He uncurled his fingers as he pushed himself off the wall, dropping down to another wet alley in the pouring rain. He hit the cobblestones with a grunt, then deftly lifted himself back up into a run until he intersected the main street.
“Who would have guessed firing a pistol in the middle of Paris would draw a crowd?” he mumbled under his breath as he slowed to a saunter.
Inside, he raged. Months of work had been lost because of his carelessness. He had failed. How many more children would now be worked because of his incompetence?
With a deep breath, he let out a loud whistle to hail a hackney driving past. He had better make unbelievably good time turning himself into a gentleman again. The Duc de Béarn would not appreciate Nick’s tardiness to the Dumonte ball, even if he knew it was the earl’s birthday, which he did not. And it was going rather poorly thus far. Worse still, he was now going to have to inform the duke he might expect questions about a dead body in a rundown building he was not aware he had purchased; thus, the reason for said tardiness. And it had all been for naught since the dead body had not been forthcoming with valuable information, except for some nonsense about a demon.
Lady Dumonte’s ballroom was lavishly decorated and filled beyond its capacity, as it usually was during the fashionable season. Gold glittered from seemingly everywhere, lining the patterned ceiling, the paneled walls, and even veined in the marble pillars, which circled the room, separating the dancing from the chairs that lined the walls. Elaborate chandeliers hung above the oversized room, completing the ensemble and lending a surreal quality to the whole affair. All in all, it was an apt representation of its mistress, the eminent Lady Dumonte.
Nick stood off to the side by a pillar with a glass of champagne. His blond hair was now neatly styled with the barest hint of pomade, and his attire sported the finest craftsmanship in France. Everything he wore was designed to flatter his angelic good looks. The dark blue superfine coat and the golden waistcoat with silver and blue brocade were specifically chosen for color, quality, and fit. Even the sapphire pin embedded in his snowy cravat brought out the blue of his eyes.
Normally, he would be the wolf taking his pick of the fawns—being an attractive and wealthy aristocrat made the game almost too easy—but not here. Not while Lady Dumonte ran her crusade against rakes and libertines.
At least she had not somehow managed to get the poor buggers banned from the clubs and cathouses, only polite society. These are mostly Frenchmen, after all, and the suicide rate in Paris was already high enough. Had they been denied ready access to the heavenly juncture of a courtesan’s plump thighs, there might have been a decided influx of bodies floating in the Seine.
Gad, he should not even be here.
He glanced around the crowded room until he spotted her walking with Lady Juliette. He should certainly not chance making eye contact with her, but God help him, he couldn’t seem to look away. The lady was lovely and had exquisite taste—both traits Nick admired even in his enemies.
“Glad to see you could finally join us.” The Duc de Béarn stepped up next to Nick, his ink black hair and dark eyes contrasting starkly with Nick’s angelic features. Both were now leisurely watching the others of their class choose partners for a country-dance.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Nick smiled genuinely, then continued with a knit brow. “Although, if I remember correctly, you threatened to pitch my finest cravats and boots in a heap and set them aflame in full view of all of Paris if I somehow managed to overlook this affair. You said it was important.”
“It is. You will thank me one day.”
“I doubt it,” Nick replied frankly. “I had to kill to arrive at a decent hour. Though, better him than you, should you feel compelled to ruin my boots.” He smiled, but the truth in his jest sat uneasily with him. Unlike many of his fellow agents, he did not enjoy killing. Nor did he enjoy failing.
Béarn smiled, glancing toward the hostess. “Just look at her.”
Nick allowed his gaze to drift back to Lady Dumonte, making a full sweep of her figure. “May I assume, Your Grace, it is Lady Dumonte’s ambition and persistence you are admiring rather than her grace and beauty?”
The duke chuckled and sipped his drink. “Assume what you please.”
With an appreciative grunt, Nick forced himself to look away. If she knew how to show an ounce of warmth, the woman would be devastating. Thankfully, she was reputed for two things: the ice that ran in her veins and her indomitable nature, neither of which Nick found overly attractive.
“If it is the latter, every other man in this room already is. If it is the former, I agree with you. She could become a nun and go straight to Hades if she so chose.”
“If anyone could do such a thing, it would be Lady Dumonte,” Béarn agreed.