The Last Riders: Winter's Touch Part 28

"I doubt it would feel much like payment with him," Juliette mused, pumping her eyebrows. "He has been a friend of Bearn's for some years now. I have even spoken with him when he dares approach with the duke. Though, he never dared while you were attending," Juliette smiled. "I usually see him lingering about with young debutantes, very blonde and very beautiful debutantes. I am sure I have not a clue what he prefers in his bed. He keeps that quiet enough, but I a.s.sume it is in similar taste."

Celeste did not comment on Juliette's ridiculous statement-either of them. They were most likely true. What was settling in her mind was the thought she was nearly thirty. Only a couple more years.

Juliette was right; she had everything yet nothing to offer him. But she never intended to offer him anything. He was a scoundrel, not a gentleman. One did not cut deals with scoundrels. One gave them ultimatums.

Celeste received a plethora of invitations on a weekly basis that were not accepted. Some were rejected due to the host's low status, some due to previous engagements, and some simply because she needed to stay in a couple nights a week. She had nothing against the lower cla.s.ses; it was simply good business to avoid them. She had worked hard to scale to the top after the scandal with her late husband. Once word had gotten out about it being a suicide, her reputation had been ruined, and it would have stayed that way had she not been a terribly wealthy dowager comtesse with a duke as her friend. Enough money and the right amount of connections could work magic. Even so, she had to be careful. Keeping her distinguished social status was a strategic game.

All the same, she was determined to speak with the Englishman, and he would a.s.sociate with almost anyone.

Tonight, he was expected to grace the parlors of Mrs. Lily Talbot, an up and coming English socialite who was only in Paris on holiday.

"Accept," she voiced challengingly. Thanks to her Englishman, Lily Talbot's station amongst le bon ton just raised a notch.

She folded her reply and dropped it into the smaller pile.

If Juliette had not left hours ago, she would have been witness to the rare show of charity. As it was, Celeste sat alone in her parlor with its tall, lavender walls and elaborate, floral furnishings. A large Aubusson rug covered nearly the entire floor of lacquered wooden planks. Windows brightened the s.p.a.ce, but today, they only magnified the emptiness of it all.

Glancing around the room, Celeste was reminded of Pierre sitting across from her, helping her choose which invitations to accept or deny between his rants of the shortfalls and shows of genius of Napoleon and his theory on how the war could have been won. Other times, he would be reading or smoking his pipe. She missed the smell of his pipe and the way he frowned and held it near his lips as he mulled over her occasional argument or reflected on something he had read.

A tear trailed down her cheek. She missed him. Not a day went by that she did not yearn to hear his voice again. His gentle voice. The deep ache never abated; the emptiness he left, never satisfied. One might think the pain would lessen over time, but she only missed him more. Perhaps the pain was dull now rather than sharp as it was, but it was no less painful.

She dashed the tear away and refocused on the piles of envelopes. She was now more determined than ever to redeem the honor of her dearest friend, a friend who would never have left her in such a way unless he had been forced to. She was sure of it. She was only in want of the evidence to prove it.

Celeste entered the modest home of Lily Talbot fashionably late and with low expectations. The house itself was missing a ballroom, but the parlor was large and decorated tastefully.

"Lady Dumonte, quelle surprise!" Mrs. Talbot smiled broadly. "What an honor it is that you grace us this evening, and you look absolutely stunning." She took Celeste's hand and squeezed affectionately, her warmth catching Celeste off guard.

"It is my pleasure. You have a lovely home, Mrs. Talbot."

"That is kind of you to say, my dear." The arrival of another guest noticeably caught her attention. "Oh, forgive me, but I must greet the other guests. You might be interested to know a member of your cla.s.s is expected to join us this evening. When he arrives I shall instruct him to keep you company."

"That is not necessary, Mrs. Talbot," Celeste said, but the older woman waved away her objections.

"He is utterly enchanting," Mrs. Talbot returned, already walking toward the door. "Madame Leroy, so glad you could come."

Celeste blinked, rather certain she had never been so neatly dismissed in her life. She was sure she did not know anyone nearly as blithe as Mrs. Talbot seemed to be, and was baffled to realize she could not dislike the woman. In fact, she rather desired to converse with her.

She glanced over to where Mrs. Talbot now stood. The hostess was barely viewable, surrounded as she was by at least ten other women. They were all laughing.

To her shame, envy churned in her gut, and she turned away, forcing thoughts of Mrs. Talbot to the back of her mind. She wasn't here to make friends, or find some fabled secret to happiness. As impossible as it might sound, she was here to convince a scoundrel to restore her late husband's honor by uncovering the truth about his death.

She took a moment to scan the room. It was an intimate affair with no more than fifty people, and she didn't see a single scoundrel amongst them. Pembridge must have made a last minute decision not to come.

She fought an unladylike frown as she made her way to the refreshments table. She might as well try to eat something. It might calm her stomach, and give her time to concoct an excuse for leaving early.

