"Eh bien!" muttered Father Michel. "We French are known for our politesse. All the same, one hand usually knows what the other is doing. I doubt le comte was innocent."

"I fear you are right." Nash shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the graveled path. "Some weeks past, she hinted that de Montignac may have more letters. We shall see, I daresay, if he has the audacity to play the blackmail card himself-and this time to my brother's face."

"Your brother has ended this...this forbidden liaison, j'espere?"

"He swears it," said Nash. "And if he has not, this time I shall leave him to deal with the aftermath."

"A fool must learn from experience," said the priest sadly. "Only a wise man can be told. I hope, my son, that your brother repents and turns from these sins of the flesh. The salvation of his soul will depend upon it."

Nash said nothing, for he was in no position to throw stones at Tony. He had committed too many mortal sins himself. Besides, it was de Montignac whom Nash objected to-beyond that, Tony's choices were his own. "Thank you, mon Pere, for looking after the comtesse," he said. "I must leave you now. I am to sail for England in the morning."

The priest reached up and clasped Lord Nash's shoulder. "Then bon voyage et bonne chance, my son," he said. "I will look after la comtesse as best I can, until the end of her time comes."

"Merci, mon Pere."

Father Michel smiled, and tightened his grip. "And for you, my son, it is time to go home," he said rea.s.suringly. "It is time to get on with your life."

It was a wet, bl.u.s.tery day when the Dangerous Wager sailed with the tide into the Pool of London, en route to the more exclusive portals of Westminster. Despite the nasty drizzle, Nash stood topside, hatless, with the wind in his hair, looking starboard as Wapping and all of its bittersweet memories went sailing past. He had been less than a month in Paris straightening out the mess Jenny had left them, but already it seemed a lifetime.

The pain, however, had not dulled. The aching sense of loss was the very same; keener, perhaps, in this moment, when he could almost make out the very window which looked out from Xanthia Neville's office. For an instant, he imagined that he saw her, saw her standing at the window, staring out into the rain with her fingertips lightly touching the gla.s.s. In his mind, it was a girlish, wistful gesture-as if she were hoping for something.

But Nash was not hoping for anything. Not any longer. He had but one duty left to carry out, then it would be back to life as usual for him. He told himself he looked forward to it. Again, he turned and looked at the window. No. There was no one there. And there never had been.

He had set Tony ash.o.r.e at Southampton, with orders to go back to Brierwood until he could determine how matters stood in Town. If there had been any news, any hint of gossip or any blackening of Jenny's name, Nash had thus far heard nothing of it. The letters from Edwina and Phaedra had been filled with questions but no news. But would they have heard anything, isolated in the country as they were?

He thought that they would have. Lady Henslow was well connected. Had she chanced to hear her favorite nephew's name aspersed in any way, she would likely have gone haring off to Brierwood on her next breath. Yes, Tony was probably unscathed. But Nash had learned one thing for himself from this tawdry little mess-it was time to stop playing the big brother to a man who had probably never wanted one in the first place. G.o.d knew his own childhood grief had been little a.s.suaged by it. And now Tony's secret-the secret which had never really been a secret to Nash-was out, and the two of them had got past what little embarra.s.sment there had been.

He had believed, Nash supposed, that by being a good brother to Tony he could expunge some of the guilt for having survived his own. But Petar was still just as dead. Nash had not honored his memory. Perhaps he had even hampered Tony by giving him a crutch to lean on. It was odd how clearly he saw it all now.

Yes, it was time to let Anthony Hayden-Worth, dashing bon vivant and up-and-coming M.P., sink or swim of his own accord. And Tony, he got the impression, would not object. Perhaps, left to his own devices, Tony would even be capable of making some hard choices-choices which would be needed in order to preserve his political career. But that would be up to Tony. Having a disgraced, s.e.xually ambiguous stepbrother was no impediment to Nash's sort of life. And as to Phaedra and Phoebe, Nash could dower them well enough to overcome most any social obstacle.

And that was just what he would do, Nash decided. It was as good a use as any for his ill-gotten gains. Better by far than bailing Tony out of trouble. Nash bowed his head against the spitting rain, and tried to feel joy at his homecoming. But it was hard. Yes, very hard indeed.

Xanthia barely heard the creak of the door which opened behind her. She leaned into her office window and watched the tide come in, heedless of all else. She felt a strong, warm hand touch her arm.

"Come away from the window, Zee." Gareth Lloyd's body seemed to radiate heat. "You cannot keep standing in the draft. You'll get cold. You know you will."

"No," she said faintly, lifting her hand to touch the gla.s.s. "I've become used to it, I think-the cold of England, I mean. I think my blood has finally thickened. Or thinned. Which is it?"

