The Last Riders: Winter's Touch Part 25

Nick straightened, catching his breath and wincing as he flexed his bloodied hand. "Apologies for ending our fun so abruptly, my pugnacious fellow, but I am in a bit of a rush."

He managed to lift Allard over his shoulder, then turned to walk deeper into the darkness of the alley. It would have been an impossible feat had he not turned his body into a well-tuned machine of muscle and sinew over the years.

As he walked, he narrowly missed piles of rubbish and abandoned crates. The alley was so narrow and dark he could barely see more than two feet ahead of him, even after his eyes had adjusted.

At the end was a wooden door that led into the building on the other side of the alley. It was an old, failed textile factory on the list of Nick's newly acquired investments, though he put the Duc de Bearn's name on... well, everything. He would have the dilapidated monstrosity moved over into his name and renovated to pumping out fine silks in a matter of months. The duke wouldn't even notice, and it kept Nick out of suspicion while he worked.

Nick pushed the door open with his foot, stepped inside, then shut the door. Giant raindrops began pelting the door seconds after it shut.

"Thank heaven I missed that downpour," he muttered as he shook his head, large droplets of water flinging from his hair. "Three hours in that, and I might have drowned."

The building was used for storage, filled floor to ceiling with old, abandoned crates. They were piled in random stacks throughout in such a way that it was impossible to tell how large the room was without investigating-which, of course, Nick had done before making the purchase.

There was a small clearing of about twenty feet squared immediately upon entering with one chair and a small table. The items were invisible in the darkness, yet Nick knew they were there.

He dumped the limp body into the chair, then turned and lit a small oil lamp, which had been left on the table. He grabbed a rope that had been coiled around the back of the chair, and with a few firm knots and hard tugs, Allard was securely fastened in an upright, seated position.

"I shall require your full attention now." Nick knocked loudly on the table before walking behind the chair as groggy eyes opened.

"What the-"

"Ah, Monsieur Allard," Nick began cordially as he slipped around to face the chair, barely visible near the crates. "I understand that brain of yours must be akin to a jumbled mess of bees and strawberry jam rather than a solid thinking box. Regardless, I am here to pry what little information I need from it. Let's begin with for whom you work."

Silence. He had expected as much.

"I am the last man you want to dally with, Allard," Nick advised. "I shall get what I came for one way or another. How many pieces you leave in is entirely your decision. Personally, I prefer my bits connected as they are."

It was an empty threat. Nick was not about to spend hours slowly dissecting the man, cleaning up the mess, then throwing his bits into the Seine. He did not have near enough time.

Another crack of thunder had Allard flinching in his chair, though just barely. Nick's blue eyes narrowed in on the action.

"Tell me, do you think those you are protecting so bravely will return the favor?" The question was rhetorical, but Nick waited an appropriate amount of time, anyway. "They will not. Like as not, they will kill you themselves... unless I beat them to it."

Nick watched Allard s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in his chair. He knew something. A lot of something if what he was not saying was anything to go by. Those who knew nothing usually said so. In Nick's experience, they said it repeatedly.

"Is it protection from justice you want, Allard?" Nick asked in a light tone. "I cannot promise that, nor would I." Nick paused. Still, there was no response. "I am an a.s.sa.s.sin, Allard, among other things. Not some amateur hound. I have no heart for you to plead to nor a compa.s.sionate soul p.r.o.ne to bouts of mercy. However, I do have honor. I shall kill you unless you give me a name."

Allard did not blink at the revelation. Perhaps he knew. Why would a p.a.w.n suspect an a.s.sa.s.sin would want to kill him?

With a glance toward the door to verify it was still closed tight, Nick reached behind him to pull out the pistol he kept in his waistband and aimed it straight at Allard's knee. Nick's arm was now protruding into the circle of light, the pistol s.h.i.+ning in his hand.

"This is a percussion revolver, my friend. It will not misfire... even on a night like this."

Allard's eyes widened and his nostrils flared, the only reaction to the threat.

Nick raised one slightly challenging brow. "My dear misguided fellow, you better loosen your tongue, or I shall misplace my bullet in your knee. I cannot think of a quicker or more satisfying way to get information than putting a hole through you."

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 a.s.suredly 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 prost.i.tution 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 d.a.m.ned name?" Nick repeated through his teeth as he c.o.c.ked 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, p.r.i.c.king 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 s.h.i.+rt, swallowing a curse at the hot barrel burning his skin. He should have bought a holster for the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 Bearn 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 gla.s.s of champagne. His blond hair was now neatly styled with the barest hint of pomade, and his attire sported the finest craftsmans.h.i.+p 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 b.u.g.g.e.rs 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 G.o.d 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 Bearn 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 cla.s.s 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.

Bearn 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 a.s.sume, 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. "a.s.sume 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," Bearn 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."

Bearn 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?" Bearn 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."

Bearn gestured to Nick with his gla.s.s. "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?" Bearn asked with a side-glance.

"Afraid not, old chap," Nick answered with a grin.

"I shall a.s.sume you are finally marrying, then," Bearn 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 gla.s.s. "The girl is a peach."

Bearn 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 Bearn 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 Bearn 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 derriere.

"My, we are living dangerously tonight. Non, mon ami?" Bearn 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."

Bearn 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, Bearn," 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."

Nick nodded at Bearn's disapproving scowl.

"No, I thought not. In a row, you know you will take a hit, taste some blood, but you do not expect to be kicked whilst you are down with ballroom slippers. Ladies have an unfair advantage. They are not kept to the same code of honor as gentlemen."

"I have never known the lady to kick."

"You would be surprised," he mused, his brow knit as he watched her circulate the room. "She has come a long way somehow. How is she ostracizing these roguish chaps, anyway? I understand some of them were blackguards and deserved it-had it coming, even-but how?"