Baba au rhum and cream puffs with chocolate shavings. If anything, she could not fault Mrs. Talbot's cook. The simple desserts tasted delicious, and she made quick work of savoring every last bite. Her own cook seemed to overthink food and ended up with an overly complicated art exhibit rather than something edible.

"Perhaps you will accept another plateful before all is eaten?"

Celeste startled and whirled to face the rumble intruding on her thoughts. Any excuse for leaving she might have formed was lost completely when she nearly collided into the scoundrel's chest.

"I understand there is a new guest present who is devouring all the sweets," Pembridge added, grinning down at her.

He was dressed to perfection in gray trousers, a light blue silk waistcoat, a perfectly snowy cravat, and a dark blue superfine coat. The man dressed as though he was born for high fashion, yet he seemed to fit in effortlessly with this crowd. Perhaps it was that wolfish smile he was always sporting, which was boyish when it was tired of being wolfish. For him, smiling must be a chronic affliction.

Celeste stepped back, b.u.mping her thighs into the table. "Pardon?"

"Another plate?" Pembridge smiled-boyishly today-as he proffered a plate piled with sweet desserts and truffles, all of which looked incredibly delicious to Celeste.

"Are you intimating I overindulge?" she asked, licking her lips to make sure there was no lingering chocolate. That would be too humiliating to endure.

His carefree chuckle rumbled over her, sending tingly sensations over her suddenly over-warm body. She hid her reaction with a raised brow.

"I intimate nothing. I say precisely what I mean," he said, still grinning. "And what I said sounded awfully generous of me. Charming, even."

"Indeed," she returned flatly.

"I am glad you agree. Besides, the last time you made me think I said the wrong thing, you were toying with me. I shall not fall prey to your games a second time."

"You did say the wrong thing." She frowned as she accepted the plate. "Thank you."

He picked up another plate and loaded it with cuc.u.mber sandwiches.

After taking a large bite and managing to consume it with a grace Celeste was jealous of, he added, "Now, what is Lady Dumonte doing at a humble gathering such as this?"

"I cannot meet new people?" she challenged.

He leveled her with an amused and suspicious expression. "You have not spoken with a single person here, have you?"

"What do you mean? Of course I have!"

"The hostess doesn't count."

"It is really none of your business," she muttered.

"Perhaps," he said after a disconcerting moment of studying her. "It could be because you have not had the opportunity. Allow me to begin introductions."

"No, I-"

"Oh, it shall not be dull," he a.s.sured her. "I know everyone. All sorts: tailors, bankers, merchants. Madame Roux used to be a proper madame before she found religion." He pointed to a large woman with a gaudy red dress and purple plumes sticking out from her coiffure. "Now, she could spend hours with you, explaining the mysterious ways of the Father and redemption for the fallen woman."

"No-"

"Oh," he interrupted with understanding. "Not exactly familiar with your priest, are you? Well, we can probably cut it short. Only an hour or two."

Celeste shook her head worriedly.

"Yes." He nodded, glancing about the room. "We should be able to make our way around the room by the end of the night. However, we had best leave Madame Roux for last," he warned as he turned with her in tow.

"Wait!"

With raised brows, he turned back to her and waited. So did a few others within a rather large radius.

"I need to speak with you," she said reluctantly.

"With me?" He pointed to his chest in mock surprise. "You came to a small parlor a.s.sembly simply to speak with me?"

Was he trying to humiliate her? Some had turned away, but many were watching as though they were putting on a performance, and he certainly seemed to be!

When she nodded very slightly, he dropped the act and smiled.

"I am astonished. Honored, but astonished. Normally, I would a.s.sume the lady is after a paramour, but our last attempt did not go so well, and I am afraid my pride could not take the chance of failing a second round. Not to mention, it is widely known that you have not taken a lover since..." He puffed his cheeks out on an exhale, looking up toward the ceiling and squinting as though he were searching for an elusive memory. Then he looked back at her expectantly.

"Really, you are too much," she ground out.

He raised his brows.

"I have never taken a lover," she muttered with a slight blush. "Nor do I have need of one."

"Uh-huh," he said quietly. "So, what do you want with me, Lady Dumonte?"

"Is there somewhere we might speak more freely?"

"I am afraid not. You shan't find as much as a mop closet without ears."

"Then perhaps you would call on me tomorrow," she said doggedly.

"Lady Dumonte," Pembridge began patiently, "thank you for the generous invitation to your ball. It was lovely, and the game we played was... interesting. But that is all over now. You are still the paragon Lady Dumonte, and I am still the scoundrel you want eradicated from your a.s.sembly rooms. Now, if you will excuse-"

"I thought you wanted to stay in Paris," she interrupted with a challengingly raised brow.

Pembridge paused mid-bow.

"It would be difficult to remain after the invitations and credit have dried up. It might even be a challenge finding a decent game of cards."

His eyes narrowed at the thinly veiled threat as he straightened; his smile fading as he studied her.

