Winter's Touch (The Last Riders Book 8) (21 page)

Seconds rolled by, and finally, Nick saw the light he was looking for through the cracks in the door. “Have you ever been shot, Allard?”

Allard pressed his lips into a thin line, and he swallowed yet said nothing.

“You do realize what happens when I pull the trigger?” Nick asked as he lifted the barrel of the gun slightly. “It is unbearably painful in the knee, I understand. You will most assuredly lose your leg if you survive at all. Unless you give me their name.”

Eight, seven, six
… Counting in his head, Nick timed himself to the half-second. Still, Allard was quiet as the silence stretched on.

The crack of the pistol rent the air at the same time as the thunder roared outside. Allard’s scream filled the storage room, the bottom half of his leg halfway detached from the point-blank shot.

Nick’s jaw tightened as he took a step toward Allard, aiming it at the other knee.

Allard looked up in horror to see Nick looming in the full light of the lamp, his glacial eyes glaring daggers from behind the pistol, leaving the room utterly devoid of heat.

“Could forcing young boys and girls into prostitution truly inspire such loyalty?” Nick asked dangerously through Allard’s continued grunting and gasping. “Some of them barely ten years of age! If only I had the time, I would slowly tear you apart. You would beg for death, but such relief would elude you. Every inch of your contemptible body would scream with agony. Every labored breath would be an involuntary torture.”

Again, the light flickered underneath the door.

“What is the damned name?” Nick repeated through his teeth as he cocked the pistol.

“This—” Allard began through sobs of pain. “This whole thing b-began wh-when that Dumon—”

Faint voices floated through the storm outside, pricking Nick’s ears and interrupting Allard. Both sets of eyes swung toward the door.

“I think it came from in there!” someone shouted, drawing closer.

“Marcel!” Allard yelled. “I am—”

Nick instantly fired a round into Allard’s chest, sending the man backward to the ground. Before the chair even hit the floorboards, Nick was racing past, weaving through the stacks of crates toward the back of the building and into utter darkness as more thunder roared outside.

Nick heard the door burst open and a woman scream. Shouts followed him, but they had no hope of finding him in this labyrinth, even if he had planned to stick around, which he did not.

Once he reached the back wall, he shoved the pistol under his shirt, swallowing a curse at the hot barrel burning his skin. He should have bought a holster for the bloody thing. If they were not such a put off to the cut of his superfine, he would have begun using them ages ago.

In front of him was a wall of crates leading to a ventilation window about twenty feet up. He could barely make out the faint moonlight shining in from the alley and illuminating it.

He scaled the stack of three crates, pulling himself on top of them and barely squeezing through the half-sized rectangular window feet first. He was hanging there from the outside, his hands clutching the sill, when he heard the shouts get louder.

He could see a faint light emanating from inside. They must have taken his lamp and made their way to the back wall. The light of the lamp would never reach the window, though, and with their eyes unadjusted to the dark, they would not be able to see anything beyond the lamplight, including his exit.

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.

* * *

L
ady 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.

“A bit lonely, though, even for the sake of spite. Living as a nun, knowing the most handsome gentlemen—us—will never be known to her. Intimately,
I mean.” Nick shook his head with a wicked grin, “I refuse to believe anyone would have the resolve.”

Béarn smiled. “You are one of the finest men I know, Pembridge, but if you are a gentleman, I am a saint.”

“In that case, Your Grace, I insist you find better company immediately,” Nick said. “Truthfully, I don’t give a fig what the woman does as long as she leaves us harmless cads to ravish the maidens in peace. It is becoming increasingly arduous for a rake to keep up an honestly wicked reputation in
Paris,
of all places. What a tangle.”

“All of Paris loves her; otherwise, they would never allow such a thing. Anyway, when was the last time you ravished anyone, Pembridge?” Béarn asked with one dark brow raised. “I have not seen you with any feminine distraction in weeks. Even whilst you are far from Lady Dumonte’s sight.”

“A gentleman never tells.”

Béarn gestured to Nick with his glass. “Yes, but you are no gentleman.”

“Then I must be a scoundrel, and you cannot trust a word I say.”

“I shan’t get a straight answer from you, shall I?” Béarn asked with a side-glance.

“Afraid not, old chap,” Nick answered with a grin.

“I shall assume you are finally marrying, then,” Béarn said casually as he sipped his drink.

“That’s a depressing subject to bring up.” Nick’s brow knit as he shuddered. Then he brightened. “But since you did bring it up, when
are
you marrying that Juliette girl?”

“I shall marry Lady Dumonte if I remarry at all. Not only is she very dear to me, but our marriage would be an advantageous match, both politically and socially.”

“But you love Juliette and have these many years. All the years I have known you, at least. You wouldn’t let a little thing like the scandal of marrying an orphan girl without family or dowry and the resulting death of your political career get in the way of eternal happiness, now would you?” Nick asked innocently. “You ought to at least tell her how you feel, you know. I suspect she believes you in love with Lady Dumonte. She smiles brighter when she is near you, but it changes when Lady Dumonte is there. It becomes… sad.”

“I have a duty to my office, Pembridge. I am a duke.”

“Pity,” Nick muttered as he swirled the champagne in his glass. “The girl is a peach.”

Béarn did not reply, and Nick knew better than to push the subject too far. He had made that mistake once before, and ended up in a
friendly
bout of fisticuffs that Béarn had sworn was merely for exercise. Nick had left with a black eye and busted lip. Instead, both men turned their attention back to the crowd.

At that moment, Lady Dumonte turned their way and inclined her head in polite acknowledgement. Surely, that nod was directed solely at His Grace. Nick had barely made her acquaintance since arriving in Paris five years ago, and he would very much like to keep it that way.

With that in mind, he faced Béarn and only watched the lady from his peripheral.

As expected, the duke dipped his chin in reply, eliciting a slight half smile from the lady. That small show of emotion was the most anyone had gotten from her since her husband had died eight years ago.

Nick chanced an appreciative glance once the ladies turned to converse with other guests. Gad, the woman was exquisite. She must know precisely how the gown fell over her figure, selecting just the right fabric to complement her subtle curves. It took far too much effort for Nick to tear his eyes from Lady Dumonte’s rather well-formed derrière.

“My, we are living dangerously tonight. Non, mon ami?” Béarn turned up an amused brow.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You receive a most coveted invitation, one that can solidify or destroy one’s social status in Paris, and you slight the hostess. I cannot begin to comprehend your logic unless you pine for social death.”

Nick donned a confident smile. “Our hostess was acknowledging a French duke, not a rakish English earl. She would not dare. I may ravish her in this very ballroom.”

Béarn smiled at Nick’s absurdity before shaking his head. “I would certainly know if those eyes rested on me. As a Frenchman, I would be remiss not to notice such attentions. Alas, her eyes never met mine. Pity.”

Strange, he could have sworn she had acknowledged the duke. His smile faded.

It was getting far too easy to offend these days.

“I don’t suppose the lady would accept a note of apology in the morning?” Nick asked.

“Not likely.”

“She could ruin everything, Béarn,” he muttered. “We’re so close.”

“Ridiculous. I am sure you have faced worse.”

“This is not a bout of fisticuffs where there are rules kept between gentlemen.” After a pause for thought, he added, “And I doubt you would allow me to handle her as I would those who are not gentlemen.”