Date: 2011-06-15 21:49:34+00:00
Keywords: M M Romance; Historical; Mystery; Romance; Fantasy; Lgbt; M M Fantasy; High Fantasy; Short Stories; Fiction; Gay
Description: Lazzaro has a talent for catching criminals, a talent that has gained him as much trouble as it has acclaim in the years since he arrived at the royal palace to attend his mother, infamous concubine to the King. Increasingly frustrated that the man who murdered his mother continues to elude him, Lazzaro takes the advice of his half-brother and goes to obtain information from the notorious Crown Jewel—the most successful courtesan in the city. But the man he encounters is nothing like what he expected, and Lazzaro finds himself coveting a Jewel that vows never to belong to just one man.
Publisher: Less Than Three Press, LLC

Crown Jewel

Megan Derr

Lazzaro has a talent for catching criminals, a talent that has gained him as much trouble as it has acclaim in the years since he arrived at the royal palace to attend his mother, infamous concubine to the King.

Increasingly frustrated that the man who murdered his mother continues to elude him, Lazzaro takes the advice of his half-brother and goes to obtain information from the notorious Crown Jewel, the most successful courtesan in the city.

But the man he encounters is nothing like what he expected, and Lazzaro finds himself coveting a Jewel that vows never to belong to just one man.

Table of Contents

Crown Jewel

Book Details

Crown Jewel

About the Author

Crown Jewel

By Megan Derr

Published by Less Than Three Press

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Caitlin Penny

Cover designed by Megan Derr

This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition June 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Megan Derr

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-936202-46-1

Crown Jewel

Megan Derr

Lazzaro walked along the Royal Pavilion, mind awhirl with information and ideas, but no clear way to bring everything together; an entire year and he had nothing to show for it. He knew better than anyone that hunting a killer was aggravating work, but that did not ease the aggravation.

Killers, thieves, robbers—he had unintentionally made a career of tracking down brigands of all sorts, ever since leaving the mountain monastery he had called home for many years. Being some manner of unofficial investigator of all things criminal was better than immersing himself in politics or the other dry amusements of his peers.

Nodding absently to the people he passed, greeting others but never slowing his steps, Lazzaro steadily made his way across the colorful mosaic of the pavilion of the Starfire Palace. Climbing the steps, he murmured politely to the royal guards as he passed them. Inside, he stopped a passing steward. "Where is Prince Benito?"

"I believe he is in the garden with her Highness and several friends, your grace."

"Thank you," Lazzaro replied, and strode on.

In the garden—a cacophony of carefully tended plants and flowers that overlooked the ocean surrounding their country on nearly all sides—he quickly located Benito on the highest level. Courtiers encircled Benito and his fiancée, a pile of pretty nobles frittering away their day in trying to curry favor. The women, especially, behaved ridiculously in their currying efforts.

In their defense, Lazzaro supposed, it was hard to gauge the Princess Anastasia. In a garden of modest, pastel lilies, she was a vibrant rose. More demon than princess, some liked to whisper, due to the bright red hair spilling artlessly down her back in a riot of curls, the freckles across her nose, and skin turned gold by the sun. She spoke loudly, laughed loudly, and lashed out loudly. If she were not a princess, and betrothed to the much adored crown prince, she would not be tolerated. She was also deeply in love with Benito and he with her, and so people begrudgingly gave their future Queen a chance—and Lazzaro did not doubt that they would nearly all come to love her. Lazzaro had loved her from the moment she had provoked his perpetually—deceptively—quiet best friend into a shouting match in the middle of a state dinner; anyone who could rouse Benito from his smug calm was good for him.

Benito smiled warmly when he saw Lazzaro, immediately breaking off conversation with the Earl at his elbow. "Beautiful day, Lazo. What brings you to my garden?"

"Beautiful day, Highness. Questions."

"I thought so," Benito said congenially. He turned away briefly and took Anastasia's hand, kissing the back of it and murmuring that he would return shortly in her own language. Turning back to Lazzaro, he slung an arm across his shoulders and led him down from the rose level, the lily level, and off to the tulips on one of the lowest levels of the garden. A look and motion dismissed the small handful of people there, leaving them in privacy. "What is troubling you, brother? The murderer still eludes you?"

Lazzaro nodded. "Yes. I feel he is close enough to slit my throat, yet he slips through my fingers like mist. I have descriptions, and yet no one can truly say what he looks like. People should have seen him, and yet have not. I am searching for a ghost, Benito!" He sighed and raked his fingers through his own long hair, annoyed that some of the curls had slipped from the ribbons in which he had put them. "Perhaps people are correct and I am seeking only a figment."

Benito snorted. "The day you are wrong and everyone else is right is the day everyone stops bickering and we climb the stairs to the heavens to live forever in harmony. You say there is a killer; I believe you. After all, this is you we are talking about, Lazo. Ever since you arrived, you have been catching criminals. It makes me wonder what they taught you up in those mountains." He pursed his lips in thought.

