Crown Jewel (6 page)

Lazzaro flitted through his mind, and Celeste rather hated himself for letting his thoughts wander down that path—that very tempting, but so very treacherous, very
impossible
path. He had not expected Lazzaro to ask him to dance. No one
did
that. They danced with their spouses, their intended, their family. They met him in a secluded garden or bedroom, used him, then went back to the people with whom they wanted to be seen. A rose and a request to dance … if he were anything but a jewel, it would count as flirting. Even if it was, to what would it come? The Duke of Nascimbeni, as powerful as he was, could not publically take a jewel as his lover—and Lazzaro did not seem the type of man inclined to hide his lover.

Celeste tried to think about something else—like the fact that Marco was dead. Marco, who he had thought he could handle. But he had gotten arrogant, overconfident, and missed all the little signs that should have warned him of Marco's dangerous possessiveness. All jewels learned to watch for certain signs; there was nothing worse than a client who thought the entire transaction had any sort of reality to it.

Now Marco was dead, and it was his fault, and he could not even be
that
sorry. He was sorry for the boy Marco had been, but nothing more. He really wished he could erase the entire night, from fleeing the pleasure district in hopes of a peaceful night to being unreasonably annoyed when he saw Lazzaro flirting with the serving girl…to that moment when Lazzaro had flirted with him and asked him to dance. Never mind that kiss; that
damned
kiss. Celeste had never let a kiss be anything but a business transaction. He always controlled intimacy of any sort, because surrendering that control was dangerous and stupid. Try as he might, though, he could not remember anything except how Lazzaro had smelled—orange and sandalwood and musk, how he'd felt—warm and solid and firm. And his mouth, gods in heaven and hell, what he would give to forget Lazzaro's mouth.

Celeste rubbed at his temples, willing the images and memories away. He was the Crown Jewel, too experienced in such matters to do something as stupid and pathetic as become even the tiniest bit infatuated with the Duke of Nascimbeni. The idea was laughable; he was too jaded to become infatuated with anyone. He definitely had too keen a sense of self-preservation to do anything that foolish. That
amateur.

Celeste scowled down at the sea. He needed to return home—the longer he stayed away from the House of Peace, the greater his problems would become. Yet still he did not move from the window seat in Lazzaro's private chambers, because he had said he would give Lazzaro an explanation. He owed Lazzaro an explanation—he just wished Lazzaro would deign to appear.

Despite himself, Celeste started to doze off, curled up with a throw stolen from the back of a couch to ward off the chill of the window itself. He jerked awake at the sound of a door opening, nearly toppling from his perch. The smell of food struck him hard, making his stomach growl abruptly. He looked up, across the room, and absolutely
hated
the way his whole body tensed up at the sight of Lazzaro.

He looked tired, ragged—and completely surprised to see Celeste. "What are you doing here?"

Refusing to let that sting, Celeste tossed his hair, then lowered his feet to the floor and gracefully stood, tugging his robes back into place in the same movement. "I was told not to vanish. Here I am, your grace, unvanished."

"In my bedroom," Lazzaro said dryly, but humor warmed his eyes, beating back some of the exhaustion. "Do I want to know how you got into the secret palace?"

"Probably not," Celeste murmured, trying not to stare at the tray of food Lazzaro balanced in one hand. Instead, he noted that Lazzaro's arm had been bandaged; he was relieved it did not seem to be a serious wound, despite the amount of blood that had poured out. "Is all well, your grace?"

Lazzaro yawned. "Only time will tell, but I think so. His body was given over to the proper authorities. He attacked me, I defended myself. When asked why he attacked, I said it was over a disagreement at a party. I saw it as petty, he viewed the matter quite more severely."

Celeste grimaced. During the Festival of Secrets—any festival for that matter—such squabbles were far too commonplace. Marco would not be the only one to die for such a trivial reason before the festival ended.

"I will go to court next week, but…" Lazzaro trailed off. He did not need to finish the statement, really. If he received any form of punishment at all, it would be a slap on the wrist. Lazzaro was not the sort of man to abuse his position, but he was a Duke, the King's bastard son, and brother and best friend to the crown prince. No one would punish him for such a crime, even if he deserved it—even if he demanded it. "Would you like some food?" Lazzaro asked. "There is plenty here, although only one goblet. If I had known you were here, I would have brought up more."

"You told me not to run off," Celeste pointed out. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

Lazzaro laughed. "True enough. So would you like some food?"

Celeste opened his mouth to refuse, simply because it was policy to refuse anything offered freely, but instead the words, "Yes, please," spilled out.

"And here I thought I would have to bully you into eating something," Lazzaro said, mouth curving in a half-smile.

Saying nothing, Celeste moved to the little table on the far side of the room. Lazzaro motioned to the one chair beside it. "Sit." He strode to the wall where a trunk sat and dragged it over to the table, then sat down. He poured wine from the pitcher to the goblet and popped a dark green olive in his mouth. "So tell me why all this happened."

Celeste ate a bite of bread and cheese, before finally replying, "Marco and I had an arrangement. The man who owns the House of Peace is severely addicted to dream smoke, and it is putting the House in danger, never mind my fellow jewels. I made a deal with Marco: he made certain his people stopped selling Pio dream weed and I made it worth his while." He just wished he had realized that Marco was one of the obsessive types. He should have marked it and he hadn't, and confound it if he knew how he had missed it. Not that it mattered anymore, but he was never that careless.

On the other hand, he was never careless enough just to let a man push him up against a balcony railing and kiss him senseless, either. The worst part of it all was that Lazzaro really had kissed him
senseless
. It was not a sensation Celeste wanted to experience again. A man jewel who lost control of his senses wound up dead or back on the streets.

"So may I safely assume that Marco desired more than the bounds of the arrangement granted?"

