To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

by Kristen McLean

  TO WIN A SCOUNDREL’S HEART

  The Lords of Whitehall

  Kristen McLean

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Paris 1824

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Jamie Begley

  Winter’s Touch

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Young Ink Press Publication

  YoungInkPress.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Kristen McLean

  Edited by C&D Editing and Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Art by Young Ink Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All sexually active characters portrayed in this ebook are eighteen years of age or older. Please do not buy if strong sexual situations, violence, and explicit language offends you.

  Connect with Kristen,

  twitter.com/kristenlmclean

  https://www.facebook.com/kmromance/

  https://kmromance.com

  I dedicate this book to my wonderful husband, who was my inspiration for Nick, and who has supported me from the beginning.

  Paris 1824

  Céleste waited while her abigail nestled the pearl-studded gold comb in her hair amidst a low knot of dark curls. As she expected, it complemented her gown of blue with gold brocade that fit her slim figure with perfection. She ought to be pleased. She ought to feel her usual self—calm, collected, and in complete control—but a dreadful sense of foreboding tormented her, as though she were somehow stepping past the point of no return.

  “You look lovely.” Juliette examined Céleste’s reflection in the mirror.

  Juliette lived with Céleste as a companion, and had for several years. They were the dearest of friends. Even on the worst of days, Juliette could be counted on to chase away unwanted feelings. Grief, sadness, nervousness—they usually dissipated when she was with Juliette. The fact that Céleste still felt her stomach pitching violently despite her friend’s soothing voice only frustrated her.

  “I ought to,” Céleste said. “I have been here for over an hour.” She picked up an ivory handheld mirror to check the back of her coiffure. “What time is it?”

  Juliette smiled sweetly. “Time for your guests to start arriving.”

  “Hmm.” With a deep breath, Céleste set down the mirror, sprayed a touch of perfume on her neck, and grabbed her long gloves, the new ones. She needed all her armor tonight.

  Juliette’s fair brow knit suspiciously. “That isn’t like you,” she said as she followed Céleste to the door. “You anticipate this ball every year. What did you do?”

  Céleste lifted her chin, looking over her shoulder to send her friend a quelling look. “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Juliette turned her nose up mockingly. “I am sure you have every idea what I am talking about.” The blonde beauty crossed her arms stubbornly. “Come now. What have you done to make you dread a ball so?”

  Céleste sighed. “You are like a dog with a bone, are you not?”

  Juliette waited silently for an explanation.

  The corner of Céleste’s lips twitched. No one else would have the audacity to mock and hound her. It was one of the reasons she loved the girl so much.

  “The Duc de Béarn suggested I invite a friend of his, so I penned an extra invitation for him last week.”

  Because Céleste had no time to argue with her dearest friend, she chose to omit that this particular man was considered a capable investigator, and that Béarn thought he might be able to find some answers about her husband’s death. The man was also renowned as a rogue. Céleste hated rogues. Nevertheless, she had run out of options, and she was now lowered to seeking help from a disreputable man.

  Juliette lifted a brow. “And …?”

  “And, what? What more could you possibly want to know?” Céleste started out the door and down the hall, the patter of Juliette’s feet following closely behind.

  “Who is he?” Juliette probed.

  “It is doubtful you would know him.”

  “Humor me.”

  Céleste had understated. Juliette was more like a starving dog with the only bone in existence.

  “Lord Pembridge,” Céleste answered, almost choking on the name.

  “Ooo…” Juliette’s brows lifted with sparked interest. “Is he a target, or do you have other plans for this dashing Englishman?”

  “Nonsense. Béarn is a friend, and he asked a favor.” Céleste tugged on her gloves as they began to make their way down the grand staircase.

  “Yes, but Lord Pembridge is a very charming rake, and you have sworn to rid Paris of the like. Lady Dumonte’s Crusade, they are calling it.”

  A crusade, indeed. All she did was drop a few hints, ask a few favors, and suddenly doors would close on the rakes and scoundrels plaguing Paris one at a time. Only once had she taken specific notice of Lord Pembridge before tonight. She had heard talk of him, and when she hinted at shutting him out she was met with resistance. It seemed he was exceptionally well liked. At the time, it was not a fight she was willing to have. If he chose not to help her, however, she would be very determined to try again, and this time she would fight.

  “I shall say no more to him than necessary to be polite.” Céleste frowned and stopped on the stairs to face Juliette. “How do you know how very charming—No, never mind that.” She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “My guests will be arriving any minute, and the ton will not appreciate a tardy hostess, which is what I shall be if I keep answering your incessant inquiries.

  “I spent all day personally decorating the ballroom, setting the dance cards perfectly in line on the entry table, and checking that the flowers are still fresh. I only hope no one notices I invited a scoundrel to my June ball, and the reprobate doesn’t seek to somehow worsen his insidious reputation. Because if they do, and if he does, it will ruin everything.”

