She laughed and handed him the fresh cup. “You have a future, then. Tell me, when will you go to school?”
“I have been taking lessons here and there.”
She nodded and stirred cream into her tea. “The rich Englishman has been teaching you?”
“Yes, as long as I take good care of his horses and show off to his lady visitors every so often,” he lied. “They seem very impressed by his charity and keep him company for hours. And he almost never strikes me or locks me in a closet anymore. Or makes me sleep in the stables. Or find him a pretty whore. Or eat only what the servants have left over once they are done, if anything. They do not care for me much, but it makes no difference. I just want to learn.”
“I am sure!” Mrs. Picard’s face twisted in horror.
André’s lips twitched, but he managed to hold back the laughter threatening to ruin his fun. Then he asked sheepishly, “Do you have any of those chocolates, madame? I dream about those sometimes. I cannot have any kind of sweets. He says it would spoil me.”
“Of course, André,” she gushed sympathetically, bringing her hand to his shoulder to comfort him from across the tea table. “I save some for you even though you hardly ever see me anymore. I keep them hidden.” She rose and disappeared around a corner and into another room.
As soon as she was out of sight, André dashed to the other side of the room and began sifting through the drawers of the side table. If the rumors were true, there would be some very interesting correspondence hidden away. He found sewing thread, needles, and patches of fabric in one. In the second were random pens and sheets of paper, an ink well, and a letter opener. Within the third drawer down, he found folded doilies and a tablecloth. He looked underneath the tablecloth and found a bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon with a name elegantly scrawled on the front. André stuffed them into his shirt and quietly shut the drawer.
He padded back to his chair and settled into it, sipping the tea as Madame Picard reentered the room. She had a small box in her hand when she sat back down at the table. She opened the wooden box, then drew out two truffles.
“Here you are, André. Enjoy.”
“Merci, madame!” André greedily shoved the first truffle into his mouth, washing it down with hot tea. The second truffle was savored as he slowly let it melt in his mouth.
“Now, if you are quite done, you must leave. A working girl is very busy, you know, and I have a full night tonight.” She rose, then walked him to the door.
“Thank you for the tea and chocolates, madame.”
“You are very welcome, André. Keep a lookout. Perhaps you will find a better place than with that nasty Englishman,” she said, but he was already walking away.
“Mais oui, madame!” André called as he rounded the stairs.
* * *
Nick had just settled in his study for a quiet evening with his ledgers when André came bursting through the heavy mahogany door.
“Gad, André! What on God’s green earth are you thinking, barging in like this? You could give a man an apoplexy by interrupting in such a fashion.”
“Oui, but—I mean, I am sorry, but—”
“From the look of you, I assume you have a rather interesting reason for your behavior,” he said, taking in the boy’s ratty clothes and labored breathing.
“I do!” André’s eyes lit up excitedly.
Nick kept André as he would a son of his own loins, sparing no expense. Therefore, when he saw André in such a disgraceful state, he was more than a little suspicious as to what the lad had been up to.
Nick leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his stomach, ready to chide the boy for whatever law he had just broken, but he was unable to wipe the amusement off his face.
“Well, what is it?”
“I found something for you.” André grinned boastfully as he dropped the bundle of letters on Nick’s desk.
Nick straightened and picked up the bundle.
“What are these, André?” he asked soberly as soon as he read the name.
“Letters.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he returned dryly. “Where did you find them?”
“In Madame Picard’s drawers.”
“Pardon me, lad?” Nick asked incredulously with more than a little reproach.
“The drawers of her side table. That prostituée will never touch my manhood. I would be left with the pox for sure!” André exclaimed with an exaggerated look of disgust.
“That lady you called on, do you mean?” he corrected with raised brows. Then he continued distractedly as he thumbed through the envelopes, “And what manhood? You ought not to even be thinking about your member for another decade. By then, you might have an idea of how to use it.”
André laughed, eliciting a disapproving glance from Nick.
“And when,” Nick added as he slid out a folded paper from the first envelope. “I thought I told you to stay away from that part of town.”
“She gives me chocolates,” André said with a shrug.
“That isn’t all she may give you. I have told you how easy it is to be snatched up and bound on a ship as slave labor. If it is chocolates you are after, I believe the kitchen is below stairs.”
“But she has truffles,” André argued.
Nick glanced up blankly. “Pull a bell rope, and perhaps you may casually mention to the servant who pops in that you require a truffle. Or a box. Or a dozen boxes. I could not care less.”
“Yes, sir. It will not happen again.” André’s smile disappeared.
Nick grunted, hating that he had to scold André, and looked down to read the first letter. It felt like his heart stopped before it tripled its normal pace.
The letter was what he needed. While not quite enough to take down the entire organization, it was enough of a confirmation for Nick to know he was following the right rabbit hole.
“Will she suspect you?” Nick asked without glancing up from the letter.
“I do not believe so,” André answered pensively. “She entertains many men there who are much worse than me.”
“Still, I want you to avoid that part of town,” Nick said as he tapped the stack of letters on the desk. “Who knows what might happen should Madame Picard suddenly find you out to be her enemy?”
