“You will find her.” Nick smiled. “Everyone does.”
“You have not.”
Nick’s smile slipped for just a moment before he caught himself. “What? Fall in love, marry, and give up my manly freedoms? Never!” When it seemed the boy wouldn’t be satisfied with so glib an answer, Nick explained cryptically, “I have chosen not to find my goddess, André. I have a duty, a matter of honor. You do not. So don’t worry your fool head over it.”
For another hour, they sat and talked while Mrs. Brice tidied the kitchen for the night. When that was done, Mrs. Brice and André went to bed. It was a late bedtime for a boy of thirteen, he supposed, but he was glad the boy had been there to talk to. He kept Nick human. Nick spent so much time playing a part or doing things he would rather forget. André was the only sane part of his life.
He thought back to when he had first brought André into his home. When Nick had been caught in an alley and near brained to death, the boy had showed up with a pistol he had stolen off an officer the day before. He had caught one thug in the leg, giving Nick the opportunity to overtake his other attacker.
André had been scrawny and terribly weak after running away from the workhouse the orphanage had sent him to, but Nick had brought him back to health, and they had immediately fallen into an easy friendship. He had been forced to pay a pretty penny to the workhouse and the orphanage because of the arrangement they had already set up for the boy, but two years later, Nick could not imagine being without him. Nick had eyes all over Paris, but André was the only orphan Nick had taken in as his own.
He extinguished the light and made his way upstairs, then found himself peeking into André’s room. The boy looked peaceful and angelic lying there. Hard to tell he was such a handful, disappearing and stealing, cursing, and tracking in mud through the halls. One day, Nick would be successful in civilizing the rapscallion. God willing.
He shook his head with a crooked grin and quietly shut the door.
Minutes later, Nick lay fast asleep in his own chamber just down the hall. Too tired to finish undressing, he lay curled atop his bedclothes in nothing but his trousers, stockings, and one shoe, which he had started to remove but decided it could wait.
Chapter 2
“Céleste, I must know; what was your true intention in inviting Lord Pembridge?” Juliette primly poured tea in Lady Dumonte’s parlor the day after the ball. “I saw the two of you behind that pillar. It is not like you to mingle with rakes and scoundrels in such a way… or any way, for that matter.”
“No, I suppose not,” Céleste replied, as she accepted the dainty teacup Juliette offered her.
“So, there is something to this strange change of character?”
“I would hardly call it a change of character,” Céleste answered.
“Oh, come now! You are purposefully keeping things from me!” Juliette’s posture broke, and she leaned forward. “Is he a lover?”
Céleste laughed. “Dear, no. What would I want with a lover?”
“Oh, the usual.” The pretty blonde straightened. “He is a very attractive man.”
“Is he?” Physically, perhaps. His face was certainly the most handsome she had ever seen, and she would have to be dead or blind not to notice the rest of him.
His tailor must be exceptionally skilled, seeing how well his clothes clung to him without limiting his mobility in the slightest. The man was uncommonly graceful, in fact. Even his fragrance was mind muddling, being mostly sandalwood with a hint of orange. Regardless, he was a scoundrel who left a trail of broken hearts. That was a powerful motivator to keep one’s wits about them.
“Then, what is your intention?”
“He has been rumored to have a certain set of skills which I require.” Céleste added cream to her tea and stirred with a small silver spoon.
“Yes, I have heard some of those rumors,” Juliette muttered with a raised brow. “Are you sure you have not taken him as a lover?”
“I have not taken a lover.” And if she were to take a lover, he would not be it. He was too charming by half. A man like him could steal a girl’s heart without even trying, shattering it with a single—and no doubt equally charming—goodbye.
“Then I do not understand what you would need his skills for.”
“Not those skills, Juliette,” she admonished with a delicate knit in her brow. “I have heard he is very adept at obtaining sensitive information, documents, and things.”
“You mean he is a thief… who attends gossip?” Juliette asked, completely unaffected by the slight scold.
“No,” she corrected, “more like a private investigator.”
“What are you doing with a private investigator?” Juliette asked before popping a bit of cake into her mouth.
“I want him to look into Pierre’s death.”
Céleste silently prepared herself for the objections that would soon be raised. Juliette was more like a sister, and like sisters, they did not always agree. This was one of those disagreements.
Juliette set her cup down carefully and leveled a concerned eye on her friend. “You should let sleeping dogs lie, Céleste. You don’t know what evil you might dig up.”
“I must know what happened to my husband. What really happened,” she insisted.
There had to be more to it than suicide. He wouldn’t have left her like that without reason or without her seeing something was wrong.
“And you will drag that poor Englishman into your mess, too.” Juliette shook her head. “Have you told him he may end up as dead as the others you hired?”
“I have not spoken to him about this yet, but Béarn wouldn’t have recommended him if he did not believe the Englishman could do it. Do you not think it odd these people are dying?”
“People die daily, Céleste. If you mean your investigators, I think it is a curse,” Juliette answered flatly.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Is that why Béarn sent him after you last night? What if he has sense and refuses? Do you plan to seduce the man until he agrees to this suicide mission you insist upon? He is a highly desirous rake, and a terribly wealthy one at that.” She gestured to Céleste. “What could you possibly tempt him with?”
