“The Duc de Béarn suggested I invite a friend of his, so I penned an extra invitation for him last week.”
Because Céleste had no time to argue with her dearest friend, she chose to omit that this particular man was considered a capable investigator, and that Béarn thought he might be able to find some answers about her husband’s death. The man was also renowned as a rogue. Céleste hated rogues. Nevertheless, she had run out of options, and she was now lowered to seeking help from a disreputable man.
Juliette lifted a brow. “And …?”
“And, what? What more could you possibly want to know?” Céleste started out the door and down the hall, the patter of Juliette’s feet following closely behind.
“Who is he?” Juliette probed.
“It is doubtful you would know him.”
“Humor me.”
Céleste had understated. Juliette was more like a starving dog with the only bone in existence.
“Lord Pembridge,” Céleste answered, almost choking on the name.
“Ooo…” Juliette’s brows lifted with sparked interest. “Is he a target, or do you have other plans for this dashing Englishman?”
“Nonsense. Béarn is a friend, and he asked a favor.” Céleste tugged on her gloves as they began to make their way down the grand staircase.
“Yes, but Lord Pembridge is a very charming rake, and you have sworn to rid Paris of the like. Lady Dumonte’s Crusade, they are calling it.”
A crusade, indeed. All she did was drop a few hints, ask a few favors, and suddenly doors would close on the rakes and scoundrels plaguing Paris one at a time. Only once had she taken specific notice of Lord Pembridge before tonight. She had heard talk of him, and when she hinted at shutting him out she was met with resistance. It seemed he was exceptionally well liked. At the time, it was not a fight she was willing to have. If he chose not to help her, however, she would be very determined to try again, and this time she would fight.
“I shall say no more to him than necessary to be polite.” Céleste frowned and stopped on the stairs to face Juliette. “How do you know how very charming—No, never mind that.” She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “My guests will be arriving any minute, and the ton will not appreciate a tardy hostess, which is what I shall be if I keep answering your incessant inquiries.
“I spent all day personally decorating the ballroom, setting the dance cards perfectly in line on the entry table, and checking that the flowers are still fresh. I only hope no one notices I invited a scoundrel to my June ball, and the reprobate doesn’t seek to somehow worsen his insidious reputation. Because if they do, and if he does, it will ruin everything.”
If, at the tender age of nineteen, Nick had been told he would spend his thirty-sixth birthday cold and wet on the streets of Paris in ratty dishabille, he would have laughed in their face… and he would have been sorely mistaken.
William Nicholas Wells, the fifth Earl of Pembridge, was standing with his back pressed against an alley wall, waiting like a predator in the night. Heavy mist hung low, coating him in a vapor that chilled to the very bone. His damp, sandy hair stuck to his face, which had no hat over it, and his shirt clung to his torso, which had no coat protecting it. At this point, the linen stuck like a second skin to every dip and ridge of muscle. Thank heaven even poor buggers wore waistcoats; otherwise, he would have labeled himself an exhibitionist. He refused to guess at what had been done to his already snug trousers.
Sharp shards of light cut the sky, followed by the loud crack of thunder. A full-fledged storm. Grand. If anyone he knew saw him, he would have to fake his own death. The humiliation would be unbearable.
Still, he supposed it wasn’t the worst or most uncomfortable thing he had done. His years of doing dirty work for the Home Office kept him in a never-ending mire of uncomfortable things, the least of which were soggy rags. Though, not many people knew about that. Known spies were dead spies.
Nick shut his eyes for a moment as beads of moisture from the heavy mist dotted his face and neck. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness when night fell, but he had been straining them for too long and now felt them sting behind his lids. He had been waiting there for three hours at least, far longer than anticipated. Normally, that would not be so much of a problem, but this little rendezvous was not his only engagement.
He very much wished it were his only engagement.
At that moment, a door slammed shut on the main street, a door he had been waiting on. Possibly the man he had been waiting for. He needed to chance a peek into the street to make sure.
Nick inched closer to the corner, feeling his heartbeat pick up at the promise of relieving his achy muscles with some exercise, if only a little.
Sure as day, it was Allard, and he was wearing smarter threads than Nick would expect on a lowlife stooge like him.