Winter's Touch (The Last Riders Book 8) (23 page)

Had he truly just waxed poetic to Lady Dumonte, the woman bent on destroying every rake in Paris? Had he completely lost his mind?

“You called me ‘love.’”

Oh, dear.

“Part of the poem,” he lied casually. “If I were truly a devil, I would call you ‘my sweet’ and ‘blossom.’”

She shook her head slightly. “It was not a full sonnet. You are missing the last two lines,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “Though your voice rumbles so smoothly at that volume one almost forgets to count.”

“Is that so?” he asked with a knit brow, unwilling to believe his ears.

“Mm.” She nodded. “And when your breath warms the ear, it is extremely difficult to concentrate.”

“Uh-huh.” Now it was Nick’s turn for incredulousness. At least he managed to cover it with a wobbly smile as he took another step away from her.

Scoundrel or no, being alone with that woman for too long would drive any man to deplorable acts of depravity… or homicide.

Perhaps he could just make her disappear. Surely, she had done something heinous in her lifetime. Starved helpless children. Trampled old men with her carriage. Drowned puppies whilst laughing maniacally. Or who knew, maybe she was the blackguard he had been looking for this whole time. He doubted it, though.

The waltz ended seconds after he had stepped away from her, and the guests were now shuffling back. They filed in around the pillars, chairs, and refreshments, brushing by him on their way.

With a sizable audience now at hand, he managed the few steps required for a normal speaking distance with the woman who, for some strange reason, was still standing between the confounded drapes.

“I am afraid I must go.” He smiled apologetically.
Before stress drives me to strangle either you or myself.
“’Twas lovely, Lady Dumonte. Good evening.” He bowed over her hand.

“What? You have given up so soon?”

His jaw tensed. “Pardon?”

“What a cream puff,” she muttered, a half smile pulling at one side of her lips.

“A cream—” He blinked, surprised. By gad, the lady was
toying
with him. “You are, indeed, a cruel woman, my lady.”

“How am I to know what kind of a man you are if I do not see how you act under pressure?”

He still couldn’t quite believe it, but it was true. The lady had played him for a fool.

“Did I disappoint you?” Nick asked, his brows rising with a reluctant hint of amusement.

“No, not really,” she mused with a blush so slight Nick almost missed it. “I thought you might try to seduce your way out. Although, I certainly did not expect the desperate attempt at a sonnet.”

“That was not my best moment,” Nick admitted. He pulled his quizzing glass from his waistcoat pocket, swinging it in tiny circles around his hand. “But since you have played cruel games with my pride and lured me into showing my true colors, do you now plan to slay the wolf?”

“I was not aware you were attempting to hide your colors.”

He raised his quizzing glass to his chest and knit his brow. “It has been a trial, but I have managed to behave myself tonight.”

“
That
was behaving?” she asked incredulously. “I am surprised you came at all.”

“Yes, well, I could not very well turn down an invitation from the most beautiful—” At Lady Dumonte’s raised brow of serious doubt, he stopped and chuckled. “A favor to a friend.”

“It must have been some friend for you to risk so much.” She glanced over him dispassionately. “I do not like you.”

“You are too kind,” he drawled.

When she swept past him, Nick followed and fell in beside her.

“We elite are not a kind people, Lord Pembridge.”

“I must disagree with you,” Nick said. “I have the good fortune of knowing many very kind people.”

“Then you are very fortunate, indeed,” she replied. “I only know two.”

“Between you and Béarn, I begin to wonder where Parisian society meets their friends.”

The music changed pace again and struck up the first chords of a country-dance.

The crowd along the outer wall began to thin as the couples took their positions once more.

“They are good
ton,
and if they have unsavory habits, they keep them to themselves
.
Whether I find them
kind
or not is irrelevant,” she said simply.

“If I chose my comrades based on social status alone,” Nick warned, “I might find myself surrounded by a worse sort than the kind you are fighting so desperately to weed out.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“I have known rakes and racketeers who were more honorable and trustworthy than some of your
fellows here.”

“Honorable rake,” she drew out. “Does that not sound contradictory to you?”

Nick grinned. “Only to those who are not familiar with the skill.”

“That wouldn’t take skill,” she said flatly. “It would take magic.”

“Take the duke, for example,” Nick went on, ignoring her sarcastic remark. “Béarn is a gentleman to his very bones. In fact, if he were alone with a lady, he would be more likely to preach politics than love. Still, he understands the phenomena of the honorable rake.”

“Does he?” she asked. “Perhaps he simply indulges you.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Nick returned with mock horror.

She donned a secretive smile. “Speaking of my dear friend Béarn, you were right before. I was acknowledging the duke. Perhaps you should determine where your friend’s loyalty lies before you grant yours so blindly. Good evening, my lord.”

Without another word, she turned to join a group of chatting tabbies several feet away, a group in which he was obviously not welcome, and that was fine with him.

