"A little jest between us," said Kieran, shifting his eyes away. "We do know him vaguely. He...he was at Sharpe's ball."

"Yes, Sharpe invited him for a reason," admitted the vicomte. "He is keeping an eye on the fellow."

Kieran studied their visitors. "Nash is an imposing sort of man," he went on. "However, I found him a tad presumptuous. What do you know of him?"

"His background is unusual," said the vicomte. "He was born in Montenegro, to an old and very n.o.ble family with a good bit of Russian blood on one side."

"Montenegro?" Kieran echoed.

"The black mountain," murmured Xanthia. "It is a rugged place between the Adriatic and the southern Carpathians."

"Do you know it, Miss Neville?" asked Mr. Kemble.

"Not well," said Xanthia. "But I know that the Bay of Kotor is the largest on the Adriatic-a sort of fjord, and very deep-yet it is extremely well hidden."

"Yes, a point which has not escaped us," said Mr. Kemble.

"The country was once known as the ancient princ.i.p.ality of Zeta," the vicomte went on. "His family's estate was in Danilovgrad-and still is, I daresay. Nash's maternal grandfather was a renowned military leader who fought with Vladika Petar I, and helped crush the Turks at Martinici. Amongst the region's n.o.bility, the family is both powerful and wealthy-and more than a little dangerous."

"Dangerous?" said Kieran. "In what way?"

"The region has a violent history, and deep clan loyalties which are often incomprehensible to us," the vicomte said. "The family has close ties to Russia and no love lost for the Turks."

"But is Lord Nash close to that side of his family?" asked Xanthia pointedly.

De Vendenheim lifted one shoulder. "It was once a.s.sumed not," he admitted. "But with Eastern Europe perched on the edge of this nasty little war, we can ill afford a.s.sumptions."

"At present, Wellington hopes merely to keep the lid on an already-boiling pot," said Mr. Kemble. "So, as you might deduce, the last thing England needs in the region is a gunrunner with uncertain loyalties."

"It all sounds so very complicated," said Xanthia. "But we did wonder at Lord Nash's faint accent."

Mr. Kemble looked at her oddly. "What do you know of him?"

"As my brother said, I met him at Sharpe's ball," she returned. "He is quite dramatic in appearance. And his dark eyes...yes, very exotic."

"Yet his father was as English as yours or mine," said Mr. Kemble. "He was a second son-a strikingly handsome man, by all accounts-who met his wife in Prague whilst making the Grand Tour. They drifted about Europe and Russia until Nash was perhaps twelve, then his father came into the t.i.tle most unexpectedly."

Kieran propped an elbow on his chair arm, and waved his hand vaguely. "And you wish us to do...what, precisely? Knock on his front door and offer to transport his munitions to Kotor? b.l.o.o.d.y obvious, I should say."

"Good Lord, no," said de Vendenheim. "Just make his acquaintance, Lord Rothewell. And suggest, ever so vaguely, that your morals can be compromised."

"That would be nothing new," Kieran murmured.

"And you have been in England but four months," said Mr. Kemble. "Play upon your colonial past. Complain about the King and his taxation policies. Suggest that Barbados should go the way of America. He will not think it odd if you feel little obligation to the Crown."

Kieran was staring pensively into the distance, and tapping one finger on his desk. "It will not do," he said, almost to himself. "He can too easily discover that I've nothing to do with Neville Shipping. I daresay I could not plot the ports of Europe on a map with a sledgehammer."

De Vendenheim and Kemble looked at him in bewilderment.

Xanthia sat up stiffly in her chair. "I shall do it," she said abruptly.

Their gazes turned to her in unison. "I beg your pardon?" said the vicomte. "You shall do what?"

She managed a look of cool competence. "I shall befriend Lord Nash," she said. "I know rather more of this business than does my brother."

Kieran nodded. "Regrettably true," he acknowledged. "I am not at all sure poor Sharpe believes it, but I am just the family farmer. It is Xanthia here who tends our little world of wood and water-and she will do anything to keep her business interests from being threatened."

Their initial confusion past, the two gentlemen did not look particularly disbelieving. "I see," said de Vendenheim. "This rather complicates matters."

"Or perhaps not," murmured Mr. Kemble. "Indeed, perhaps it simplifies them."

Kieran was frowning. "I think Xanthia's getting involved with this Nash character might be unwise," he said. "Gentlemen, you'd best find another bit of bait for your hook."

"Oh, come now, Kieran!" Xanthia interjected. "Lord Nash can scarce be more unsavory than the sea dogs and scoundrels I am accustomed to. And I have Mr. Lloyd, our business agent, to help me." She turned to Mr. Kemble and the vicomte. "Besides, I have already made the gentleman's acquaintance."

Kieran lifted one of his dark, haughty eyebrows quite high at that. "Yes, and quite thoroughly, I begin to think," he murmured. "And you now propose to strike up a deeper acquaintance?"

Xanthia smiled coolly. "He was not altogether indifferent to my charms, Kieran," she said. "And while Nash hardly strikes me as a traitor, any risk to England's trade routes-indeed, to our trade routes-cannot be tolerated. Someone must get at the truth of this business, and quickly."

