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

by Kristen McLean

  “Your Grace!” Juliette bustled in with a cheery smile, her basket on her arm. “I am so glad to see you. I brought…” Her voice faded as she got closer and realized the duke’s face was covered in faded bruises and cuts. His arm was in a sling, as well, and he was scowling at her. “Your Grace!” Juliette stood transfixed, her heart beating hard in her chest. “I am terribly sorry if I… if I intruded. Are you all right, Your Grace?”

  “Lady Juliette?” His face softened, and he held up a hand with a faint smile. “I am fine, truly.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Béarn chuckled. “You are not one to waste time with formality, are you?” He wheeled himself around the desk in his chair, giving Juliette yet another shock and causing her to drop her basket.

  “N—no, Your Grace.” Juliette glanced down and clasped her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. I… Céleste sent me to visit you because you have not been seen out in a week’s time.”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “Yes, she would worry about me.”

  She bent and picked up the basket. “I brought this. It is just some bread, cheese, and wine, and some of those hard candies I have seen you favor at Lady de la Roche’s. And I made some soup for you. I probably should not have learned, but I threatened to sit on Cook’s preparation table until she taught me… this morning.”

  Béarn chuckled again. “I am afraid it might be a few more days before I can eat bread or hard candies again, but I cannot wait to taste this rebellious soup of yours.” He raised his hand to test the soreness in his jaw and winced.

  Silence held while Juliette stared anxiously at Béarn.

  He sighed. “I was attacked at night,” he explained. “It was entirely my fault, and my physician assured me I shall fully recover. I promise. Now, stop looking at me as though I am already dead.”

  If not for the smile on his wicked face, Juliette would have apologized.

  “Come. Sit and we shall talk.” Béarn wheeled himself toward the fire and the plush chairs there, gesturing for her to sit in one. “It is true. I have missed society. It was kind of Lady Dumonte to think of me. How is she?”

  “Oh, she is well,” Juliette said as she sat on the chair across from him. “She has thrown herself into her next project.” It wasn’t altogether untrue, so she told herself the guilt she felt was unwarranted.

  “She is an amazing woman, is she not?” Béarn mused through a half-smile.

  “Yes, she is.” Juliette felt her stomach knot.

  She had seen Béarn falling in love with Céleste for years. More and more often, he found reasons to visit with them. And more and more often, Juliette found herself getting strange knots in her stomach.

  “I hope you do not think this too nosy of me, but do you know her connection with Lord Pembridge?” he asked with a pensive frown. “Does she have an attachment?”

  “She says it is nothing romantic. I have no reason to think differently.”

  “Do you not? I cannot be so certain.”

  “I think Céleste is being foolish. He is very handsome. Perhaps I shall pursue him.” She smiled.

  The thought was preposterous. He was as much out of her reach as Béarn was, but it felt good to jest as though it were possible.

  “Are you looking for a husband, Lady Juliette?”

  “Oh, Your Grace, I have always been looking.” She chuckled wistfully. “The men I meet are not likely to be interested in a girl with no dowry. Those who would are not in the same circles as Lady Dumonte, not that it would matter. She scares every gentleman away except you.”

  Béarn smiled. “I shall have to remember to thank her.”

  “For what?” Juliette asked, puzzled. “Ah, for scaring off the other gentlemen.” She nodded, feeling those knots again. She forced herself to hold a light smile. “You intend to offer for her. I have told her as much.”

  His brow knit, and his face fell slightly. “What did she say?”

  “That if you want anything more than friendship, you have not mentioned it to her,” she recited frankly. “And that she does not think you a coy man.”

  “She is a perceptive woman,” he mused.

  “Perceptive? Lady Dumonte? With men?” she asked incredulously, her voice rising in pitch with every question. “Hardly.”

  “I am surprised she didn’t claim I was after you.”

