“I doubt the man was truly looking.” To her credit, Céleste did not sound as bitter as she felt.
“Do you think he intended to do nothing all along?”
“Perhaps.” Céleste opened her fan to cool herself.
“The man has some brass,” Juliette said frankly. “I shall give him that.”
Céleste turned to eye her friend disapprovingly. “Don’t go trying to romanticize the man just because he agrees with you. He is naught but another dissolute aristocrat.”
“Well, here comes one exceptionally charming aristocrat who may have his sights on you, Céleste. I cannot imagine how you could possibly resist him.” Juliette nodded at the Duc de Béarn, who was making his way across the room in their direction. His darkly romantic features cut a handsome figure in his black evening dress.
Céleste met his smile and nodded. “Better him than anyone else, but I rather prefer no one. I believe he does as well, otherwise he would have said something. He has been kind to me since my husband’s death, but if he wants more than my friendship, he has not made it known. And I do not know Béarn to be coy.”
“All the same, I believe I shall take a turn around the room. Alone, if you please.” Juliette grinned smugly as she stepped away, nodding to the duke as he approached.
“Lady Juliette.” He bowed slightly, watching as she began a slow progression through the crowd. Then he turned to Céleste. “Lady Dumonte, it is a pleasure to see you. You look lovely, as always.” He kissed the air above her gloved hand.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” There was no predatory glint in the duke’s eyes as there had been in Pembridge’s hours earlier, but Béarn had never humiliated or hurt her, and she doubted he ever would. He was too courteous a gentleman to treat a lady so. He would make a great companion—a safe companion—were she to take one.
“A waltz,” he commented as the first notes of the dance began filling the room. “Tell me you have not yet promised this to another.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.” Even as she spoke, she glanced around for Pembridge.
She spotted him across the room, laughing with a group of tittering debutantes. He was leaning in and smiling in that charming way of his, seemingly captivated by the airheaded beauties.
She marveled that she had not taken more notice of the earl years ago. He had an air about him of elegant dignity and confidence and a masculine form. Not to mention, he was quick with a laugh and had such an easy nature.
He was dangerous and needed to be eradicated.
She resolved immediately to show him he had not the slightest effect on her and donned a captivating smile for Béarn.
If he thought he could save his place in society by playing his games with her, he had been mistaken. He could get pummeled weekly for all she cared. She would still find it necessary to remove him from the polite world, or at least Paris.
She suddenly had the irrational thought of kissing Béarn right there on the ballroom floor. But no, that would be terribly gauche and would no doubt embarrass the duke.
“You would tempt a saint, ma chère.” Béarn swept her up into the turns of the waltz, his form frustratingly proper.
“If I am so tempting, I would think you would hold me a little too close or place your hand too low,” she murmured playfully.
Béarn’s brow knit. “Oh, no. What have I done that you would wish me on your list of undesirables? You are not one to tolerate such a display.”
“No, I suppose I am not. Nor would you be so ungentlemanly,” she mused. “Though, I couldn’t touch you if I wanted to, Your Grace. Your place in Paris is quite secure.”
“Perhaps it is the recent news concerning your late husband,” he said with a frown. “I understand completely if it were to unsettle you. I offer you my ear and my shoulder should you need it.” He punctuated his statement with a comforting squeeze of her hand.
“What news is this, Béarn?” she asked, doing her best to sound unaffected while her heart began to race at what was implied.
Pembridge had found something and had purposely not told her! Braining the Englishman with a teapot sounded like a perfectly reasonable thing to do in this case.
Béarn sent a quick glance at Pembridge who was standing off to the side. “That there was nothing to find besides a few odd charity donations. I thought… Perhaps you have not spoken with the earl today?”
“No, but I believe I shall do so now.” The last bars of the waltz sounded with a flourish. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“One thing before you go,” Béarn added, capturing her hand before she turned away. “I need him.” The seriousness in Béarn’s expression was unmistakable, reminding Céleste that, while Béarn might be a friend, he was also a very powerful man who was not to be taken lightly.
She nodded her assent. Pembridge had immunity from her. For now, anyway.
Béarn silently bowed and sent a warning glance at Pembridge who was watching them now with wary interest.
When Céleste turned to confront Pembridge, he visibly straightened before executing a slight bow. Preparing for battle? She hoped so. She would not want him to be defeated too quickly. She wanted to enjoy knocking him down a peg or two.
* * *
With the assistance of a small dose of laudanum and a large snifter of whisky, Nick was able to drown out most of the pain and regain his usual swagger. Enough, at least, to attend Dowager Lady de la Roche’s ball. He needed to speak to Béarn, but the duke had been engaged all day and refused to allow his meetings to be interrupted.
He had not expected Lady Dumonte to make an appearance this soon after he had been so cruel. Or rather, he had hoped she would stay the hell away from him. He couldn’t trust himself around her.
She was the first woman he found himself having difficulty resisting, and he was beginning to feel bitter about a fate he had already accepted long ago. Not to mention, if he told her what her husband had really been up to, he would never be rid of her. No doubt, the overbearing meddler would wiggle herself right into the middle of Chouvigny’s gang. Unwittingly, of course.
