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 Béarn’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 Béarn suspected of organizing the prostitution 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 prostitution 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-assigned 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 André 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 André filling the hall as he approached.
He strode in and plopped down at the table next to André, 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 glass 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.”
André 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 très bonne pute to leave him so.”
Without warning, Nick reached out and pulled André by his shirt collar off his bench seat and onto the floor. He still sat, eating his roll while André 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 privé ici.”