Céleste watched as a boy in torn breeches and an oversized coat ran up to the woman with the baskets of flowers. For several minutes, they seemed to banter back and forth, but the boy was not getting any flowers. Perhaps he was trying to negotiate price? Finally, the woman began to get cross and pushed him back. He landed with a hard thump on the ground and looked about to cry.
Another cruelty to press hard against Céleste’s heart. It seemed the world was full of injustices if one just opened their eyes to it: Marta, Juliette, Pierre’s untimely death, Béarn’s wife meeting an early grave, and countless others walking the streets of Paris. And now this boy.
No. Not this time! This time, she was going to do something about it because she could!
“Juliette, give me a few francs.” Céleste turned an open palm toward her friend.
“What?”
“Just do it,” she urged impatiently.
Juliette pulled out a few coins from her reticule and handed them to Céleste in bewilderment. Then Céleste immediately rose and slowly stepped toward the boy still sitting on the ground where he had fallen. She had the irrational fear, if she approached too quickly, he would flee like a wild animal.
“Mon cher, are you all right?” Céleste had been ordered about, paid to clean another man’s house, insulted beyond words, and forced to face a reality she found painfully heartbreaking. Hence, when she lowered herself to crouch in the dirt next to a filthy street urchin, she did not think anything of it, while her friend stared on, utterly baffled.
He sniffed and wiped a dirty sleeve across his equally dirty face. “Oui, madame.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to buy flowers for my mother and father,” he replied, a fat tear welling in one eye. He bravely puffed out his chest and dashed it away.
“Where are your parents, mon cher?” Céleste asked as she began to help the boy to his feet.
“Dead, madame. My father was lost in the war when I was young. My mother died of a broken heart shortly after.”
“My family has all passed, as well,” Céleste said quietly. “May I buy the flowers for you?”
He paused, seeming to think about this proposal for several moments before holding out his hand. “Oui.”
“Er…” Céleste hesitantly took the boy’s hand and shook it with growing confidence. Her first handshake.
Perhaps she shook his hand a bit too quickly, because the boy broke out in a rolling laugh.
Céleste picked out red peonies for herself. She always fancied them the most. The boy, whose name Céleste learned was André, picked out a bundle of red and white cypress and pressed them close to his chest as though they were the most precious things in the world. The sentiment gave Céleste a thickness in her throat and misty eyes. She knew the flowers were the closest he could get to his loved ones now. Such a poor, young boy wouldn’t have any keepsakes to remember them by. Those flowers were indeed the most precious things.
With the flowers bought, the boy ran off into the crowd.
“Who are you?” Juliette asked incredulously.
Surprised, Céleste turned around to find Juliette staring at her as though she had grown a tail. “What do you mean?”
Warily, Juliette eyed her up and down before shaking her head and smiling. “I like you better this way, I think.”
“Preposterous. I have not changed a bit,” Céleste said as they began to walk along the line of trees. “Enough of your nonsense.”
“Ah, there it is,” Juliette said, gesturing to Céleste. “You are still you: stubborn and pushy.”
* * *
Céleste should not have been surprised to see the boy amidst the crowd as she made her way home. She knew a little kindness might end up getting her hassled for more, though André would be sorely disappointed in her case. She had not a single franc on her.
In the back of her mind, she hoped that was not the case. She hoped the boy was simply on his way home, and it was a coincidence they traveled the same path.
She looked down at her bundle of peonies fondly. Picking one out, she stopped to set one in her hair just under her ratty bonnet.
“There,” she said to herself as she started walking again. It was amazing how a simple act of kindness and a flower could improve her mood so.
Finally, she approached the last corner before arriving at the Chouvigny house. Walking was lovely, but she was beginning to sorely miss her carriage. It must be at least seven in the evening now, and the sky was beginning to darken. The streets were beginning to clear, too. She had taken so long she missed dinner, but it was worth it to see Juliette.
Several feet ahead of her, two rough-looking men stood against a tree planted along the side of the street. As she got closer, she realized they were pointing lascivious glances in her direction. It was about that time she realized how utterly alone and unprotected she was as a servant walking the streets at night. She had never had to worry about thugs or ruffians before. She had never known such a strange twisting in her stomach before, either.
Thirty seconds, and I shall be past them. Twenty-nine… Twenty-eight…
She held her head high and walked on with impressive false bravado… as Lady Dumonte. Inside, she was shaking like a leaf.
“Hey! Ma chère!” one called out when she got close.
“Ma belle, you are all alone! You need some company.” The second one laughed, the strong odor of cheap booze assaulting Céleste’s nostrils.
She chose to ignore them completely and skirt around them, but one of them caught her arm.
“Unhand me!” she commanded coldly, somehow managing to stand completely still.
He stared in shock at her outburst before he flung his head back and howled as though it were the grandest joke he had ever heard. Then, with a hard tug, he pulled her into his barrel of a chest.
“So you want to play games, eh?”
“Let me go!” she demanded, but the beast just laughed at her, his arms wrapping about her waist, pinning her to him.