A few things were immediately very clear. First of all, this whole mess was Béarn’s fault. The only satisfaction: a round of fisticuffs. Secondly, Nick had needlessly made a fool of himself whilst somewhere that double-dealing traitor watched. He was sure of it. Having a good laugh, too, Nick would wager. Thirdly, Lady Dumonte was the most aggravating woman he had ever met, and he hoped never to meet her again.

He turned around and weaved his way through the crowd to the exit. The night was young, but he had been working long days and could use a few extra hours of sleep, especially after this evening. Once he was rested, he needed to focus on the Comte de Chouvigny, the man he and Béarn suspected of organizing the prostitution ring and the kidnappings.

On the street, he whistled loudly in a short burst. Thirty seconds later, he was in a carriage and on his way to his temporary home of five years now.

Nick had the esteemed privilege of residing at the Soubise. It seemed the Home Office claimed Nick was a historian and collector who would be best placed over the Imperial Archives during his stay in Paris, however long. Receiving a little bribery was never on Nick’s list of unforgivable sins, and since they had offered, it would have been rude of him to refuse. He had to work this prostitution case in exchange, but he felt it was a fair trade. It did not interfere with his own private reasons for being in Paris—his self-assigned mission to find the Bonapartists who had conspired with his father against England.

Nick was thoroughly impressed with the arrangements, even more so once he had seen the place. Very few could compare with its elegant beige and gold plated walls, ceiling murals, marble fireplaces, and incredible attention to detail. The only residence he had noticed that came close to its splendor had been Lady Dumonte’s, of course.

A chuckle caught in his throat when he realized his traitorous mind had slipped back to thoughts of the woman.

He whistled a lighthearted tune as the carriage stopped, and he alighted to the grand building.

“Good evening, my lord.” An elderly man in a black coat and trousers took Nick’s hat, greatcoat, tailcoat, and cane.

“Good evening, Jacques. Is André here?” Nick turned to a large mirror and straightened his waistcoat and shirt points.

“In the kitchens, your lordship,” he replied with a sniff of disdain.

Nick’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. He had the stuffiest butler in Paris, but the poor man would simply have to adapt. For all Nick’s fashion, he wanted his home to be a haven of comfort, which meant if one wished to eat in the kitchens with the servants, they may. If one wished to walk about without one’s coat on, so be it. Nick had few rules at home: be clean, be comfortable, and—above all—be a gentleman.

Now that Nick was comfortable in only his silver and blue embroidered waistcoat, shirt, and tan trousers, he made his way to the kitchens where the aroma of fresh bread and roasted plum jam wafted through the halls to prod him on. He picked up his pace at the promise of a late night snack, the din from the cook and André filling the hall as he approached.

He strode in and plopped down at the table next to André, a boy of about thirteen. He licked his lips as he reached for a roll and a jar of plum jam while the boy continued his loud conversation with the cook. After Nick devoured the roll in a few savory bites, he poured himself a tall glass of ale from the pitcher on the table.

“Did you make fresh bread this late?” Nick asked before biting into another soft, steamy roll.

“I did, my lord,” the cheery cook replied.

“Tastes like heaven,” he muttered around the bite. Then he turned to the boy. “Mrs. Brice, have I given permission for you to feed your tasty fresh bread to this brat?” he asked with a mischievous grin.

“You know, if I didn’t feed the boy, he would steal it,” she replied.

“Gad, I suppose I do,” Nick said as he removed the boy’s hat and mussed his hair. “Only because he knows he would get away with it.” He tossed the hat behind him, then picked up his half-eaten roll. “We do not wear our hats inside, my boy, and certainly not when we are eating.”

André grinned back at him, flashing teeth too big for his mouth.

“You didn’t happen to see Chouvigny tonight, did you?” Nick asked as he slathered on more of the plum jam.

“Oui, he was at the brothel with Monsieur Cuendet and looked especially exhausted by the time he returned to his home. She must have been
une très bonne
pute
to leave him so.”

Without warning, Nick reached out and pulled André by his shirt collar off his bench seat and onto the floor. He still sat, eating his roll while André picked himself up and sat back down.

“What was that for?” the boy asked indignantly. “You brought it up. It is safe to talk in this room.
Il est privé ici.”

“A gentleman does not mention vulgarities in the presence of a lady,” Nick replied simply.

“What lady?” André asked as he took a large bite of a sweet roll.

“Mrs. Brice, of course.”

“Ah! My lord!” Mrs. Brice exclaimed with a blush from the other side of the kitchen. “You two and your games!”

Nick grinned boyishly at the sight of the large woman beaming. “You are a lady if I ever saw one, Mrs. Brice.” Then he threw a side-glance at André. “Every woman is a lady. Do you understand?”

“Not
every
woman,” André argued with a confident smile.

Nick twisted in his seat to fully face the boy. “Every woman you are with is a lady if you are a gentleman, André. If you are good, you can make the lady you desire believe she is a queen. The woman you love, a goddess.” Nick smiled and took another bite of sweet roll.

“What if I don’t find a woman to love?” André’s brow knit.

“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.

“
C
éleste
, 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.

* * *

C
éleste 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 was 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.

* * *

C
éleste 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?”