Part 23 (1/2)

”I hope that you do not,” said Nash. ”It would be a true sign of repentance.”

With a stubborn set of his jaw, Wescot stuffed it into Nash's coat pocket.

Nash pulled it out again. ”Take it,” he said more calmly. ”Take it for your wife. Don't be a prideful fool twice, Wescot. Do you want her to live out her life as a grocer's wife when you know d.a.m.ned good and well she deserves something better?”

Wescot hung his head.

”Take it,” said Nash again. ”Take it for Anna. But if you b.u.g.g.e.r it up again, Wescot, I will cheerfully hunt you down and beat you within an inch of your life-if that makes you feel any better.”

”Well...it does, rather.” Wescot glanced at the paper, then took it from Nash's outstretched hand. ”Thank you, sir. Anna thanks you. I-I won't b.u.g.g.e.r it up again. I promise.”

Nash watched him go with a terrible sinking sensation in his heart. That poor, poor girl. So frail and lovely-and so full of hope when she had left him. Dear G.o.d, how fatal one little mistake-one small error in judgment-could be to one's happiness. And how very short life could be. He grieved for Anna Wescot even as he grieved for himself and all of his wasted days.

But he need waste no more-or at the very least, he might do something worthwhile with what was left of them. He knew, of course, what that something should be. It came to him with the clarity of a bucket of cold water tossed over one's head. He wanted to marry Xanthia Neville-or at the very least, try to marry her.

Good G.o.d. This was madness.

He had better think about this. He sat down on the sofa and poured a second teacup of brandy. It was not quite as insipid as he recalled. Judiciously, he eyed the decanter. There might be enough left to put him out of his misery. And perhaps when he awoke, this strange urge would have gone away.

No. No, it would not have. Because it was not an urge. It was a certainty which had been edging up on him slowly and steadily for some days now. The bottom of a bottle would not obscure it. Besides, what did he have to worry about, save for personal humiliation? Xanthia Neville would not have him, and his mind had already run through all the reasons. But the most telling reason of all was that Xanthia had already refused what little he had to offer her.

What, then, would you rather do with your life, Miss Neville? he had once asked her. Retire to the country and raise a brood of children, perhaps?

No, she had answered. No, Lord Nash, I am already doing what I please with my life.

And she was enjoying that life. He could see it in the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her business and her work.

But her eyes sparkled when she was with him, too. And she had admitted that she adored him. She trembled with pleasure when he made love to her. And, yes, she liked him. So it probably wasn't a matter of losing her altogether. It was not quite the horror which poor Wescot had faced. No, he could keep Xanthia, he thought-keep her in his bed, at least. Until someone's suspicion caught fire, and she was forced to choose.

Was that enough? If he bided his time, would he tire of her? Nash stared at the brandy and shook his head. So there was but one option left to him-and it was a slender reed at that. Xanthia was a businesswoman, and she understood the art of the deal as well as any businessman he knew. Therefore, he must offer her something better. Something which she could manage and make as successful as Neville s.h.i.+pping.

Brierwood. It was one of the finest estates in England-and potentially the most profitable. Thousands and thousands of acres of fertile farmland and rolling timber. Half a dozen villages. Two miles of channel frontage. A chalk mine. A coal mine. Grain mills. A quarry. A fortune at his fingertips, had he ever bothered to tap it. Instead, he had chosen to let it limp along under the guardians.h.i.+p of an aged estate agent, whilst easing his conscience by rea.s.suring himself that someday the whole mess would pa.s.s on to a distant cousin-someone who would give a s.h.i.+te for it. Instead, Brierwood could be Xanthia's. To manage and to build, and ultimately, to leave to her children.

Or...she could just keep her old job.

Did he give a d.a.m.n what society thought of his wife? Well, no. She could trot off to Wapping until those spiteful fishwives down at Almack's bolted the b.l.o.o.d.y doors in his face-he'd never been there anyway, and despite his long-ago wager with Xanthia, he wasn't going.

Still, Brierwood was one h.e.l.l of an ace for a chap to stick up his sleeve. It would take some time, however, and some delicate maneuvering to convince her. In fact, it would be best to begin simply by waving the temptation beneath her nose.

Nash pushed the brandy away and headed for the stairs. ”Gibbons!” he bellowed up the stairwell. ”Gibbons, fetch my boots, and my best riding coat!”

Gibbons met him at the door, a coat hanging from his fingertip.

”Not the brown,” he barked. ”That's the drabbest rag I own. Fetch the dark blue-oh, and a fresh s.h.i.+rt.”

