Crown Jewel

by Megan Derr

  Lazzaro balled the receipt into his fist—then forced himself to smooth it out, fold it up, and tuck it away in his jacket. Leaving the kitchen, he headed for the front hall and snatched up his coat, hat, and gloves, then bolted from the house and through the city. Unable to simply walk, he ran, dodging most people, but shoving others out of his way. He reached the Entertainment Quarter and made straight for the Jewel District. Once there, he increased his pace still more, until at last he reached the House of Peace.

  When Lazzaro finally reached it, he was sweaty, exhausted, panting for breath, red-faced, and burning hot. The guard's eyes widened upon seeing him, hand going to his sword. He drew it as Lazzaro got closer—and fell like a stone as Lazzaro punched him in the gut, then across the jaw. Shoving the unconscious guard aside, Lazzaro strode into the House of Peace.

  There were half a dozen jewels loitering in the front room and they all fell silent when they saw him. "Where is Celeste?"

  "Upstairs," said a woman with skin like cream and bright green eyes. Although she did not elaborate on what he was doing upstairs, her insinuation was clear. "You are not allowed on the premises."

  "The guard!" Someone out in the hall bellowed, then a young man spilled into the parlor. "Someone—you—" He snarled as he saw Lazzaro and realized he must have taken out the guard. He drew a dagger and lunged.

  Lazzaro grabbed him, twisted his wrist to make him drop the knife, and shoved him up against the wall before drawing his own main gauche. Raising his voice so they could all hear him, he said, "If Celeste is not brought to me in two minutes, I will arrest everyone in the House of Peace for conspiring and attempting to assassinate the Duke of Nascimbeni, acknowledged bastard son of the King. I want Celeste and I want him now."

  "I'll get him," the green-eyed woman said, glaring as she stalked past him. A heavy silence fell in her wake, hostility thick enough he could all but taste it.

  Santino was probably dead by now, and if Benito had taken a sip…it made Lazzaro cold with fear all over again. They could be as angry with him as they liked; he wanted answers and he would have them.

  Lazzaro turned toward the door at the sound of footsteps—and hated the ache that sprung up in his chest at the sight of Celeste. It was not fair that he was even more beautiful than Lazzaro's vivid memories. It was not fair that despite everything, he felt better just seeing Celeste.

  Oddly, his hair was braided, falling over one shoulder in a long tail and tied off with a plain black ribbon. He wore only black breeches, a simple linen shirt, black stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. Reading spectacles dangled from a silver chain around his neck. He looked ordinary, like a clerk doing paperwork. He also looked as though he would rather be entertaining his worst client rather than spend five seconds in Lazzaro's presence. "Come with me," he ordered tersely. "Stop upsetting everyone." He did not give Lazzaro a chance to reply, but turned sharply on his heel and strode off.

  Lazzaro threw aside the man he had pinned to the wall and followed him, but he was halted by the green-eyed woman. "Do not hurt him," she said. "We will make you regret it if you do, noble."

  He looked at her coldly. "One of my men is dead because of something I did for Celeste. If I do not get satisfactory answers, I will teach you regret."

  She stepped back and he walked on, following Celeste up the stairs and into the room Lazzaro had seen the one other time he had been here. This time, however, it was obvious Celeste had not been expecting guests anytime soon. The table which before had held a vase of expensive flowers was now buried in paperwork and a tray of food and drink. "You do bookkeeping?" Lazzaro asked.

  Celeste only folded his arms across his chest. "You threatened my people to ask me if I do bookkeeping in addition to whoring?"

  "Do not be flippant," Lazzaro said, very slowly resting his hands on the table so he wouldn't succumb to a fit of temper and throw things.

  "You are the one who asked about bookkeeping."

  To the hells with not losing his temper, Lazzaro thought, slamming his hands down on the table. "My man is dead! Santino has been with me for ten fucking years, and he is dead of a poisoning that was meant for me and nearly killed Benito as well! The bastard signed his name as Marco when he delivered the poisoned wine; I have reason to believe it is the very man who murdered my mother. Do not be flippant with me, Celeste, you have no right! Not when you are part of this, not when you fled like a fucking coward!"

