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

by Kristen McLean

  “It was. We would spend hours upon hours here.” Céleste paused to savor a bite of cake. “We would talk, read, drink tea, and eat cake. It was a lovely time. We were such good friends.” Again, she paused, this time to sip her tea. “I reopened the room because I feel I am finally doing right by him. I have finally found someone able to find the truth.”

  “Your thief?”

  “I told you he is not a thief,” she corrected as she sipped her tea and wished he had not been brought up.

  “Private investigator.” Juliette nodded. “Did you ever think the men you are looking for are already dead? It has been nearly a decade.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t a man. Perhaps it is a ledger or a diary or some other such written thing that may explain his decision.”

  “But, Céleste…” Juliette paused, concern knitting her brows. “What if you find something else?”

  “Nonsense. I know my husband—knew.”

  Céleste refused to think of the possibility of Pierre having no real reason or very little of one. They were once the best of friends. She had loved him dearly, and he had loved her. Even if the bedroom had not been part of their marriage, it had still been a marriage of love and mutual respect.

  “Perhaps you ought to visit your private investigator,” Juliette muttered from her teacup.

  “Hmm?”

  “I think you ought to visit Lord Pembridge,” Juliette repeated confidently. “Perhaps, if you work together, you will find what you two are looking for much faster than if it is just him.”

  Céleste did not miss the conspiratorial glint in her friend’s eye. “Juliette, it is merely business between the earl and myself. I have no romantic delusions involving him.” At least, she would try not to. The provoking man kept intruding on her perfectly respectable dreams. If he weren’t so terribly attractive and charming, she would not be having this problem. She needed to concentrate on what else he was: immoral, dangerous, fleeting. He was like a powerful hawk, elegant and beautiful as he stalked an unwitting mouse. Even as he swooped in for the kill, he was stunning. Then he was gone, but by then, it was too late for the little mouse.

  Céleste had no plans to be that mouse.

  “That, ma chère, is a shame. I have not seen a man that handsome look your way in a long time.”

  “Juliette!”

  “It is true! You intimidate them. The only man I have seen speak to you without a regiment to back him is the Duc de Béarn,” Juliette insisted before putting another piece of cake in her mouth.

  Céleste straightened in her chair and lifted her chin. “That is ridiculous. I have no desire to speak with any gentlemen. Why would I want to? The duke is perhaps the only tolerable man in Paris.”

  “Because you will one day be old and alone,” Juliette argued candidly, unaffected by Céleste’s high-handed attempt to cow her, “unless you decide to find a lover or a husband. At least Lord Pembridge is charming, and the only other male you are likely to meet if you continue on in this way.”

  “I shall do no such thing.”

  “Your Pierre is dead, Céleste, and for that, I am terribly sorry, but you cannot continue through life alone like this.” Juliette leaned in to hold Céleste’s hand. “Everyone needs someone.”

  Céleste tightened her jaw. She would not need anyone ever again.

  “Nonsense. A lover who worships a woman one day and leaves her the next is not for me. Men are unreliable and disloyal, especially men like Pembridge.”

  “Céleste, I don’t think—”

  “Though you may have a point,” she interrupted, unwilling to hear any more of her friend’s argument. “Pembridge may need my assistance if we are to make headway. He must acquire information on Pierre somehow, and who would know more about my late husband than me?”

  * * *

  Nick slept late into the afternoon after he’d had his ribs examined and two declared broken. The laudanum he had been given was refused… for a while. He wasn’t fond of the stuff. He had seen men misuse it on and off the battlefield with disastrous results. Instead, he drank himself into oblivion. Then he accidentally drank the laudanum-filled brandy and fell onto his bed where he lay fully clothed except for his coat until André pulled him from his alcohol-laudanum induced coma. Viciously, he might add.

  “Nick!” André’s voice invaded Nick’s foggy mind painfully. How long the boy had been calling his name was anyone’s guess.

  “Go ’way!” he mumbled halfway into the pillow.