Céleste stiffened at the rebuke. “Nonsense. There is no curse, and my body is mine and mine alone. I shall not use it as payment,” she insisted.
“I doubt it would feel much like payment with him,” Juliette mused, pumping her eyebrows. “He has been a friend of Béarn’s for some years now. I have even spoken with him when he dares approach with the duke. Though, he never dared while you were attending,” Juliette smiled. “I usually see him lingering about with young debutantes, very blonde and very beautiful debutantes. I am sure I have not a clue what he prefers in his bed. He keeps that quiet enough, but I assume it is in similar taste.”
Céleste did not comment on Juliette’s ridiculous statement—either of them. They were most likely true. What was settling in her mind was the thought she was nearly thirty. Only a couple more years.
Juliette was right; she had everything yet nothing to offer him. But she never intended to offer him anything. He was a scoundrel, not a gentleman. One did not cut deals with scoundrels. One gave them ultimatums.
* * *
Céleste received a plethora of invitations on a weekly basis that were not accepted. Some were rejected due to the host’s low status, some due to previous engagements, and some simply because she needed to stay in a couple nights a week. She had nothing against the lower classes; it was simply good business to avoid them. She had worked hard to scale to the top after the scandal with her late husband. Once word had gotten out about it being a suicide, her reputation had been ruined, and it would have stayed that way had she not been a terribly wealthy dowager comtesse with a duke as her friend. Enough money and the right amount of connections could work magic. Even so, she had to be careful. Keeping her distinguished social status was a strategic game.
All the same, she wa
s determined to speak with the Englishman, and he would associate with almost anyone.
Tonight, he was expected to grace the parlors of Mrs. Lily Talbot, an up and coming English socialite who was only in Paris on holiday.
“Accept,” she voiced challengingly. Thanks to her Englishman, Lily Talbot’s station amongst le bon ton just raised a notch.
She folded her reply and dropped it into the smaller pile.
If Juliette had not left hours ago, she would have been witness to the rare show of charity. As it was, Céleste sat alone in her parlor with its tall, lavender walls and elaborate, floral furnishings. A large Aubusson rug covered nearly the entire floor of lacquered wooden planks. Windows brightened the space, but today, they only magnified the emptiness of it all.
Glancing around the room, Céleste was reminded of Pierre sitting across from her, helping her choose which invitations to accept or deny between his rants of the shortfalls and shows of genius of Napoleon and his theory on how the war could have been won. Other times, he would be reading or smoking his pipe. She missed the smell of his pipe and the way he frowned and held it near his lips as he mulled over her occasional argument or reflected on something he had read.
A tear trailed down her cheek. She missed him. Not a day went by that she did not yearn to hear his voice again. His gentle voice. The deep ache never abated; the emptiness he left, never satisfied. One might think the pain would lessen over time, but she only missed him more. Perhaps the pain was dull now rather than sharp as it was, but it was no less painful.
She dashed the tear away and refocused on the piles of envelopes. She was now more determined than ever to redeem the honor of her dearest friend, a friend who would never have left her in such a way unless he had been forced to. She was sure of it. She was only in want of the evidence to prove it.
* * *
Céleste entered the modest home of Lily Talbot fashionably late and with low expectations. The house itself was missing a ballroom, but the parlor was large and decorated tastefully.
“Lady Dumonte, quelle surprise!” Mrs. Talbot smiled broadly. “What an honor it is that you grace us this evening, and you look absolutely stunning.” She took Céleste’s hand and squeezed affectionately, her warmth catching Céleste off guard.
“It is my pleasure. You have a lovely home, Mrs. Talbot.”
“That is kind of you to say, my dear.” The arrival of another guest noticeably caught her attention. “Oh, forgive me, but I must greet the other guests. You might be interested to know a member of your class is expected to join us this evening. When he arrives I shall instruct him to keep you company.”
“That is not necessary, Mrs. Talbot,” Céleste said, but the older woman waved away her objections.
“He is utterly enchanting,” Mrs. Talbot returned, already walking toward the door. “Madame Leroy, so glad you could come.”
Céleste blinked, rather certain she had never been so neatly dismissed in her life. She was sure she did not know anyone nearly as blithe as Mrs. Talbot seemed to be, and was baffled to realize she could not dislike the woman. In fact, she rather desired to converse with her.
She glanced over to where Mrs. Talbot now stood. The hostess was barely viewable, surrounded as she was by at least ten other women. They were all laughing.
To her shame, envy churned in her gut, and she turned away, forcing thoughts of Mrs. Talbot to the back of her mind. She wasn’t here to make friends, or find some fabled secret to happiness. As impossible as it might sound, she was here to convince a scoundrel to restore her late husband’s honor by uncovering the truth about his death.
She took a moment to scan the room. It was an intimate affair with no more than fifty people, and she didn’t see a single scoundrel amongst them. Pembridge must have made a last minute decision not to come.
She fought an unladylike frown as she made her way to the refreshments table. She might as well try to eat something. It might calm her stomach, and give her time to concoct an excuse for leaving early.