  Silence fell between them, broken only by Lazzaro's heavy breathing. Still shaking with anger and fear and grief, Lazzaro finally said, "You will give me answers, Celeste, or by the gods I will take them from you."

  "I'm sorry," Celeste said quietly, anger falling away. He looked away, then slowly back. "I do not know who was responsible or why, but I will do everything I can to help you find out. You are correct: I am culpable. I didn't—I'm sorry my problems became yours and that your friend suffered for it. If I had known you were in danger, I would have told you, your grace, I swear it."

  Lazzaro's temper died as quickly as that, finished by the sincerity of the words and the way Celeste suddenly looked tired and twice his age. With the heat of anger gone, the grief over Santino struck him hard, finally given center stage. Santino was dead; he should not be. Lazzaro should be dead, and here he was in the House of Peace throwing temper tantrums and battling with the mixed emotions only Celeste seemed able to stir.

  He jumped, startled, as hands covered his, realizing only then that he had never actually managed to put his gloves on. "You need to calm down, your grace."

  Lazzaro withdrew his hands before he did something stupid, like try to pull Celeste close and hold him. "I need to find Santino's killer."

  "You are in no shape for hunting," Celeste said sharply. "Not when you have so little control of yourself. Sit, rest, grieve—think. The man I know would not normally threaten innocent people to accomplish his goals."

  "The man you know?" Lazzaro repeated. "What in the hells would you know about me, when you were too much of a coward to stay the night—or even say goodbye?"

  "I could not afford to stay," Celeste retorted sharply, stepping back away from him.

  Whatever he had expected Celeste to say, it was not that. "How do you know? You ran away before you ever knew the price."

  Celeste laughed bitterly. "I am not discussing this. I am not going to indulge your temper because I did not stay in the bed of a man who has no use for me. There are plenty of men who do—"

  Lazzaro cut him off by yanking him close and kissing him hard enough to bruise those pretty lips, pouring all of his frustration and misery and longing into it. He sank his hands into Celeste's hair, uncaring of the braid he was no doubt ruining, holding Celeste's head firmly in place. When he finally ended the kiss, he drew back only just enough to murmur, "I have a thousand ways and more to use you, beauty. But I am not interested in a whore. I wanted a lover, and you were the one who chose to run away."

  "And when you get tired of me?" Celeste demanded, the words weary. "What am I supposed to do then? I am a whore and I have no intention of being a cut flower."

  "Stop creating problems," Lazzaro said. He reluctantly let go of Celeste and stepped back, and as suddenly as that everything he had managed to stop thinking about came rushing back. "Santino is dead. I have a killer—"

  He froze with shock as Celeste kissed him—just stepped in close again, pushed up on his toes, twined himself around Lazzaro and kissed him so deeply and thoroughly that Lazzaro felt like he was…he did not even know. Melting? Burning? Helpless, definitely. He groaned and sank into it, sliding his hands along the beautiful body he had ached to touch and claim from the first moment he had seen Celeste. Having Celeste pressed up against him, kissing him by choice—this was nothing like stealing a kiss at the Festival of Secrets.

  Lazzaro broke the kiss after a moment, content for a moment just to admire. "I rather like you this way, all bookkeeping and—"

  "Shut up," Celeste interrupted. "No more ta
lking." He pulled away, dragging his shirt up over his head and casting it aside. Lazzaro wanted to ask if this was for real, what had brought it on, but he sensed Celeste had meant it when he said no more talking and he did not want to ruin whatever was happening. Lazzaro wanted to trust that this meant something—to both of them.

  Reaching out, Lazzaro dragged Celeste close again, moaning as his hands smoothed over the beautiful, warm, smooth skin now bared to him. "You feel like the finest of sins."

  Celeste gave a throaty chuckle. "I am the finest of sins, your grace."

  Lazzaro smiled against his skin. "Then I will indulge." So saying, he dragged Celeste to the enormous bed, stripped off the rest of their clothes, and gave in to every want he had resisted since his first teasing taste of cinnamon-flavored lips.