  “But, you have been sleeping all day! We were supposed to work on Latin this afternoon.”

  “Go play wif some-fing: darts, billiards… knives. I don’t care. Just lemme sleep,” he begged.

  His head throbbed as though the devil was having target practice between his temples. It was a miracle he was alive, or perhaps it was a curse.

  “There is someone to see you.”

  Immediately, the pain intensified.

  “Wha?” he rasped. “Tell ’em to go ’way. I cannot see anyone like this,” he complained groggily.

  “She is not here yet. She sent a note.”

  “Why’re you reading my notes?” He paused to clear his head. “Wait, you said she?” He sat up, wincing in pain, and plopped back down.

  His hair was sticking out every which way while his shirt and waistcoat were unforgivably wrinkled. His mouth tasted of every foul thing he could think of, and his body was in terrible pain everywhere: alternating sharp stabs and achy bludgeonings.

  “Lady Dumonte. The note said she would be here at four.”

  “Ah, no!” he half-moaned, half-croaked. “What time is it?”

  “Three-thirty,” André provided cheerfully.

  With a violent curse, Nick rolled and eased out of bed to tug the bell rope. Every movement he made seemed to somehow require him to use his ribs and left him internally screaming in pain. Sitting up: ribs. Walking: ribs. Pulling the bell rope: ribs. Standing: ribs. Thinking: ribs!

  The thought of future movement was painful. The hangover he was suffering was superfluous. And it would only get worse because, if he planned on looking human again, he would need a bath. Nothing could keep Nick from submerging in a tubful of hot water. He would soak until the smell of death relinquished its pervasive hold on his skin if it killed him, and from the feel of it, it might.

  Nick stood in front of a full-length mirror, looking himself over in sad disapproval. He should have taken the damned cold compresses the doctor had pushed him to use, but he had been in too foul a mood at the time. Now he was bruised worse than an old, forgotten peach at the bottom of a large barrel. His whole torso from the bellybutton up was splotched with dark blue up to his shoulders, his jaw and chin looked a bit bruised, and his lip was split, but the bruise was mostly hidden in light stubble. He could skip shaving for today. Perhaps for a few days. Who knew? Maybe beards would come back in style.

  He gingerly lifted his chin. Neck beards, however, would not.

  An hour later, Nick ambled into his front parlor with all of the ease of a newborn foal. His ribs were still egregiously painful, and his head felt split in two—or five—but the whisky he had poured down his throat seemed to help slightly.

  He had only taken a drop of laudanum so he wouldn’t lose his head while entertaining the woman he ought to avoid. If she would just leave, he would take the amount of laudanum the doctor had recommended so he could find out how it affected him. Then perhaps he wouldn’t feel like breathing was going to kill him.

  He leaned on the doorway to rest before he made his presence known. The journey down the stairs had been tortuous, and he needed to compose himself. He didn’t want her to know he had been injured. Then he would have to either come up with an expansive story of how his carriage had just come apart in the middle of Paris without any witnesses or tell her the truth. Neither had any remote chance of being believable.

  * * *

  Céleste had a strange feeling that she was not alone, so when she turned and found Pembridge
leaning in the doorway, she had little surprise to hide except for the surprise garnered from seeing the man without a coat.

  His waistcoat and cravat were perfect and fashionable, and his shirt sported a high, white collar with flawless points. The greyish-blue waistcoat with golden brocade hugged his powerful torso and tapered waist, but by no means took away from the effect of the snug trousers hanging from his narrow hips.

  He looked immaculate. But the man was not properly dressed, and he was unshaven. Golden stubble shadowed the lower half of his face, and his hair looked more natural today, as though he had run his hands through it rather than combed and set it to perfection as he normally would.

  He straightened and stepped toward her at a rather odd gait, but instead of bowing over her hand, he turned and stiffly settled himself in the settee opposite her. Rather unfriendly of him, but then she supposed they were not friends. Perhaps he felt it appropriate to forgo the false civility for this morning.

