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

by Kristen McLean

  In front of him was a wall of crates leading to a ventilation window about twenty feet up. He could barely make out the faint moonlight shining in from the alley and illuminating it.

  He scaled the stack of three crates, pulling himself on top of them and barely squeezing through the half-sized rectangular window feet first. He was hanging there from the outside, his hands clutching the sill, when he heard the shouts get louder.

  He could see a faint light emanating from inside. They must have taken his lamp and made their way to the back wall. The light of the lamp would never reach the window, though, and with their eyes unadjusted to the dark, they would not be able to see anything beyond the lamplight, including his exit.

  He uncurled his fingers as he pushed himself off the wall, dropping down to another wet alley in the pouring rain. He hit the cobblestones with a grunt, then deftly lifted himself back up into a run until he intersected the main street.

  “Who would have guessed firing a pistol in the middle of Paris would draw a crowd?” he mumbled under his breath as he slowed to a saunter.

  Inside, he raged. Months of work had been lost because of his carelessness. He had failed. How many more children would now be worked because of his incompetence?

  With a deep breath, he let out a loud whistle to hail a hackney driving past. He had better make unbelievably good time turning himself into a gentleman again. The Duc de Béarn would not appreciate Nick’s tardiness to the Dumonte ball, even if he knew it was the earl’s birthday, which he did not. And it was going rather poorly thus far. Worse still, he was now going to have to inform the duke he might expect questions about a dead body in a rundown building he was not aware he had purchased; thus, the reason for said tardiness. And it had all been for naught since the dead body had not been forthcoming with valuable information, except for some nonsense about a demon.

  * * *

  Lady Dumonte’s ballroom was lavishly decorated and filled beyond its capacity, as it usually was during the fashionable season. Gold glittered from seemingly everywhere, lining the patterned ceiling, the paneled walls, and even veined in the marble pillars, which circled the room, separating the dancing from the chairs that lined the walls. Elaborate chandeliers hung above the oversized room, completing the ensemble and lending a surreal quality to the whole affair. All in all, it was an apt representation of its mistress, the eminent Lady Dumonte.

  Nick stood off to the side by a pillar with a glass of champagne. His blond hair was now neatly styled with the barest hint of pomade, and his attire sported the finest craftsmanship in France. Everything he wore was designed to flatter his angelic good looks. The dark blue superfine coat and the golden waistcoat with silver and blue brocade were specifically chosen for color, quality, and fit. Even the sapphire pin embedded in his snowy cravat brought out the blue of his eyes.

  Normally, he would be the wolf taking his pick of the fawns—being an attractive and wealthy aristocrat made the game almost too easy—but not here. Not while Lady Dumonte ran her crusade against rakes and libertines.

  At least she had not somehow managed to get the poor buggers banned from the clubs and cathouses, only polite society. These are mostly Frenchmen, after all, and the suicide rate in Paris was already high enough. Had they been denied ready access to the heavenly juncture of a courtesan’s plump thighs, there might have been a decided influx of bodies floating in the Seine.

  Gad, he should not even be here.

  He glanced around the crowded room until he spotted her walking with Lady Juliette. He should certainly not chance making eye contact with her, but God help him, he couldn’t seem to look away. The lady was lovely and had exquisite taste—both traits Nick admired even in his enemies.

  “Glad to see you could finally join us.” The Duc de Béarn stepped up next to Nick, his ink black hair and dark eyes contrasting starkly with Nick’s angelic features. Both were now leisurely watching the others of their class choose partners for a country-dance.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Nick smiled genuinely, then continued with a knit brow. “Although, if I remember correctly, you threatened to pitch my finest cravats and boots in a heap and set them aflame in full view of all of Paris if I somehow managed to overlook this affair. You said it was important.”

  “It is. You will thank me one day.”

  “I doubt it,” Nick replied frankly. “I had to kill to arrive at a decent hour. Though, better him than you, should you feel compelled to ruin my boots.” He smiled, but the truth in his jest sat uneasily with him. Unlike many of his fellow agents, he did not enjoy killing. Nor did he enjoy failing.

