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

by Kristen McLean

  Gad, she was lovely when she was angry.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “At the beginning, I did not have much of a choice,” he answered honestly. “Now…” He shrugged one shoulder.

  “Everyone has a choice. What about the people who care about you?”

  Her face was stoic, but Nick could imagine what she must be thinking.

  “I am not like your husband. I have no wife to leave behind nor parents, cousins, siblings, or anything else.” His brow knit as a little, dirty face and big teeth came to mind. “Well, I do have someone, but he is provided for and better off without me as his example.” Even she wouldn’t be able to argue with that logic.

  “Well then. Have you learned anything about… it?” she managed quietly.

  Nick’s brow arched, and his lips twitched. “Er, no, but I shall not stop until I am satisfied there is nothing more to it,” he promised.

  “There is a great deal more to it!” she whispered, scowling up at him.

  He smiled. “Hunches and accusations are useless without some shred of proof, m’girl.”

  “Stop referring to me as your girl, Pembridge,” she ground out. “I shall never be your girl.”

  “There lies the true shame,” Nick murmured teasingly.

  “The shame, Lord Pembridge, is how much of a beast you are,” she spouted. “Perhaps, if you were a gentleman rather than a reprobate, you would have found someone to love you. Someone worth keeping yourself alive for!”

  “Saucy baggage,” he murmured with a smile.

  Her eyes flashed at him, probably watching to see if the barb had stuck. It had, but there was no way in hell he was going to let that show.

  Nick’s lips curled into a wicked smile as he leaned toward her. “But then I would never have had the pleasure of working for you, Lady Dumonte.” Nick’s eyes traveled down her bodice and back up. “Quite pleasurable.”

  “I can assure you that little tryst will not be repeated!”

  “Oh, come now,” Nick teased. “’Tis a natural thing to want more—”

  “If I want moonlit kisses, I shall find a gentleman,” she returned hotly.

  Nick’s smile turned genuine. “A gentleman does not lure ladies alone to kiss them on balconies in the moonlight. A scoundrel does. That’s why the ladies prefer scoundrels.”

  For a moment, Nick could see her mind working behind her furious glare. Then she turned and dissolved back into the throng of fashionable bodies.

  She was offended. Good. She deserved to be offended after that spiteful outburst. The jab had hurt quite a bit more than he wanted to admit, and his pride was already wounded.

  Overall, he was long overdue to return to England. The sooner he wrapped this mess up and returned home, the better.

  He moved from behind the plant and straightened his cuffs. It was time to leave the party. He needed a good hour to rummage through Chouvigny’s files.

  Nick was breaking in tonight.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Nick was studying Chouvigny’s Parisian townhome from across the street. The only windows easily reachable were the four on either side of the entryway, but those were most certainly locked. If he didn’t mind a possible tear in his smart eveningwear, Nick could scale the elm tree out front and try the third-story window.

  It seemed his silks would have to sacrifice themselves for the greater good.

  The tree split into three parts at the base and branched up from there, so it would give Nick an easy climb. He’d had his terribly confused but dutifully silent coachman take his greatcoat, beaver hat, and cane back home before walking here. He could not climb trees with a cane, beaver hat, and greatcoat. It simply could not be done. Not very efficiently, at any rate.

  Satisfied the streets were clear and the lights in the house long extinguished, he crossed the street casually and stopped to lean against the tree. Then he took another glance around to make sure he had not missed anyone.

  This was his last chance to turn back if he needed to. Even in such a state of undress, he could claim his mistress had kicked him out in a passionate rage when he had brought home another playmate. This was Paris, after all.

  There was no one in sight. No sounds of carriages, horses, or doors. It was a cool night, but calm and clear. It was an easy thing for a trained ear to pick up any unwelcome sounds in this environment.

  With a grunt, he leapt up to the first knot and deftly made his way to the open window. He caught the sill and hoisted himself inside, landing in an unused bedroom from the looks of it.

  It was dark, but the moonlight was enough to make out a few sticks of furniture. There was a bed, a full-length mirror, a writing desk, and a small bookcase. This would not be the place to look for something the comte would want hidden. Nick doubted the man was that intelligent.

  Approaching footsteps sounding from the hall had Nick rushing to duck in a dark alcove by the window. This would not be an opportune time to close up for the night.

  They stopped by the door, but only for a moment. Once they began to recede farther down the hall, he relaxed and took a quick look around just in case it wasn’t the comte who kept any unsavory documents stowed away from prying eyes.

  Unsurprisingly, he found nothing.

  Quietly, Nick then moved to the doorway to peer out into the hall. Empty. Good. Now he just needed to find the study and slip out undiscovered.

  The doors lining the corridor were mostly bedrooms and closets. He knew this much without having to check any of them. One of the perks of being a rake was one tended to learn the layout of several homes, and most mirrored others.

  Taking care not to be seen by any servants who might be stalking the halls, he rounded a corner and started down a wider hallway with one door at the end and two doors widely spaced on one side. There ought to be a private parlor, a library, and a study here.