Panic rushed through her when she realized she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even pull back her hand to strike him. A scream was building in her chest.
“Let her go!”
Céleste twisted toward the familiar voice. It was André… and a pistol. He cocked the gun, and the men stopped laughing. Céleste’s heart picked up a beat, if that was even possible, because from where she was standing that pistol looked very closely aimed at her.
“Now, boy, us adults are just having fun,” he said as he loosened his grip around her waist.
Céleste managed to wiggle free and get several feet away.
“See how lonely she looks?” he drawled.
“Are you not a bit young to be wielding a weapon like that?” the other man asked, stepping toward André.
“Care to find out?” the boy asked as he readjusted his aim at the man’s chest. “If I am not mistaken, I pull this lever and a bullet comes out the other end. And if I miss, I have five more tries. With this revolver, it is rather like a carnival game.”
Céleste was surprised at the boy’s cheeky remarks. Even though he was the one holding the gun, she would not have thought him to be quite so cocky. In fact, it almost sounded as though they were someone else’s words entirely.
Both men looked at each other and shrugged.
“All right, keep your shirt on,” one said. “We shall go. This bit of muslin isn’t worth the trouble.”
The other nodded, and together, they turned and started down the street in the other direction.
André kept his weapon trained on them until the men disappeared around the corner.
Céleste was happy to keep the silence as she watched with him. She used the time to collect herself.
André turned to her as he tucked the pistol back into his breeches. “I shall walk you home.”
Something in the way he said it told Céleste she didn’t really have a choice in the matter, so she nodded and started walking again.
It would have been comical how grown up the boy seemed if she had not known it was because he had to be. She thought of what awful things he must have witnessed and suffered in order to have stood up so confidently to two thugs.
They walked on in silence, and five minutes later, Céleste was giving him her heartfelt thanks at the servants’ entrance of the Chouvigny’s residence.
André smiled sheepishly. “You were kind to me, madame. There are not many who would be kind to an orphan on the streets.”
“Pity, that.” Céleste turned and opened the door to disappear inside, suddenly ashamed.
She had once been someone who would have looked the other way. She still was. This was one act of compassion, which hardly constituted a change of character.
Chapter 7
Nick had finally finished his ledgers for his estates in England, which had just arrived last month and should have been finished last month. The numbers were turning beautifully, as expected, but it took him hours poring over the damn things to make sure everything was right.
He set them next to the letters that were to be sent off with the morning post, then squinted tired eyes at the clock on the mantle. Eight o’clock in the evening. He could not go to bed now. It would be embarrassing.
With a warm fire and a comforting snifter of brandy, he propped up his feet and began to read The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. He had tried to read the book five times now and kept being interrupted. Now, by gad, he was going to finish it. He only had a hundred pages to go.
As he should have expected, that was the moment the door to his study swung wide open to reveal a pint-sized ball of dirt in the doorway.
Without looking up from his novel, Nick muttered, “Welcome home.”
“I found her! She is nice. She bought me flowers, and—”
“Flowers?” Nick interrupted, turning the page. “She bought you flowers? Are you courting now?”
With large, animated eyes, André continued, “There were thugs, and they grabbed her, so I pulled out that pistol you gave me, and—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Nick set the book down as he straightened in his chair. “Did you say thugs grabbed her?”
“And I drew my gun!” he emphasized.
“She is a dowager comtesse, André,” Nick reasoned patiently. “Last I checked, it wasn’t quite the thing for a lady to entertain thugs. It could not have been her.” It better not have been her, he added silently.
“It was her. She looked one dead in the eye and commanded him to unhand her.” He laughed. “She was dressed as a servant with another lady in the Tuileries Garden today.”
“A lady’s maid, then. An imperious and half-witted one, apparently,” Nick said with a raised brow. “Where did she go?”
“Chouvigny’s residence.”
Nick swore under his breath. “The girl is a servant for Chouvigny?”
“Oui. And I—”
“And you used the pistol I gave you.” Nick laughed at André’s goofy grin. “Good. That’s why I taught you to use it. There is nothing to be nervous about. Aim true, exhale, and squeeze the trigger. Pull the lever on one side, and the bullets come out the other. Which side you are on is the most important bit if you must fire. And fire only if you must,” he emphasized. “Never kill a man if you can avoid it.”
“I know,” André drawled unenthusiastically. “Death is a black hole that eats you up until you are nothing more than another black hole eating up the rest of humanity. Too late, one realizes the worth of life and feels all too strongly the loss of innocence. Awareness of one’s own guilt is a heavy weight and a lifelong companion. Also, the punishment for murder is death should I be witnessed and caught.”
“Mm.” Nick’s lips reluctantly curled into a smile. Perhaps he had repeated himself a bit too often when training André how to shoot. “Are you hungry?”
At André’s enthusiastic nod, Nick added, “You best run off to the kitchen, then. I told Mrs. Brice to leave out some cold meats, bread, and fruit. You missed the hot bits, I am afraid.”
