haven't a clue where she gets them."

"In Oxford Street, I daresay," said Xanthia. "They are unaccountably common, and not frightfully expensive."

"So why would she write to her father and ask for them?" murmured Mr. Kemble. "Any woman would know that seed pearls can be had almost as easily in London."

Xanthia lifted her gaze to Kemble's. "When I met Mrs. Hayden-Worth, she seemed preoccupied," she mused.

"And she has gone to Cherbourg," murmured Kieran. "What an odd coincidence."

De Vendenheim's olive skin had slowly turned a strangely ashen shade. "There is no such thing as coincidence," he said grimly. Without another word, he tucked the letter into the pocket of his coat.

"Cherbourg," muttered Mr. Kemble. "It is a reasonable location for American merchant ships to refit on this side of the Atlantic, is it not?"

"Not the most likely," said Xanthia. "But reasonable, yes."

Kem lifted his gaze to Max's. "Perhaps we have the wrong brother, old chap," he suggested. "Perhaps we should look more closely at Mr. Hayden-Worth's loyalties. It would not be the first time an M.P. had his hand in someone else's pocket."

"Or perhaps he is as ignorant of all this as his stepbrother," interjected Rothewell.

Suddenly, the salon doors flew open, and Lady Nash rushed in, Phaedra on her heels. "Oh! Oh! What has happened?" she cried, clutching her hands together. "Where has Nash gone in such a rush? Where is my Tony?"

Xanthia went to her at once, and took one of her hands. "Do not worry, Lady Nash," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "They have had to go to France. A minor emergency-but all will be well, I do a.s.sure you."

"An emergency?" Lady Nash pressed one hand to her cheek. "Oh, dear! What has happened?"

Xanthia was scrambling for a good lie when Mr. Kemble approached. "Mrs. Hayden-Worth has been taken ill," he said.

"Ill?" shrieked Lady Nash.

Kemble seized the other hand, and began to pat it. "She was ill," he corrected. "But she is better now. Just a little mal de mer. Still, Mr. Hayden-Worth was worried."

"As well he should be!" cried her ladyship.

"And you know how he does dote on her," said Mr. Kemble.

"Yes. Yes. He does indeed!" said her ladyship. "Tony is a devoted husband."

"Oh, what a pack of nonsense!" said Phaedra, looking at Kemble suspiciously.

"We all of us show our fondness in our own unique way," said Mr. Kemble a little snidely. "Mr. Hayden-Worth is worried sick."

Phaedra drew back. "Who are you?" she demanded. "And what are you doing in our house?"

Lord de Vendenheim stepped forward. "We are with the Home Office." Smoothly, the vicomte made the introductions. "We work for Mr. Peel."

"Oh!" said Lady Nash. "Mr. Peel is very important, is he not? And Tony is very well thought of in the Government. I daresay they must have sent you?"

Kemble was still patting her hand. "Lord Wellington himself insisted, ma'am," he answered. "He wished Mr. Hayden-Worth to hear the news at once."

"Oh?" Phaedra set her hands on her hips. "And just how did Lord Wellington catch wind of this dire tragedy?"

Xanthia caught Phaedra's gaze and lifted her finger to her lips.

Phaedra's brow furrowed in confusion, but Mr. Kemble seized the moment. "The Prime Minister heard of it through his important secret channels," he said knowingly. "He had a spy, I daresay, on the very same ferry. And even though Mrs. Hayden-Worth is feeling much better, he knew her husband would not rest until he was by her side and rea.s.sured of his wife's good health."

Phaedra crossed her arms over her chest. "And Nash had to go along to help, did he?"

Kemble smiled down at Phaedra as if she were a prodigy. "Yes, of course," he said. "Mr. Hayden-Worth was in no shape to travel alone."

"Just because Jenny cast up her accounts on a ferryboat?" Phaedra clarified.

"Quite so."

