"That was not my best moment," Nick admitted. He pulled his quizzing gla.s.s from his waistcoat pocket, swinging it in tiny circles around his hand. "But since you have played cruel games with my pride and lured me into showing my true colors, do you now plan to slay the wolf?"

"I was not aware you were attempting to hide your colors."

He raised his quizzing gla.s.s to his chest and knit his brow. "It has been a trial, but I have managed to behave myself tonight."

"That was behaving?" she asked incredulously. "I am surprised you came at all."

"Yes, well, I could not very well turn down an invitation from the most beautiful-" At Lady Dumonte's raised brow of serious doubt, he stopped and chuckled. "A favor to a friend."

"It must have been some friend for you to risk so much." She glanced over him dispa.s.sionately. "I do not like you."

"You are too kind," he drawled.

When she swept past him, Nick followed and fell in beside her.

"We elite are not a kind people, Lord Pembridge."

"I must disagree with you," Nick said. "I have the good fortune of knowing many very kind people."

"Then you are very fortunate, indeed," she replied. "I only know two."

"Between you and Bearn, I begin to wonder where Parisian society meets their friends."

The music changed pace again and struck up the first chords of a country-dance.

The crowd along the outer wall began to thin as the couples took their positions once more.

"They are good ton, and if they have unsavory habits, they keep them to themselves. Whether I find them kind or not is irrelevant," she said simply.

"If I chose my comrades based on social status alone," Nick warned, "I might find myself surrounded by a worse sort than the kind you are fighting so desperately to weed out."

"I highly doubt it."

"I have known rakes and racketeers who were more honorable and trustworthy than some of your fellows here."

"Honorable rake," she drew out. "Does that not sound contradictory to you?"

Nick grinned. "Only to those who are not familiar with the skill."

"That wouldn't take skill," she said flatly. "It would take magic."

"Take the duke, for example," Nick went on, ignoring her sarcastic remark. "Bearn is a gentleman to his very bones. In fact, if he were alone with a lady, he would be more likely to preach politics than love. Still, he understands the phenomena of the honorable rake."

"Does he?" she asked. "Perhaps he simply indulges you."

"He wouldn't dare!" Nick returned with mock horror.

She donned a secretive smile. "Speaking of my dear friend Bearn, you were right before. I was acknowledging the duke. Perhaps you should determine where your friend's loyalty lies before you grant yours so blindly. Good evening, my lord."

Without another word, she turned to join a group of chatting tabbies several feet away, a group in which he was obviously not welcome, and that was fine with him.

A few things were immediately very clear. First of all, this whole mess was Bearn's fault. The only satisfaction: a round of fisticuffs. Secondly, Nick had needlessly made a fool of himself whilst somewhere that double-dealing traitor watched. He was sure of it. Having a good laugh, too, Nick would wager. Thirdly, Lady Dumonte was the most aggravating woman he had ever met, and he hoped never to meet her again.

He turned around and weaved his way through the crowd to the exit. The night was young, but he had been working long days and could use a few extra hours of sleep, especially after this evening. Once he was rested, he needed to focus on the Comte de Chouvigny, the man he and Bearn suspected of organizing the prost.i.tution ring and the kidnappings.

On the street, he whistled loudly in a short burst. Thirty seconds later, he was in a carriage and on his way to his temporary home of five years now.

Nick had the esteemed privilege of residing at the Soubise. It seemed the Home Office claimed Nick was a historian and collector who would be best placed over the Imperial Archives during his stay in Paris, however long. Receiving a little bribery was never on Nick's list of unforgivable sins, and since they had offered, it would have been rude of him to refuse. He had to work this prost.i.tution case in exchange, but he felt it was a fair trade. It did not interfere with his own private reasons for being in Paris-his self-a.s.signed mission to find the Bonapartists who had conspired with his father against England.

Nick was thoroughly impressed with the arrangements, even more so once he had seen the place. Very few could compare with its elegant beige and gold plated walls, ceiling murals, marble fireplaces, and incredible attention to detail. The only residence he had noticed that came close to its splendor had been Lady Dumonte's, of course.

A chuckle caught in his throat when he realized his traitorous mind had slipped back to thoughts of the woman.

He whistled a lighthearted tune as the carriage stopped, and he alighted to the grand building.

