Part 3 (2/2)

But he likely needn't be concerned, the baron consoled himself, going to the small sideboard in his study to pour himself another tot. He knew almost no one in London, and certainly had invited no one to call upon him. He was surprised, therefore, when one of his newly employed footmen came in bearing the card of a gentleman whose name he had never before heard.

”I am not at home,” he growled.

But the servant looked ill at ease. ”I think he means to wait, my lord,” said the footman. ”After all, it is Lord Nash.”

Rothewell scowled. ”Who the devil is Lord Nash?” grumbled the baron. ”And why should I give a d.a.m.n?”

”Well, he is the sort of fellow who generally gets what he wants,” said the footman.

This was enough to pique Rothewell's curiosity. ”Oh, very well,” he said. ”Show the fellow in.”

Naturalists say that when certain carnivores meet in the wild, they circle and scent one another, each a.s.sessing the other's willingness to back away. Rothewell never backed away from anyone, and his hackles went up the moment the man crossed his threshold.

The man called Nash was whipcord-lean and moved with a controlled strength which was rather more formidable than outright brawn might have been. His hair was black as a raven's wing, with perhaps a suggestion of silver at the temples. He carried an expensive-looking driving cape over one arm, and his gloves in one hand, as if his stay was to be brief.

”Good evening, Lord Rothewell.” The man had eyes like obsidian ice. ”How kind of you to receive me.”

Glittering eyes. Expensive clothes. A voice too soft-and not quite English, either, he thought. This, at least, should be interesting.

Rothewell waved a hand toward a chair. ”Do sit down,” he said. ”How may I a.s.sist you?”

As if to make a point, Nash repositioned the chair nearer the desk. ”I am here on a matter which is of a personal nature.”

”I can't think what the devil that might be,” said Rothewell, ”since I never before laid eyes on you.”

The man smiled faintly, as if he did not believe him. ”No, I have not the pleasure of a formal acquaintance,” he answered coolly. ”But I believe I had the honor of meeting your sister last night at Lord Sharpe's ball. Miss Xanthia Neville-she is your sister, is she not?”

The man, Rothewell decided, looked like a wolf; a wolf with a lean and hungry look about him. ”I do not remember you from Sharpe's ball,” he said, holding the man's gaze. ”But yes, Miss Neville is my sister. What of it?”

”I collect you are her guardian,” said Lord Nash in his too-quiet voice. ”I should like your permission to pay court to her.”

”You should what-?”

”I should like to court Miss Neville.” If anything, his voice was even quieter, and more ominous. ”I somehow feel certain that my suit will be acceptable to you.”

Rothewell was not remotely intimidated. ”It certainly is not,” he barked. ”Why should it be? My sister is an exceptional woman. And she is not in need of-nor, so far as I know, even in want of-a husband. Moreover, it is Xanthia's permission you'll need-and if you knew a b.l.o.o.d.y thing about her, you would already know that.”

”Ah, an independent-minded young lady,” remarked Nash. ”How very charming.”

”She is not independent-minded,” said Rothewell. ”She is independent. And stubborn. And imperious, when she's in the right-which she is, more often than one wishes to admit. Good G.o.d, Nash, she's nearly thirty years old. Moreover, she...she is not like other women. Have you any notion what you are asking?”

”I am asking if I may court your sister.”

”Why?”

”I beg your pardon?”

”Why Xanthia?” he demanded. ”If you want a wife, why not chose some young, biddable miss, Nash? Life will go a d.a.m.ned sight easier for you, trust me.”

Lord Nash was looking faintly uncomfortable now. ”Miss Neville is the managing sort, is she?”

”Yes, and quite good at it,” said Rothewell. ”Indeed, I believe I would back her ten to one against any man I know-but press your attentions where they are not wanted, Lord Nash, and you will answer to me.”

Nash looked truly puzzled. This meeting obviously was not going as he had planned. But what the devil had he expected? Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck Rothewell. He let his eyes drift over Lord Nash's expensive attire, and pondered it. ”Frankly, Nash,” he finally said, ”now that I think on it, I know of but one reason why you might have an interest in my sister-and it is not flattering.”

Nash's eyes glittered. ”Pray speak plainly, Rothewell.”

”I am referring to her fortune,” Rothewell answered. ”As you doubtless know, my sister is quite a wealthy woman. But she will not give it up, Nash-and a marriage would require her to do just that.”

The marquess drew back an inch, his confusion replaced by outright hauteur. ”You dare to suggest I am a fortune hunter?” he snapped. ”Good G.o.d. Certainly not.”

Rothewell steepled his fingers together thoughtfully. ”Then I beg your pardon, of course,” he said curtly. ”I suppose Xanthia is not precisely what one would consider parson's bait, however lovely she may be. And her strong personality...well, I daresay I have made my point in that regard.”

Nash's posture was so rigid now, he looked as if he'd swallowed a poker. ”Perhaps there has been some mistake,” he finally acknowledged. ”I begin to collect that your Miss Neville would not make an ideal wife after all.”

Rothewell flashed a faint smile. ”For the right man, Xanthia would make an admirable wife indeed,” he said. ”But I am relatively confident that you are not that man. I will not see such an intelligent and lovely woman wasted on someone who neither loves her nor deserves her.”

Nash lifted a piercing, steady gaze to meet his host's. ”You make it sound as if you had someone else in mind.”

It was Rothewell's turn to s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in his chair. ”My sister has an offer, yes,” he admitted. ”A proposal of long standing from a family friend. I daresay they will get round to tying the knot one of these days.”

”I see.” Abruptly, Nash rose, his eyes suddenly flat and inscrutable. ”My apologies, Lord Rothewell. I have inconvenienced you quite unnecess-”

Suddenly, the study door burst open, and a whirlwind carrying a stuffed leather folio swept in. ”Kieran, I have the most shocking news ever!” said his sister as both men rose. ”And the Belle Weather is in six weeks early, so I thought that we might-” Her eyes had s.h.i.+ed wild in the direction of Rothewell's guest. ”Oh. Good Lord. I...I do beg your pardon.”

She was halfway out the door when Rothewell caught her. ”Not so fast, old thing,” he said. ”I take it you know our new friend Lord Nash?”

”Lord Nash?” Xanthia had flushed three shades of pink. ”I-no, I do not. That is to say...that is to say I did not perfectly understand who...or why...”

Rothewell could not recall ever having seen his sister at a loss for words. He let his eyes drift over her face, to rea.s.sure himself that she did not fear this man.

No, there was nothing but grave embarra.s.sment etched on her face. ”Obviously, this unfortunate business does not concern me,” he said, releasing his sister's arm. ”I shall leave you to it.”

”Leave us to what, pray?” Xanthia was looking at Nash with a sidelong suspicion now.

”I'm d.a.m.ned if I know.” Rothewell shrugged, and took up his brandy gla.s.s. Then, thinking better of it, he snared the bottle, too. It might be a long night.

”Good evening, Miss Neville,” said Nash, when the door was closed. ”We meet again.”

Nash watched Miss Neville's suspicion s.h.i.+ft to outrage. ”Oh, Lord Nash, is it?”

”Please do not claim you did not know,” he said.

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