  Béarn smiled, glancing toward the hostess. “Just look at her.”

  Nick allowed his gaze to drift back to Lady Dumonte, making a full sweep of her figure. “May I assume, Your Grace, it is Lady Dumonte’s ambition and persistence you are admiring rather than her grace and beauty?”

  The duke chuckled and sipped his drink. “Assume what you please.”

  With an appreciative grunt, Nick forced himself to look away. If she knew how to show an ounce of warmth, the woman would be devastating. Thankfully, she was reputed for two things: the ice that ran in her veins and her indomitable nature, neither of which Nick found overly attractive.

  “If it is the latter, every other man in this room already is. If it is the former, I agree with you. She could become a nun and go straight to Hades if she so chose.”

  “If anyone could do such a thing, it would be Lady Dumonte,” Béarn agreed.

  “A bit lonely, though, even for the sake of spite. Living as a nun, knowing the most handsome gentlemen—us—will never be known to her. Intimately, I mean.” Nick shook his head with a wicked grin, “I refuse to believe anyone would have the resolve.”

  Béarn smiled. “You are one of the finest men I know, Pembridge, but if you are a gentleman, I am a saint.”

  “In that case, Your Grace, I insist you find better company immediately,” Nick said. “Truthfully, I don’t give a fig what the woman does as long as she leaves us harmless cads to ravish the maidens in peace. It is becoming increasingly arduous for a rake to keep up an honestly wicked reputation in Paris, of all places. What a tangle.”

  “All of Paris loves her; otherwise, they would never allow such a thing. Anyway, when was the last time you ravished anyone, Pembridge?” Béarn asked with one dark brow raised. “I have not seen you with any feminine distraction in weeks. Even whilst you are far from Lady Dumonte’s sight.”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  Béarn gestured to Nick with his glass. “Yes, but you are no gentleman.”

  “Then I must be a scoundrel, and you cannot trust a word I say.”

  “I shan’t get a straight answer from you, shall I?” Béarn asked with a side-glance.

  “Afraid not, old chap,” Nick answered with a grin.

  “I shall assume you are finally marrying, then,” Béarn said casually as he sipped his drink.

  “That’s a depressing subject to bring up.” Nick’s brow knit as he shuddered. Then he brightened. “But since you did bring it up, when are you marrying that Juliette girl?”

  “I shall marry Lady Dumonte if I remarry at all. Not only is she very dear to me, but our marriage would be an advantageous match, both politically and socially.”

  “But you love Juliette and have these many years. All the years I have known you, at least. You wouldn’t let a little thing like the scandal of marrying an orphan girl without family or dowry and the resulting death of your political career get in the way of eternal happiness, now would you?” Nick asked innocently. “You ought to at least tell her how you feel, you know. I suspect she believes you in love with Lady Dumonte. She smiles brighter when she is near you, but it changes when Lady Dumonte is there. It becomes… sad.”

  “I have a duty to my office, Pembridge. I am a duke.”

  “Pity,” Nick muttered as he swirled the champagne in his glass. “The girl is a peach.”

&nbs
p; Béarn did not reply, and Nick knew better than to push the subject too far. He had made that mistake once before, and ended up in a friendly bout of fisticuffs that Béarn had sworn was merely for exercise. Nick had left with a black eye and busted lip. Instead, both men turned their attention back to the crowd.

  At that moment, Lady Dumonte turned their way and inclined her head in polite acknowledgement. Surely, that nod was directed solely at His Grace. Nick had barely made her acquaintance since arriving in Paris five years ago, and he would very much like to keep it that way.

  With that in mind, he faced Béarn and only watched the lady from his peripheral.

  As expected, the duke dipped his chin in reply, eliciting a slight half smile from the lady. That small show of emotion was the most anyone had gotten from her since her husband had died eight years ago.