De Vendenheim was looking both appalled and hopeful. "With all respect, Miss Neville, Lord Nash is not the sort-well, he is not a gentleman with whom one-"

"He is not thought quite nice, Miss Neville," Mr. Kemble interjected. "And unmarried ladies dare not risk his acquaintance."

Xanthia looked at him skeptically. "I must have seen a dozen mammas shove their daughters in his direction at Lord Sharpe's," she chided. "And I do not think his exchanging a word or two with a confirmed spinster will much discourage them, either. Gentlemen, I suggest you put this matter in my hands. I shan't risk my neck, my good name, or my business, of that you may be certain."

"Yes, especially the latter," said Kieran dryly.

"But Miss Neville," protested de Vendenheim. "Your reputation-"

"No, my trade routes," she interjected.

"He may learn more about you, Zee, than you wish him to know," warned her brother.

"Lord Nash is hardly the sort of man who gossips," said Xanthia.

"Yes, and what if Nash turns up at Neville Shipping one day?" grumbled de Vendenheim. "What then? Is your Mr. Lloyd always in?"

"No, he is often in the warehouses, or on the docks," Xanthia admitted. "It is his job to oversee and account for the movement of freight. But we've a counting house full of clerks below."

Lord de Vendenheim looked at Kieran, who smiled faintly. "She is bullheaded," he said matter-of-factly. "But far from stupid."

Mr. Kemble gave a slow, wicked smile. "I say let her have at it, old chap," he said to de Vendenheim. "You know that old saw about women being the weaker vessel? Well, it's a d.a.m.ned lie."

"Then I shall leave you to explain that to the Prime Minister," the vicomte snapped.

"Just remember, old chap, that there are but two things Nash cannot resist," warned Kemble. "A well-staked card game and a beautiful woman."

"I've yet to hear him accused of seducing unmarried ladies," countered de Vendenheim.

Xanthia realized de Vendenheim had a point. She wished she'd had the forethought to invent a conveniently dead husband before clambering off the Merry Widow on All Saints' Day. Her new life in London would have been far simpler-in any number of ways.

Just then, Kieran pushed back his chair. "Gentlemen, we will help you so far as we can, but I shan't permit my sister to risk her safety. Is that understood?"

It was. After a few more moments of debate, the three gentlemen could not quite reach an agreement as to how best to proceed. De Vendenheim was clearly uneasy, and declared his intention of discussing the plan with Mr. Peel, whilst Mr. Kemble was already contemplating the best way to ensure Xanthia's safety. They parted company agreeing that the vicomte would call upon them in two days' time to tell them of any new developments.

Mr. Kemble bowed low over Xanthia's hand as he went. "Cobalt, my dear, is your color," he mused, his careful, a.s.sessing gaze running down her length. "Yes, accented with ice blue to match your eyes. Moreover, I have it on the best authority that blue is Nash's favorite color."

Xanthia smiled. "Well, we would not wish to see Lord Nash disappointed, would we?"

"No, we certainly would not." And with that, Mr. Kemble bowed again and disappeared into the shadowy depths of the corridor.

"Kem," said de Vendenheim as soon as the door was shut. "How would you fancy being a shipping clerk?"

"Why, I shouldn't fancy it in the least!" Nose in the air, Kemble went down Lord Rothewell's steps. "It must be sheer drudgery. Why do you ask?"

De Vendenheim set a brisk pace in the direction of Whitehall, more or less dragging Kem after him. "Well, it is like this, old chap," he said. "You are the brilliant mind who encouraged this notion of Miss Neville's helping us. But I can tell you right now that Peel will not let us troll through London using her as bait-not unless she is carefully guarded."

Kemble came to an abrupt halt, causing a grumbling pedestrian to step off the pavement and into the street to avoid them. "Oh, no, Max," he said. "No, no, no. I am a businessman-and a b.l.o.o.d.y busy one. Do not even think of it. I agreed to help you out with a few discreet enquiries and to do a little poking about, but no more."

"Well," said the vicomte equivocally, "we shall see how it all sorts out."

"Oh, I can tell you, mon ami, how it will all sort out-with me going back to my shop in the Strand for a gla.s.s of Quinta do Noval '18 and a very expensive cheroot, and you going home to your put-upon wife and those drooling twins."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Kem." The vicomte had set off again. "Children drool when they cut teeth. The stuff is hardly toxic."

"Tell that to my best blue superfine morning coat!" said Kemble with a sniff. "Maurice was beside himself, Max, when he saw it! Simply beside himself!"

"Another of your Cheltenham tragedies," muttered de Vendenheim, setting off again. "But on another topic, tell me, Kem, was that not a van Ruisdael landscape I saw being cleaned in your back office yesterday? Such a lovely piece. Those fluffy white clouds above the windmill. Those almost Turneresque trees. Yes, a van Ruisdael, surely?"

Kemble cut a chary, sidelong look at his companion. "You have a good eye, Max."

"I do, don't I?" De Vendenheim smiled and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. "And I also have a list of stolen property from an art theft which occurred in Bruges some six months past. The gentleman was quite a collector of van Ruisdael. Alas, not one piece has been recovered."

