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.”

“A gentleman does not mention vulgarities in the presence of a lady,” Nick replied simply.

“What lady?” André asked as he took a large bite of a sweet roll.

“Mrs. Brice, of course.”

“Ah! My lord!” Mrs. Brice exclaimed with a blush from the other side of the kitchen. “You two and your games!”

Nick grinned boyishly at the sight of the large woman beaming. “You are a lady if I ever saw one, Mrs. Brice.” Then he threw a side-glance at André. “Every woman is a lady. Do you understand?”

“Not every woman,” André argued with a confident smile.

Nick twisted in his seat to fully face the boy. “Every woman you are with is a lady if you are a gentleman, André. If you are good, you can make the lady you desire believe she is a queen. The woman you love, a goddess.” Nick smiled and took another bite of sweet roll.

“What if I don’t find a woman to love?” André’s brow knit.

“You will find her.” Nick smiled. “Everyone does.”

“You have not.”

Nick’s smile slipped for just a moment before he caught himself. “What? Fall in love, marry, and give up my manly freedoms? Never!” When it seemed the boy wouldn’t be satisfied with so glib an answer, Nick explained cryptically, “I have chosen not to find my goddess, André. I have a duty, a matter of honor. You do not. So don’t worry your fool head over it.”

For another hour, they sat and talked while Mrs. Brice tidied the kitchen for the night. When that was done, Mrs. Brice and André went to bed. It was a late bedtime for a boy of thirteen, he supposed, but he was glad the boy had been there to talk to. He kept Nick human. Nick spent so much time playing a part or doing things he would rather forget. André was the only sane part of his life.

He thought back to when he had first brought André into his home. When Nick had been caught in an alley and near brained to death, the boy had showed up with a pistol he had stolen off an officer the day before. He had caught one thug in the leg, giving Nick the opportunity to overtake his other attacker.

André had been scrawny and terribly weak after running away from the workhouse the orphanage had sent him to, but Nick had brought him back to health, and they had immediately fallen into an easy friendship. He had been forced to pay a pretty penny to the workhouse and the orphanage because of the arrangement they had already set up for the boy, but two years later, Nick could not imagine being without him. Nick had eyes all over Paris, but André was the only orphan Nick had taken in as his own.

He extinguished the light and made his way upstairs, then found himself peeking into André’s room. The boy looked peaceful and angelic lying there. Hard to tell he was such a handful, disappearing and stealing, cursing, and tracking in mud through the halls. One day, Nick would be successful in civilizing the rapscallion. God willing.

He shook his head with a crooked grin and quietly shut the door.

Minutes later, Nick lay fast asleep in his own chamber just down the hall. Too tired to finish undressing, he lay curled atop his bedclothes in nothing but his trousers, stockings, and one shoe, which he had started to remove but decided it could wait.

2

“Céleste, I must know; what was your true intention in inviting Lord Pembridge?” Juliette primly poured tea in Lady Dumonte’s parlor the day after the ball. “I saw the two of you behind that pillar. It is not like you to mingle with rakes and scoundrels in such a way… or any way, for that matter.”

“No, I suppose not,” Céleste replied, as she accepted the dainty teacup Juliette offered her.

“So, there is something to this strange change of character?”

“I would hardly call it a change of character,” Céleste answered.

“Oh, come now! You are purposefully keeping things from me!” Juliette’s posture broke, and she leaned forward. “Is he a lover?”

Céleste laughed. “Dear, no. What would I want with a lover?”

“Oh, the usual.” The pretty blonde straightened. “He is a very attractive man.”

“Is he?” Physically, perhaps. His face was certainly the most handsome she had ever seen, and she would have to be dead or blind not to notice the rest of him.

His tailor must be exceptionally skilled, seeing how well his clothes clung to him without limiting his mobility in the slightest. The man was uncommonly graceful, in fact. Even his fragrance was mind muddling, being mostly sandalwood with a hint of orange. Regardless, he was a scoundrel who left a trail of broken hearts. That was a powerful motivator to keep one’s wits about them.

“Then, what is your intention?”

“He has been rumored to have a certain set of skills which I require.” Céleste added cream to her tea and stirred with a small silver spoon.

“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.