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 damned 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, assessing 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 bloody 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 glass 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,
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 damned 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, assessing 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 bloody 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 glass 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,
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