“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.

If Juliette had not left hours ago, she would have been witness to the rare show of charity. As it was, Céleste sat alone in her parlor with its tall, lavender walls and elaborate, floral furnishings. A large Aubusson rug covered nearly the entire floor of lacquered wooden planks. Windows brightened the space, but today, they only magnified the emptiness of it all.

Glancing around the room, Céleste was reminded of Pierre sitting across from her, helping her choose which invitations to accept or deny between his rants of the shortfalls and shows of genius of Napoleon and his theory on how the war could have been won. Other times, he would be reading or smoking his pipe. She missed the smell of his pipe and the way he frowned and held it near his lips as he mulled over her occasional argument or reflected on something he had read.

A tear trailed down her cheek. She missed him. Not a day went by that she did not yearn to hear his voice again. His gentle voice. The deep ache never abated; the emptiness he left, never satisfied. One might think the pain would lessen over time, but she only missed him more. Perhaps the pain was dull now rather than sharp as it was, but it was no less painful.

She dashed the tear away and refocused on the piles of envelopes. She was now more determined than ever to redeem the honor of her dearest friend, a friend who would never have left her in such a way unless he had been forced to. She was sure of it. She was only in want of the evidence to prove it.

Céleste entered the modest home of Lily Talbot fashionably late and with low expectations. The house itself was missing a ballroom, but the parlor was large and decorated tastefully.

“Lady Dumonte, quelle surprise!” Mrs. Talbot smiled broadly. “What an honor it is that you grace us this evening, and you look absolutely stunning.” She took Céleste’s hand and squeezed affectionately, her warmth catching Céleste off guard.

“It is my pleasure. You have a lovely home, Mrs. Talbot.”

“That is kind of you to say, my dear.” The arrival of another guest noticeably caught her attention. “Oh, forgive me, but I must greet the other guests. You might be interested to know a member of your class is expected to join us this evening. When he arrives I shall instruct him to keep you company.”

“That is not necessary, Mrs. Talbot,” Céleste said, but the older woman waved away her objections.

“He is utterly enchanting,” Mrs. Talbot returned, already walking toward the door. “Madame Leroy, so glad you could come.”

Céleste blinked, rather certain she had never been so neatly dismissed in her life. She was sure she did not know anyone nearly as blithe as Mrs. Talbot seemed to be, and was baffled to realize she could not dislike the woman. In fact, she rather desired to converse with her.

She glanced over to where Mrs. Talbot now stood. The hostess was barely viewable, surrounded as she was by at least ten other women. They were all laughing.

To her shame, envy churned in her gut, and she turned away, forcing thoughts of Mrs. Talbot to the back of her mind. She wasn’t here to make friends, or find some fabled secret to happiness. As impossible as it might sound, she was here to convince a scoundrel to restore her late husband’s honor by uncovering the truth about his death.