Winter's Touch
Page 44
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“I spent all day personally decorating the ballroom, setting the dance cards perfectly in line on the entry table, and checking that the flowers are still fresh. I only hope no one notices I invited a scoundrel to my June ball, and the reprobate doesn’t seek to somehow worsen his insidious reputation. Because if they do, and if he does, it will ruin everything.”
If, at the tender age of nineteen, Nick had been told he would spend his thirty-sixth birthday cold and wet on the streets of Paris in ratty dishabille, he would have laughed in their face… and he would have been sorely mistaken.
William Nicholas Wells, the fifth Earl of Pembridge, was standing with his back pressed against an alley wall, waiting like a predator in the night. Heavy mist hung low, coating him in a vapor that chilled to the very bone. His damp, sandy hair stuck to his face, which had no hat over it, and his shirt clung to his torso, which had no coat protecting it. At this point, the linen stuck like a second skin to every dip and ridge of muscle. Thank heaven even poor buggers wore waistcoats; otherwise, he would have labeled himself an exhibitionist. He refused to guess at what had been done to his already snug trousers.
Sharp shards of light cut the sky, followed by the loud crack of thunder. A full-fledged storm. Grand. If anyone he knew saw him, he would have to fake his own death. The humiliation would be unbearable.
Still, he supposed it wasn’t the worst or most uncomfortable thing he had done. His years of doing dirty work for the Home Office kept him in a never-ending mire of uncomfortable things, the least of which were soggy rags. Though, not many people knew about that. Known spies were dead spies.
Nick shut his eyes for a moment as beads of moisture from the heavy mist dotted his face and neck. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness when night fell, but he had been straining them for too long and now felt them sting behind his lids. He had been waiting there for three hours at least, far longer than anticipated. Normally, that would not be so much of a problem, but this little rendezvous was not his only engagement.
He very much wished it were his only engagement.
At that moment, a door slammed shut on the main street, a door he had been waiting on. Possibly the man he had been waiting for. He needed to chance a peek into the street to make sure.
Nick inched closer to the corner, feeling his heartbeat pick up at the promise of relieving his achy muscles with some exercise, if only a little.
Sure as day, it was Allard, and he was wearing smarter threads than Nick would expect on a lowlife stooge like him.
As he passed, Nick reached out from behind and pulled him into the alley.
“What the—” The bruiser jerked his elbow back, aiming for Nick’s ribs. With the other, he tried to hit Nick’s face. Both were narrowly dodged. “You will regret this!” Allard warned.
“I shall if I am late,” Nick replied, dodging another backward thrusting elbow. “You are hours behind schedule, you know.”
Nick swung Allard around until his back was against the wall, cutting off a string of curses and knocking the air out of him. Nick struck hard with a right cross before Allard could recover, but the man was resilient, and Nick was thrust backward several steps by a powerful fist to the stomach. Air rushed from his lungs in a pained grunt.
“I say!” Nick coughed, stopping with his hands braced on his knees. “You have a first-rate swing, haven’t you?”
Nick straightened instantly as Allard advanced. He dodged first one heavy fist then another before he found an opening to land a solid blow to Allard’s temple.
The strike was hard enough to muddle the bruiser’s mind and allow Nick an opportunity for another strike. He landed several powerful blows before sending Allard to the ground in an inglorious heap.
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 Béarn’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 shift 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.
If, at the tender age of nineteen, Nick had been told he would spend his thirty-sixth birthday cold and wet on the streets of Paris in ratty dishabille, he would have laughed in their face… and he would have been sorely mistaken.
William Nicholas Wells, the fifth Earl of Pembridge, was standing with his back pressed against an alley wall, waiting like a predator in the night. Heavy mist hung low, coating him in a vapor that chilled to the very bone. His damp, sandy hair stuck to his face, which had no hat over it, and his shirt clung to his torso, which had no coat protecting it. At this point, the linen stuck like a second skin to every dip and ridge of muscle. Thank heaven even poor buggers wore waistcoats; otherwise, he would have labeled himself an exhibitionist. He refused to guess at what had been done to his already snug trousers.
Sharp shards of light cut the sky, followed by the loud crack of thunder. A full-fledged storm. Grand. If anyone he knew saw him, he would have to fake his own death. The humiliation would be unbearable.
Still, he supposed it wasn’t the worst or most uncomfortable thing he had done. His years of doing dirty work for the Home Office kept him in a never-ending mire of uncomfortable things, the least of which were soggy rags. Though, not many people knew about that. Known spies were dead spies.
Nick shut his eyes for a moment as beads of moisture from the heavy mist dotted his face and neck. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness when night fell, but he had been straining them for too long and now felt them sting behind his lids. He had been waiting there for three hours at least, far longer than anticipated. Normally, that would not be so much of a problem, but this little rendezvous was not his only engagement.
He very much wished it were his only engagement.
At that moment, a door slammed shut on the main street, a door he had been waiting on. Possibly the man he had been waiting for. He needed to chance a peek into the street to make sure.
Nick inched closer to the corner, feeling his heartbeat pick up at the promise of relieving his achy muscles with some exercise, if only a little.
Sure as day, it was Allard, and he was wearing smarter threads than Nick would expect on a lowlife stooge like him.
As he passed, Nick reached out from behind and pulled him into the alley.
“What the—” The bruiser jerked his elbow back, aiming for Nick’s ribs. With the other, he tried to hit Nick’s face. Both were narrowly dodged. “You will regret this!” Allard warned.
“I shall if I am late,” Nick replied, dodging another backward thrusting elbow. “You are hours behind schedule, you know.”
Nick swung Allard around until his back was against the wall, cutting off a string of curses and knocking the air out of him. Nick struck hard with a right cross before Allard could recover, but the man was resilient, and Nick was thrust backward several steps by a powerful fist to the stomach. Air rushed from his lungs in a pained grunt.
“I say!” Nick coughed, stopping with his hands braced on his knees. “You have a first-rate swing, haven’t you?”
Nick straightened instantly as Allard advanced. He dodged first one heavy fist then another before he found an opening to land a solid blow to Allard’s temple.
The strike was hard enough to muddle the bruiser’s mind and allow Nick an opportunity for another strike. He landed several powerful blows before sending Allard to the ground in an inglorious heap.
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 Béarn’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 shift 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.