Celeste hid a grimace by stealing the wine and taking a long swallow. "You may. Some men forget it is fantasy and cannot let it go. I should have realized Marco was one of them. I was becoming his dream smoke, which put all my other clients in danger. He never took well to rivals, be they real or perceived."

Lazzaro made a derisive noise. "As though I was a rival."

It should not sting, but it did. But it
shouldn't
and Celeste was furious with himself. Was he not a crown jewel? Lazzaro might want him, but he had proven he could easily walk away anyway. He had only kissed Celeste to drive off Marco, not because he simply could not help himself. Of course Lazzaro would be derisive of the idea of being a rival for Celeste's attention.

And that, he told himself sharply, was why a good jewel never let even a kiss affect his senses. He pushed his food away, no longer hungry. "In the interests of being fair, you were flirting with me and you did kiss me. I think he was permitted to mistakenly believe you wanted to challenge him for my affections."

"I stand a better chance of gaining the moon's affections," Lazzaro replied. "I did not think jewels dealt in affection."

"No jewel can afford to," Celeste said. "Affection is far too costly." He started to say more, something caustic, but the emotion that flashed through Lazzaro's eyes made him forget. What was that? What about his words had caused such a strong reaction?

"What is the price of affection?" Lazzaro asked softly.

Celeste tossed his hair, lifted his chin, and replied, "Affection always means fidelity, your grace. To indulge in affection I would have to give up my livelihood. No man's fickle, fleeting lust is worth putting myself back on the street, which is exactly where stupid jewels wind up after indulging in
affection
."

Lazzaro said nothing, only ate a bit of soft cheese and a chunk of bread dipped in oil. He wasn't wearing gloves, Celeste noted belatedly. The two other occasions they had met, Lazzaro had been wearing gloves. It seemed oddly intimate, which was utterly ridiculous. His hands were not the hands of a noble—the knuckles were pronounced, marked with scars and nicks, even one that looked like a burn. They were brown from the sun, and he bet the palms were callused. Rough hands, worker hands. Not a Duke's hands.

He would
not
wonder how differently they would feel, as opposed to all the soft, pudgy, wealthy hands that touched him nearly every day. He did not want to know, did not want to find out—

—because he would only find out if Lazzaro became a client, and suddenly the thought of that turned his stomach. Why, though? Even earlier that same day, it would not have bothered him. Please, he thought miserably, please don't let him have been undone by a single, stupid request to dance.

Celeste expected Lazzaro to continue the discussion, and did not know how he felt when Lazzaro only said, "So what are you going to do about Pio, now that Marco is dead?"

"Manage," Celeste said, and bit into an olive. He only had six months left; he would figure something out. All he needed was money and time would give him that. Perhaps he would just surrender his free day and take on another client, as tired as the thought made him.

He tensed as a hand covered his and looked up sharply, frowning at Lazzaro. "What?"

"Is there any way I can help? I did kill Marco, after all—and that after provoking him."

"Does it bother you?" Celeste blurted, annoyed with himself but unable to take the question back. "That you killed him, as easy as that?"

Lazzaro frowned. "Why would you think it
doesn't
bother me?"

"I don't know how to deal with a dead body," Celeste replied, "but it is hardly the first time I have seen one. The first house I worked in, I saw three jewels killed over a period of a couple of years. One by a client, another by the owner, another by an angry drug dealer. None of those three lost any sleep over the lives they took. You do not seem as though you will."

"I won't," Lazzaro replied, meeting his gaze, eyes intent. "He tried to kill me—tried to stab me in the back. After he tried to threaten me and was clearly harassing you. I take no pleasure in killing, but I will not be sorry for defending me and mine." He fell silent, polishing off the wine and last bit of cheese. Then he added quietly, "The first time I killed someone, I threw up and did not sleep a full night through for more than a week. I kept seeing his face and there was so much blood."

Celeste looked away. He should not have asked. He was not even certain why he cared…but that was not true. He wanted—needed—a reason to hate Lazzaro. Anything. If he continued to like the bastard, to be drawn to him… well, that was the path of fools, and look how well that had ended for Marco and any number of others in the Entertainment Quarter. "I should be going," he said, and rose.

"Stay," Lazzaro said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. It was stupid to be shocked by his touch; Celeste was used to being touched. Except, perhaps not, because he could
feel
those rough fingers in a way he was not accustomed.

"Let me go," he ordered. "The night is gone and I will be missed—have been missed. I need to return. Everyone knows I took Marco as my newest client. By now they will know he is dead and that I am missing."

"Say you were with a client all night, one who paid an obscene amount of money to have you for the length of the Festival of Secrets. Would they believe that?"

Celeste grimaced, because they would. "The festival does not end until tomorrow night. What in the world am I supposed to do until then?"

"Stay here or I can take you to my home," Lazzaro replied. "Attend the festivities with me tomorrow. It will make your story true enough."

"You are really quite mad," Celeste replied. "I am not hiding myself away like some coward. I have a house to take of and I cannot do that while masquerading as your pleasure of the moment." He stood up—then sat down again as the room swayed and irritably wondered just how much of a fool he had become, that he would drink wine while exhausted.

Lazzaro sighed softly. "At the very least, stay long enough to get some rest and have your clothes cleaned. I do not think anyone will believe a word you say if they note the bloodstains on your hem and sleeves."

Making a face, because it was a point he could not argue, Celeste said, "Fine." Feeling reckless and angry and in need of wiping that triumphant look off Lazzaro's face, he undid the laces of his costume, dropping the various bits and pieces to the floor. He shucked the tunic and underclothes, leaving them in a tidy pile. Naked, he unwound his hair and combed his fingers through it. "Thank you for the hospitality, your grace."