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

by Kristen McLean

  “Béarn, what happened?” Nick gently took the man’s hand and waited as Béarn gathered his strength.

  “Four of them… Chouvigny,” Béarn answered painfully.

  “Chouvigny’s men attacked you?” Nick scowled. “They did this to you?”

  Béarn could only nod.

  Nick knew exactly who those four men were. He still felt their introductions.

  “Last night, when you left the ball, did you go to Chouvigny’s alone?” Nick asked, though he knew the answer.

  “Oui,” he breathed, wincing.

  “That’s what I am for, you idiot. I take the punches. When the time is right, I shall confront him. I—” Nick stopped himself. There was no point in scolding the man. He had already been punished enough. “What did the physician say?”

  “I have a few broken bones, but he assures me I shall survive.”

  “Béarn,” Nick said ruefully, “I am so sorry.”

  He ought to have looked after him. He knew Béarn had been near obsessed with locking Chouvigny away. Nick had assumed the dark look Béarn had given him at Lady de la Roche’s ball was a warning concerning Lady Dumonte, not dark determination for an impending escapade.

  If the fiends were confident enough to do this to a French duke, what else could they be planning? Béarn was powerful in society and the government, even a changing one. Most likely, they had taken advantage of the failing health of King Louis and settled some of their own men in high ranks. Even so, the King’s brother, the heir to the throne, greatly favored the aristocracy.

  Perhaps that was why Béarn was still alive.

  “It is a warning,” Nick mused darkly. “He will regret this. They will all regret this.”

  “No, you were right. I was too hasty,” Béarn managed between labored breaths. “Take down the lot of them, Pembridge. Wait and take down the lot.” Béarn closed his eyes, obviously exhausted. “I must rest, mon ami.”

  Nick stood quietly and looked at the nurse who nodded for him to leave. He glanced at the bed one more time, the image of his battered friend searing into his memory.

  Chapter 6

  The downstairs of Chouvigny’s mansion was, to Céleste’s surprise, immaculate. The servants themselves, however, did not disappoint her. Under their superbly clean uniforms hid crass and bawdy degenerates who could barely stay civil long enough to serve dinner.

  Céleste was nearly pushed to the ground by a rush of other maids as she made her way back to the kitchen. This was where she would wait until she was called again.

  The cook and the kitchen maid were busy with dinner preparations, and only two or three other servants mulled about.

  “So, where did you come from?” Nadine, the kitchen maid, asked as she began stirring a sweet smelling concoction in a large bowl.

  “I was brought in from Calais. My father is a butler there,” she lied easily, adopting her own maid’s story. “He wanted more opportunity for me, so he brought me to Paris.”

  “A butler’s daughter! Are we not high in the instep?” Nadine snickered as the other maids and the cook joined in.

  “I bet he was from a long line of butlers, non?” another asked.

  “He was, yes,” Céleste answered, again garnering a round of smirks and chuckles.

  “That must be why you speak so proper,” Nadine sneered.

  “What about all of you?” Céleste asked innocently.

  After a pause, one of the other maids spoke. “For most of us, this is our first post in a grand house. The cook is the only one who worked somewhere else before.”

  “You mean his lordship hired all of you without references?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  The room broke out into a fit of laughter, which Céleste did not quite understand. The housekeeper, Madame Renaud, entered amidst the chortles.

  She was physically quite pretty, but her severity and nastiness made her intolerable, removing any attraction her well-curved body, full-mouth, and cat-like eyes might have awarded her.

  “Céleste,” she barked from the doorway. “Go dust the parlor and refill the decanters with his lordship’s best port. The men will retire there in under an hour, so hurry it up. I don’t want to hear how a shite maid like you was found in the parlor.”

  Céleste was now putting all those years of repressing her emotions to good use. She wanted to scold the woman up one side and down the other. For now, she would simply dust and refill the decanters. She stopped by a closet and grabbed a cloth to clean with.

  The study where Chouvigny and his compatriots were meeting was only one door down from the parlor. As she approached, their voices rang through loudly. The man either did not care much for who heard his private matters, or he spoke with incredible volume unknowingly.

  “You imbecile!” Chouvigny roared, followed by a loud thud. “What were you thinking of sending men like that after a duke?”

  “Merde, Travere,” another voice muttered.

  “He was making wild accusations!” someone complained, probably Travere.

  Céleste took a couple steps toward the study.

  “That Englishman is getting a bit snoopy, too. I don’t like it, mes amis.” It was Chouvigny again.

  “I agree, but it should not be a problem to get rid of this Englishman the same way we got rid of those investigators, even one with a title. He has been in France for so long it is doubtful anyone would miss him,” someone suggested.

  “Perhaps. See what your men can do to change his mind about staying in Paris,” Chouvigny growled.

  “What are you doing? Get to work!”

  Céleste jumped and turned to see Madame Renaud glaring daggers. She hurried the couple steps to duck into the parlor, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

  That woman’s black looks would scare Cerberus.