  * * *

  If, at the tender age of nineteen, Nick had been told he would spend his thirty-sixth birthday cold and wet on the streets of Paris in ratty dishabille, he would have laughed in their face… and he would have been sorely mistaken.

  William Nicholas Wells, the fifth Earl of Pembridge, was standing with his back pressed against an alley wall, waiting like a predator in the night. Heavy mist hung low, coating him in a vapor that chilled to the very bone. His damp, sandy hair stuck to his face, which had no hat over it, and his shirt clung to his torso, which had no coat protecting it. At this point, the linen stuck like a second skin to every dip and ridge of muscle. Thank heaven even poor buggers wore waistcoats; otherwise, he would have labeled himself an exhibitionist. He refused to guess at what had b
een done to his already snug trousers.

  Sharp shards of light cut the sky, followed by the loud crack of thunder. A full-fledged storm. Grand. If anyone he knew saw him, he would have to fake his own death. The humiliation would be unbearable.

  Still, he supposed it wasn’t the worst or most uncomfortable thing he had done. His years of doing dirty work for the Home Office kept him in a never-ending mire of uncomfortable things, the least of which were soggy rags. Though, not many people knew about that. Known spies were dead spies.

  Nick shut his eyes for a moment as beads of moisture from the heavy mist dotted his face and neck. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness when night fell, but he had been straining them for too long and now felt them sting behind his lids. He had been waiting there for three hours at least, far longer than anticipated. Normally, that would not be so much of a problem, but this little rendezvous was not his only engagement.

  He very much wished it were his only engagement.

  At that moment, a door slammed shut on the main street, a door he had been waiting on. Possibly the man he had been waiting for. He needed to chance a peek into the street to make sure.

  Nick inched closer to the corner, feeling his heartbeat pick up at the promise of relieving his achy muscles with some exercise, if only a little.

  Sure as day, it was Allard, and he was wearing smarter threads than Nick would expect on a lowlife stooge like him.

  As he passed, Nick reached out from behind and pulled him into the alley.

  “What the—” The bruiser jerked his elbow back, aiming for Nick’s ribs. With the other, he tried to hit Nick’s face. Both were narrowly dodged. “You will regret this!” Allard warned.

  “I shall if I am late,” Nick replied, dodging another backward thrusting elbow. “You are hours behind schedule, you know.”

  Nick swung Allard around until his back was against the wall, cutting off a string of curses and knocking the air out of him. Nick struck hard with a right cross before Allard could recover, but the man was resilient, and Nick was thrust backward several steps by a powerful fist to the stomach. Air rushed from his lungs in a pained grunt.

  “I say!” Nick coughed, stopping with his hands braced on his knees. “You have a first-rate swing, haven’t you?”

  Nick straightened instantly as Allard advanced. He dodged first one heavy fist then another before he found an opening to land a solid blow to Allard’s temple.

  The strike was hard enough to muddle the bruiser’s mind and allow Nick an opportunity for another strike. He landed several powerful blows before sending Allard to the ground in an inglorious heap.

  Nick straightened, catching his breath and wincing as he flexed his bloodied hand. “Apologies for ending our fun so abruptly, my pugnacious fellow, but I am in a bit of a rush.”

  He managed to lift Allard over his shoulder, then turned to walk deeper into the darkness of the alley. It would have been an impossible feat had he not turned his body into a well-tuned machine of muscle and sinew over the years.

  As he walked, he narrowly missed piles of rubbish and abandoned crates. The alley was so narrow and dark he could barely see more than two feet ahead of him, even after his eyes had adjusted.

  At the end was a wooden door that led into the building on the other side of the alley. It was an old, failed textile factory on the list of Nick’s newly acquired investments, though he put the Duc de Béarn’s name on… well, everything. He would have the dilapidated monstrosity moved over into his name and renovated to pumping out fine silks in a matter of months. The duke wouldn’t even notice, and it kept Nick out of suspicion while he worked.

  Nick pushed the door open with his foot, stepped inside, then shut the door. Giant raindrops began pelting the door seconds after it shut.

  “Thank heaven I missed that downpour,” he muttered as he shook his head, large droplets of water flinging from his hair. “Three hours in that, and I might have drowned.”

  The building was used for storage, filled floor to ceiling with old, abandoned crates. They were piled in random stacks throughout in such a way that it was impossible to tell how large the room was without investigating—which, of course, Nick had done before making the purchase.

  There was a small clearing of about twenty feet squared immediately upon entering with one chair and a small table. The items were invisible in the darkness, yet Nick knew they were there.

  He dumped the limp body into the chair, then turned and lit a small oil lamp, which had been left on the table. He grabbed a rope that had been coiled around the back of the chair, and with a few firm knots and hard tugs, Allard was securely fastened in an upright, seated position.