  “That does not require perception, Your Grace. That is common sense. I am far too plain and too poor for you.” Even though she said it carelessly, the words barbed. They were words she had been told often, a list that had been recited to her since her come-out, though Céleste had never mentioned it once.

  The duke’s smile faded. “You are wrong, ma chère. You are not plain, and you are richer in heart and spirit than anyone I know. So, you see, a person’s situation can be misleading. I have learned there are many wonderful people considered below me.”

  “Everyone is below you,” she returned with a raised brow.

  After a pause for thought, he chuckled. “I suppose.”

  His face was made harsh with fading bruises, turning his smile wicked. Then she noticed the state of his cravat. It lay loosely draped around his neck, and the top three buttons of his shirt were left undone. His neck was completely exposed, making him look terribly wicked, indeed.

  “S-so,” she stuttered, turning her attention to the window past his shoulder, “are you thinking of taking a wife, then, Your Grace?”

  “I shall admit I have given it serious thought,” he stated, lifting a brow at her. “You must stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ We have known each other quite long enough. Call me Béarn.”

  “You have a strange way of looking, Your—Béarn. I have not seen you give anyone your attention except Lady Dumonte.”

  “Do you find me too discreet, Juliette?” he asked, amusement lighting his eyes. “Perhaps you think I ought to carry the lady off in the night?”

  “Oh!” Juliette’s brows winged up. “Well, that’s one way to do it. Rather boorish, though, and I don’t think you have a boorish bone in your body.”

  “No, I don’t believe I do,” he agreed. “I hope that is not what you are looking for, Juliette.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she replied pensively. “I would prefer a man swept me into his arms while he spoke sincerely and briefly of his passion. Then I want him to kiss me senseless, and—”

  Béarn cleared his throat awkwardly. “You are quite specific. I hope you don’t share this with any other gentlemen.”

  Juliette laughed. “No, only you.”

  “I am honored… and relieved. Those are not details you want spreading throughout Paris.”

  “No, I suppose not,” she admitted. “What about you, Béarn? What do you plan to do?”

  “I am too craven or otherwise unable to act on my intentions,” he admitted. “Perhaps it is my curse to suffer a broken heart.”

  “But you are a duke,” she insisted. “You cannot think anyone would refuse you.”

  “So, you believe I would marry a woman so title-hungry she sees me only as the Duc de Béarn?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t mean… That is, that was not what I—”

  “Juliette, will you come see me again?” he asked, graciously saving her from falling over her own words. “I find I am terribly cooped up in this stuffy house, but I would rather not be seen by the public as I am.”

  Béarn smiled openly when Juliette nodded.

  “I have to complete some business before my physician chases me back to my bed.” He took her hand in his and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “I look forward to your next visit. Thank you for the basket.”

  * * *

  Nick had been to every dashed ball, bazaar, soiree, and other mindless shindig since Lady Dumonte had told him to sod off, and he had not seen hide nor hair of the woman at any of them. Every day she did not turn up made him more and more suspicious of her activities. All he wanted was to find out what she was doing, which became exceedingly aggrav
ating considering he should be concentrating on a way to close his final case.

  The case. The one she had almost ruined. He should be grateful the wench was finally out of his hair.

  When he eventually forced himself to ask Lady Juliette where she was, he got a half-arsed attempt at a bold-faced lie. And at first, he was not too concerned. If Lady Juliette knew where she was and was not troubled, which seemed to be the case, it could not be too terrible. Then again, Lady Juliette once climbed up a rose lattice to save her cat that had been trapped on the gutter five floors up. That would not have been quite so terrible had she started at the fifth floor window—though, a lady certainly ought never to climb outside a window from any height, especially five floors up—but she had started from the ground. Therefore, naturally, Nick’s confidence in her sense of judgment was questionable, to say the least, as fond of her as he was. Moreover, it had been the better part of two weeks since Lady Dumonte had made an appearance.

  “Céleste Chastain, you are determined to be a pain in my arse, are you not?” he muttered, glancing out the window into what looked like the dashed loveliest day of the year.