  He deftly cracked the door on each and peered inside to make sure the rooms had not been switched due to remodeling or preference. Sure enough, the first two were the private parlor and the library. Therefore, the door at the end had to be the study.

  He tried the door, expecting it to be locked. However, it opened. Curious, but not completely surprising.

  He had studied Chouvigny for months now and had seen how careless he was at the tables. It was only natural such recklessness would bleed into his conduct here.

  Slowly, he inched the door open and slipped inside.

  “Well done,” he muttered to himself as he glanced around the dark room. He had found the study without being shot.

  Immediately, he moved behind the desk and removed a pin from his cuff. With a few wiggles and quick twists, the drawer clicked open.

  “That was far too easy,” he muttered under his breath. “I should have been a thief.”

  Letters were spread on top of a few documents that lay underneath, which Nick quickly sifted through. A large window behind him let in barely enough moonlight for Nick to make out what was there, which was nothing.

  Well, there were a few trifling incidentals that looked to be for a mistress, a card belonging to a rather shady fellow Nick had bumped into a time or two but wasn’t altogether dissolute, and an IOU of a much larger sum than ought to be allowed.

  That was not right. He knew there had to be something more, something worth locking away. Carefully, he felt around the inside of the drawer, his fingers feeling every corner until he found what he was looking for.

  “Now I have you, you pox-ridden bastard,” he muttered victoriously as he pushed, and a small compartment opened above the drawer.

  He reached in and grabbed the contents: a document and an old letter. He stuffed them into his waistcoat, then set the drawer back to rights before slipping back out into the hall. No point in straining his eyes to try to read them now. If they were worth hiding, they were worth stealing.

  Nick silently traveled back down the hall slowly but anxious to get the hell out. It would be bad enough to be cau
ght intruding. A man could only blame so much on his mistress. To be caught with what was lying in his pockets—that would be a death sentence.

  As he stepped into the bedroom where he had begun, a clumsy bundle fell into the room from the same open window he had used earlier, landing with a grunt on the floor.

  “What the devil?” Nick shut the door as quietly and quickly as he could.

  As the bundle of cloth began to right itself and smile with overlarge teeth, Nick cursed.

  “Get out!” Nick whispered urgently.

  André had made enough noise falling to make Nick nervous. The footsteps that began padding up the stairs at an alarming rate a moment later did not help matters.

  “Here, take these!” Nick shoved the evidence into André’s hands and began pushing him toward the window. “Now, get out!”

  “What about you?” André whispered loudly.

  “I shall be fine. Just get those to safety.”

  Nick followed André, practically jumping out the window before clamoring down the elm in a flash. André had already disappeared down the street when Nick hit the cobblestones and started running.

  “You, there! Stop!”

  Nick heard men shouting after him as he rounded the block and ducked into a courtyard that connected to an intersecting street. The streets were dark, but not dark enough. The moonlight that had helped him moments ago had turned deadly. They were too close, and he couldn’t run fast and quietly at the same time.

  His heart raced, and his breathing became labored. He was in shape, but his body was not reacting to the physical exertion. They were going to catch him, and he knew it. They had to. If Nick eluded them for too long, they would decide to spread out, and then they might find André.

  His feet pounded the pavement in rhythmic beats as he rushed across the next street and into a dark alley. It was dark enough for him to hide in if they had not seen him run into it.

  He pushed his back against the wall in the shadows and waited for just a moment as four more sets of footsteps hit the cobblestones, heading his way.

  Nick turned and had begun running deeper into the alley when the four men caught sight of him. He would have preferred to keep up the merry chase a little longer, but the middle of the alley had been walled up.

  Nick growled as he hit the wall in frustration. He looked around for a weapon or a way out, but he did not find either before the men came to a stop behind him.

  “You were trespassing,” a large man in the middle spoke loudly, obviously the ringleader. “Give us what you have taken, monsieur.”

  “I have nothing, gentlemen,” he said with a crooked smile. He schooled his appearance as he had learned to do, turning into the debonair aristocrat as he lifted his open palms at his sides. “Perhaps you have the wrong person.”

  “I don’t think so. I suggest you give it to us now. If we find it on you, you may lose a hand.”

  As the man spoke, the other men closed in around Nick.

  “That hardly sounds like the Parisian law I know,” Nick drawled.

  “You don’t know Parisian law well. Give it to us.”

  “I have told you limp-brained cretins already that I have nothing,” he replied lightly as his smile faded.

  “Men,” the man sneered as he removed his coat and set it aside.

  Nick was not a weak man, but when three hulking bruisers grabbed him at once, he wasn’t able to move much. A large fist caught him in the chin. If not for the men holding him, the blow would have knocked him to his knees.

  “Now, I shall ask again. Where is it?”

  Nick spat blood and smiled. “You don’t even know what you are after, do you?” he taunted.

  A right cross to his jaw had him grunting and spitting up more blood.

  “Search him,” the man ordered. Then he watched as Nick was patted down and his pockets checked.

  “Careful now. That’s genuine French silk,” Nick quipped as they searched his waistcoat pockets. He watched as his notepad, pencil, and case of calling cards were strewn onto the ground.