  “I shall require your full attention now.” Nick knocked loudly on the table before walking behind the chair as groggy eyes opened.

  “What the—”

  “Ah, Monsieur Allard,” Nick began cordially as he slipped around to face the chair, barely visible near the crates. “I understand that brain of yours must be akin to a jumbled mess of bees and strawberry jam rather than a solid thinking box. Regardless, I am here to pry what little information I need from it. Let’s begin with for whom you work.”

  Silence. He had expected as much.

  “I am the last man you want to dally with, Allard,” Nick advised. “I shall get what I came for one way or another. How many pieces you leave in is entirely your decision. Personally, I prefer my bits connected as they are.”

  It was an empty threat. Nick was not about to spend hours slowly dissecting the man, cleaning up the mess, then throwing his bits into the Seine. He did not have near enough time.

  Another crack of thunder had Allard flinching in his chair, though just barely. Nick’s blue eyes narrowed in on the action.

  “Tell me, do you think those you are protecting so bravely will return the favor?” The question was rhetorical, but Nick waited an appropriate amount of time, anyway. “They will not. Like as not, they will kill you themselves… unless I beat them to it.”

  Nick watched Allard shift uncomfortably in his chair. He knew something. A lot of something if what he was not saying was anything to go by. Those who knew nothing usually said so. In Nick’s experience, they said it repeatedly.

  “Is it protection from justice you want, Allard?” Nick asked in a light tone. “I cannot promise that, nor would I.” Nick paused. Still, there was no response. “I am an assassin, Allard, among other things. Not some amateur hound. I have no heart for you to plead to nor a compassionate soul prone to bouts of mercy. However, I do have honor. I shall kill you unless you give me a name.”

  Allard did not blink at the revelation. Perhaps he knew. Why would a pawn suspect an assassin would want to kill him?

  With a glance toward the door to verify it was still closed tight, Nick reached behind him to pull out the pistol he kept in his waistband and aimed it straight at Allard’s knee. Nick’s arm was now protruding into the circle of light, the pistol shining in his hand.

  “This is a percussion revolver, my friend. It will not misfire… even on a night like this.”

  Allard’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, the only reaction to the threat.

  Nick raised one slightly challenging brow. “My dear misguided fellow, you better loosen your tongue, or I shall misplace my bullet in your knee. I cannot think of a quicker or more satisfying way to get information than putting a hole through you.”

  Seconds rolled by, and finally, Nick saw the light he was looking for through the cracks in the door. “Have you ever been shot, Allard?”

  Allard pressed his lips into a thin line, and he swallowed yet said nothing.

  “You do realize what happens when I pull the trigger?” Nick asked as he lifted the barrel of the gun slightly. “It is unbearably painful in the knee, I understand. You will most assuredly lose your leg if you survive at all. Unless you give me their name.”

  Eight, seven, six… Counting in his head, Nick timed himself to the half-second. Still, Allard was
quiet as the silence stretched on.

  The crack of the pistol rent the air at the same time as the thunder roared outside. Allard’s scream filled the storage room, the bottom half of his leg halfway detached from the point-blank shot.

  Nick’s jaw tightened as he took a step toward Allard, aiming it at the other knee.

  Allard looked up in horror to see Nick looming in the full light of the lamp, his glacial eyes glaring daggers from behind the pistol, leaving the room utterly devoid of heat.

  “Could forcing young boys and girls into prostitution truly inspire such loyalty?” Nick asked dangerously through Allard’s continued grunting and gasping. “Some of them barely ten years of age! If only I had the time, I would slowly tear you apart. You would beg for death, but such relief would elude you. Every inch of your contemptible body would scream with agony. Every labored breath would be an involuntary torture.”

  Again, the light flickered underneath the door.

  “What is the damned name?” Nick repeated through his teeth as he cocked the pistol.

  “This—” Allard began through sobs of pain. “This whole thing b-began wh-when that Dumon—”

  Faint voices floated through the storm outside, pricking Nick’s ears and interrupting Allard. Both sets of eyes swung toward the door.

  “I think it came from in there!” someone shouted, drawing closer.

  “Marcel!” Allard yelled. “I am—”

  Nick instantly fired a round into Allard’s chest, sending the man backward to the ground. Before the chair even hit the floorboards, Nick was racing past, weaving through the stacks of crates toward the back of the building and into utter darkness as more thunder roared outside.

  Nick heard the door burst open and a woman scream. Shouts followed him, but they had no hope of finding him in this labyrinth, even if he had planned to stick around, which he did not.

  Once he reached the back wall, he shoved the pistol under his shirt, swallowing a curse at the hot barrel burning his skin. He should have bought a holster for the bloody thing. If they were not such a put off to the cut of his superfine, he would have begun using them ages ago.