“If they present me with a dukedom, I shall throw it back in their pinched-nosed faces.”
Nick cleared his throat, nearly choking on a poorly concealed chuckle. “Well, one thing is for certain. You will have to learn how to curse like a duke first.”
“Fustian nonsense,” Saint Brides muttered under his breath.
The hackney was going as fast as the driver dared on wet Parisian streets, but still, Nick was beginning to feel his anxiety breaking through. Finally, the carriage slowed, and the two men jumped out, rushing to the front door of the Dumonte mansion.
When the door opened, Saint Brides held out his card between two fingers, presenting it to the servant. “I require that you inform your mistress of my arrival immediately.”
“Of course, my lord. If you will follow me?” The butler ushered them inside, took their coats, hats, and canes—Nick’s with some apprehension—and led them to the rose parlor to wait with hot tea.
Saint Brides and Nick both stood, hoping this would be a short wait. They were racing against the clock as it was. Every minute that passed, André was being taken farther and farther away.
Nick’s eyes were drawn to the clock on the mantel as he sipped the hot tea with every tick of the passing minutes.
Three minutes had ticked by when a high-pitched scream ripped through the house, punctuated by the shattering of glass. A window, by the sound of it.
Both men dashed for the door at once.
“You go and find her. Whoever that bounder is, he is getting away!” Saint Brides urged before turning down the hall to sprint back outside and pursue the intruder.
Nick rushed down the hall in the other direction and up the stairs leading to the private apartments. He turned right at the top to see a bustle of servants around the room at the end and hurried toward them.
He didn’t bother asking if she was there; he knew she was.
When he stood in the doorway, the servants stepped back to let him through.
Céleste was white as a sheet, perched on an oversized chest by a large broken window, shards of glass piled by her feet.
He stepped into the room slowly, and when he crouched in front of her, he noticed she was holding her arm. Crimson seeped through the fabric of her sleeve.
Nick’s heart raced, but he forced himself to stay calm. She was alive.
“Céleste, what happened?” he asked calmly with no answer. He tilted her chin until her eyes met his. “What happened?”
“There was a man,” she began softly. “He-he was hidden behind my mirror.” Céleste pointed with a wince at the full-length mirror across the room. “He had a knife.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, I don’t think so. He wore a scarf over his face.” Her eyes focused back on Nick from the mirror. “He lunged, and I tried to run, but he …” She blinked down at her arm as though just noticing it. “He cut me.”
“Did he have any tattoos, missing parts, or anything that stood out to you?” Nick asked, doubting he would get a different answer than he had before with Mrs. Brice.
She slowly shook her head.
Nick glanced at the window before asking, “Why did he jump through the window?”
“I… I threw a teapot,” she said simply, staring at her lap.
“A teapot,” he repeated dumbly.
Céleste nodded down at the pile of glass by the window.
Sure enough, broken pieces of porcelain lay where he assumed the shards from the window were. He ought to have known the window shards would be flung outside, the direction their intruder had taken.
Saint Brides was right to be worried about Nick’s judgment. What else might he miss because of his being too closely involved?
He shook his head. “You mean it was not his intention to jump?”
“I was aiming for his face, but I missed.” She turned large brown eyes to his. “The tea was fresh. It must have been terribly hot.”
He looked around the area. A splashing of tea covered what was left of the window and part of the wall that was about waist high. Nick bit back a chuckle as he realized Céleste had launched a teapot filled with hot tea at the poor man’s cock. He supposed, if a lady had thrown a teapot at his manhood, he would be ready to jump out of a window, too. A woman who would act out such monstrous torture was capable of anything.
“Saint Brides is searching for a brigand with a scorched crotch,” he mused to himself as he began to untie his cravat. “I cannot imagine how he plans to find this individual.”
He pulled the fabric from his neck. “I appreciate the death grip you have kept on the wound, but I have brought reinforcements.”
When she moved her hand, he swathed her arm with his cravat, then stood. Her wound was nowhere near fatal, but it did need wrapping, and Nick’s cravat would do a decent job of it until the physician arrived to do it up properly.
“Why have you come here?” she asked, seeming to suddenly realize who he was. “I thought we were… that it was… that we wouldn’t—”
“André has been kidnapped,” Nick answered, sparing her the embarrassment of trying to explain the end of their liaison while becoming aware he was now standing in a puddle. His clothes had not dried one bit.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“He was taken hours ago, and you are next on their list, so I suggest you pack lightly.” Nick started for the door. “It’s going to be a—”
“Absolutely not! I am not going anywhere with you.”
Nick stopped and threw a bewildered glance in her direction. “You could have been killed!”
“I barely got scratched. Hardly life-threatening.”
“The next attempt may be more competent,” he warned. “I would hate to find you with a similar scratch under your chin.”
“I shall be perfectly fine.” Céleste lifted her nose and arched a brow. “I survived without your help just now, my lord investigator. I expect I shall in the future, as well. At least I am able to walk and climb the stairs.”
An amused smile spread over his face. “So you intend to lock yourself in your room with a full teapot and wait for them to have another go at you?”
Céleste folded her arms, winced, then unfolded them again. “I have a dagger… and a pistol.”