  “Nothing, Marcel.”

  Something about that name pricked at the back of Nick’s mind. It was a common enough tag in France, but why did he feel he should know that particular name?

  Marcel smiled grimly. “So, you didn’t get anything, after all. Perhaps you need some reminding that trespassing and attempted thievery is very unwise.” With a malevolent grin, Marcel powered a fist into Nick’s abdomen, following it up with a second and third. Each could have dropped a man twice Nick’s size.

  Nick only grunted at the first blow, but on the third, he cried out at the sharp pain in his ribs.

  He was doubled over from the blows, and when the men let him go, he dropped limply to the ground. He lay there, breathing heavily while they disappeared down the street.

  The ache in his jaw was nothing to the stabbing pain in his side. A broken rib was more than likely.

  Marcel was easily seven stones heavier than Nick and solid muscle. That man ought to be in the ring, not on the streets. From his blows, Nick would guess he had lined his gloves with a small strip of metal to boot.

  It wasn’t everyday one met a man like Marcel, and it did not sit well with Nick that he found the bruiser familiar. There were only a handful of men Nick could remember fighting who were built like that, and only one in France; Renaud’s right hand man. But if Renaud were in Paris, surely Nick would have known. Her grisly methods were recounted like myths around tables with tankards of ale; one could not survive on the streets of Paris long without hearing her name. He had enough eyes in the streets that if she were to show her bloodthirsty face one of them would have noticed. Surely.

  No, he couldn’t be one of Renaud’s, but if this Marcel had wanted to beat Nick to death, he could have. Thankfully, Nick would be missed, so this was merely a warning. If it were André they had found, the boy would be dead.

  He carefully pushed himself up and tested his injuries with a few small steps. So far so good. He just needed to get to the main street and hail a hackney from there.

  He forced himself to walk on, ignoring the pounding in his skull. It was a wonder he still had all his teeth.

  Suddenly worried, he took inventory with a quick swipe of his tongue just to make sure. All there. It would be monstrously difficult to be taken seriously as a rake with missing front teeth.

  He leaned against one of the trees lining the street for fifteen minutes, waiting for a hackney to pass. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he managed to pull himself into the vehicle and stay conscious long enough to push himself back out when he arrived at home. By that time, André was pacing the entry hall in anxious, little steps, causing Nick to give a painful chuckle when he shuffled in.

  “Nick!” The boy ran to him with a half-sized bear hug.

  “Easy, lad,” he managed, grinding his teeth again to hide the lancing pain in his side. “You and I, we have some talking to do,” he chided as harshly as he could manage. “But first, I may need some patching up. Do you have the papers I gave you?”

  “Of course.” André pulled out the papers from his coat and handed them to Nick enthusiastically. “I shall send for the physician right away!” he promised, then ran out the door.

  Nick shook his head at the boy incredulously. Was he truly unaware of what could have just happened to him?

  He needed to lock these papers away, but he needed something to take the edge off first.

  He made his way upstairs to his study by means of heavy use of the balustrade and heavier use of swearing. Then he found a decanter of whisky, poured himself a large snifter full, and took it down in one gulp.

  He brought the decanter and snifter with him as he stood by his desk because, if he sat, he knew he would be in too much pain to get up again. But if he did sit, he would be damned if he had to yell for a servant to bring him a decanter that was only ten feet away. And he did not want to sit at his desk for however long it took the physician to arrive, all the
while staring longingly at a decanter ten bloody feet away.

  He pulled out the letter and read it before scanning the document, as well. With a curse, he poured another snifter of whisky to sip on, locked away the papers in his desk, and gingerly sunk into his favorite plush chair by the hearth.

  He sat there, glaring at his desk as he waited, his stomach turning to lead. He now knew how the ring had acquired the funds to get started. Considering who had provided those funds, part of him desperately wished he had remained ignorant.

  Chapter 4

  Céleste usually took her tea in the parlor, which she had redecorated a year after Pierre’s death. The morning room where she and Juliette were currently sipping down the hot amber liquid and enjoying cakes was left as it was. It was warm with its wall of windows and floral drapes, cherry wooden tables, and gray marble tiles. The ceiling and walls were a pastel teal with gold lining.

  It had been Pierre’s favorite room, and since his death, Céleste could not bear to enter it… until today. She felt optimistic. She might not trust Pembridge, but she trusted Béarn, and Béarn was sure Pembridge would bring her peace.

  Juliette glanced around, appreciating the sorely underused room. “Quite lovely, Céleste. I am glad you have opened it up again.” She popped a piece of cake into her mouth as she turned to study Céleste.

  Céleste smiled as she sipped her tea, mentally counting down the seconds until Juliette gave in to her curiosity.

  “Why did you do it?” Juliette prodded.

  “Because I should not feel ashamed of his death,” she obliged. “And I don’t. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Things have changed,” she explained simply.

  “What things?”

  “Personal things.”

  “You are doing it again,” Juliette accused flatly.

  Céleste raised both brows in question. “Doing what?”

  “Being cryptic. Now tell me, why did you reopen this room? It was Pierre’s favorite, was it not?”