Too often, people mistook the prince for an innocent or an idiot when first they met him. Benito was, above all else, pretty—damned pretty, almost to the point of effeminacy, as pale and delicate as he could be without tipping over into sickly. Pale hair, pale skin, pale blue eyes, and a slender build that would never boast great muscle—and he was short. Benito was half a head shorter than his buxom fiancée, and quiet where she was loud, smooth where she was bold, and although the custom was to walk about expressionless, he often walked about smiling for no reason at all. Taken together, people took him for childish, foolish.

Invariably, they learned the hard way that he was more than capable of someday wearing the crown. Benito was smart and clever, and his preferred methodology was to patiently wait until he had his prey exactly where and how he wanted. Only then did he strike. The only thing as dangerous as Benito's mind was his talent with sword and main gauche. That Lazzaro had never been for a moment fooled by his appearance had been one of the main reasons they became such fast friends, despite all of the reasons they should have not.

"We know he is wealthy, well-connected," Benito continued. "I think you are correct, in that we see him nearly every day and simply never realize it. That must stroke his ego like nothing else, and I think that ego is the key. A man that arrogant, with that much success on which to build his arrogance, likes nothing more than to continue stroking it. A man like that, stroking his ego is all of the one with stroking his cock."

Lazzaro snorted in amusement. "No doubt. But what has that to do with the price of tea?"

Benito rolled his eyes. "I have corrupted you quite nicely since you arrived in the city years ago, Lazo, but sometimes your pious childhood shows through and sends me into fits of despair. Do you not ever venture to the Jewel District?"

In reply, Lazzaro only mimicked the way Benito had rolled his eyes. Once not so very long ago, the royal city had been divided up into quarters and districts, and the people within those places strictly regulated. That had also been back in the days when one did not leave his house without wearing a mask—dangerous days, those. The city was glad to be rid of them.

Settled between the ocean and the Commerce Quarter, the Pleasure District of the Entertainment Quarter butted right up against the Gem District, and so had come to be known as the Jewel District. Most of the quarters and districts were long dissolved, but the Jewel District remained largely intact—and, some said, remained its own entity in exchange for secret arrangements with the crown. Benito had once admitted that was not true, but it suited both the crown and the Pleasure District if everyone believed it.

"Why would I go to the Jewel District?" Lazzaro asked.

"To spend pleasant hours with something pretty without having to exhaust and bankrupt yourself courting it first, like the rest of us," Benito drawled. "Normal people go to the Jewel District, Lazo. Don't you at least want people to think you are mostly normal? If you keep acting extraordinary, they will arrange a nice, rousing witch roast. You are quite vexing already, brother; indulge us mortals by acting human and visit the Jewel District."

Lazzaro rolled his eyes again. "If I want sex, I have much easier ways of getting it. I see no need to pay for something I can obtain for free."

Benito tsked softly and shook his head. "Lazo, most people avoid the Jewel District because they are prudes, not because they are cheap bastards."

"Only a fool lets gold flow like water," Lazzaro said defensively.

"I prefer my gold let the wine flow," Benito replied.

Lazzaro shook his head. "What was the point of all this?"

Benito laughed. "Indeed. I was trying to say only this: the murderer is an arrogant man and that will be his downfall. A man with an ego like that wants it stroked, often, and you can be certain getting his ego stroked includes getting his cock stroked. Beyond that, the Jewel District is prime ground for harvesting information. If he is the type of man we suppose him to be, Lazo, then he will frequent the Jewel District. Bearing that in mind, I would say your best chance to learn anything about him is to go straight to the Crown Jewel."

Frowning, Lazzaro said, "That sounds expensive."

"Oh, delightfully and dreadfully so, I promise," Benito said with another laugh. "Even a Crown Prince leaves the arms of the Crown Jewel with a light purse. Come along to my rooms; I will write you a letter of reference."

"For a jewel?" Lazzaro asked.

"Honestly, Lazo. You are twenty-seven-years old and you know nothing of jewels? You are a disgrace and I should be ashamed of myself for never addressing this grievous oversight. You will go tonight."

"Benito—"

"Do not argue with me or I will send Carlo to ensure you go."

Lazzaro shuddered. "Fine, you bastard, but I will have my revenge."

"Come along, then," Benito said, unperturbed by the threat. "I will write that reference."

"I still cannot believe I need a letter of reference for a jewel. Why in the name of the gods do I need a reference before I am allowed to pay for sex? I can buy—"

Cutting him off with a chuckle, Benito said, "Do not start in with your tirades, Lazo, or we will be here all day." He winked. "Trust me, when you meet the Jewel of Jewels, you will see why he requires a reference. Rumor has it that he has been given a hundred sovereigns in one night by a single client." Bursting into laughter at the horrified look on Lazzaro's face, Benito dragged him off deeper into the palace.