Gently, he set an arm about her shoulder as if to turn her. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I am quite certain you'll get sick standing here."

"Wait, Gareth," she murmured, pointing through the gla.s.s. "Look-do you see that sloop just there? Coming up the near side of the Pool?"

Gareth leaned into the gla.s.s. "What, that forty-footer with the bowsprit?" he answered. "Yes. Why?"

"Can you make out her name?" asked Xanthia hopefully.

Gareth squinted into the rain, watching as the name-board came into view. Slowly, he shook his head. "Sorry, no. Not through this drizzle."

The disappointment was oddly crushing. But why? It was just a pleasure boat like a dozen others which had pa.s.sed by today. "Nor can I," she said wistfully. "But for an instant, I thought perhaps..."

This time Gareth did turn her from the window. "You thought perhaps what, my dear?"

Her smile was wan as she looked up at him. "Oh, nothing."

"You are cold, Xanthia," he said with mild approbation in his voice. "I shall have Mr. Bakely bring up tea."

"Tea would be nice," she murmured, sitting down. "Thank you." Xanthia began to shuffle through the papers on her desk. "Did you meet with Captain Rangle?" she asked absently. "I need his voyage expenditure sheets. His purser is late again."

Gareth left the door and returned to Xanthia's desk to pluck the doc.u.ments from amongst the untidy mess. "You saw Rangle here yesterday, Zee," he said worriedly. "You exchanged pleasantries. He gave you this list himself. Do you not remember?"

Xanthia set her palm to her forehead. "Yes, yes, of course I remember!" she insisted. "Really, Gareth, there is no need to be sharp."

Gareth pulled his chair to her desk. "Xanthia, I was not remotely sharp," he said, straddling the chair backward. He crossed his arms over the back, and looked at her a.s.sessingly. "I mean this in the kindest way, Zee, but what the devil is going on?" he said more gently. "You've not been yourself of late, and it is getting worse, not better. Yesterday you snapped at poor old Bakely."

"Yes, and I apologized," she said defensively.

"So you did." His tone was soothing. "Zee, we are friends, if nothing else, are we not? I am not worried about Neville's. I am worried about you. Look-why do you not take a holiday? They say Brighton is lovely. Make Kieran take you. I can see to all this for a fortnight, truly."

d.a.m.n it. Why did Gareth have to be so kind? Xanthia set her forehead on the heels of her hands, but she could not stop from heaving a deep, shuddering sigh.

"Oh, Zee!" Gareth whispered, leaning nearer.

Xanthia closed her eyes and willed it not to happen. But it was too late. "d.a.m.n you, Gareth," she choked. "Just...don't."

"Oh, Zee," he said again, more gently still. "Oh, I am so sorry. Please, my dear, please don't cry."

"I'm n-not crying," she whimpered. But the tears were running down her face, hot and acrid now. "J-Just d-don't be so nice, Gareth. Just st-stop."

Gareth stood, drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and spun his chair around. "Look, sit up straight, then," he ordered with mock severity. After a moment, she did so. He blotted the tears from her eyes and let his gaze drift over her. He tried to look stern, which made it all the worse. "It's that Nash chap, isn't it, Zee. The fellow who came here a few weeks past."

"N-no," she said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the handkerchief, and blowing her nose furiously. "It is not him. I-I won't let it be! I just won't!"

A little dejectedly, Gareth sat back down. "Ah, Xanthia!" he murmured, propping one elbow on the corner of her desk. "Oh, my dear girl. Did no one ever tell you?"

She blotted her eyes again. "No," she sniffed. "Tell me what?"

Gareth looked at her sadly. "We do not get to choose," he said quietly. "No, we none of us do, my dear. Not even you." He took her hand, and squeezed it hard. "I am sorry, Zee. I truly, truly am."

Lord Nash's welcome in Park Lane was warm-almost as warm as the bathwater which Vernon so cheerfully hauled up the stairs. Swann stuck his head inside the door to say that he had cleaned the piles of paperwork from Nash's desk and that he appreciated Nash's patience and understanding. Monsieur Rene sent up a tray with a slab of b.l.o.o.d.y beefsteak and a pile of escaloped potatoes a chap could have wallowed in. Agnes set a vase of fresh flowers on his escritoire, and remade his bed with fresh linen. And Gibbons was in alt-having all of twelve coats to choose from instead of just the two they had been stuck with-and he began laying out an ensemble suitable for an afternoon call at Whitehall.

Everything, in short, was back to normal in Park Lane. It should have been enough. For a man who loved nothing so well as the comfort of his own home and a life of uncomplicated leisure, this was bliss. So why did he feel...nothing. Or something painfully close to it?

