“Thank you. I assume your visit today is concerning Chouvigny.” Céleste had no love for idle chat with someone who was evaluating her as though she were the one under investigation, however well he hid it.
“Yes, it is. Do you mind answering a few questions for me?” There was a slight change in his expression, as though he were no longer trying to hide his sober concentration behind geniality.
“Not at all.”
“I assume you understand everything we speak of must be kept completely confidential, as well as the fact that you have been masquerading as a servant girl.” He spoke plainly as someone who dealt with facts and saw everything as black and white. Strangely, it made her more comfortable.
“I do.”
“Why did you choose to pose as a servant at the Chouvigny residence?” He pulled out a small pad of paper and pencil from his coat, readying himself.
“I wanted to know why my husband killed himself. I believed it was because of Chouvigny.”
Saint Brides held her gaze with a knit brow. “I see. I understand you persuaded Pembridge to investigate after a slew of others were unsuccessful.”
“I did, yes.”
“And Pembridge told you there was nothing to find?”
Céleste could feel her cheeks color slightly at how foolish he made it sound. “Yes, he did.”
“So what did you find?”
“Nothing. It pains my pride horribly to admit to it, but I have found nothing in my searches.”
“Your husband aside, did you find anything else concerning Chouvigny?” he asked after he scribbled something down on the notepad.
“I heard him talking about the snoopy Englishman and scolding another for something or other to do with a duke. Otherwise, I have nothing more to tell you.”
“I shall not lie, Lady Dumonte. I was hoping for more auspicious news,” he mused, frowning down at his notepad.
Céleste wished she had some way of helping him. He had saved her, after all, by getting her out of that dark cellar. Then she remembered the list she had picked up from the study.
“There was one thing,” Céleste said as she rose from her seat. “It may be useless, but I might as well show it to you. I meant to have discarded it by now.”
“Of course, Lady Dumonte,” Saint Brides agreed and rose as she stepped toward the door. “I am willing to see anything you may have. Thank you.”
Céleste returned a few minutes later with the paper in hand. “I tried to flatten it as best I could, but I am afraid this is as good as it will get,” she said as she handed the wrinkled sheet to Saint Brides, who took it graciously.
His lips curled with a hint of a smile. “If you could only see some of the rubbish these operatives consider a report.” He shook his head. “This would be a massive improvement. At least this is legible.”
Céleste smiled gratefully, sitting back down in her spot on the settee opposite him.
She watched his face change from mild interest to something much more akin to shock, and then the man smiled at her.
“Lady Dumonte, I cannot thank you enough for your cooperation.” He rose from his seat, then bowed to take her hand once more. “Please forgive me for rushing off, but I am afraid this will not wait.”
“This is what you needed, then? To put Chouvigny away?”
“Chouvigny has been behind bars since this morning.” He raised the abused paper, looking boyishly victorious. “This is what I needed to put them all away.”
Chapter 9
“Good to see you, Béarn. I hope I find you recovering well.” Nick beamed warmly as he stepped into the duke’s library.
The room boasted high ceilings of crisscrossed mahogany beams and was lined with bookshelves except for where the large marble fireplace was placed. A mahogany desk and plush chair sat by a tall window overlooking orange trees.
Béarn sat in a Georgian chair by the unlit fireplace, holding a glass of wine and a book.
Nick settled comfortably in the chair next to him.
It had been nearly three weeks since they had escaped Renaud’s knife and cuffed Chouvigny. Though Renaud escaped, the gendarmerie would find her eventually. Nick’s work was over, and he was to leave for England in the morning. Finally, everything was settled. It was an incredible feat considering all the paperwork Saint Brides had managed to bring with him and shove under Nick’s nose at every available moment.
He would have left long before being forced to write a legible report if not for the noisy protests of his physician warning him that a journey across the channel would be very uncomfortable at the least and leave him with a punctured lung at worst. Apparently, he needed to wait at least these three weeks before attempting the trip.
Nick still wondered if Saint Brides had paid the good doctor to keep him in Paris until the bloody paperwork was finished.
“Nick.” Béarn smiled, setting aside the book. “I have been sorely missing you, mon ami.”
“And I you, but I came to give you my farewell and ask if you have finally come to your senses. Do I hear wedding bells in your future?”
“I thought you might be leaving now that this unsavory business is over with.” Béarn frowned. “As for your impertinent question, no. However, Lady Dumonte’s disappearance did make me realize how lonely I have been and how desperately I miss that sort of companionship.”
“She is back now,” Nick said, smiling as though his insides weren’t twisting into knots. There was no reason for him to feel like this. It must be because he was leaving Paris. It was the only explanation.
“Yes, she is.”
For a few moments, both men sat, sipping their drinks and staring into the unlit fireplace. Their legs were stretched out before them as they leaned back in the comfortable silence, deep in their own thoughts. A fresh breeze was the only sound as it rustled through the trees. It fluttered the sheer curtains of the open window and blew lightly around the room.
If a question had not been persistently beating the back of his mind, Nick would have been content to sit here in silence until Saint Brides dragged him to England.