  *~*~*

  Celeste knew he was a fool for giving in, but no matter how many times he reminded himself of that fact, it could not seem to overcome the feel of Lazzaro's fingers biting into his hips, the feel of his well-muscled chest beneath Celeste's fingers, the stretch and burn as he rode Lazzaro's cock.

  A lifelong career in fucking people was not a terrible life by any means, but much of it had become rote over the years, a repetitive set of actions reorganized and tweaked per the wants and needs of each of his clients. Nothing about Lazzaro felt rote; in fact, it was hard to do anything but feel. His normally cool and collected mind was too overheated to collect any thoughts at all.

  He began to move faster, pulling up and driving back down, Lazzaro thrusting up in time with his movements, matching them so seamlessly they might have done this a thousand times or more. Lazzaro opened his mouth to speak—then closed it again, clearly recalling Celeste's edict. Celeste made a soft noise of approval, grinding down on Lazzaro's cock and clenching tightly around it, loving the look on Lazzaro's face.

  Yes, this was what he was good at—making men forget everything else, making them feel and think about only him for as long as they were in his bed. He kept moving up and down, sweat stinging his eyes and making the loose strands of his hair stick to his skin. It was not long before he forced Lazzaro to and over the edge, and he thrilled at the way Lazzaro's shout filled the room—and cried out in surprise himself as Lazzaro wrapped a hand around his cock and forced Celeste to tumble over the edge with him.

  He was still trembling with release when Lazzaro slipped from his body and tugged him down so they were pressed together, before giving him another of those long, thorough kisses that terrified Celeste because he was not at all accustomed to being the one enthralled. He didn't want to be enthralled; but he was not certain he had a choice in the matter. Why else would he take a man into his bed without coin upon his bureau? Not once in his career had he ever been that weak, that foolish.

  Celeste did not fight it as Lazzaro settled them more comfortably in the bed, curled close together. He tried not to think about how much nicer it would be to do it all again in Lazzaro's bed. Such thoughts were dangerous.

  Drawing himself from things with which he did not want to deal, Celeste finally looked at Lazzaro—and was completely unsurprised to find he had fallen asleep. The temptation to doze himself was strong, but if he fell asleep with Lazzaro like this, it felt like there would be no going back, and he did not know that he could just go forward blindly. All that aside, he had a murderer to find.

  Who would try to kill Lazzaro over Marco's death, but leave Celeste alone, especially when Lazzaro had taken care to leave his name out of it. Celeste had waited for someone to come after him an, but Lazzaro had apparently done his job well. None but Lazzaro had troubled him in the past three weeks, and for entirely different reasons. Celeste had dreaded it every time Lazzaro had shown up—but when Lazzaro had finally stopped coming, the relief he had expected to feel had not appeared and Celeste had not looked too closely at what he felt instead.

  Slowly Celeste sat up in bed, pushing away the strands of hair that had come loose from his braid. Lazzaro grunted in his sleep, but did not stir. Celeste reached out, and then caught himself, hand frozen midair. He started to draw it back, fingers curling inward, but then Lazzaro snuffled and moved closer, hair falling even further into his eyes, his breathes warm against Lazzaro's skin.

  It wasn't fair, Celeste thought miserably. He was the Crown Jewel, beyond the control of any man; he knew how to play the game of lust better than anyone. He should not be undone by a request to dance—by a simple declaration of being wanted as a mere bookkeeper…by the way Lazzaro fell asleep so easily beside him. Uncurling his fingers, he gave into the urge to comb back the thick curls half-obscuring Lazzaro's face. He should not be drawn—gods knew he did not want to be. He had been happy with his life before the Duke of Nascimbeni had walked into it…but he had been miserable after he had forced Lazzaro back out of it. He did not want it, but now he did not know how he would do without it.

  Sighing, Celeste finally pulled away, then climbed out of bed and headed over to the washstand. A few minutes with soap and water cleaned him of recent events, even if he could still feel every place Lazzaro had touched. Undoing his hair, he combed it out and braided it anew, then coiled it up at the back of his head. He went to his wardrobe and pulled on fresh clothes, sturdy stuff for a long day of extracting answers.

  Ready, he hesitated over Lazzaro, before finally settling on leaving a note. He wrote it quickly and pinned it to his pillow, then crept from the room and down the stairs.

