would be the wiser?”
Mr. Kemble gave an impatient toss of his hand. “You are going to have to give them a name, Max,” he warned. “We can go no further with this until you do.”
De Vendenheim hesitated. He looked at Kieran very directly. “May I have your word as a gentleman that neither you nor your sister will divulge this name?”
“To whom would we divulge it?” asked Kieran. “We scarcely know anyone. But my cousin Sharpe sent you here, so of course you have our word.”
De Vendenheim paused to consider it. “The man’s name is Stefan Mihailo Northampton,” he said quietly. “But he is called Nash. The Marquess of Nash.”
Xanthia suppressed a gasp. Kieran set the wax jack down awkwardly, and cut his eyes toward her. “Lord Dark-and-Dangerous,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” said de Vendenheim.
“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 noble 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 principality 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 nobility, 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 assumed not,” he admitted. “But with Eastern Europe perched on the edge of this nasty little war, we can ill afford assumptions.”
“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 title 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? Bloody obvious, I should say.”
“Good Lord, no,” said de Vendenheim. “Just make his acquaintance, Lord Rothewell. And suggest, ever so vaguely, that your morals
Mr. Kemble gave an impatient toss of his hand. “You are going to have to give them a name, Max,” he warned. “We can go no further with this until you do.”
De Vendenheim hesitated. He looked at Kieran very directly. “May I have your word as a gentleman that neither you nor your sister will divulge this name?”
“To whom would we divulge it?” asked Kieran. “We scarcely know anyone. But my cousin Sharpe sent you here, so of course you have our word.”
De Vendenheim paused to consider it. “The man’s name is Stefan Mihailo Northampton,” he said quietly. “But he is called Nash. The Marquess of Nash.”
Xanthia suppressed a gasp. Kieran set the wax jack down awkwardly, and cut his eyes toward her. “Lord Dark-and-Dangerous,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” said de Vendenheim.
“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 noble 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 principality 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 nobility, 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 assumed not,” he admitted. “But with Eastern Europe perched on the edge of this nasty little war, we can ill afford assumptions.”
“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 title 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? Bloody obvious, I should say.”
“Good Lord, no,” said de Vendenheim. “Just make his acquaintance, Lord Rothewell. And suggest, ever so vaguely, that your morals
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