"How perfectly dreadful for him," said Kemble.

Suddenly, the vicomte jerked to a halt on the pavement again. "Kem, old fellow, I've a splendid notion!" he said. "Why do we not write to the poor chap and tell him about yours? He would doubtless be interested. Indeed, he might come over on the next Oostende packet, just to have a look."

Kemble's eyes flashed with ire. "d.a.m.n you, Max."

De Vendenheim pressed his fingertips to his chest. "Me? What for, pray?"

Kemble was silent for a moment. "I cannot close my shop, Max," he finally said. "And Miss Neville probably works in Wapping. Right on the river, I do not doubt. Quelles horreurs! The sounds. The stench. I could not bear it."

"But on the river is precisely where one finds smugglers," said the vicomte calmly. "Moreover, your clerk John-Claude is perfectly capable of managing the shop. Maurice can keep an eye on him."

Kemble gave one last little quake of rage, then surrendered. "Her interior decorator, then," he said. "Not a clerk."

"Interior decorator?" Max stopped again, and set his hands on his hips. "I don't even know what that is, Kem, but I am relatively certain a counting house in Wapping does not require one."

"It probably requires one quite desperately," Kemble countered. "But very well then, I shall be...her personal secretary! Yes, her man of affairs, so to speak. That way it will seem perfectly logical for me to be seen in both her home and her business."

Now this was the kind of logic with which the vicomte could not argue. "That really is quite a capital notion," he said musingly. "Unusual, yes. But then, she is an unusual woman."

"I can give you no more than a fortnight, Max," warned Kemble. "And you must bear all the expenses."

"Fine, but I want you with her every possible moment," said the vicomte warningly. "And Kem?"

"What?"

De Vendenheim paused but a heartbeat. "If Nash gives her any trouble-if she ends up in any immediate danger whatsoever-kill him."

"How?" asked Kemble matter-of-factly.

"Snap his neck," suggested the vicomte. "Then shove him down the stairs and say he fell."

"Well, trips and falls are a leading cause of injury," murmured Kemble solicitously.

But de Vendenheim's attention was focused farther down the street. "Kem, do you see that hackney coach turning the corner into the Haymarket?" he asked. "If we hurry, we can catch it."

"Why?" asked Kemble. "I am just going down to the Strand."

"No, you are going to Wapping," said the vicomte. "I believe we shall just pay a call to the River Police. Let's see what they might know about munitions smuggling. And then, why, I think we will search out the offices of Neville Shipping. No time like the present, Kem, for you to get the lay of the land-and the river, whilst we're at it."

Upon the departure of their unexpected guests, Xanthia went at once to her room and remained there alone, thinking. So lost was she in her contemplations, she failed to so much as light a lamp, despite the falling dusk. Vaguely, she was aware that dinnertime approached and that Kieran would doubtless wish to discuss de Vendenheim's request-perhaps even to scold her just a bit for her audacity. But Xanthia wished first to replay the conversation in her own head, to come to terms with her reasons for making such a bold and ill-considered offer.

Help de Vendenheim indeed. In hindsight, she was shocked he had not refused her offer outright. Perhaps it was a measure of his desperation. It was a very serious charge which had been leveled against Lord Nash-and a horrific charge, too, when one considered that a man had been murdered. She remembered Mr. Kemble, ghoulishly slicing his finger across his throat. It made it impossible to put de Vendenheim's allegations from her mind.

Could Nash be a traitor? He certainly exuded wealth and power, and possessed the aura of a man who usually got what he wanted. There was an unmistakable dichotomy to his character; a strange mix of darkness and light which was just a bit unnerving. Xanthia was quite certain the man could be ruthless when it was warranted. But gunrunning? Was he capable of it?

Xanthia gazed blindly into the falling gloom and realized the answer was yes. But had he done it? Ah, now that was another question altogether. Would Nash be a traitor to the Crown in order to protect his interests elsewhere? Or would he do it simply for money? It was a complicated question.

Xanthia knew what she wished to believe. She wished to believe the best of him-which was silly when one considered she scarcely knew the man. At first, de Vendenheim's allegations had made her feel inexplicably wronged by Lord Nash. How could he be...what? Not her knight in shining armor.

That was laughable. If Nash possessed armor, it would be gunmetal black and chain mail. Xanthia looked down to see that she had begun to twist her handkerchief in knots. d.a.m.n it, she wanted to know! She needed to know the truth about Lord Nash's character-which was frightening when one considered the implication of such a need. Her promise to de Vendenheim had little to do with patriotism or duty, and everything to do with plain old feminine curiosity. And therein lay the danger. But already Xanthia knew that she would not be dissuaded. One way or another, she meant to have the truth about Lord Nash.

Suddenly, a faint sound drew her back to the present. She looked up to see one of the housemaids silhouetted in the door. "Shall I light your lamp, miss?" said the girl. "It is almost time for dinner."

Xanthia laid aside her well-wrenched handkerchief and stood. "Thank you, Amy," she said. "A little light of any sort would be most welcome just now."

Chapter Five.