* * *
A week had passed since Céleste had spoken with Pembridge about the investigation. She had expected to hear something by now—progress or the lack thereof. She hoped Béarn was right about him. She hoped he was making some kind of headway, because he certainly did not look like a private investigator. At least, not like those she had hired thus far. Then again, he might be the perfect man for sniffing out criminals and evidence of their nefarious deeds.
A scoundrel to find scoundrels.
The reminder of his rakish ways brought back the memory of his touch as though it had just happened. He had been tender and teasing. She had felt desired and cherished. And it had all been a lie.
The rake was skilled at his craft. He must have practiced with scores of women.
The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth. She was ashamed for being so wanton, for losing herself in the ministrations of someone who loved women for sport. She had gone into it with a cool head, intending to keep her wits about her. She was a widow, after all. She knew what she was doing. Or, at least she had thought she did, but she’d had no idea so much heat could be created between a man and a woman.
Pierre had been impotent. They had managed to consummate the marriage, if only just, but he had been so humiliated he would hardly kiss her afterward.
Regardless of whatever it was that had transpired between her and Pembridge, she still had to communicate with the man. She needed to know if he had found anything. The letters she had sent him three days ago and yesterday had both been returned unanswered. The reprobate was ignoring her.
She had gone out of her way to cross Pembridge’s path at every evening entertainment throughout the week. However,
the infuriating man had only attended one soiree and had spent all of his time in the card room. Consequently, she had combed the Champs de Élysées during the fashionable hours, expecting to see him.
For being a very fashionable man, she had only seen him promenading the Champs de Élysées twice, and neither time had he done more than tip his hat and ride on.
Perhaps he had not taken her seriously. Perhaps he had meant only to humor her by accepting the task and now expected to wait until she gave up.
A sliver of rage began to boil through her, but she was never one to give in to emotions. At least, she had not been before she had met that Englishman, and she had been doing just dandy without the pesky things.
She picked up her teacup and saucer from the dainty cherry wood table beside her and sipped quietly, forcing herself to calm. The room did a lot to help with that.
She was in the rose parlor. It was a warm and bright room with windows from floor to ceiling across two walls. The other two walls were covered in the pink print of small roses with blue ribbons weaved throughout, and two paintings of flowered fields completed the look. The tall ceiling was crisscrossed with large white beams and a single chandelier. Large rose bushes sat right outside the windows, an introduction to the lavish garden beyond.
It was a sunny June day with a light breeze. Absolutely not a day to spend upset.
She knew Pembridge would make an appearance tonight at the same ball she was to attend. She would speak with him if it killed her.
With a decided clack, she set down the teacup and rose to change for the evening. Her new gown had just arrived, and she would be expected by her peers to wear it perfectly. The real challenge was managing a coiffure that matched its elegance.
* * *
Nick waited by a large, potted plant in the corner of the ballroom. From this alcove, he could see exactly when the Duc de Béarn entered, but he would not be easily seen by others.
He had a bit of news for the duke, not to mention a bit of a set down if he could manage it with dignity while hiding behind a leaf.
The ballroom could easily fit the one hundred people standing on its marble floors. One large chandelier lit the room, along with several sconces holding candles. In one corner, musicians floated a happy melody over the din from their place on a dais. In the other corner, the refreshments table seemed to consistently have at least two or three persons perusing its spread. All in all, it was quite lovely and well done.
He had been there for nearly half an hour when he spotted a familiar face in black evening attire. The Duc de Béarn had arrived and was speaking with someone.
Nick leaned as far as he could until he spotted who was occupying the duke’s attention. His jaw clenched. Lady Dumonte. He had been hoping to avoid the woman. He had seen her more this past week than he had thought possible. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was stalking him.
He had nothing to tell her. To be honest, he had not been putting too much effort into her case. He had sifted through the gendarmerie’s files regarding Lord Dumonte and had come up empty-handed. Local law enforcement had nothing that alluded to anything nefarious. Then again, he had not expected there to be. By now, they would have destroyed a few files if the files had even been written in the first place. He had just hoped they might have missed something. It turned out they were quite thorough if they were anything at all.
Nick waited for what felt like an hour, but when he found his watch fob, only ten minutes had passed. He sighed inwardly and leaned his shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and one foot crossed over the other.
From here, he could see where Béarn and Lady Dumonte stood, talking. She was a vision clad in a lavender gown, the waist cinched with a thick ribbon, and ruffles lined the bodice along her exposed shoulders. The lace shawl sported the same lavender hue as the gown, doing little to cover her skin. Pearl drops clung to each ear, and dark ringlets twisted around a loosely pinned chignon. If he weren’t hiding from her, he would be resolute to dance with her. It didn’t help that he still tasted her tongue winding with his and felt her fingers on his neck, pulling him down to her.
Nick straightened, feeling himself embarrassingly aroused. He turned his attention to the couples taking to the floor. He watched three complete sets while the duke charmed Lady Dumonte. Or at least, it appeared that way. Béarn had been giving her his undivided attention, and she had been flashing him demure smiles.