Baba au rhum and cream puffs with chocolate shavings. If anything, she could not fault Mrs. Talbot’s cook. The simple desserts tasted delicious, and she made quick work of savoring every last bite. Her own cook seemed to overthink food and ended up with an overly complicated art exhibit rather than something edible.
“Perhaps you will accept another plateful before all is eaten?”
Céleste startled and whirled to face the rumble intruding on her thoughts. Any excuse for leaving she might have formed was lost completely when she nearly collided into the scoundrel’s chest.
“I understand there is a new guest present who is devouring all the sweets,” Pembridge added, grinning down at her.
He was dressed to perfection in gray trousers, a light blue silk waistcoat, a perfectly snowy cravat, and a dark blue superfine coat. The man dressed as though he was born for high fashion, yet he seemed to fit in effortlessly with this crowd. Perhaps it was that wolfish smile he was always sporting, which was boyish when it was tired of being wolfish. For him, smiling must be a chronic affliction.
Céleste stepped back, bumping her thighs into the table. “Pardon?”
“Another plate?” Pembridge smiled—boyishly today—as he proffered a plate piled with sweet desserts and truffles, all of which looked incredibly delicious to Céleste.
“Are you intimating I overindulge?” she asked, licking her lips to make sure there was no lingering chocolate. That would be too humiliating to endure.
His carefree chuckle rumbled over her, sending tingly sensations over her suddenly over-warm body. She hid her reaction with a raised brow.
“I intimate nothing. I say precisely what I mean,” he said, still grinning. “And what I said sounded awfully generous of me. Charming, even.”
“Indeed,” she returned flatly.
“I am glad you agree. Besides, the last time you made me think I said the wrong thing, you were toying with me. I shall not fall prey to your games a second time.”
“You did say the wrong thing.” She frowned as she accepted the plate. “Thank you.”
He picked up another plate and loaded it with cucumber sandwiches.
After taking a large bite and managing to consume it with a grace Céleste was jealous of, he added, “Now, what is Lady Dumonte doing at a humble gathering such as this?”
“I cannot meet new people?” she challenged.
He leveled her with an amused and suspicious expression. “You have not spoken with a single person here, have you?”
“What do you mean? Of course I have!”
“The hostess doesn’t count.”
“It is really none of your business,” she muttered.
“Perhaps,” he said after a disconcerting moment of studying her. “It could be because you have not had the opportunity. Allow me to begin introductions.”
“No, I—”
“Oh, it shall not be dull,” he assured her. “I know everyone. All sorts: tailors, bankers, merchants. Madame Roux used to be a proper madame before she found religion.” He pointed to a large woman with a gaudy red dress and purple plumes sticking out from her coiffure. “Now, she could spend hours with you, explaining the mysterious ways of the Father and redemption for the fallen woman.”
“No—”
“Oh,” he interrupted with understanding. “Not exactly familiar with your priest, are you? Well, we can probably cut it short. Only an hour or two.”
Céleste shook her head worriedly.
“Yes.” He nodded, glancing about the room. “We should be able to make our way around the room by the end of the night. However, we had best leave Madame Roux for last,” he warned as he turned with her in tow.
“Wait!”
With raised brows, he turned back to her and waited. So did a few others within a rather large radius.
“I need to speak with you,” she said reluctantly.
“With me?” He pointed to his chest in mock surprise. “You came to a small parlo
r assembly simply to speak with me?”
Was he trying to humiliate her? Some had turned away, but many were watching as though they were putting on a performance, and he certainly seemed to be!
When she nodded very slightly, he dropped the act and smiled.
“I am astonished. Honored, but astonished. Normally, I would assume the lady is after a paramour, but our last attempt did not go so well, and I am afraid my pride could not take the chance of failing a second round. Not to mention, it is widely known that you have not taken a lover since…” He puffed his cheeks out on an exhale, looking up toward the ceiling and squinting as though he were searching for an elusive memory. Then he looked back at her expectantly.
“Really, you are too much,” she ground out.
He raised his brows.
“I have never taken a lover,” she muttered with a slight blush. “Nor do I have need of one.”
“Uh-huh,” he said quietly. “So, what do you want with me, Lady Dumonte?”
“Is there somewhere we might speak more freely?”
“I am afraid not. You shan’t find as much as a mop closet without ears.”
“Then perhaps you would call on me tomorrow,” she said doggedly.
“Lady Dumonte,” Pembridge began patiently, “thank you for the generous invitation to your ball. It was lovely, and the game we played was… interesting. But that is all over now. You are still the paragon Lady Dumonte, and I am still the scoundrel you want eradicated from your assembly rooms. Now, if you will excuse—”
“I thought you wanted to stay in Paris,” she interrupted with a challengingly raised brow.
Pembridge paused mid-bow.
“It would be difficult to remain after the invitations and credit have dried up. It might even be a challenge finding a decent game of cards.”
His eyes narrowed at the thinly veiled threat as he straightened; his smile fading as he studied her.
“Shall we speak now, Lord Pembridge?” she asked, all sweetness. “Have you suddenly recalled a deaf closet nearby?”
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 4