  “André!” he called, pushing himself up from his chair and rounding his desk.

  It was time to do something to ensure she had not gotten herself killed yet. The last thing he needed was that woman’s death on his hands. She would be the kind to come back and haunt him for the rest of his short life.

  “André!” he called again as he leaned out of his study doorway to look out into the hall. “Where has that boy—”

  “Here!” A bundle in a dirty, oversized coat and torn breeches rounded the corner and raced toward Nick.

  “I know for a fact that you have more fine coats and breeches than I do at the moment. Why, in heaven’s name, are you wearing that?” He frowned as he waved a finger at the offending clothing. He knew he sounded harsh, but dress had always been a matter of pride with him. He had not always been able to have the luxury of fine clothes. Namely, during the first few years after becoming earl when he had realized he owed the tenants instead of it being the other way around.

  André looked down before answering, assessing himself as though he had not noticed what he was wearing. “I have been playing.”

  “You have to look like a mound of dust to play?”

  “The other children will not play with me if I am dressed well. They make fun of me,” he replied defensively.

  Nick exhaled, his breath puffing out of his cheeks. He bent slightly with his hands braced on his thighs. Truthfully, he had no idea what to say. He just knew he had to say something.

  “André, if they cannot accept you because of the cut of your coat, then they don’t deserve your friendship.” There, that sounded like something a wise father would say. And he believed it. Anyone who would overlook such a great lad was unworthy of him.

  André’s brows knit for a moment as the boy was obviously in some deep thought. Then large questioning eyes lifted to Nick’s, and he knew he was in trouble.

  “Do you accept me like this?” he asked, his arms out at his sides.

  Nick felt the question like a blow to his gut. Who was giving the lesson here?

  He arched a brow. “Here now, you cannot get rid of me that easily, even if you ran down the Champs Elysées in a loincloth.”

  Nick caught a glimpse of a toothy grin before he was enveloped in a dusty bear hug. Nick felt a pride he had never felt before as he held his son. He didn’t even mind that the dust was ruining his favorite waistcoat and crisp light blue cravat. André meant much more to him than any fine thing he had ever had.

  A lump formed in his throat, and he tightened his arms around André before letting him go.

  “I had better not see you in a loincloth, André,” he warned, realizing with some horror what he had said might turn into a challenge.

  With a chuckle, the boy agreed.

  “André, I want you to do something for me,” Nick said, remembering his initial reason for calling him in. “Lady Dumonte has gone missing. I want you to find out what she is up to. Would you mind?”

  André grinned. “A woman like her is not difficult to track.”

  “Do you think you would recognize her even through a disguise?”

  “Yes, I saw her when she came here.” André nodded. “I remember faces exceptionally well.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “No.” André shook his head.

  “Good. If she recognized you, there would be no hope. Do what you can to locate her, then come tell me. I just want to know if she is still alive. I would like you home for dinner, though, if you can manage it.”

  It was not necessarily for safety that Nick wanted André home. Sure, Nick would feel better if the boy was home at night, safe and sound, but mostly, he wanted the company.

  “I shall try,” André replied.

  “Watch out for the gendarmerie if you are out too late. They have been setting up post just before dusk to catch thieving runts like you, and they have been known to fire,” he warned, then brushed off some dust from his lapel and side pocket. “Damn fools could find something a bit more productive to do,” he muttered. Like taking care of the truly dangerous criminal rings so Nick wouldn’t have to.

  André grinned and began walking down the hall.

  “And be mindful of those lingering on the streets!” Nick added before the boy disappeared.

  Nick had to give André interesting errands, or the boy would find something far more mischievous to wiggle himself into. Nick hated sending André out into the streets of Paris, but he preferred it to the alternative.

  It had taken Nick exactly two weeks and at least four hundred fifty pounds in solicitor fees and damages before he had realized how much he preferred it. As much as Nick loved André, he could not deny the boy’s knack for getting into trouble.