  The parlor was a large room with wooden beams crisscrossing along the ceiling and thick gold drapes. Intricate patterns of gold and beige tattooed the walls on all sides, and a large marble fireplace warmed the space nicely. What surprised Céleste was the amount of clutter scattered everywhere. Pipes and tobacco, pens, stationery, and a balled up sheet of used paper.

  She tidied and dusted as best and quickly as she could, but she had no idea where to deposit what looked like a discarded list of names—creditors, most likely—with an incoherent description of goods, dates of receipt, and amounts owed. She stuffed it in her apron. All in all, it could not have been more than twenty minutes, and she was already heading for the hall.

  “Oh!” Céleste slipped a mild curse and twirled to check the decanter. She rounded the sideboard and pulled it out, eyeing it carefully. Three-fourths full. Not quite requiring a refill in her opinion.

  She shrugged and turned back for the door. It would be her little rebellion.

  * * *

  Three days later, Céleste was able to take a day off and meet Juliette for a stroll through the Tuileries Garden.

  The blue sky was a vivid contrast against the bright green of the trees, and a warm breeze rustled Céleste’s skirts about her ankles and kissed her face, sending her into contented bliss. It was a welcome change to the drudgery she had been subjecting herself to.

  If only she were not playing a servant in order to find out what nefarious business ventures her late husband might have been party to….

  Juliette managed to convince Elaine to stay in the carriage with the coachman. In her servant’s day dress, Céleste fit the role of lady’s maid quite nicely.

  Instead of embracing as Juliette would normally insist on, they began walking with Céleste a few steps behind as would be proper for a maid.

  “How are you holding up?” Juliette asked, turning her head only slightly behind her as they passed by a large fountain.

  “Don’t look at me!” Céleste whispered harshly. “I am fine. Although, I don’t think I shall ever be a servant again, and I shall treat my own with sweets more often.”

  Juliette laughed, and Céleste reluc
tantly smiled at the humiliating situation she had put herself in. At any moment, she could tell those servants of Chouvigny’s just what she thought of them. Though, she would want out of these rags first.

  “Is it so terrible?”

  Céleste thought for a moment. “It is clean, and some of the servants are friendly, but most are rude and unkind.” It was as honest an assessment as she could make. “I think they have had a hard life, Juliette.”

  “No doubt.”

  “How is Béarn?” Céleste asked, not forgetting what she had overheard days before.

  “I have not seen le duc, ma chère. He has not appeared at any of the balls or soirees since you left,” Juliette answered, then smiled as she nodded at some passing acquaintances. “I am convinced now he only comes out to see you.”

  “Have you heard why he has not been attending?” she asked with a sinking feeling in her gut.

  “No one seems to know anything. Though, with both of you gone at the same time, I think they are beginning to think some very wicked things.” She smiled, wiggling her brows suggestively.

  Céleste grabbed Juliette’s arm and stopped walking, eliciting a startled yelp out of her friend. “You must go to him!”

  “Céleste, you are positively pasty! What is wrong with His Grace taking some much needed time to himself?” Juliette asked, clearly mystified.

  “He does not take time to himself, Juliette. He thrives on people,” she insisted, her brow drawn together in worry. “Go and visit. Bring a basket. Say you heard he might have been ill.”

  “Very well, Céleste,” Juliette conceded, “but please let me go. People are looking.”

  Céleste dropped Juliette’s arm and looked down as demurely as she could. “Is this better?” she whispered.

  Juliette’s laugh had her raising her eyes again.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Juliette chuckled. “Only, I shall remember this always as the time the great Lady Dumonte pretended to be my servant in the Tuileries Garden.”

  “The great Lady Dumonte? My, how you flatter me,” Céleste teased. Then, with false indifference, she added, “What of Pembridge? Have you seen him?”

  “Mm-hm,” Juliette confirmed. “He asked about you. I do not think he believed that story about you being away to the country, but he did not press.”

  “No,” she murmured. “He wouldn’t.”

  She would wager he was internally jumping for joy at the mere thought of her finally being out of his hair. The reason for her disappearance was irrelevant.

  For another hour, they spoke of the balls and soirees Céleste had missed and what had been worn. Céleste had never thought she could miss the shimmer of fine silk or the weight of her jewels so badly.

  She absently ran her fingers across the buttons of her tawdry coat. She had not realized how much she needed those fine things. They were her armor, or part of it at least, and it had been stripped away. She had only herself to protect her now.

  * * *

  Céleste watched Juliette’s carriage rumble away on the cobblestones with firm resolution.

  Tonight, she would find what she had been hoping would simply drop in her lap. Tonight, she would do some exploring.

  For years, she had lived with the grief and guilt of Pierre’s death. She should have seen his torment. They had been the best of friends, talked of everything together. How could she have been so wrapped up in her own world that she had not seen his was falling apart?

  This was not only about justice on Pierre’s part; it was about atonement on hers. She needed to earn his forgiveness.

  With the excitement of her upcoming escapade looming in the back of her mind, concentrating on her work was near impossible. It was bad enough she had no clue what she was doing. If not for a sudden habit of staring, she would have been sacked within the first day. Thankfully, she was a fast learner.

  At the moment, it was easy. They all sat around a back table, polishing this or that. Polishing, she could do. It didn’t take much skill at all, if she could only concentrate on doing it.