“That’s all right! Thank you.” André ran up, hugged Nick, then bounded out of the room for the kitchen.
Nick sat silently for several moments before he felt a helpless chuckle build in his chest. He laughed because he didn’t know what else to do.
Lady Dumonte had somehow managed to get herself entangled in one of the most frustrating and horrific cases he had ever had the misfortune of being involved with. To think, not four weeks ago, he had hardly known the woman. Now she was one of his main concerns. She had absolutely no idea what she had gotten herself into. Sweet heaven, she was going to get herself killed if she didn’t get him killed first.
He managed to get to his room; change into a gray waistcoat with black trousers and a black coat, black hat, black gloves, and a cane with a concealed blade; then slink out of the house without notice. He really, really did not want to break back into Chouvigny’s house, but if she were there, he was getting her out. Perhaps he could manage to obtain a bit of information while he was at it. Something useful, perhaps. Something that would lock up the criminals for the rest of their miserable lives.
As he strolled down the street, he spun his cane leisurely at his side and whistled a tune to cheer himself up. It usually worked. If anything, brigands would assume him drunk and broke from the clubs and leave him alone. In case they didn’t, Nick had the matching pistol to André’s, which he kept tucked into his trousers for quick access. He hadn’t blown his manhood off… not yet, anyway. Though, his friend Ainsley, who sported a holster built into his coats, would have Nick’s hide for chancing it.
Paris was enchanting, even at night—especially at night! The white stone buildings shone in the moonlight, and in this part of the city, the streets were quiet and peaceful. Except for an occasional carriage, there wasn’t a soul.
The clear tones of his whistling cut through the night air in a slightly animated rendition of “Pastime with Good Company.” It did its job of lifting his spirits, and soon, his head was swaying to the beat as he repeated it for the third time, even in light of what he was about to do. Even with his ribs still aching.
“Ah, Paris,” he murmured as he stepped up to Chouvigny’s house. “A lovelier city, I shall never find.” But the loveliest sight of all is still to come when he sees it disappearing in the distance on his way back to England.
He hopped over a short, wrought iron gate into a small courtyard and stepped up to the servants’ entrance where he pulled out a small lock pick from his cuff. With little effort, he maneuvered the lock open and slipped inside.
It was completely dark, but he could make out a staircase to his right, and to the left must be the servants’ quarters. Assuming the French were similar to the English when it came to servants, he could expect separate male and female sections.
Silently, he moved inside toward what he was relatively certain were the female servants’ quarters. Doors lined the hall on either side of him, but someone in the room at the end was awake. A light shone from underneath the door. She must be a rebellious little thing to be up past curfew. There was a very good chance this was precisely whom he was looking for.
He raised his cane and flipped open a small mirror that hinged inconspicuously off the end, a personal improvement of his that had proved enormously useful. Slowly, he slid the mirror through the crack under the door until he could see who occupied the room.
With a silent curse, he replaced the mirror and propped the cane in the corner by a side table that was stuck at the end of the hall. He took off his hat and set it, along with his gloves, behind a vase of flowers sitting on the same table. Then, quickly and silently, he opened the door and ducked inside. He had been standing out in the open long enough. He was in no hurry to get internal bleeding from another terribly one-sided bout of fisticuffs.
* * *
The last person Céleste had expected to see in her room in the middle of the night was the Earl of Pembridge. When she looked
up into blue eyes half-covered by a lock of sandy hair, her stomach shot to her throat, and the only thing keeping a blood-curdling scream from ripping open the silence was his large hand over her mouth.
“Good heavens, don’t do that!” he whispered urgently. “It is just me.”
Just him, he says! Just the man who had been haunting her dreams with lingering memories of an ill-advised kiss. He had ruined her contentment even in her sleep!
Her wide eyes lowered to focus on the hand covering her mouth. She had to make the irrational decision of whether or not she ought to bite it.
“I am sorry if I startled you,” he whispered. Then he grinned mischievously. “Well, not really sorry. Are you quite recovered?”
She hated herself for hesitating on that question. Not because she wanted to scream, but because she didn’t want his hand to leave her mouth. She had not gathered the courage to bite him yet, but she was hoping it would materialize any second now.
She nodded jerkily, and he let go, stepped back, and took a deep breath. His exhale puffed out his cheeks as he looked around the room while she sat on the edge of the small bed and watched him.
“Why?” he asked after he had looked over everything and fixed his eyes back on her.
“Why, what?” she returned hotly, irritated with herself for being so taken with him.
He was marvelous even without a spot of color. He looked to be in such good humor. Why should someone so awful always seem so happy?
He gestured to the room with brows raised in inquiry.
“It is small, but it is home,” she answered sarcastically.
Small was an understatement. It was barely six feet in either direction. The room was only large enough for a small bed and an extremely small chest that was shoved under the bed. The walls were plain white with absolutely no hangings or windows.
“It looks more like a prison to me,” he observed.
“Thank you for your input. I have no doubt you know from personal experience. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get some sleep. Good night.” Céleste waved him out with a dismissive gesture.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 12
