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

by Kristen McLean

  “And an honorable rake is nonsense,” she continued hotly. “If you felt some sense of honor compelling you to act so in a life or death situation, it was no doubt your breeding as a gentleman. Whether you are honorable in your day-to-day life is altogether different.”

  “I knew a sincere thank you was too good to be true,” he muttered dryly.

  “They are going to kill us!”

  “Or worse,” he added teasingly, though it was true enough.

  She sighed, her short, angry breaths calming to a more normal speed, and he realized she must have been thinking. He could practically smell the trouble brewing. He couldn’t see her, but he would wager her brow was knit, and she was staring off into the darkness.

  “You sent André after me, didn’t you?” she muttered at last. “You told him to follow me?”

  Nick did not utter a word. She was obviously looking for another excuse to slap his still stinging face, and he would not oblige her.

  “You don’t have to say,” she went on, relaxing a little in his lap. “I know it was you. I suppose I ought to thank you for that.”

  “Ah, no thanks necessary. I certainly didn’t tell him to wave that gun around,” he denied easily.

  “But you taught him to use it,” she argued, “and sent him after me.”

  Nick was silent. She was still locked in a cellar, about to be filleted to pieces by a bloodthirsty psychopath.

  She let out a short puff of air. “I don’t know whether to be furious at you or grateful to you.”

  “You would be amazed how often I hear that,” Nick said.

  “I am hardly amazed,” she replied. “You strike me as the kind of man who would elicit such confusion on a regular basis.”

  “A character flaw. My one and only.”

  After a quiet pause, Céleste laughed, the melodic sound filling the darkness and sending Nick’s senses reeling. It was a beautiful sound. With a laugh like that, she should do it much more often.

  “You wound me,” he said in mock offense.

  “The truth wounds you. That is not my doing.”

  “This may be my last day on this earth,” he pointed out. “You could have been kind and saved me the disappointment of my shame.”

  “I have told you before that I am not kind.”

  “Yet you bought a little boy flowers?”

  “He told you that, did he?” she asked. “One act of kindness does not make one kind, just as one act of honor does not make one honorable.”

  “Well, in that case.” He sighed heavily, pulling her up to fully perch on his lap, his arms firmly wrapped around her while she shrieked and grasped his shoulders.

  Before she could utter a word, she was pressed solidly against his body. His lips were on hers, his tongue invading her mouth with skillful glides. His hands discovered her in the darkness. He found every dip and crevice, caressing and squeezing. He wanted to touch everything.

  When she moaned into his mouth, he nearly lost himself.

  But it wasn’t a moan, was it? She had said something.

  “Nick,” she breathed out again. “Stop.”

  He growled with the effort to keep from ignoring the weak plea. He could change her mind with a few strokes. Her lips were soft and pliable against his, her body as inviting as he had dreamt it would be.

  Frustratingly, he realized he wanted her even now. This irritating woman had been an obstacle from the beginning. She was the reason he was even in this mess, awaiting a slow and painful death.

  He pulled back, breathing heavily and sporting a good-sized erection.

  In one movement, he picked her up and deposited her beside him against the wall. He couldn’t trust himself with her perched on his lap like a damned gift basket.

  “Th-thank you.”

  “Please don’t,” Nick begged on a slight chuckle. “For heaven’s sake, I swore I would stop if you asked, did I not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you asked me to stop, did you not?” he asked, amusement lining his voice.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “There!” he interrupted triumphantly. “So you asked me to stop, and I did as I promised. Leave it at that.”

  Several seconds of peaceful silence surrounded them, giving Nick a false sense of relief. A few moments later, Céleste apparently could hold back no longer.

  “But you are a—”

  “Stop there, please!” he interrupted, this time genuinely chuckling at her doggedness. “The last thing I need now is another insult to my honor. I doubt my pride could take the hit.”

  “That was not my intention,” she muttered.