“Why did you do it?” he finally asked, straightening in his chair. “I must know before I leave.”
“Do what?”
“Involve Lady Dumonte in all of this.”
“She asked me if I knew of anyone who might help her find closure with her late husband,” Béarn said simply before taking a sip of his wine. “I wanted to help her.”
“So you lent me for her use like an old snuff box?”
“I would hardly say that, Pembridge.”
Nick stared blankly at Béarn for several moments before shaking his head.
“No, you wouldn’t. Tell me truthfully. Did you know Lord Dumonte was involved with Chouvigny?”
Béarn sent Nick a surprised glance. “Did you not?”
“No, how could I? The only chance we had at getting any names was that worthless chimp Allard…” Nick’s brow knit on a frown. “Damn the devil to hell and call him a whore. I did know,” he muttered. “Or I would have. Allard tried to tell me that night I was late to Lady Dumonte’s ball.”
“What happened?”
“I shot him,” he answered, deflated.
“Ah,” Béarn replied, then took another sip from his snifter.
“I thought he was spouting some nonsense about a demon, not Dumonte,” Nick reasoned.
“De, du—they do not sound anything alike,” Béarn said casually.
“You try making sense of a man whose knee was just shot to bits,” Nick said defensively. “He was having a difficult time enunciating.”
“Why was his knee shot to bits?” Béarn asked, appalled.
“Is there another way to get information?” Nick returned.
“Is there…? You jest!”
“Mostly. I was in a rush. I am not the one on trial here!”
Béarn’s horrified expression faded. “No, Chouvigny and a few of his comrades are. Thank you for that, Pembridge.” Bé
arn’s black eyes sparkled with gratitude as he leaned forward in his chair and proffered his hand to shake Nick’s. “You were the man we needed to put Chouvigny away, and you have become very dear to me. I shall miss you, mon ami.”
Nick took Béarn’s hand. “You have put me through hell, but you know I shall always count you as a dear friend.”
He disengaged his hand and stood, setting his snifter on the side table before making his way to the door.
“I hope you will continue to watch over Lady Dumonte and Lady Juliette,” Nick said. “If you refuse to be happy and marry Juliette, it’s the least you could do while you are miserable.”
“I can walk now, Pembridge!” Béarn called after him.
“Ah, but you will not!” Nick called back.
* * *
Nick strode into the grand entry of the Soubise, his boots clicking confidently against the marble tiles. He had steadily increased his pace since leaving Béarn’s library, shunning the quiet shelter of a carriage in favor of a final leisurely stroll through Paris. Therefore, of course, within five minutes, it became overcast and wet, turning into an outright downpour by the time he had made it within a quarter mile of his destination.
His sandy hair stuck to his neck under his hat, and his muscled legs were clearly outlined by his snug trousers. He was damp down to his shirtsleeves. He even felt water swish in his boots.
He stopped in the hall and handed his sopping coat, hat, and cane to Jacques. The sight Nick posed now was even more pathetic. He chuckled as Jacques turned and searched in vain for a place to set the offending fabric where it would not ruin something. Finally, the butler decided just to hold it and reached into his pocket.
“My lord, this was left for you.”
“Left by whom?” Nick asked as he accepted the folded note.
“A small boy. He did not give a name.”
Nick opened the letter and scanned the few words clumsily scrawled there.
English spy,
I expect to have the boy on a boat to live as a slave by the time you read this. You will never again see him or your Lady Dumonte. There is punishment for your interference, and they will pay the penalty.
“Where is André?” he asked calmly, but his heart was beating dangerously in his chest.
“I believe the boy is with Mrs. Brice, my lord. She was baking sugary confections and requested his assistance.”
“Thank you, Jacques.”
That sounded right. Mrs. Brice always let André help with the sweets. Still, he felt uneasy.
Before running up to change into dry clothes, he brushed past Jacques toward the kitchen. It would only take a moment to check on André, and if Nick were going to catch cold, these few moments would not make a difference. The kitchen would be warm from the ovens, and that would stave off the chill.
Nick felt his chest constrict with every step. Renaud had not been found, and Nick could not know if she knew about André.
He could not lose André. He could not!
When Nick entered the kitchen, he was greeted with a wall of heat, just as he had expected, but a quick scan of the room confirmed his fears. He saw no one.
He rushed around the table and then around the island countertop, searching. Flour lay haphazardly dusted over the countertops. There were several pots strewn across the floor, and the stray cat Mrs. Brice refused to stop feeding was eating from a tray of cold meats sitting on the table.
“André! Mrs. Brice!” he shouted. “André!”
“My lord.” The faint voice came from the small corridor leading out to the servants’ entrance.
Nick ran into the corridor to find Mrs. Brice lying propped up against the wall, a large bloodied lump on her forehead. He crouched down beside her and took one plump hand in his.
“Where is André?”
“He is gone,” she breathed. “There were two of them. One was… very large.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“No, their faces were completely hidden. Oh, André!” she cried as tears began spilling over her cheeks.
“Did they have any scars, tattoos—anything memorable? Were they missing any fingers or an ear? Did they have a limp?” Nick asked calmly.