Nick donned a charming smile and bowed as Céleste stepped away from Béarn. “Lady Dumonte, what a surpri—”
“I wish to speak with you in private, my lord.” Her face was a pleasant mask, and her voice was decorous, as usual, but a dangerous light emanated from her eyes, warning him not to let down his guard.
“I would never dream of disappointing a beautiful woman with such a request.”
That remark was rewarded with narrowed eyes and a nondescript, “Hmm.”
He offered his arm and led her to a quiet alcove, through a door, and into a small library. Bookshelves lined three walls with two chairs and a small table in the center. Though the room was not meant to be in use, a fire blazed to keep the space warm in case guests found their way there.
“You seem to know the grounds quite well,” she said tartly. “No doubt a byproduct of your disreputable skills.”
He eased into a roguishly crooked smile. “No need to be jealous. I could show you those skills as well, m’dear.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” She stepped back, uncharacteristically irritable. “How dare you lie to me!”
Nick’s rakish expression fell. “Pardon?”
“Béarn told me!”
That double-dealing, blue-blooded traitor. This was sabotage!
“Perhaps I ought to explain.”
“Oh, I think the time for explanation is long overdue.” She jabbed a finger into his chest to emphasize every other syllable.
“If this is about—”
“You know precisely what this is about!” she burst out, and Nick recoiled slightly, his hands lifted. “You learned something about Pierre, and you didn’t tell me. In fact, you tried to convince me to leave it alone!”
“I understand you are a trifle upset, and rightfully so, but you must understand there are some things best left—”
“In the past?” she shrieked with another jab of her index finger.
/>
That spot on his chest was beginning to get sore, and he was quickly tiring from protecting the woman.
“Yes. Some things, one would be better off not knowing.”
“This is not one of them. And who are you to decide what I ought to and ought not to know?” Her glare seemed to give off a seething aura of pure rage.
“So you learn something. What, then? What good will that do you?” He frowned as he rubbed the newly acquired tender spot on his chest. She had found the one spot on his torso, which wasn’t bruised, and had rectified the situation. At least now it would blend in with the purple hue of the rest of him.
“That is none of your concern, investigator.”
“Investigator? That’s what you think I am?” Nick laughed. He couldn’t help himself, even as he winced at the pain in his ribs. “Oh, my sheltered poppet,” he sighed. “Though, I suppose investigating is a large part of what I do.”
She silently glared daggers at him.
He scratched his jaw idly. “I suppose I did learn something about that fellow, Pierre.”
“Don’t you dare utter his name,” she ground out.
“Seems Pierre had a few charities he was active in,” Nick continued, ignoring her warning. “One of those was to Chouvigny, which was funding the man’s questionable appetite for young girls. Perhaps your late husband realized his mistake and couldn’t take the guilt. Or perhaps he simply gave in to stress and depression. Either way, it was a suicide. There’s nothing to find.”
“Liar!” she spouted as she raised a hand to strike him.
He caught it easily and her other hand, as well. He let her fists beat his chest, albeit only lightly. She had to get out some of what she had pent up inside, but he wasn’t about to let her kill him in the process.
“He pulled the trigger,” he said. “He ended it. His decision, no one else’s.”
She stopped fighting and turned large, over-bright eyes to his. “No,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t.” A tear streamed down her face. “He wouldn’t have left…”
“I am sorry,” he said, willing himself not to wipe away the tear from her cheek.
Women cried constantly, and he was usually well prepared for it. Why he felt as though his chest was in a vise over this woman’s tears was anyone’s guess.
He let go of her wrists, and she backed away.
“Sometimes, those we love are those we are most blind to. He was in a dark place. He may have thought to spare you—”
“How would you know?” she asked quietly as she glared at him.
He didn’t. Those weren’t his words. They were words of comfort he had heard when he had grieved his father’s suicide. They had done little for him then. Apparently, they didn’t do much for her, either.
“This is good-bye, Pembridge. Thank you for your assistance.” She dipped a slight curtsy, then left silently, her shoulders squared and chin lifted.
He stared at the door after it clicked shut behind her. Nothing he could say would ease her grief or guilt or cheer her in any way, and she had taken the news relatively well. Thus, he let her go. It was what he wanted, anyway. He was free of her.
Still, Nick had a feeling of dread whisk through him when he watched her slender figure leave through the overlarge mahogany door. This would not be the end. He could feel it. That woman would run herself into an early grave to get what she wanted. She would get in the way somehow at some point.
For now, however, he needed to focus. Chouvigny required his full attention.
Chapter 5
Céleste waited anxiously for Juliette to arrive. Her friend had agreed, albeit very reluctantly, to help Céleste in her little charade. She needed an old, rather basic working gown and a cap yet had no way of getting one without going herself down to the servants’ quarters and stealing them, which would be stealing and scandalous. It simply was not done.
Juliette, however, had a maid who would get her these items without saying a word.