  “Welcome to the Soubise,” he said with a blatantly forced smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Dumonte?” He sat reclined in the chair with one hand brushing his fingers over his jaw and the other settled carefully on the settee arm.

  “I came to speak with you about our arrangement, Lord Pembridge.”

  “Ah. So the revolutionaries have not started another war, no one we know has died, and as of now, at least France still produces fine quality silks. My factories and expensive tastes are secure. What a relief.”

  He was mocking her, the odious man.

  Céleste’s eyes narrowed irritably at him, and his lips twitched.

  “I am sure you understand,” he continued in that carelessly amused way of his. “It cannot look well for you to visit a bachelor’s residence, es—”

  “I am a widow, my lord,” she interrupted. “I have much more freedom—”

  “Especially,” he continued forcefully, “when that bachelor is a known rake, which you are publicly rising against. Perhaps, in the future, you will speak with Béarn, and the duke will contact me.” The corners of his lips turned up. “Or not.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Are you saying the duke would withhold valuable information from you?”

  “Of course not,” he muttered. “What about our arrangement, Lady Dumonte? I assume it is a dire thing, indeed, to have sent you to the wolf’s den.”

  “It is difficult to speak with you, otherwise, my lord,” Céleste retorted coolly. “First of all, I shall not tolerate your censure for my propriety. Secondly, when I send you letters, I expect them to be answered promptly. Thirdly, I thought perhaps I might be a valuable resource. I knew my husband better than anyone. Is there not something you wish to know about him that may help you in your investigation?” she offered. “What his clubs were, his investments, his friends?”

  “No, there is not,” he said. “I knew all of that within the first two days. In my opinion, you should let this go. Leave it in the past before it eats you up to nothing.”

  “How dare you presume to know such things,” she seethed, grabbing fistfuls of skirt. “How could you possibly know? I cannot simply let go of my husband’s death.” She rose from her seat, feeling herself begin to lose control. “I ought to have known better than to trust a scoundrel to follow through on his agreement.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked hard. “That is not it at all.”

  “Is it not? Do you have some information for me, then?”

  He dropped his hand from his face and stared back at her with a set jaw.

  When he remained silent, she shook her head, then started for the door.

  “Wait.”

  Céleste heard a strange strangled sound and turned to see he had started to follow her… or tried, at any rate. She stared suspiciously at him as he clutched the settee as if he were trying to strangle the life from it.

  “Allow me to ring for a servant to see you out,” he said as he straightened.

  “What happened to you?” Céleste asked hesitantly, stepping toward him.

  “Just a bit stiff from my extracurricular activities,” he retorted through a pained smile.

  “Oh, mon Dieu,” she breathed. “You said there were risks, but—” Céleste swallowed the guilt that rose in her throat. If she were responsible, it was best she knew. It was her investigation, after all. She ought to know the particulars.

  “You said yourself I am a scoundrel, did you not?” he asked impatiently. “As such I am involved in plenty of risky ventures. None of them are your concern.”

  Céleste frowned. “Are you saying a husband nearly beat you to death for seducing his wife?”

  Nick’s brow knit before he replied with a hesitant, “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Very well,” he capitulated easily. “My carriage fell to pieces on the street with not a soul in sight. Just out of the blue.”

  “That is much worse,” she returned. Did he really think her doltish enough to believe that?

  He watched her with narrowed eyes for a moment before he turned away and began to gingerly step toward the bell pull.

  “Tell me what happened!” Céleste hurried around the furniture and cut him off.

  Three times, she pushed his arm down to stop him from reaching out for the bell pull. Finally, she grabbed his arm, which would have been fine had she not forgotten he had neglected to wear a coat. Somehow, feeling his muscled arm through his shirtsleeve was setting her hand on fire.

  She pulled away suddenly and cleared her throat before feeling poised enough to meet his eyes.

  He was scowling at her.