“I did not see a thing, my lord. They were all covered up.” Then she started crying again.
“Jacques!” Nick called out as he stood. Seconds later, the butler appeared.
“My lord?”
“Send for a physician to tend to Mrs. Brice. I am going out. If Saint Brides returns—”
“What is this about me, Pembridge?” Saint Brides casually walked into the corridor behind Jacques. “Good heavens!” He scowled down at the wounded cook. “What has happened?”
“Someone has taken André,” Nick explained, handing the note to Saint Brides. “Looks like they gave Mrs. Brice a rather stout snuff when she protested.”
“Indeed,” Saint Brides muttered. He glanced down at the paper Nick had handed him and raised a brow. “Interesting penmanship. Rather unique strokes with a mix of masculine and feminine characteristics.”
“I could not be less interested in the bastard’s penmanship, Saint Brides.”
Saint Brides blinked. “Of course. I shall have a team search all roads and posting inns in and around Paris immediately.”
“They threatened Lady Dumonte, as well,” Nick added. “I am afraid we shall have to collect her.”
“Of course, it is protocol,” Saint Brides agreed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Who would do this?”
“Who, indeed,” Nick mused grimly. Someone with a death wish, apparently, and Nick would be pleased to oblige. “Is your carriage waiting outside?”
“You are soaked to the skin. You will be no good to anyone with pneumonia, Pembridge. Not to mention, you will ruin my carriage.”
“No time. They already have André. We might even now be too late to keep them from Céleste.”
“Céleste?” Saint Brides asked with raised brows.
“Lady Dumonte,” Nick corrected. Then he added, “I shall bring a change of clothes, but I am sure the lady will have a fireplace and at least one servant to light it. If her servants have caught ill, I think I can manage to light it myself.”
“How close have you become to Lady Dumonte?”
“Would it matter?” Nick turned to Saint Brides, a hard glint in his blue eyes.
Saint Brides’s face was an unreadable mask as he watched Nick. “I do not need your fancies getting in the way of your judgment.”
“They have my son. I am already emotionally involved. Your concern ought to be how you plan to keep me from killing the devils with my own hands.” Nick’s fists tensed at his sides in anticipation.
“I know,” Saint Brides mused grimly. “I don’t like it. I ought to have you shipped back to England in cuffs.”
“You would need an army.”
Saint Brides nodded hesitantly, then followed as Nick led the way back to the front of the Soubise. In only a few moments, they were in the carriage, along with Nick’s dry clothes.
Saint Brides openly studied Nick. “I have one, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nick asked, taking out his quizzing glass and wiping it on his wet waistcoat.
“An army. I have one.”
“Not in France.” Nick smiled, pointing his quizzing glass at Saint Brides. “Not anymore.”
He and Ainsley had been a part of an army stationed in France years ago, in and out of uniform on both sides. Now the Home Office only had a handful of men here at any given time.
“Perhaps not, but more are here than you think.” At Nick’s inquisitive expression, Saint Brides added, “France is still a loose cannon. The monarchy and peace may be restored for now, but it is volatile. I am sure you have noticed the king’s failing health. When he dies, his brother Charles will move in to take the throne.”
“That is to be expected.”
“Even so”—Saint Brides shook his head determinedly—“Charles has som
e interesting views on the aristocracy. I doubt the people will be amused. Something is bound to happen, be it next year or in twenty years.”
“You expect another revolution?” Nick asked.
Saint Brides frowned. “I expect nothing. I prepare for everything. It might surprise you, but I read those blasted reports, or what passes for them.”
Nick chuckled. “So you are doing what you are told by the council to do.”
“Someone must. God knows the rest of Whitehall never does,” Saint Brides admitted. “Besides, this time, I agree with the council. I have studied those individual reports, and they add up to trouble in France, which may mean trouble for us. Having men here is relatively inexpensive and reasonably precautionary.”
Reasonable and precautionary. So much like Saint Brides. Still, Nick had never met a more honorable and trustworthy man. Even before he had become the Earl of Saint Brides or the Chief Operating Officer at the Home Office, he had always been analyzing, examining paperwork, searching for truth in a world of fiction. One day, he would wake up and realize the world was not as black and white as he believed.
“If you keep this up, Saint Brides, they will make you a duke. Just look at what they did to Wellington. Poor chap.”
Saint Brides scowled. “That is not humorous.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad to be a duke, would it?” Nick asked, trying his damnedest not to laugh.
“It would be a mess, and you know it.” Saint Brides’s scowl deepened. “I can barely keep up with the blasted title I have now. You realize they are about to make me Home Secretary? How do they expect me to run the Home Office and manage a vast estate? Bloody hell, I would have given the title to my cousin if only they would let me. I would have given it to anyone! I am only nine and twenty, Pembridge. I feel fifty!”
“Do not despair, Ramsey,” Nick soothed, teasingly calling him by the name he had used before taking up his title. “A dukedom cannot be much more difficult than an earldom. It is only more land, tenants, livestock, servants, social obligations, and the ton will be absolutely obsessing over your inevitable marriage.” He winked at Saint Brides, whose green eyes narrowed.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 15