"Yes, it all makes perfect sense now." Lady Nash was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "And Nash is always so very thoughtful. Poor, poor Jenny! I daresay she will wish now she had stayed for my birthday party!"

"Yes," murmured Lord de Vendenheim dryly. "I daresay she soon shall."

Xanthia crossed the room to Phaedra's side. "I rushed upstairs to get this," she said, handing Phaedra the prayer book. "I thought it might comfort her, but they drove off before I could return. It is Jenny's, is it not?"

Phaedra took it. "Yes, where did you find it?"

"Inside the sitting room secretary," said Xanthia. Lightly, she touched the gilt initials. "This must have been Jenny's before she married."

"Oh, yes, she brought it from America," said the girl. "See? J-E-C. Jennifer Elizabeth Carlow."

Mr. Kemble's head jerked up, and his gaze snapped to Xanthia's. "Carlow?"

Phaedra looked at him disdainfully. "Yes? What of it?"

De Vendenheim stepped nearer. "Her father is a wealthy American industrialist," he murmured, as if to himself. "How remarkable. I do not suppose..."

"Yes?" said Phaedra impatiently.

De Vendenheim lifted his eyes to Phaedra's. "That would not be the Carlow of Carlow Arms Manufacturing, would it? The rifle works in Connecticut?"

"Why, just so!" cried Lady Nash. "Rifles! I have had the most frightful time recalling it. In any case, Mr. Carlow is such a dear-and he just adores Jenny."

Mr. Kemble and Lord de Vendenheim exchanged dark glances and started at once toward the door.

Phaedra's confusion suddenly cleared. "Oh, dear," she murmured to Xanthia. "Jenny's bollixed something up again, hasn't she?"

"We must hope not," said Xanthia quietly. "And if she has, we must trust that Lord Nash can set it to rights."

Phaedra strolled to the window, peering out as the two gentlemen in black piled back into their carriage. "Well, I don't know how Nash will manage it," she muttered, "but I somehow get the feeling that dear old Jenny is going to be saying a few prayers-with or without this book."

Chapter Sixteen.

The Denouement in Paris Summer spread up the Seine Valley like a damp blanket, layering the land with a thick, unseasonable warmth. In Paris, the streets were stifling but tolerable. Inside l'hospice de la Salpetriere, however, the stillness and stench were almost overpowering. Lord Nash stood beside one of the narrow windows which overlooked the deceptively verdant lawns, pinched the bridge of his nose, and did his best to shut out the groans and screams which resonated through the ancient building.

He scarcely heard the sound of the door, which opened behind him-but he heard his name, a distant, bloodcurdling cry, over and over, like that of a wounded animal. It echoed down the hall, then was mercifully muted again by the thud of the closing door. The hand which touched his was cool.

Nash looked down at the slender wrist which extended from the sleeve of a starched white alb. He turned slowly from the window. "Bonjour, mon Pere."

Father Michel studied his face. "My son, how are you?" he murmured. "Tired, I think?"

Nash bowed his head. "Je vais bien, Father," he said. "But yes, tired. The comtesse, I can see, still knows my name."

The priest smiled wanly. "Oui, she will do so for some time yet." He made the sign of the cross. "But she is now-how do you say it? Caught with the arms?"

"Bound?"

"Oui, bound-so as to do herself no harm. But her temper will soon cool."

Nash felt a moment of grief. "Pray for her, Father."

"I do, my son," he said gravely. "And for the other woman, your American sister."

"Merci, mon Pere."

The priest gave another faint smile. "Come, my lord, and walk with me back to the chapel," he said. "I believe there is much on your mind."

Father Michel clasped his hands behind his back and set a sedate pace down the seemingly endless corridor. If the occasional moaning and screaming gave him pause, one could not discern it. Perhaps he had been so long at la Salpetriere, he was inured to the horror. Or perhaps G.o.d had simply given him the grace to bear it.

"Le commissaire de police has released your sister, I hear," said the priest conversationally.