  “Why are you suddenly so concerned with the welfare of a man like me? I reneged on our agreement. I am a reprobate, a scoundrel not fit for society.”

  “All of those things are true, but you are still a man—a person,” she corrected quickly when his eyes narrowed. Then her hand instinctively jumped to her chest as he shifted toward her. “It is only natural for me to be concerned. If-if you were harmed while working for—”

  Céleste moved to take a step back, but was propelled forward by strong hands and brought up against a stone wall of silk brocade.

  “Wh-what are you doing? I thought you were hurt!” She tried to push away, but her hands were pinned to his chest.

  She raised her eyes slowly from the pearl pin in his greyish-blue cravat to his sculpted lips and finally to his intensely blue eyes. He lowered his head to a mere two inches from hers, and she could feel his breath on her face.

  “I shall survive,” he murmured. “You were saying you cared about my being hurt?” His lips curled into a smile as his eyes swept over her face and hair.

  “Well, I…” Céleste licked her unexpectedly dry lips and watched as he focused on the movement. His eyes darkened, and tiny shivers of heat coursed through her.

  He lowered his head, brushing his cheek against hers. Her breath caught, and she had to focus on not turning to kiss his stubbled jaw.

  “Hmm?” His lips lightly touched the tender spot just below her ear. Then they trailed down her neck in single feather-light caresses.

  Céleste’s heart was beating hard enough she was afraid he might be able to hear it. All she could breathe was him: his soap, his cologne, his essence. He was intoxicatingly male and undeniably attractive.

  Something inside her was powerfully drawn to him—the strength and confidence emanating from him.

  When he drew back, Céleste leaned into him. She couldn’t help herself. What he did to her was unlike anything she had ever felt before. She craved the taste and feel of him like a caged animal craved freedom.

  However, the heat in his eyes cooled as he straightened, and he kept his lips just out of her reach. Then he pulled away completely.

  “You should not harbor any anxieties over my health, Lady Dumonte. It is a waste of time. I shall die either a terrible death very soon or a boring one when I am ninety. That depends on the fancies of the devil and the humo
r of God. It is none of your affair either way. Nor is it your place to smite me. As you can see, I get punished far worse by far more vicious foes than you, and I deserve every blow.” He stepped even farther away. “I have done all I can for you, Lady Dumonte. I suggest you leave now.”

  Céleste glared back at him and did all she could trust herself to do without making even more of a fool of herself. She turned and left, her back straight and her chin aloft, but tears of humiliation shimmered on her lashes as she stepped out into the street and then into her carriage.

  Had she taken complete leave of her senses? He was a scoundrel, and she had practically begged him to kiss her.

  She desperately needed to regain control over herself.

  When she returned home, she stood, examining herself in the full-length mirror in her bedchamber. She looked flushed and untidy, which was an improvement on what she had expected to see.

  She felt on fire and thoroughly disheveled. She needed to be somewhere she could display utter discipline; somewhere she was comfortable. She needed a crowded ballroom. The pressure to control her emotions in such an environment was too great for her to fail.

  * * *

  The Dowager Lady de la Roche’s ballroom did not disappoint. It was large and tastefully decorated with a healthy dose of the beau monde.

  Céleste stepped inside with a well-concealed sigh of relief. She immediately felt back on familiar ground. It boosted her confidence and steadied her nerves.

  “Juliette!” Céleste spotted her friend near an empty alcove and immediately approached her.

  “Céleste,” she welcomed with a wide smile and kissed her cheeks. “I was expecting you earlier.”

  “It took longer for me to arrange myself this evening; that’s all.”

  Céleste allowed a small, satisfied twist to her lips as she surveyed the room. Yes, she was back where she belonged, where she was in control.

  “Did you see Lord Pembridge?”

  Céleste’s face fell a moment, but she recovered instantly. “I did. We are no longer esprit de corps.”

  “Oh, I see. So, he did not find anything,” she resolved.