  “Of course not,” Nick agreed on a half-smile.

  Perhaps she truly did not intend to be insulting. Perhaps after all these years of practice, it just rolled off her tongue fluently out of habit.

  Chapter 8

  Nick fell asleep sitting against the wall, but he awoke when the heavy door at the top of the stairs was hauled open, and a tall shadow stood, blocking out the light.

  “Pembridge? Are you still alive?”

  Nick’s ears pricked at the familiar voice.

  “Saint Brides, is that you?” Every inch of him ached—his ribs most of all—but he managed to lift his protesting body off the floor.

  He crouched to stir Céleste, finding her shoulders and shaking her gently.

  “Céleste, wake up,” he urged.

  “Hmm?”

  “We have been delivered,” he said happily, helping her to her feet.

  They both stepped toward the stairs, Céleste much more gracefully than Nick, who staggered.

  “Come on, then,” Saint Brides pressed once they reached the first step.

  Nick began to climb the stairs, leaning heavily on the balustrade. He made one step before Saint Brides cursed under his breath and hurried down.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” Saint Brides said to Céleste, grunting as he shifted Nick’s weight over to himself. “If you will wait here, I shall be back directly to help you up the steps if you need.”

  “I can manage the dashed steps, Saint Brides,” Nick muttered.

  “Of course you can,” Saint Brides agreed, “just like you managed your paperwork for the past fifteen years.”

  “Poppycock,” Nick muttered.

  “Oh, that’s right!” Saint Brides said as they slowly scaled the stairs. “It was I who completed that rubbish, while you made an incredible mess of slipping through the loops of the law we sit in parliament to create and uphold.”

  “I did some of it,” Nick insisted. “You could never have turned the truth into a believable account unless I took the time to write some things down. I dulled it down a bit first, obviously. The council would have sent us all to Bedlam as delusional had I written the truth.”

  Saint Brides silently raised a brow of disapproval. “What little you wrote was barely legible. Deciding whether or not it was true was not something I was aware had to be done until the week before you left for Paris five years ago.”

  “Bitter, are we?” Nick chuckled as they finally reached the hall.

  “Not at all,” Saint Brides replied as he disengaged from Nick and stepped back to allow Céleste into the hall. “I am your boss now—I am everyone’s boss now—and I made it quite clear we only record the truth.”

  Nick grinned mischievously. “Ah. I do hope that is working out for you.”

  Saint Brides glared daggers at Nick. “I thought you were retiring,” he said evenly.

  “I was,” Nick insisted. “If the Home Office would stop applying to my sense of patriotic duty, perhaps I could retire to my estate in the country and die of old age, fat and happy.”

  “The year you retire, you will die of a cold. I guarantee it,” Saint Brides said evenly.

  Nick just grinned broadly and gestured to Céleste. “Lady Dumonte, may I introduce the Earl of Saint Brides? This ray of sunshine is a powerful man in England.”

  “If only,” Saint Brides muttered
under his breath. He turned and took Céleste’s hand smoothly. “A pleasure, my lady.”

  “The pleasure is mine, my lord,” Céleste replied with a weak smile.

  “How did you know I was here?” Nick asked, regaining Saint Brides’s attention.

  “I didn’t.” Saint Brides turned an annoyed eye to Nick. “I assumed, when I reached your place and found you had snuck out into the night like a wayward adolescent, that you would most probably be in the middle of all hell. Thus, I came here. A maid upstairs told me you two were locked away in the wine cellar.”

  “Hmm, then we have business to discuss,” Nick mused grimly.

  “Indeed, we do.”

  “Can you spare a few men to escort Lady Dumonte home?”

  “Yes, I don’t see why not—”

  “Wait a minute!” Céleste protested.

  Nick turned to Céleste, surprised she could possibly argue about being sent home. He took consolation in seeing Saint Brides was scowling, as well, and had recoiled as though she had sprouted two heads. In truth, he had made the same mistake Nick had made. He had carried on as though she were a meek English lady.