  Nick stepped back into his study and sat at his desk. Pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and dip pen, he began to write two letters. The first was to Eton. He was getting André enrolled in his boyhood school. The troublesome lad deserved a quality education. The second letter was to his close friends since childhood, the Marquess and Marchioness of Ainsley. He was coming home soon, and they would want to hear from him first. Otherwise, he would get an earful when he arrived.

  * * *

  It was another beautiful day, but Céleste was hard-pressed to appreciate it. She had searched for hours the night before and found nothing, exactly as she had been doing every night for the past week. She had been at Chouvigny’s for two weeks now. She was tired, irritable, and quickly forgetting why she had chosen to pose as a dashed maid.

  Juliette sat beside her on the bench, her eyes closed and face lifted into the breeze. Her blonde hair shined in the sunlight, and her pale skin never seemed to show a freckle or blemish. She was always so content and beautiful.

  “Stop looking so dashed cheery,” Céleste grumbled.

  Juliette’s eyes were closed against the sun, but her lips curled up in a smile. “It is a lovely day, Céleste. Why can you not enjoy it?”

  “You make me sick,” she mumbled, turning to glare at a woman selling bouquets of glorious pink, white, red, purple, and yellow flowers.

  “Why are you so upset?” Juliette murmured, still basking and slowly breathing in the early summer air.

  “I have wasted weeks, Juliette. Weeks!”

  When Juliette merely chuckled, Céleste decided to change the subject before she strangled her best friend.

  “How is Béarn?”

  Juliette smiled. “Oh, he is lovely.”

  Céleste suspiciously raised a brow at her friend. “Pardon?”

  Juliette’s eyes finally opened and turned to Céleste. “Oh, I mean he is mending lovely. He was attacked while walking at night.”

  “Attacked! Juliette, why did you not tell me sooner?” Good God, did everything have to fall apart at once?

  “It was so bad,” Juliette said, her brow knit. “I was a bit ga
uche when I saw he was hurt. I was shocked, but Béarn was so sweet about everything.”

  “Yes, that’s Béarn.”

  “You were right, though. He does not like being away from people. He hates being locked away in that house all alone.”

  “Oh, the poor man,” Céleste muttered.

  “Since I brought him that basket, he has asked me to come back every day. It must look quite scandalous, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Nor do I. And I bring him soup every day. He seems to like it very much. We talk for hours while he eats it, and we drink tea. I never knew he was so clever and read so many books. Philosophy mostly. And biographies.”

  Céleste’s mouth dropped open in incredulity at her friend’s rambling. Being around servants must have truly had an impact on Céleste’s ladylike reserve. Her mouth worked for a moment, but no words came out.

  “Céleste, I love him,” Juliette finally admitted. “What shall I do? I have fallen in love with a man who will never have me.”

  “Oh, Juliette,” Céleste began sadly as her heart sank.

  “Please”—Juliette held up her hand to interrupt Céleste—“I am no birdbrain, Céleste. He said he was looking for a wife. He has one in mind. I shall be mortified and heartbroken when he marries. I admit it. But how can I tell my heart to stop beating? I have tried for ages not to become fond of him with no success. On the contrary, I have only admired him more with every meeting.”

  Juliette sighed, then added, “Even if he were to go against all society and marry an impoverished lady, the scandal would ruin his political career. He would resent me. I know this. I do not need you to remind me of these things.”

  With a heavy sigh, Céleste turned back to stare at the flower lady again. How could this possibly get any worse? She hoped that Béarn would, in turn, fall in love with Juliette. He needed someone like Juliette, and she needed him. She would give him life, and he would settle her spirit. If only society had no say in the matter, and one’s birth and means were of no consequence.

  She knew Béarn to be good-natured and even-tempered, but she did not know if he would oppose society even for love. He was a politician. He needed the people, and he had leaned on them heavily after his wife had died.