  Nick chanced an appreciative glance once the ladies turned to converse with other guests. Gad, the woman was exquisite. She must know precisely how the gown fell over her figure, selecting just the right fabric to complement her subtle curves. It took far too much effort for Nick to tear his eyes from Lady Dumonte’s rather well-formed derrière.

  “My, we are living dangerously tonight. Non, mon ami?” Béarn turned up an amused brow.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You receive a most coveted invitation, one that can solidify or destroy one’s social status in Paris, and you slight the hostess. I cannot begin to comprehend your logic unless you pine for social death.”

  Nick donned a confident smile. “Our hostess was acknowledging a French duke, not a rakish English earl. She would not dare. I may ravish her in this very ballroom.”

  Béarn smiled at Nick’s absurdity before shaking his head. “I would certainly know if those eyes rested on me. As a Frenchman, I would be remiss not to notice such attentions. Alas, her eyes never met mine. Pity.”

  Strange, he could have sworn she had acknowledged the duke. His smile faded.

  It was getting far too easy to offend these days.

  “I don’t suppose the lady would accept a note of apology in the morning?” Nick asked.

  “Not likely.”

  “She could ruin everything, Béarn,” he muttered. “We’re so close.”

  “Ridiculous. I am sure you have faced worse.”

  “This is not a bout of fisticuffs where there are rules kept between gentlemen.” After a pause for thought, he added, “And I doubt you would allow me to handle her as I would those who are not gentlemen.”

  Nick nodded at Béarn’s disapproving scowl.

  “No, I thought not. In a row, you know you will take a hit, taste some blood, but you do not expect to be kicked whilst you are down with ballroom slippers. Ladies have an unfair advantage. They are not kept to the same code of honor as gentlemen.”

  “I have never known the lady to kick.”

  “You would be surprised,” he mused, his brow knit as he watched her circulate the room. “She has come a long way somehow. How is she ostracizing these roguish chaps, anyway? I understand some of them were blackguards and deserved it—had it coming, even—but how?”

  “You had better not kick, either, Pembridge. How she does anything is none of your affair, but she is not what you are intimating. I suggest you abandon your misguided suspicions of Lady Dumonte.”

  The clear warning had Nick pausing to study his friend. “Sound advice, Your Grace. I do believe I shall keep my feet under me at all times.” Nick smiled, then bent in a slight bow. “If you will excuse me, I am off to lay our investigation and hard work at Lady Dumonte’s feet… gentlemanly.”

  Nick wasn’t sure if the duke was protecting him or Lady Dumonte with that threat. Béarn was a good friend to both, which was how Nick assumed he had received an invitation and why Béarn refused to take no for an answer. The duke was a royal pain in the arse when it came to savoir vivre, and apparently, if Nick had refused the invitation, he would have been doing it wrong.

  Nick had taken his fair share of risks. He had spent some years at war and a decade spying for the good of England, not to mention his own pockets. He knew he was close to solving this bloody case, but he must stay close to the target, which was undoubtedly a member of the ton. If she decided to give him the boot, though, the case might very well be lost. It was a risk he would not choose to take.

  Nick swallowed a frustrated growl. He would make it quick, like jumping in a cold pond to save a clumsy puppy. Jump in, rescue his last five years’ worth of work, and get the hell out.

  The ballroom was double the size of the sports field at Eton. At least, it felt that way to Nick. Guests mingled along the walls, and a group of quite enthusiastic dancers pranced in the middle. It caused Nick to take twice as long as he had anticipated to get to where Lady Dumonte stood, speaking to Lady Juliette. Or rather, she was speaking to Lady Juliette.

  By the time Nick arrived, Lady Juliette had gone.

  “Lady Dumonte.” Nick smiled as he bowed over her hand and left a kiss in the air above her knuckles.

  “Welcome, my lord,” she greeted, then gestured onwards. “Shall we?”

  Nick managed a smile and a nod, expertly hiding his inward groan as he offered his arm.

  They silently began a slow migration through the throng. He usually enjoyed social engagements, but this was an absolute crush. There were multiple times already when he had narrowly avoided a collision with a stray dancer.