“Have you used either of them before?”
“No, but they are simple enough.”
“It’s not the complexity of the weapon, Céleste. This is a man’s life.” Nick’s brows drew together, blocking out the images of the lifeless bodies he had racked up over the years. “Death is final, as final as anything could ever be. Trust me, someone taking your bullet isn’t something you want to have stored in your memory.”
“I do not trust scoundrels,” she said icily. “And what I may or may not want stored in my memory is none of your concern.”
He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering as he glared at her. He was freezing, soaked to the skin, and edging closer to pneumonia with every minute. He could not stand here, arguing with her until she gave in to reason, for the sake of both Nick’s health and André’s.
Nick peeled off his jacket and waistcoat. He rolled up his soaked sleeves to his elbows and then threw the soaked material to the floor. “I hate to be slowed down by an irrational female almost as much as I hate wet silk, but Saint Brides will not allow you to stay. You are part of the investigation, so you will come with us willingly, or I shall swing you over my shoulder and carry you out.”
With that threat hanging in the air between them, Nick turned and stalked out. He needed dry clothes and a warm fire before he became a feverish, shivering mess incapable of saving his son.
* * *
Céleste sat, unwilling to test her legs. The shirt Nick had been wearing had been practically useless. The rain had rendered it completely transparent, and it had stuck to him like a second skin.
His chest was a chiseled work of art, one that would put the statue of David to shame. She had never seen muscles so defi
ned.
Nonetheless, he was a scoundrel, and thinking about his body and things she wanted to do to it was helping no one.
“Jeanne, pack two of my travelling dresses, two morning gowns, two hats, three shawls, an evening gown, two night rails, two stays, and three pairs of shoes and stockings. Also, I shall need my creams and perfume!” Céleste was not about to be carried out like a sack of potatoes in front of her staff.
In less than thirty minutes, Céleste’s physician hurried in and treated her wound. After that, it only took another twenty minutes for Céleste to finish packing and dress. She then descended the stairs in a brown and lavender travelling dress. Her hat was placed on her head at an angle with ruffles and matching feathers bouncing on top.
“It’s about time,” Saint Brides muttered, glaring down at his watch fob, which was pinned to his waistcoat.
At Saint Brides’s grumbling, Nick, who had been scowling at the foot of the stairs, looked up and paused, glancing over her before offering his arm. He was fully dressed in dry clothes, but her traitorous mind wouldn’t let her forget what lay just beneath the fabric.
Reluctantly, Céleste tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. She had hoped Saint Brides would be the one to escort her to the carriage—she was safe with Saint Brides. Nick, on the other hand, was dangerous.
“I packed lightly,” she said, hoping a conversation would allay her wanton and thoroughly unwelcomed thoughts. “I only have two trunks.”
“We shall only take one.”
“One!” Céleste pulled her arm away and stared up at Nick wide-eyed.
“We cannot spare the weight. The horses will be pushed hard enough as it is.”
“But I cannot travel with two gentlemen and not be properly dressed!” She could hardly go traipsing across the countryside contrary to the dictates of fashion, not to mention those of propriety.
“I absolutely agree. I am sure you can fit all you need in one trunk.”
“Impossible!” she protested.
“No, it is quite easy. Watch.” He pointed to a young man carrying one of the trunks. “You there, footman. Only one of those trunks will be loaded. Leave the other in the street.”
“No!”
Nick sighed. “Oh, very well. Have it brought back to her ladyship’s chambers and unpacked.” Nick turned back to Céleste with a cocky smile. “Better?”
“No! Not better!”
“You are a hard one to please,” he muttered as he turned back toward the door. “Come along. If you are not settled in the carriage soon, I shall—”
“I am coming. I am not happy about it, but I am coming.” She bit out as she followed him into the carriage.
Nick entered the carriage before her, settling himself opposite Saint Brides.
“Is the lady co—” Saint Brides was interrupted when Céleste lifted herself into the carriage and settled in beside him.
“Sorry to be so cramped, Lady Dumonte,” Saint Brides said as the carriage swayed into motion. “I hope you understand the need for a small carriage. We simply could not afford the extra weight of a larger vehicle.”
“Of course,” she muttered as ladylike as she could manage.
He didn’t sound at all apologetic. Then again, perhaps that was just his way. There was no room for emotions when so much logic was stuffed in that head of his.
Nick closed his eyes twenty minutes later, stretching his legs out to take a nap. He pulled his hat over his eyes, his teasing lips and jaw the only visible portion of his face.
Céleste scowled at him. He knew she had been scrunching to keep her legs from touching his. He was so long! Between him and Saint Brides, Céleste had to nearly plaster herself to the wall just to avoid touching him. Now his knees and shins were pressed up against hers. Every time the coach hit a rut, his legs would rub hers, sending tiny shivers straight to her core.
“Lord Pembridge,” she urged. “Lord Pembridge!” She reached out and shook his knee to wake him, then quickly snatched her hand back.
Saint Brides glanced from Céleste to Nick and back again. “Lady Dumonte, I believe he is sleeping.”