  “If you keep at that much longer, we shall have to stick the candle in a shiny nub instead of a candlestick holder.”

  Céleste jumped when she heard Renaud’s scold from behind.

  She glanced at the clock on the shelf and realized she had been polishing the same piece for nearly fifteen minutes.

  “If you think someone else will pick up your slack if you go slowly enough, you are wrong,” Renaud bit out bitterly.

  “Of course not, Madame Renaud,” Céleste demurred as she moved to start on the matching candlestick holder.

  “Don’t think we don’t know what you are, either.” The housekeeper snickered.

  “P-pardon?” Céleste asked, her stomach beginning to climb into her throat.

  “We get girls like you all the time. You think you are too good for this work, eh? Look down on the others because they are below stairs servants.” Madame Renaud nodded, affirming her own words. “Yes, we know you. You will have to do the same amount of work as everyone else if you plan on getting a fair wage. You are no lady’s maid.”

  “Yes, madame.” Céleste was too thankful the woman had not seen through her ineptitude to argue.

  “I don’t know how things are in Calais, but here, everyone works hard to earn their keep,” Madame Renaud added as she turned, inspecting the rest of the maids’ work.

  “Termagant,” Céleste muttered under her breath and was surprised with a quiet giggle from her right. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were there.”

  “I shall not tell her what you said. She is a termagant,” Marta whispered and giggled again.

  “Why do you stay here?”

  “Where else would I go? In here is much better than out there.”

  Céleste had to admit the girl had a point. “But what about looking for work in another house?”

  “Why?” Marta’s raised brow reminded her of Juliette, instantly giving Céleste another reason to like the young woman.

  “To get away from the termagant, for one,” Céleste suggested as she nodded toward the crotchety housekeeper.

  Marta covered her mouth to hide her smile. “There are people like her everywhere in one form or another.”

  Marta was making perfect sense, but it didn’t seem fair to Céleste. Marta was sweet and kind, and she didn’t deserve to be treated so poorly. The more she thought about it, the more upset she became.

  “Madame Renaud may be feared, but she will never be respected by the staff. She is too unpleasant. There is a difference between firm and mean, which is why she will never make a truly great housekeeper. Some great houses have great housekeepers who would not treat the staff so poorly.”

  “You are very smart, Céleste. It must be because you are a butler’s daughter,” Marta said as she began polishing again.

  “What if there was a place where you would be treated well?”

  “I am treated well, Céleste. I am fed and clothed, and I have a dry, warm place to sleep—”

  “Yes, but what if—oh, never mind!” Céleste exhaled in frustration, and a little hand hesitantly settled on her shoulder. When she turned, she saw brown eyes wise beyond their age.

  “There is no point in thinking about what ifs. I have been in worse places than this, so it is best to make the most of what I have.” With a determined nod, she turned back to the vase she was assigned to clean.

  Worse places than this? Céleste was not as naive as most women of her class. She and Pierre had supported many charities and had been quite involved. She had made a point to be observant, hoping it might help her to be more effective. She had seen some unsavory things, but to think of someone like Marta in an unsavory place struck her as terribly unfair.

  “Do not give up dreaming yet, Marta.”

  This time, Marta’s laugh was wistful, and it struck a deep part of Céleste.

  “You still have dreams, Céleste?”

  “Of course
I do,” she insisted, willing her enthusiasm onto Marta.

  “One day, you will not dream anymore. One day, you will realize dreams are lies we tell ourselves to escape the reality we live in. Dreams bring disappointment. You will be happier without them.” With a half-smile, Marta rose with the vase, turned, and left the room.

  * * *

  Juliette stood for the first time at the door to the Duc de Béarn’s Paris home. Would he think her forward for visiting uninvited? And to a bachelor’s home! Widower’s home, she corrected herself, and she had brought her maid along. Surely, he would find nothing untoward about her visit.

  When Céleste had begged her to see the duke, Juliette was glad to do it. She had always been fond of him. Nevertheless, now she was all nerves as she waited for the door to open.

  “I am here to see the Duc de Béarn, please,” she said as primly as she could.

  “He is indisposed,” was all the pinch-faced butler would say.

  “But I brought him a basket,” she argued, all primness vanishing. “I was sent by Lady Dumonte. Do tell him I am here.”

  “I am afraid he is not receiving anyone,” was the coarse reply.

  “Tell him Lady Dumonte sent me,” Juliette insisted.

  “I am sorry—” the butler began, but he was interrupted when Juliette pushed past him.

  She did not look back, but it sounded as though her maid was having a few words with that horrid man. Served him right. He would be sorry once she was done with him.

  She began peeking in rooms, hoping the duke might be in one of them. Of course, if he were indisposed, perhaps he was abed. In that case, perhaps she should find a servant who would be willing to give him the basket and apprise him of her visit.

  However, she had already checked all but one door in this hall. To be thorough, she really should peek in it, as well. She could hear the angry voices of her maid and the butler still arguing in the foyer. She had a little time left.

  When she opened the door just enough to peek in, she immediately recognized the duke’s dark features as he pored over something at his desk.