Gibbons trotted dutifully back to the dressing room again. The man had a surprising knack for knowing when to keep his mouth shut. After the coat, there were the boots to be decided on. And then Nash decided that his cravat was just a tad too lifeless after all. But eventually, he was dressed, his best horse was brought round from the mews, and Lord Nash was off in pursuit of his future.

A few minutes later, he found himself sequestered in Lord Rothewell's study, feeling foolish and more than a little frustrated. Xanthia was not at home. How had he imagined otherwise? She was not like the other women of his acquaintance, who rose at noon and did little thereafter. Xanthia had a business to run. But Lord Rothewell was in, his servant reported, and would be happy to receive him.

Nash questioned the word happy, however, upon seeing the gentleman himself. Rothewell entered with his usual determined stride, but his eyes were shot with blood, and his deeply tanned face would have been politely described as haggard.

”Afternoon, Nash,” said the baron, going to the sideboard. ”Will you have a drink?”

”No, I thank you, it is too early for me,” he said. ”I've been up but an hour or two.”

”Ah, and I have not yet been to bed,” remarked the baron, returning to his desk with a snifter of brandy. ”Sit down, Nash. I don't imagine this is a social call?”

Nash looked at him curiously. ”What other sort of call would it be?”

Rothewell hesitated, then smiled faintly. ”One never knows,” he murmured vaguely. ”I rather a.s.sumed-but never mind. What brings you?”

”Frankly, I came to call on both you and your sister,” he confessed. ”I forgot she would not likely be at home.”

Rothewell set his brandy down. ”No, my dear fellow, you must rise at c.o.c.kcrow for that.”

Nash felt suddenly at a loss for words. Never had anything so seemingly small mattered so much-and he was loath to ask anything at all of Lord Rothewell. And yet, he must. ”I am having a house party at the end of the week.” His voice was surprisingly calm, faintly bored. ”The party is at my estate in south Hamps.h.i.+re. I know it is a tad late, but I wondered if...well, if you and your sister mightn't care to join us?”

Rothewell's expression was unreadable. ”We barely know one another, Lord Nash.”

”Let me be frank, Rothewell,” he said. ”I wish your sister to come-I do know her well enough, I think, to ask such a thing. But I think she ought not come alone. It would be unseemly, particularly given my...my reputation, if you will.”

Rothewell had begun to toy with various objects on his desk. ”I thank you, Nash, for making my sister's good name your foremost concern,” he said quietly. ”Let me remind you that sometime past, you asked permission to court her. I discouraged it. She concurred. Have you some reason to hope that her opinion of you might have changed?”

”No, but on those brief occasions when we've met, I have enjoyed her company,” said Nash. ”And I think it would do her good to get out of London for a day or two. We are having party for my stepmother to celebrate her birthday. And I have two young sisters whom I should like Miss Neville to meet.”

”This sounds a serious business,” murmured the baron.

”No, pure pleasure, I do a.s.sure you,” said Nash, feigning obtusity. ”There is to be a dinner party, some dancing, and...and a picnic, I believe. Most of the guests shan't arrive until Sat.u.r.day. But I should account it a personal favor if you and your sister might come down a day or two earlier-Thursday, perhaps?”

Rothewell laid aside the pen he had been toying with and lifted a pair of piercing eyes to Nash's. ”Thank you, Lord Nash,” he said softly. ”I shall endeavor to ascertain my sister's wishes in this regard. But in fairness to you, perhaps I should make my position clear?”

”By all means.

”Xanthia is the most precious thing on earth to me,” said Rothewell quietly. ”I cannot know your true purpose in issuing this invitation, Nash. But if you toy with my sister's affections-if you cause her heart to be broken, or even the little nail on her pinkie finger to be broken-I will gut you like a hog at harvest.”

Nash did not frighten easily, but he felt a slight chill settle over him.

Rothewell smiled. ”So, with that in mind, Nash, do you wish to rescind your invitation?”

”Not in the least.”

”Indeed,” murmured Lord Rothewell. He took another drink of his brandy. ”Then we have only to determine Lord Sharpe's plans. As you know, Xanthia is chaperoning Lady Louisa.”

Nash kept his gaze firm and steady. ”I think your sister deserves a social life of her own, Rothewell,” he said. ”Perhaps you ought to see to that?”

Some dark emotion sketched over Rothewell's face, then relented. ”Yes, perhaps I should,” he said quietly. ”In any case, my sister will return home sometime after five, I daresay. I shall send round our answer at once.”