  “What you are discussing involves me, too,” she began crossly. “I have been through a horrid evening, and I would like to know what the devil is going on.”

  Saint Brides raised his brows and turned to Nick expectantly.

  “Lady Dumonte,” Nick began patiently, “I am sure you have realized there is a bit more going on than simple fraud. I am sorry I have needed to keep this from you, but it is quite important that it be kept confidential. I have been trying to expose and imprison a criminal organization stationed here in Paris, a large one focused mostly on trafficking young girls for prostitution.”

  “Young girls for prostitution…” Céleste’s voice faded in shock. “What does Pierre have to do with this?”

  Nick’s brow knit on a long pause before he answered. “He knew of the dealings for at least six months before his death, but he was forced to keep silent and continue his support. I imagine that was a terrible weight on him.”

  “Six months,” she breathed. “How do you know?”

  “Letters were found in Chouvigny’s study, along with a ledger. Dumonte was threatening exposure—imprisonment. I believe that is when Chouvigny called in Renaud to keep him quiet. She always was thorough.”

  “Renaud?” Saint Brides exclaimed. “She is here?”

  Nick nodded. “I can promise Lord Dumonte’s misguided charity contributions will not appear in the investigation reports.”

  When Céleste hesitated, Saint Brides spoke up. “Lord Dumonte has long passed, and we have no way of proving his involvement wasn’t completely innocent. For the period during which he was aware of the crimes, I would argue he was greatly coerced into silence considering Renaud’s methods. I regret his silence was made permanent, but it is done. I want to catch those who are still alive and punishable. Omitting his name once all is final is of no consequence to me. You have my word.”

  “I… I see,” Céleste mused soberly.

  Saint Brides turned to signal the officers several feet behind him. “An escort for the lady.” Then he turned to Céleste and removed his greatcoat, draping it over her shoulders. “Take this and my carriage. It is quite discreet and arguably comfortable.”

  Céleste just nodded mutely, then followed the officers out.

  Nick watched her walk away for the last time and told himself it was for the best. She had asked him to stop, and he would not allow himself to touch her after such a request, even if he were staying in Paris where he was physically able to do so, which he was not.

  “Well, then. Shall we?” Saint Brides asked with a gesture down the hall.

  “Of course. Good to see you, by the way,” Nick said honestly. “I would hate to have ended up as dusty and aged as those old bottles down there.” He smiled and fell in beside Saint Brides as they made their way slowly to the street.

  “I doubt they would have let that happen,” Saint Brides replied soberly. “That was a dangerous, fool thing you did—coming out here in the middle of the night without anyone to watch your back. With Renaud here! She has killed half a dozen of my best men. Her murderous henchmen nearly bled Ainsley dry six years ago, after she fileted one of our youngest agents. She is insane, and you were alone.”

  “I had you, had I not?” Nick grinned as he waved down a hackney, finally feeling the stiffness give way enough for him to walk at a normal gait.

  “This is serious. You had no way of knowing I would be here tonight or if I had known where to find you,” Saint Brides chided as they settled in a modest carriage his men had obtained for them.

  “You look as worried as a mother hen, Saint Brides.”

  “You could have been killed,” Saint Brides returned evenly.

  “I had not intended on being caught,” Nick pointed out with a raised brow. Then he called to the driver. “Hôtel de Soubise, coachman!”

  The carriage rocked into motion.

  “Do you intend on coming back to England now? I shall not let you out of the paperwork this time, Pembridge. This will be worse than that Wheeling case.” Saint Brides shuddered at the memory.

  “Yes, though I shall need a few days to put my business in order.”

  “Fine, I shall stay with you. A few days’ holiday in Paris will be nice.” Saint Brides glanced over to see Nick’s disbelieving brow shoot up and added, “Well, there might be a few items of business I need to settle, as well.”

