“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, documents, 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.”
Céleste 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, Céleste. 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 Béarn 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, Céleste. If you mean your investigators, I think it is a curse,” Juliette answered flatly.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Is that why Béarn 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 Céleste. “What could you possibly tempt him with?”
Céleste 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.
“I doubt it would feel much like payment with him,” Juliette mused, pumping her eyebrows. “He has been a friend of Béarn’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 assume it is in similar taste.”
Céleste 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.
Céleste 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 classes; 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 associate 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.