Finally, Nick noticed Béarn bow and step away. Nick would have thought it safe to quickly steer Béarn into the card room had Lady Dumonte not been sending secret glances around the room. She was probably looking for him, and he was not going to be found.
Nick scrawled a note, using a small note pad and a pencil he kept in his pocket.
“You there, footman,” he called just loudly enough to catch the man’s attention as he strode past.
Nick peeked out from behind the plant, beckoning the footman over and handing him the note.
“Duc de Béarn. Quickly, now.”
A few minutes later, Béarn ambled up to the plant with an openly amused expression.
“Pembridge, if someone had said to me that you were hiding behind the foliage during a fashionable ball, I would say they must be mistaken. Perhaps they require a new quizzing glass. Alas, here you are. You manage to keep me quite surprised, mon ami.” He laughed.
“Very humorous, Your Grace,” Nick replied dryly. “Nearly as humorous as having a woman single-handedly dismantle everything I have worked for—everything we have worked for—these five years.”
Béarn grinned. “Tell me this again when you are not cowering behind a plant, Pembridge.”
Nick stared blankly at Béarn before frowning. “Oh, God, I know. What has happened to me?”
“She does it to everyone.”
“I have no doubt,” Nick mused. “Béarn, I have something to tell you, and I could not chance us being interrupted. It is terribly important.”
“There must be a better way, Pembridge,” Béarn drawled.
“Perhaps,” Nick returned. “But if I execute just three more fatal strikes to my pride, I shall become Nicholas the Humble and be canonized a saint.”
Béarn frowned. “That wasn’t necessary. Anyway, isn’t your given name William?”
“Just listen, will you? I am now in possession of some incriminating letters between a certain Madame and Chouvigny,” Nick explained.
The duke’s expression darkened immediately. “You are sure?”
“Signed and sealed by the devil himself.”
“Then we have him!” Béarn exclaimed before calming himself and glancing around to make sure no one had heard him.
“Not quite,” Nick argued. “Those letters weren’t as descriptive as I would like. We might pin him with some minor solicitation affiliated nonsense, but that is nothing. We want them all. And we want them for everything!”
“But surely—”
“Béarn, are you conversing with the plant life?” Céleste’s cold, brown eyes turned from Béarn to Nick in surprise. “Well, well, well. I was not aware this was a costume ball, Lord Pembridge. Or was it not your intention to wear this plant all evening?”
“Only two more strikes now, Béarn,” Nick muttered under his breath. “They will write a bloody hymn about me.” He cleared his throat, stepping out from behind the large plant.
Béarn hid his amusement with a small cough behind his hand.
“Lady Dumonte, a pleasure,” Nick greeted soberly as he took her hand and bowed over it.
“Certainly, it is,” she returned flatly with a raised brow.
“Lady Dumonte, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave of this fine ball for the evening. Please give Lady Juliette my apologies.” Béarn bowed slightly, then dipped his chin at Nick before making his way to the exit.
“Rather hasty, is he not?” Céleste asked as she watched Béarn. She turned back with an accusing glare at Nick. “You disappoint me. I expect
ed someone who preys on innocent young ladies to fight harder for his hunting grounds.”
“I am sure I have no idea what you mean, Lady Dumonte,” Nick returned with only a hint of warning. Then he added lightly, “Are you enjoying the dancing?” He nodded amiably at a couple strolling past.
“You have been avoiding me,” she accused crossly. “Did you think I would not notice? You might not take this seriously, but my husband’s murder—oh!”
His mock amusement vanished as he pulled her along with him behind the potted plant. “My dear, Lady Dumonte,” he grated on a low whisper, “I shall have you remember you hired me. And I use that term very loosely. If you have a problem with the way I work, then I suggest you find someone else to force an investigation out of.”
Her honey-brown eyes flashed at him as she tugged her arm free.
“Why are we here?” she asked. “This is ridiculous.”
He grabbed her elbow as she started to leave the cover of the leaves. “Oh, no, you don’t. I do not need all of Paris knowing you are calling your husband’s death a murder and expecting me to do something about it. Either a scandal will erupt, the likes of which we have never seen, or someone is going to put a hard stop to my meddling ways. Most probably both.”
“How absurd—”
“Now, I detest scandal just as much as the next, especially when it involves me. However, I detest the thought of having my life cut short even more.” As he spoke, he looked past her, his gaze raking the crowded room for anyone seeming to direct an unhealthy level of curiosity in their direction.
“Are…? Are you saying I shall get you killed?” she asked incredulously, her cheeks turning the slightest shade of rose. His fingers itched for the warmth he knew he would find there.
He flexed his hand on her elbow before he released her. “I meant no offense. Someone with my habits cannot be too careful. One never knows who might be listening.” Nick studied her silently for a moment, then added flatly, “You do realize what I do is terribly dangerous, and it is quite likely I may just stop popping in one day.”
That seemed to take her down a few degrees. Though, behind her calm façade, he guessed there was a war waging with copious amounts of blood and carnage.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 6