  “Uh-huh,” Nick nodded with a chuckle.

  Saint Brides was known for one thing: working so often everyone was certain he ate, drank, and slept at Whitehall. In the many years Nick had worked with him, he had never known the man to take a holiday. Not once.

  “I understand you have not found sufficient evidence against the ring.”

  Nick’s jaw tightened. “You understand correctly.”

  He had been working on this for months and still had not been able to get close enough to find what he needed. All he knew were the names of a few key players with Chouvigny at the center of it all. Then again, he had not known Renaud was involved. Why was Chouvigny hiring killers like Renaud? She was insane. She would likely turn on him and take over the entire operation if she hadn’t already. Unless…

  “By gad, they have joined forces,” he muttered.

  “Pardon, Pembridge?”

  “Chouvigny and Renaud. That explains how they grew enough to expand into England. I must have made too many waves, and Chouvigny called her back to Paris.”

  Saint Brides cursed under his breath. “I shall ask Lady Dumonte if she found anything while acting as a servant. Even if we just get Chouvigny and his immediate colleagues here, it is more than we had a year ago.”

  “I want them all,” Nick said frankly. “Renaud and her men included.”

  “We might still get them. The important ones, anyway.”

  * * *

  Pierre was a good man. Being in any way responsible for the enslaving of innocent children would have torn him apart. Céleste could admit she was blind to his suffering. How could she have seen it? He would have made sure she didn’t. He would have been ashamed. He would not have wanted her to know, or even suspect he was involved in such a horrible crime.

  Eight years she spent searching for the truth. She knew it wouldn’t be pretty. She understood the circumstances of his death were not going to be explained away with natural causes or an unlucky disaster, like being struck down by a runaway carriage. He took a bullet to the head. A bullet he put there, because he was ashamed. She could have said anything, and it wouldn’t have been enough to soothe him. He was the kind of man who never wished ill on anyone, who saw goodness in every person he ever met. He never spoke an unkind word. He gave generously to charities. He cared about everyone.

  Céleste pulled out the note he had sent her that night. He had left the dinner party early complaining of a headache. Later, after she had arrived home, she foun
d him in his room. She couldn’t believe what had happened. She screamed until she grew hoarse. The physician arrived and the servants forced her into her own room where she stayed, crying for days.

  She glanced down at the parchment with blurry vision.

  I am sorry for leaving so soon. I love you.

  Pierre

  “Good-bye, Pierre.” Hot tears trailed down her cheeks as she folded the letter, and replaced it into the small box containing his pipe, sapphire stickpin, and quizzing glass. She had said good-bye so many times, but tonight it was different. She felt a peace she had been missing for so many years. She felt resolution. Oh, the pain was still there, and it kicked like the meanest mule anyone had ever had the misfortune of standing behind, but there was promise of amelioration, and—she hoped, one day—the possibility of being happy again.

  Céleste was not surprised when she received a visit from Saint Brides the next morning. She was brought his card on a silver tray, crisp and neatly printed. No frills, no unnecessary words. Drake Ramsey, Earl of Saint Brides, Chief Operating Officer: Home Office. She had him ushered into the morning room with hot tea and fruit teacakes.

  “Lord Saint Brides, welcome to my home.” Céleste smiled warmly to greet the man who stood from his chair as she entered the room.

  He must have been travelling all night when they had met before. Now he looked less harsh and even passably handsome with a broad smile and green eyes that sparkled under chestnut brown hair. She realized with more than a hint of surprise that he couldn’t be a day over thirty.

  He kissed the air above her hand as he bowed over it, then waited for her to sit before sitting across from her. A short table laden with a full tea tray and warm cakes was situated on the Aubusson rug between them.

  “You have a beautiful home, Lady Dumonte,” he said, his eyes not leaving hers. Céleste felt as though he might be analyzing her, but passively. She could see his mind working, his sharp eyes capturing every detail and filing it away.