"Good evening, my lord." An elderly man in a black coat and trousers took Nick's hat, greatcoat, tailcoat, and cane.

"Good evening, Jacques. Is Andre here?" Nick turned to a large mirror and straightened his waistcoat and shirt points.

"In the kitchens, your lordship," he replied with a sniff of disdain.

Nick's lips twitched, but he said nothing. He had the stuffiest butler in Paris, but the poor man would simply have to adapt. For all Nick's fashion, he wanted his home to be a haven of comfort, which meant if one wished to eat in the kitchens with the servants, they may. If one wished to walk about without one's coat on, so be it. Nick had few rules at home: be clean, be comfortable, and-above all-be a gentleman.

Now that Nick was comfortable in only his silver and blue embroidered waistcoat, shirt, and tan trousers, he made his way to the kitchens where the aroma of fresh bread and roasted plum jam wafted through the halls to prod him on. He picked up his pace at the promise of a late night snack, the din from the cook and Andre filling the hall as he approached.

He strode in and plopped down at the table next to Andre, a boy of about thirteen. He licked his lips as he reached for a roll and a jar of plum jam while the boy continued his loud conversation with the cook. After Nick devoured the roll in a few savory bites, he poured himself a tall gla.s.s of ale from the pitcher on the table.

"Did you make fresh bread this late?" Nick asked before biting into another soft, steamy roll.

"I did, my lord," the cheery cook replied.

"Tastes like heaven," he muttered around the bite. Then he turned to the boy. "Mrs. Brice, have I given permission for you to feed your tasty fresh bread to this brat?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

"You know, if I didn't feed the boy, he would steal it," she replied.

"Gad, I suppose I do," Nick said as he removed the boy's hat and mussed his hair. "Only because he knows he would get away with it." He tossed the hat behind him, then picked up his half-eaten roll. "We do not wear our hats inside, my boy, and certainly not when we are eating."

Andre grinned back at him, flashing teeth too big for his mouth.

"You didn't happen to see Chouvigny tonight, did you?" Nick asked as he slathered on more of the plum jam.

"Oui, he was at the brothel with Monsieur Cuendet and looked especially exhausted by the time he returned to his home. She must have been une tres bonne pute to leave him so."

Without warning, Nick reached out and pulled Andre by his shirt collar off his bench seat and onto the floor. He still sat, eating his roll while Andre picked himself up and sat back down.

"What was that for?" the boy asked indignantly. "You brought it up. It is safe to talk in this room. Il est prive ici."

"A gentleman does not mention vulgarities in the presence of a lady," Nick replied simply.

"What lady?" Andre asked as he took a large bite of a sweet roll.

"Mrs. Brice, of course."

"Ah! My lord!" Mrs. Brice exclaimed with a blush from the other side of the kitchen. "You two and your games!"

Nick grinned boyishly at the sight of the large woman beaming. "You are a lady if I ever saw one, Mrs. Brice." Then he threw a side-glance at Andre. "Every woman is a lady. Do you understand?"

"Not every woman," Andre argued with a confident smile.

Nick twisted in his seat to fully face the boy. "Every woman you are with is a lady if you are a gentleman, Andre. If you are good, you can make the lady you desire believe she is a queen. The woman you love, a G.o.ddess." Nick smiled and took another bite of sweet roll.

"What if I don't find a woman to love?" Andre's brow knit.

"You will find her." Nick smiled. "Everyone does."

"You have not."

Nick's smile slipped for just a moment before he caught himself. "What? Fall in love, marry, and give up my manly freedoms? Never!" When it seemed the boy wouldn't be satisfied with so glib an answer, Nick explained cryptically, "I have chosen not to find my G.o.ddess, Andre. I have a duty, a matter of honor. You do not. So don't worry your fool head over it."

For another hour, they sat and talked while Mrs. Brice tidied the kitchen for the night. When that was done, Mrs. Brice and Andre went to bed. It was a late bedtime for a boy of thirteen, he supposed, but he was glad the boy had been there to talk to. He kept Nick human. Nick spent so much time playing a part or doing things he would rather forget. Andre was the only sane part of his life.

He thought back to when he had first brought Andre into his home. When Nick had been caught in an alley and near brained to death, the boy had showed up with a pistol he had stolen off an officer the day before. He had caught one thug in the leg, giving Nick the opportunity to overtake his other attacker.