  "Are you all right, Celeste?" Tula asked, coming out of the front parlor. She frowned at him, green eyes troubled. "Something's wrong."

  He shook his head. "I'm only a little scattered. I have to go out and I am not sure when I will be back. Take food and drink upstairs in an hour or so. I promise he will be no further trouble."

  Tula pursed her lips, but nodded. "Fine," she said, "but one more threat like that and I'll wallop him."

  "Yes, wallop a Duke," Celeste dryly. "Tell me how that goes for you."

  "What!" Tula exclaimed, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. She glared at him and hissed, "I didn't realize he was the Duke he was accusing us of trying to off. Is he really? That Duke?"

  "Take care of him," Celeste said, and then turned away hastily, not liking the sudden knowing look that crossed her face. "I will probably not be back before tomorrow morning." He left, not giving her a chance to reply, as his mind raced with thoughts of what he needed to do, who he needed to see.

  He went first to the palace, but it took only a few minutes of listening in the right places to realize that the murder had not happened there. Slipping away, he tried to remember where Lazzaro's house was located. He ran his tongue over his lips at the thought, but it was not a detail he had ever thought he would need to know. The Duke of Nascimbeni was not the sort of man he had ever imagined—

  Nascimbeni, of course. The old Wine Quarter, now purely residential. Lazzaro had a manor house there, right up against a small, private inlet. It had once been a wine warehouse, the private inlet letting in the boats that brought wine from vineyards up and down the coast.

  Moving quickly through the streets, Celeste made his way to the Lazzaro's home. When he reached it, a rather heavily-muscled servant was manning the door. "His grace is not receiving guests."

  "Obviously not, when he is in my bed on the far side of the city," Celeste replied, and displayed the signet ring with which he had foolishly refused to part. "I am here in regards to your recent troubles."

  "Shove off," the man said. "No fancy ring gets by me, poppet. You'll have to do better."

  Celeste smiled, smooth and cool. "Very well. Tell his Highness that Celeste has arrived."

  The man narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased that Celeste knew of Benito's presence. "Wait here," he ordered, and then vanished inside. He reappeared only a couple of minutes later and said, "Come on, then." Turning around, he led the way through the enormous, old, and incredibly beautiful house. The stonework, the wood, the paintings, the sculptures…Celeste had never before envied ano
ther man's fate, or even his possessions, but he really would not mind the Bellerosa piece hanging in Lazzaro's foyer.

  Shaking his head at himself, Celeste focused on the matter at hand and braced himself for whatever was to come as he entered the study to which the steward had led him. Prince Benito smiled tiredly as he saw Celeste. He sat at what must be Lazzaro's desk, drinking a glass of brandy. "Ah, Crown Jewel, I did wonder if it was you he raced off to see. How is he?"

  "Asleep," Celeste said. "He was quite distraught."

  "Asleep?" Benito echoed, clearly surprised. "How in the names of all the gods did you manage that?"

  "The same way I exhaust all men who come to see me," Celeste replied.

  Benito's expression changed from surprise to knowing speculation, and Celeste liked it as much on Benito's face as he had on Tula's. "Yet most men pay you and I sense Lazo did not, and that is not the Crown Jewel I know."

  Celeste said nothing, for what was there to say? It was true. Instead, he asked, "Do you know the poison that killed … I am sorry, I do not believe Lazzaro ever gave the man's name, or I did not properly note it."

  "Santino," Benito sad, "and by some miracle, he is still alive. Only barely, mind you; he could still die. If he survives until tomorrow morning, he should recover fully."

  Relief flooded through Celeste. "That makes good hearing, Highness. Do you know the poison that was used?"

  Benito nodded and tossed back the last of his brandy, before replying, "Royal rose. A good choice, I must say. Whoever the bastard is, he does know his business."

  Celeste frowned, "That's illegal to grow now, and the fines and penalties are severe enough that most do not bother." No one had been happy about it either, when Benito's grandfather had outlawed the plant. It had been useful for many things, but it had been too often used as a poison, to the point where it really had been a bane to the kingdom. Even Marco would not touch the stuff, despite the fact that it had been even more popular that dream smoke .