But there was no point in pondering it, was there? What was done was done, and now, there were greater things than himself-and his own misery-which required attention.

In short order, Nash was dressed and ready for the meeting he had been dreading since setting sail from France. "There, sir," said Gibbons as he patted the folds of Nash's neckcloth. "From the look of you now, no one would guess you'd spent weeks with those uncivilized Frogs."

Nash glanced down at the valet. "You have been quite civil yourself these last few weeks, Gibbons," he said. "Feeling sorry for me, were you?"

"Yes, but it won't last," said Gibbons. "Do not accustom yourself to it."

Nash grinned and set off on foot for Whitehall. Yes, everything was settling down. In that regard, at least, he was glad to feel life returning to normal. In other ways, however...Ah, well. He could drink himself into a stupor when this vile business with de Vendenheim was done.

He was fortunate enough to find the gentleman in his office-and in a state which could only be described as extreme civility, or restrained fury. Nash couldn't tell, and he didn't much give a d.a.m.n. He had tried to let go of his anger these last few weeks, and for the most part, he had done so. Jenny's nefarious scheme had cast blame upon him unfairly-but had he been in de Vendenheim's shoes, Nash supposed he might have drawn a similar conclusion.

He relayed the story of the Comtesse de Montignac's smuggling operation, and Jenny's complicity in it, with words which were succinct and unembellished. "I have brought with me the statements from le commissaire de police, should you doubt my veracity," he finished, placing the man's card on de Vendenheim's desk. "But I imagine your contacts at our emba.s.sy in Paris have kept you fully abreast."

De Vendenheim, who had been pacing back and forth before the windows, made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Yes, yes, the emba.s.sy took care of everything," he murmured, almost to himself. "But two women, gunrunning and smuggling! What is the world coming to?"

Nash smiled faintly. "You must have known very few women in your day, de Vendenheim," he answered. "They can be as cool, competent, and patently cruel as any man when they wish to be."

"And the Comtesse de Montignac-she will not live?" De Vendenheim asked the question almost hopefully.

Nash shook his head. "There is no chance," he said. "Her disease is advanced, and l'hospice de la Salpetriere is notoriously infectious. If syphilis doesn't get her, cholera likely will."

Some of the tension seemed to drain out of de Vendenheim. "I don't wish her dead, but thank G.o.d the French are our allies," he said. "And that they were willing to arrest her."

Nash gave a muted smile. "The French are the allies of the French," he said. "The ship was sitting loaded in their harbor-hard evidence to ignore. Besides, it always comes down to money, does it not?"

The vicomte gave a bark of bitter laughter. "Oh, to be sure," he said. "But to what, specifically, do you refer?"

Nash relaxed in de Vendenheim's very comfortable armchair. "The French have lucrative trade deals with the Turks," he said. "And French investors are knee deep in Turkish state bonds. None of it will be worth a sou if Russia overruns the Turks."

De Vendenheim looked at him appraisingly. "You are remarkably well informed."

"From time to time, it pays to be a citizen of the world," said Nash. "And to understand that there is a little more to it than just England. But I somehow suspect I am telling you little you did not know."

"No, you are not," he admitted. "And alas, I must now bring up a far more delicate matter-that of your stepbrother's involvement."

"There was none," said Nash swiftly. "Anthony knew nothing. Didn't your contacts at the emba.s.sy make that plain?"

"They did...but I was not sure I believed it."

"You may believe it," said Nash. "Whatever my stepbrother's shortcomings, Tony is a fervent patriot. As to his wife-well, that I should rather forget."

De Vendenheim looked at him skeptically. "How could he not know what she was doing?" the vicomte gently challenged. "She was a wealthy heiress, and he was her husband. What was hers was his."

"The estate supports Tony with a generous allowance," Nash replied. "And Jenny supplemented her expenses with whatever she could wheedle from her father-or so we believed. Have you any idea, de Vendenheim, what it costs to be a member of the Commons? I speak not of just the palms which must be greased, but the life one must maintain. The campaigns. The carriages. The clothing. Tony had little left-apparently not enough to appease his wife."

De Vendenheim coughed discreetly. "Yes, I have learnt a little more of her American connections," he said. "Carlow Arms is quite an operation. I am sorry to say that we will, of course, have to prosecute her."

Nash made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "That I cannot allow," he said coolly. "Much as I might like to see the old girl hang, de Vendenheim, my stepbrother's career would be ruined if this business is not hushed up."

"I fear, Lord Nash, that you shall have little say in the matter," said the vicomte. "Mrs. Hayden-Worth will be detained and interrogated by agents of the British government upon her reentry. I am sorry."