Andre had been scrawny and terribly weak after running away from the workhouse the orphanage had sent him to, but Nick had brought him back to health, and they had immediately fallen into an easy friendship. He had been forced to pay a pretty penny to the workhouse and the orphanage because of the arrangement they had already set up for the boy, but two years later, Nick could not imagine being without him. Nick had eyes all over Paris, but Andre was the only orphan Nick had taken in as his own.

He extinguished the light and made his way upstairs, then found himself peeking into Andre's room. The boy looked peaceful and angelic lying there. Hard to tell he was such a handful, disappearing and stealing, cursing, and tracking in mud through the halls. One day, Nick would be successful in civilizing the rapscallion. G.o.d willing.

He shook his head with a crooked grin and quietly shut the door.

Minutes later, Nick lay fast asleep in his own chamber just down the hall. Too tired to finish undressing, he lay curled atop his bedclothes in nothing but his trousers, stockings, and one shoe, which he had started to remove but decided it could wait.

2.

"Celeste, I must know; what was your true intention in inviting Lord Pembridge?" Juliette primly poured tea in Lady Dumonte's parlor the day after the ball. "I saw the two of you behind that pillar. It is not like you to mingle with rakes and scoundrels in such a way... or any way, for that matter."

"No, I suppose not," Celeste replied, as she accepted the dainty teacup Juliette offered her.

"So, there is something to this strange change of character?"

"I would hardly call it a change of character," Celeste answered.

"Oh, come now! You are purposefully keeping things from me!" Juliette's posture broke, and she leaned forward. "Is he a lover?"

Celeste laughed. "Dear, no. What would I want with a lover?"

"Oh, the usual." The pretty blonde straightened. "He is a very attractive man."

"Is he?" Physically, perhaps. His face was certainly the most handsome she had ever seen, and she would have to be dead or blind not to notice the rest of him.

His tailor must be exceptionally skilled, seeing how well his clothes clung to him without limiting his mobility in the slightest. The man was uncommonly graceful, in fact. Even his fragrance was mind muddling, being mostly sandalwood with a hint of orange. Regardless, he was a scoundrel who left a trail of broken hearts. That was a powerful motivator to keep one's wits about them.

"Then, what is your intention?"

"He has been rumored to have a certain set of skills which I require." Celeste added cream to her tea and stirred with a small silver spoon.

"Yes, I have heard some of those rumors," Juliette muttered with a raised brow. "Are you sure you have not taken him as a lover?"

"I have not taken a lover." And if she were to take a lover, he would not be it. He was too charming by half. A man like him could steal a girl's heart without even trying, shattering it with a single-and no doubt equally charming-goodbye.

"Then I do not understand what you would need his skills for."

"Not those skills, Juliette," she admonished with a delicate knit in her brow. "I have heard he is very adept at obtaining sensitive information, doc.u.ments, and things."

"You mean he is a thief... who attends gossip?" Juliette asked, completely unaffected by the slight scold.

"No," she corrected, "more like a private investigator."

"What are you doing with a private investigator?" Juliette asked before popping a bit of cake into her mouth.

"I want him to look into Pierre's death."

Celeste silently prepared herself for the objections that would soon be raised. Juliette was more like a sister, and like sisters, they did not always agree. This was one of those disagreements.

Juliette set her cup down carefully and leveled a concerned eye on her friend. "You should let sleeping dogs lie, Celeste. You don't know what evil you might dig up."

"I must know what happened to my husband. What really happened," she insisted.

There had to be more to it than suicide. He wouldn't have left her like that without reason or without her seeing something was wrong.

"And you will drag that poor Englishman into your mess, too." Juliette shook her head. "Have you told him he may end up as dead as the others you hired?"

"I have not spoken to him about this yet, but Bearn wouldn't have recommended him if he did not believe the Englishman could do it. Do you not think it odd these people are dying?"

"People die daily, Celeste. If you mean your investigators, I think it is a curse," Juliette answered flatly.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Is that why Bearn sent him after you last night? What if he has sense and refuses? Do you plan to seduce the man until he agrees to this suicide mission you insist upon? He is a highly desirous rake, and a terribly wealthy one at that." She gestured to Celeste. "What could you possibly tempt him with?"

Celeste stiffened at the rebuke. "Nonsense. There is no curse, and my body is mine and mine alone. I shall not use it as payment," she insisted.