“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 assassin, Allard, among other things. Not some amateur hound. I have no heart for you to plead to nor a compassionate soul prone 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 pawn suspect an assassin 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 shining 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 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.

Lady 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.