Despite Céleste’s best efforts, Juliette was a wild spirit, and by now, everyone expected something unorthodox to be connected with her on a weekly basis. So naturally, Juliette chose her own maid based on how well they got on and how much she could get away with. Her current maid, Elaine, was very protective of Juliette while still being her accomplice in crime, a dangerous but necessary combination.
“I have it, Céleste!” Juliette bustled into the morning room, toting a large paper bag. “Ooh, I wish I were going with you. What a story that would be!”
Céleste’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. There will be no story. You will not breathe a word of this. Do you understand?” she insisted, accepting the bag from the now somewhat deflated blonde.
“Oh, all right,” Juliette muttered. “Elaine managed to get you a position as a maid for Chouvigny. She had to drop a few coins at the agency, but it is all settled.”
Céleste opened the bag and pulled out the gown and cap. “My size, I assume?”
“Of course. It isn’t exactly made by your usual modiste, but it is serviceable,” Juliette commented as she examined the gown in Céleste’s hands. “I also brought a matching coat, but I left that in the carriage for you. No need to have the servants talking.”
“Quite true. Thank you, Juliette.”
Céleste felt excitement and trepidation mix within her as she held the gown. She had never done anything so outrageous in all her life, but it was something she simply had to do. If she were going to find out what or who had caused her husband to kill himself, she would have to go right into the lion’s den.
She knew Chouvigny was suspected of some dubious business—Béarn had said as much on the few occasions he had been upset. And she knew Pierre had been involved with Chouvigny in some capacity at the time of his death. Still, Pierre would never have done anything malicious deliberately. The answers must be with Chouvigny.
Juliette placed a concerned hand on Céleste’s arm. “Ma chère, how long will you stay there? You will be expected to work. And Chouvigny is a known gamer. I hear gamers drink heavily and are often times violent.”
“I plan to stay no longer than I have to,” she assured. “I shall get what I need and get out.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Make excuses for my absence. Tell them I am ill and have gone to the country. My servants will corroborate the story.” Céleste stuffed the fabric back inside the bag.
“Very well, Céleste. I shall miss you.”
“I shall miss you, too. Watch for my letters.” Céleste pressed Juliette’s hand with a warm smile. “There is something else. Will you watch after Béarn for me? He acts suave and strong, as though nothing can touch him, but he needs someone to talk to.”
Juliette’s cheeks tinged pink. “I would be honored to be your proxy and entertain the duke.”
“Thank you.” With a deep breath, Céleste stood and brushed out her skirt. “Now, I am off to change into my new-old gown.”
* * *
The evidence Nick had taken from Chouvigny’s desk was supposed to be what Nick had been waiting for, but instead, it only complicated matters further. It widened the cell far more than originally thought. Now they encroached on English shores. How long had they been exporting young girls to England right under his nose?
It meant Nick couldn’t simply set up a coup to arrest all the known involved persons. Those unknown who were involved with the exportation to England would escape, and he would have to start all over again.
Nick sat in the chair behind his desk, holding a dip pen carefully over a pristine sheet of paper. He needed to write a report to Saint Brides in London. If anyone ought to be made aware and could offer assistance, it would be Saint Brides. As the Chief Operating Officer at the Home Office, he could do the most good.
Dear Saint Brides,
Unfortunately, that incident you wished me to look into for the Duc de Béarn has expanded to include English deposits. Names at this point are rather meaningless—you already k
now our target—and currently, we have too weak a position for action. I would suggest keeping an eye out for small vessels arriving from Calais or Le Havre. Your presence here would be greatly appreciated, as well, if you have the time.
Humbly yours,
Pembridge
Nick set the pen down, then pulled out a small pouch filled with sand. After sprinkling the sand over the letter, he delicately shook it out, then placed it in an envelope, which he sealed with his signet ring.
Now that Nick had gotten himself caught, it would be harder than ever to get them to slip up. Not to mention, his cover was blown, and they would be looking for reasons to polish him off, nice and tidy. Or not so nice or tidy. He had best watch his back a bit more carefully from now on.
“Nick!” André came bursting through the large mahogany door, carrying a small square of paper.
“I say, André! Have I taught you nothing?” Nick asked incredulously. “What if I had been entertaining a lady?”
“In here?” the boy exclaimed. “Why would you entertain a lady in your study? There is no bed!”
Nick smiled crookedly at the boy’s innocence. “Maybe when you are older. Now, what could be so blessed important that you felt the need to come running in here like the devil was at your heels?”
“Oh, a note from le duc!”
“Ah, best give it here.” Nick held out his hand and waited as the boy hurried up to the desk.
André frowned as he handed the note to Nick. “I already ordered your horse to be readied.”
“Reading my notes again, are we?” Nick asked with a raised brow as he began to read the letter. All good humor blanched from his face as a mixture of shock and anger took over.
“My God,” Nick muttered as he sprang from his chair and dashed for the door. He didn’t slow his pace one bit through the hall or down the stairs.
“Jacques, my coat!” he called as soon as his foot hit the bottom step, and he rushed to the foyer.
* * *
Half an hour later, Nick sat on the edge of Béarn’s bed. The duke’s face was swollen and discolored in dark blues and blacks with one arm and his torso covered in bandages.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 9