"Shall we speak now, Lord Pembridge?" she asked, all sweetness. "Have you suddenly recalled a deaf closet nearby?"

"Indeed. If you would follow me?" he offered with a glaringly disingenuous yet still somehow charming smile. His eyes had lost their warmth and hardened, giving Celeste a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had never seen blue eyes actually look cold.

Still, Celeste nodded, and he guided her by her elbow across the room. They weaved through several small groups of men and women deep in conversation while Pembridge dipped his chin in acknowledgement to the few who noticed him pa.s.sing by.

Once they left the parlor, they walked down a long hall, through an unlit room, through another adjoining unlit room, and out onto a small balcony at the back of the house.

Celeste glanced around the small s.p.a.ce, purposely keeping her eyes off the giant figure taking up far too much of the balcony. It could not have been more than three feet wide and five feet long, but she was not about to crush her skirts against the bal.u.s.trade from attempting to keep a proper distance.

"This is no closet," she pointed out. "Where are we?"

"Where no one will think to find us. What you ought to be asking is did anyone see us leave? The answer is no. I don't think so, but just in case..." He twisted and shut the doors to the room, seeming to shrink the outdoor s.p.a.ce even more. "Now, what could be so important you lowered yourself to mingle with the likes of Mrs. Talbot?"

Celeste ignored the harshly disapproving tone and cleared her throat. She was suddenly anxious to speak with him considering what it might take to convince him to help her. She had used her trump card just to get him to speak with her, and she didn't have much left to offer. Could she go so far as to use her body to entice him? Yes, she could. She was determined to find the truth, but she doubted she would be enough to tempt him, even if she wasn't past her prime.

She forced herself to meet his gaze with all the confidence she could gather. He was a force to be reckoned with, a beast that had somehow convinced all of Paris he was a merry jester-harmless and unbothered.

He was most definitely bothered now, and she had never believed him harmless. She could feel his anger crackling in the air.

The moon was full, and a torch lit the garden just below, making him appear larger and more intimidating. It illuminated him: his hair, his eyes, his angled jaw just above the fine folds of his cravat. The way he narrowed his eyes at her made her feel like a troublesome insect he could crush at any second. No one had ever made her feel so small.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "I want to engage your services."

His hard expression held for a moment, then softened with a touch of amus.e.m.e.nt and... bewilderment? Then he smiled, and her jaw clenched.

He was far too charming when he smiled.

"You are the first," he said. "I have been cornered in my box at the opera, pulled into a closet, had my clothes held ransom in Hyde Park-don't ask-but you are the first to use threats of ostracizing me for a place in my bed. M'dear girl, if you wanted to be my mistress-"

"No!" Celeste burst out. "Good heavens, no. That is not what I meant." She stopped herself and managed a scolding tone. "I understand you are a scoundrel, but I shall ask you to keep those hobbies to yourself. This is strictly business."

"Love is a business, m'dear," he murmured. "A lucrative one."

She ignored him with a stern shake of her head. "I believe my husband was murdered, and I need you to find out who did it."

Nick had to bite back a chuckle at her discomfort on the subject of love, but he sobered immediately at the rest.

"It was declared a suicide, was it not?"

"Well, yes, but they found no reason for it. There has to be a reason. Someone must have driven him to do it."

"No doubt of it," he muttered, looking her over warily. "Look here, whatever you have heard about me, it was wrong. Besides, if anything was there to find, it has long been covered up by now."

"Bearn recommended you. Surely, it is worth your efforts for his sake if not for your own."

Nick's jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes on a long blink. Bearn? Why? Nick could take a joke, but this? This was blackmail... and Bearn had facilitated it.

Nick made a quick mental inventory of any factories he might have forgotten about which might have reached the duke's attention. Maybe one or two... or three. Any with dead bodies? No. None that Nick had put there, anyway. Allard's death wouldn't reach the duke's ears until next week at the earliest, and that was only if the police ever found out who owned the building. The paperwork for that shack was horrendous.

"Please," she said, bringing him out of his thoughts. She licked her lips, immediately drawing his attention there. "I would do anything."

Very well. He would admit the woman could surprise him, a feat very few women could pull off, and she had done it more than once.

"Is this worth so much to you?" His c.o.c.k was screaming, yes, yes, yes, but his brain sensed a trap. Or a test. Or simply a fantastically terrible idea.

"Pierre was everything to me, and I am determined to prove he was an honorable man," she insisted. "Was it not yourself who said there was such a thing as an honorable rake? If that is possible, then an honorable man committing suicide is not so unreasonable."

She was being terribly foolish. She was beautiful, even more so under the moonlight on this balcony overlooking the dimly lit garden. It was d.a.m.ned poetic.

Had he been anyone else, he might consider risking Paris for one night with her. He might consider seducing her into his bed, to h.e.l.l with Parisian ftes and gaming. After all, there was always Venice. If only the cost were not the lives of others...