Free Never Lie to a Lady by Liz Carlyle Page B

great khans had coursed hot and fierce through her veins—and told in her temper, too. She had been a dark, vibrant beauty. But she had also been spoilt, given to terrible tantrums, and entirely too certain of her own worth. And never, ever had she been satisfied with her lot in life.
    She had been particularly dissatisfied with her short life in England, and had made no secret of her disdain. Perhaps that was why society so often cut Nash a sidelong glance. Perhaps they were wondering just how alike he and his volatile mother were.
    Nash was stirred from his reverie by the sound of someone softly clearing his throat. He looked up to see Swann hovering in the gloom, already wearing his overcoat and clutching his tall beaver hat. “You wished to see me, sir?”
    “Working late again, eh?” Not that he left the poor devil much choice, Nash reminded himself. “Pour yourself a dram, Swann, and sit down.”
    His man of affairs did as he was bid. “What may I do for you, my lord?” he asked when he was settled.
    Nash gently swirled his vodka in his glass. “What do you hear, Swann, from our friend in Belgravia?” he asked. “Has the Comtesse de Montignac returned to England?”
    “Not yet, my lord,” said Swann. “She remains in Cherbourg, so far as it is known.”
    “And what of her husband?”
    “He remains with her,” said his man of affairs. “De Montignac has quarreled again with the French foreign minister—a lover’s spat, or so ‘tis whispered—and it is believed he has been sent away in disgrace.”
    Nash relaxed into his chair. “Excellent news,” he murmured. “Perhaps they will both stay in Cherbourg.”
    Swann smiled ruefully. “I doubt it, my lord,” he said. “They love too well the diplomatic limelight and the privilege it grants them.”
    “Not to mention the opportunities it gives them,” said Nash sourly. He put it from his mind, however, and turned the topic to the one which he found inexplicably more pressing. “The woman I was enquiring about this morning, Swann,” he began. “I wish to learn one thing more—something which you may more discreetly discover than I.”
    “You are speaking of Miss Neville?”
    “Indeed,” said Nash. “I paid the lady’s brother a call this afternoon.”
    “Did you?” said Swann in mild surprise. “May I ask, sir, what manner of man you found him to be?”
    “A man who lives hard, by the look of him,” said Nash grimly. “A hulking, rather rough-edged fellow, with the hands of a farm laborer—and yet he possessed no artifice which I could see. What is it the English call such a man? Ah, yes, a colonial .”
    “One ought not be surprised, I daresay,” said Swann. “He was not above five or six years when sent out to the West Indies.”
    “Yes, but do you not find it odd the girl was sent as well?” mused Nash. “She must have been an infant. One wonders a more genteel situation could not have been found for her.”
    “I’m told their aunt is Lady Bledsoe,” said Swann. “Hardly the most charitable of women.”
    “Yes, she’s an old battle-axe, as I recall,” Nash murmured. “But her daughter, Lady Sharpe, is thought quite kind, is she not?”
    “So it is said,” Swann agreed. “In any case, the children were sent out to Lady Bledsoe’s elder brother, who had been exiled to the West Indies by the family when quite a young man.”
    “Exiled, eh?”
    “He shot a man dead, sir,” said Swann. “Not in a duel, but in a drunken rage. The family had to cover it up, and now, no one seems to remember much about him.”
    “Rothewell and his sister have been back in England but four months,” said Nash, almost to himself. “I wonder what brought them?”
    “Was that what you wished to learn, my lord?”
    “Actually, no.” Nash set his glass aside with an awkward clatter. “No, the young lady is said to be betrothed—or something just short of it. I should like to know to whom.”
    “To whom she is betrothed ?” Swann