Nash smiled faintly. "You may save your sympathy, de Vendenheim," he replied. "I sent Jenny back to Boston with her father's carbines. She will not be returning. Ever. And do not even think of extradition."

De Vendenheim looked grave. "It was not your place to interfere, Lord Nash," he said. "Moreover, our government can apply a great deal of pressure when it chooses to do so."

Nash laughed. "Have you any notion, de Vendenheim, just how dependent the American government is on their arms manufacturers?" he asked. "Carlow's rifleworks is a part of America's military might. Had the woman a.s.sa.s.sinated old Prinny himself, you would not get her back on British soil in this lifetime-nor the next, I daresay."

A sour smile twisted de Vendenheim's face. "Checkmate, Lord Nash," he murmured. "That was brilliantly done. I will, of course, discreetly pursue extradition and arrest, but you are likely right. Your stepbrother will attempt to divorce her, I collect?"

"He cannot," said Nash. "Again, his career would suffer. My stepmother is putting it about that Jenny has returned to her father's sickbed. It seems Mr. Carlow has recently discovered that his heart is slowly-very slowly-failing. I expect it will be quite a prolonged illness. I gather Jenny will be happy to be back in her homeland, and I don't think Tony will really notice she is gone."

Nash finished the meeting by presenting the few papers which le commissaire de police had bade him provide the English authorities. And at last the tawdry business was settled, with de Vendenheim giving Nash a stern lecture about his interference in government affairs. Nash, however, got the last word-he thought.

"But I am a peer of the realm, de Vendenheim," he said. "If I wish to interfere in the affairs of government, I have only to turn up in the House and exercise my right to do so. In effect, as frightening as it sounds, I am the Government."

Indignation flared in de Vendenheim's eyes again. "And why do you not do precisely that, my lord?" he returned. "If you don't care for how we do things, you have a right to partic.i.p.ate in your government-notice I said your government, for it is yours, much as you might disdain it. You are an English peer, like it or not. You are stuck with the job. Just do it."

"Dear me, you sound bitter," murmured the marquess.

"I b.l.o.o.d.y well am bitter," de Vendenheim agreed. "I can do none of those things, Nash. My government-indeed, my very land-was burnt to ashes before my eyes. My elaborate t.i.tle isn't worth a shovelful of horse s.h.i.te, and by G.o.d, yes, I resent it when I see you English lords p.i.s.sing your lives away. But the French n.o.bility was busy eating cake and letting their country crumble, a fate which the English have avoided-thus far."

"Well," said Nash coolly. "I shall keep that in mind if gambling, carousing, and womanizing ever begin to bore me-which I doubt."

De Vendenheim's temper had not much cooled. "Yes, and that's another thing," he began. Then he checked himself and practically bit his tongue.

"Yes?" said Nash. "Don't stop now, old fellow. You are on such a tear."

De Vendenheim was pacing again. "It is about Miss Neville," he began. "It is none of my business, of course-"

"No," Nash interjected. "It is not."

"-but I involved the poor woman, as I'm sure you gathered."

"Yes, I gathered," said Nash grimly. "Had I not, the guilty look on her face-and her brother's-would have been quite a clue."

"Yes, and I feel a grave obligation about that now."

"Do you?" asked Nash bitterly. "To do what?"

"To...to set to rights anything that is wrong," said the vicomte vaguely. "To correct any misimpressions you may have regarding her involvement in this sordid mess."

Nash rose from his chair. "Oh, I think I have quite a clear grasp of her involvement," he said. "But I am a gentleman-or at the very least, I mean to behave like one." He paused to s.n.a.t.c.h his hat from the vicomte's desk. "I give you good afternoon, de Vendenheim. Convey my warmest regards to the Home Secretary."

His hand was on the doork.n.o.b when de Vendenheim spoke again. "She believed in you, Nash," he said quietly. "When no one else did, Miss Neville believed in you. And she fought for you. Even after your asinine behavior toward her brother at Brierwood, she fought, and she believed, until she thoroughly convinced the rest of us."

"I do not care to hear this, de Vendenheim," said Nash calmly. "Nor do I even credit it. But you are kind, I daresay, in trying to paint the woman in a favorable light."

"Oh, I would not trouble myself," said the vicomte. "My nature is not all that generous. So just tell me this, Nash, and I will drop the matter-why did I not follow you to France? Surely you do not believe I was afraid to do so?"

"No, you seem remarkably stubborn and heedless," said the marquess.

He smiled faintly. "Worse has been said of me, I daresay," de Vendenheim answered. "But I did not go to France because Miss Neville convinced me of your innocence."

"I am amazed anyone could succeed in that."