Céleste turned her dark glare on the other man, and his brows shot up before he turned to look out the window into the night.
Nick most certainly was not sleeping. If he were, he deserved to be woken up in the most distressing way imaginable. If she had any of the several items that came to mind with which she could brain him, she would have had great difficulty keeping her seat. Instead, Céleste glared at Nick until it hurt. She just couldn’t believe that the man could actually sleep with the horses going so fast and his son abducted.
It was an hour later when his hat fell to his waist, and she could see he was, indeed, sleeping.
With an exasperated sigh, she turned to the window and rested her head on it as she looked out into the moonlit trees that whipped past. She sent one last grimace at the peaceful looking Nick before closing her eyes against a growing headache.
Chapter 10
“Lady Dumonte.”
Céleste’s eyes fluttered open reluctantly.
If the brightness and irritatingly cheerful sounding jays and larks had anything to say about it, it was morning. She felt as stiff as her dead grandmother Adelaide. They had ridden in this miserably tiny carriage all night.
“Lady Dumonte, we shall be stopping soon. I don’t suppose you would like breakfast?” Saint Brides asked groggily, obviously barely awake himself.
Nick still lay sprawled out on the seat opposite her, but his blue eyes were alert and studying her. His hair, though not as neat as he usually wore it, was still somehow styled in some sense of taste, and his clothes did not look rumpled at all.
“Er, yes, I would.” She turned back to Saint Brides, forcing herself to break the mesmerizing link with Nick.
“It will not be the normal feast we Englishmen prefer. Only bread, cheese, fruit, and some coffee.” Saint Brides stretched his neck from side to side and ran his hands through his hair. “But it will all feel the same in our belly, I suppose.”
Céleste could feel Nick’s eyes still on her. As usual, the corners of his lips were turned up with a hint of amusement, as though he were privy to a private joke.
She cleared her throat and turned back to Saint Brides. “Where are we?”
“Just entering Evreux,” Nick rumbled from his seat.
“Are we? I have never been.” Céleste leaned forward to get a better view from the window.
“You still will not,” Nick said. “We shall not be sightseeing.”
“We need to change the horses. That will give us just enough time to grab some ready-made morsels and start up again.” Saint Brides made a bitter face. “At least we have this carriage, updated as it is for a smoother and more comfortable ride.”
“How do you even know they have taken this route? Perhaps they ran to Calais.” Céleste watched as the amusement drained from Nick’s features.
“They might go to Calais if they were headed to England,” Nick said soberly. “But that would be counterproductive, not to mention suicidal. They are not taking André to England.”
“But why Le Havre? I assume that’s the port we are heading for.”
“Because they need a port where they can blend in easily. A small town might not see many outsiders, and they would be remembered. Not to mention, Saint Brides managed to add at least a day’s worth of paperwork and to double the security at every port except Le Havre. If they do go somewhere else, they will be found.”
He straightened in his seat and corrected the fit of his coat. Then he leaned over and glanced out the window. “I believe the coaching inn is only a mile up the road. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Sure enough, within five minutes, the carriage slowed to a stop in front of La Fleur Rouge, gaudily decorated with bright red peonies in the window boxes hanging above the windows and piles of wilted peonies by the door. They had even painted them on the doors and shutters.
&nbs
p; Nick brushed past her for the stables on the right.
With a deep breath, she and Saint Brides entered through the overdone door. It was dark inside, and it took Céleste a minute to adjust her eyes. The smell was ripe with unwashed bodies, as most of the tables were full of them.
Saint Brides led her to the left where a large man stood behind the bar.
“I shall need coffee, bread, cheese, and fruit for three if you please.” Saint Brides paid the man, then led Céleste to a table near the open door.
She silently thanked Fate for giving her a seat with a breeze. She would have fainted if they had to sit on the other side of the room, since only the one side had any windows, of which only two were open.
She didn’t have to wait long for the repast to be brought to the table. Then she wished it had not been.
“Best eat some of that bread,” Nick’s voice rumbled from behind her. “We shall not have time to stop again before we reach Le Havre.”
Céleste watched as Nick sat beside Saint Brides and began to make progress on his own plate of food. Both men were eating as though this meal was nothing out of the ordinary. Did they not have taste buds? She shuddered to think what sort of rubbish they ate in England for them to stomach this spread so easily.
Céleste grimaced at her plate. The bread was stale, and she had to dip it in the watery coffee just to force it down. The cheese was hard and crumbly, and the fruit was questionably mushy and discolored. She somehow managed to finish the bread, but just the sight of the rest turned her stomach.
The knots in her muscles barely had time to loosen before she was loaded back into the carriage with a fresh set of four.
Saint Brides turned to Céleste as soon as they were back on the dusty road. “I intend to close my eyes for a while. If I should in any way bother you, please don’t hesitate to wake me, or at the least, shove me back into my corner.”
Céleste nodded, and Saint Brides shifted in his seat beside her, leaning back into the corner with his arms crossed over his chest.
Half an hour passed while Céleste stared out the window, refusing to allow her eyes to drift to Nick yet unable to fall asleep while he was awake. He seemed even more the wolf now than ever, and she had never felt so vulnerable.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 16