  Within seconds of their stroll, the first strokes of a waltz picked up. Two by two, the outside ring they were sluggishly weaving through cleared as the couples were eager to take part in the intimate dance.

  Nick felt the air from the terraces now for the first time. The walkway, created by the line of chairs against the wall to one side and a row of drapes and pillars to the other, was now an open path for them to leisurely stroll.

  Nick’s lips twitched as he turned to the lady ambling confidently at his side. “Lady Dumonte, I had not thought you one to render punishment on the unsuspecting, but I dare to say you knew our walk would be unimpeded yet thought to make me agonize.”

  She was silent, but he could see her lips turn up.

  “Well, I forgive you,” he went on. “My suffering was great, but I forgive you, if only because I expect you to do the same for me should I require forgiveness.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” she demurred, graciously going along with his ridiculous logic.

  Now that the air had cleared with most of the bodies gliding across the dance floor, Nick began to catch the scent of her perfume. It took him a moment to identify it or, more aptly, to realize he couldn’t. It was like a spring garden after a rain: fresh and floral, but not overpoweringly so. The scents that filled the ballroom—other than sweat and fabric—were rose, jasmine, sandalwood, and the occasional clove. Hers was a refreshing change.

  “Your eye for design is remarkable,” Nick complimented as they passed one of the pillars.

  He meant it. Her skill rivaled his own.

  “Thank you,” she answered simply.

  “Did you study the skill?” he asked, determined to get her talking.

  “No, I merely have taste.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he muttered.

  Nick had used those very words when asked the same question. It was usually punctuated with a veiled insult to the inquirer’s mother, because the question itself was more often than not a jab at his masculinity or an accusation of the lack thereof.

  “In fact,” Nick went on, undaunted, “some may be here solely to observe your talent. It is known you set the trend for all of Europe. Gad, there must be over two hundred gawking in this room alone.”

  Lady Dumonte continued her leisurely gait beside him in silence. She had not looked at him since they had started walking, and it was strangely unnerving.

  “It must be rather embarrassing,” he went on with raised brows, “to smile at one’s beloved. The poor lad might receive several propositions by the end of the evening.” Nick chuckled
quietly. “One could only hope the lady would be forgiving.”

  Nick slanted an assessing glance at her, but her expression was stoic. Today was not his day for getting people to talk, it seemed.

  “Speaking of misinterpretations and forgiveness, I am afraid I was a lad who was too cautious. I certainly did not intend to slight you. Naturally, I assumed your attention was for the duke.”

  “So, you wish to be certain I was not offended by your accidental slight,” she confirmed.

  “Just so. How was I to believe such a lovely creature would notice me?” he asked, the glint of amusement in his eyes belying his beseeching expression. “Had I realized, I might have fallen instantly in love with you, and what a scandal that would cause! Then where would we be?”

  One ebony brow winged up. “You were obviously on the guest list,” she reminded him coolly. “Tell me, do you think me a woman of poor manners or poor memory?”

  Nick’s amusement faded. “Neither, I assure you,” he answered. “I am a good friend of the Duc de Béarn as well as his business associate. I assumed he procured my invitation. A plus one, you might say. I cannot imagine you writing my name on an invitation.”

  “Perhaps you think me prejudiced against the English? Is that why you think I would not have invited you?” Now both brows were furrowed in the most delicate of black looks. “Even had I lost someone in the war, my lord, I could not very well blame you. I doubt you have ever stepped foot on a battlefield, and politics is a tricky skill to master.”

  Nick’s brow knit as the insult hit its mark. “You do me an injustice. I meant only that, because of my reputation, I am not a popular guest to some moral and principled crowds.” At least one or two had refused to extend him invitations in Paris, believing him a veritable Sade.

  They obviously had never met either him or Sade.

  “No, you are not,” she agreed. She stopped, turning to face him fully as they entered the alcove behind one of the large pillars. “I doubt anyone would be with your social ineptitude and complete lack of morals.”