"Yes, Father," said Nash. "She has been given into my custody-with certain understandings."

The priest looked surprised. "Then your family is most fortunate, Lord Nash," he said. "France has shown you mercy."

"Yes," said Nash dryly. "For a price."

Father Michel cut a swift, a.s.sessing glance at Nash. "Ah! Je comprends."

Nash carefully considered his next words. "Father, the comtesse...do you really think she is insane? From what I have seen, she still has her wits about her."

The priest puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully. "Some would say that to use her name and position to violate the laws-not to mention the economic interests-of her homeland was in itself insane," he answered. "But is she insane from her disease? No, not yet, I do not think."

"And yet the doctors have confined her."

The priest smiled hugely. "Oui," he said. "For a price."

"Ah!" said Nash. "Her husband's doing?"

"Far better she should be here than prison," said the priest, as they started down the stairs. "Here, our rats are smaller."

Nash was not perfectly sure he believed that. In the past fortnight, he had seen more of la Salpetriere's infamous vermin than he cared to count.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Father Michel pushed through the door into sunshine, and to air which smelled marginally better. Here, the crisscrossing paths teemed with people-the doctors in their black frock coats, the plainly clad clerks scurrying from building to building, and the white-ap.r.o.ns maids who trotted to and fro with buckets the contents of which Nash had rather not know.

He paused on the path. "Thank you for agreeing to look after the comtesse, Father," he said. "In my absence, may I...reimburse your expenses?"

It was an offer of a bribe, and they both knew it. But the priest merely smiled beatifically. "I take on such obligations often, my son, and only for the glory of G.o.d," he said. "He will recompense me. You do not need to."

Nash narrowed his eyes against the sun. "How long will it be, mon Pere?"

The priest shrugged, lifting his black ca.s.sock on his narrow shoulders. "Syphilis is an unpredictable malady, my son," he said. "But it is as good an excuse as any to keep her from the prison cell, non?"

"I daresay," answered Nash quietly.

The priest patted him soothingly on the arm. "But if I had to guess, my lord, I think la comtesse will not know her own name by Christmastime. The thinness of the body. The whiteness of the skin. The beginnings of la demence-the brain madness. No, my son, the end is not far for her."

"Will she feel pain?"

"No, my son," he said. "Only the pain of purgatory. I will ensure that the doctors see to it. De Montignac has paid them well for the proper medicines."

"Her husband-he does not seem overly distressed."

Again, the shrug, and a Gallic lifting of the hands. "A convenient solution for le comte, is it not?" he said. "But a mortal danger to his soul. I think you know the sin of which I speak?"

Nash nodded. "Yes, Father."

His expression solemn, the priest leaned very near. "De Montignac is a depraved man, my lord," he murmured. "His unholy desires are a weakness of the flesh, which is like a poison. In the future, you must keep your brother far from him."

Nash's mouth pulled into a scowl. "Ah, the comtesse has been carrying tales, I see," he said. "Tales she was well paid to keep secret."

"Oui, oui, there were some lettres d'amour, I understand," murmured the priest sympathetically. "A very dangerous business for a politician to engage in, my lord. And in England, the penalty for such unnatural acts between men is still death, is it not?"

"Whatever his feelings for de Montignac, my stepbrother should never have written them down," said Nash grimly.

"And you, a good brother, have very deep pockets, I am sure," said the priest. "Do not worry. There will be no more talk, for I have given her absolution. But in any case, la comtesse has syphilis, so she says many things which may not be true, n'est-ce pas? And here, well, whom would she tell?"

Nash closed his eyes, and tried to bite his tongue-but if one could not trust a priest, who else was left to him? "The comtesse asked to be generously compensated for her risk," he said quietly. "She claimed that her husband would be insane with anger once he realized she had stolen his love letters, but that she wished to help me protect Tony. It was blackmail, of course-but of the politest sort."