*~*~*

Lazzaro stifled a sigh as he walked along the cobblestone streets of the Jewel District. The place was a maze, but that was obviously sound business practice. He bypassed the cheap houses, marked by either candles in base, colored glass holders or cheap paper lanterns. As those faded off, they were replaced by houses a bit more lush, the glass expensive and the paper lanterns nonexistent. In the dark, the colorful lights lent a fantastical feel—another sound business practice, no doubt. It also distracted from the fact that even on the best of days, the city never smelled wonderful, no matter what district a man walked. It probably also let many visitors forget that they were doing what they should not be, since the entire quarter was a warren of questionable delights—some legal, some not.

Lazzaro continued past the tasteful, the tasteless, the colorful, the dreary, the subtle, and the flashy, before finally reaching a building tucked neatly into a corner, well off the beaten path of all the rest and overlooking the harbor. Compared to all of the other houses—with only expensive, naked beeswax candles in the windows to mark them as belonging to the Jewel District—the 'House of Peace' looked almost respectable. The scent of roses teased him as he walked up the white stone path to the door and knocked lightly.

A servant opened the door, took his cloak, nodded him toward the appropriate door, and faded off so silently he might have been a shadow. The parlor Lazzaro entered contained only three figures. Two of them were courtesans, one of which was engaged with the third man, a young noble who clearly did not yet know how to spend his money wisely.

Dismissing the pair, Lazzaro focused his attention on the remaining courtesan. Benito had said he probably would not see the man he sought, but would have to give the letter to the proprietor and return another night. However, the man on the small sofa in the corner—half in shadow, half in candlelight—certainly seemed to match Benito's description of the notorious Crown Jewel.

The hair was the first thing Lazzaro noticed, for it was exactly as Benito had described it: a long, wavy spill of white gold. Beautiful. He moved closer and the man looked up, an automatic smile of invitation curling his glistening, oil-wet lips. Discreetly tucking away the book he had been reading, he crooked his ring-bedecked fingers, drawing Lazzaro in. "Beautiful evening, handsome stranger."

"Beautiful evening, jewel," Lazzaro murmured. "I thought finding you would prove more of a challenge. You are the one they call Celeste, are you not?"

"I am, indeed. You have found me on a night I happen to be free. You are a clever stranger, or a lucky one." Celeste tossed his hair as he spoke, mouth twisting in a teasing, taunting half-smile. He knew how to play the game, Lazzaro privately conceded. But Celeste would not work in the House of Peace, and be so profitable that he could afford a night off, if he did not.

"Well-informed," Lazzaro corrected, "although there is also some luck involved."

"Then you are intelligent as well as clever," Celeste replied. He shifted slightly, carefully draped robes moving sinuously along his fair skin. "Would you care to sit?"

Lazzaro laughed. "I am not here for your charms, lovely though they are."

Celeste tilted his head back and to one side, the image of curiosity. "Whatever you desire, it will cost, and I do not accept complete strangers off the street."

Sincerely doubting someone like Celeste did not recognize him, but knowing that games must follow rules, Lazzaro reached into his jacket and extracted the letter Benito had written. He handed it over and waited patiently as Celeste broke the wax seal and read.

After a moment, Celeste looked up, pleased and amused. "So I was correct." Reclining back in the sofa, he lazily held the letter out over a candle, watching it for a moment before setting it on a tray to finish burning. "Shall we speak somewhere more private, handsome stranger?"

Tempted to ask what that would cost him, but knowing manners would get him further, Lazzaro only nodded and replied, "As you like."

Celeste stood up and brushed past him—then paused, turning his head up to meet Lazzaro's eyes. His eyes, Lazzaro could not help but note, were the most beautiful shade of brown. He had expected something more exotic—blue, green, amber; but the soft, rich brown was all the more beautiful for its simplicity. Already he comprehended part of why this man was called the Crown Jewel. "Misers are almost as much fun to break as prudes."

Lazzaro laughed and bent his own head, so they were only the barest breath apart. "You are welcome to try, jewel, but I was raised by monks. My discipline is extraordinary."

"So are my charms," Celeste replied, and brushed the barest whisper of a kiss across Lazzaro's mouth. Then he was gone, leading the way from the parlor and leaving a trail of rich cologne—cinnamon and rose, hints of clove and amber.

Lazzaro licked his lips, which tingled and burned the faintest bit. Cinnamon, he realized. The bastard's lip oil contained cinnamon. Shaking his head, amused and impressed and more turned on than he was willing to admit, Lazzaro followed Celeste from the parlor and up the stairs to a room immediately off them.

Celeste's room proved to be large and lavish; strange, Lazzaro thought, for a courtesan to be given so much space. It was clearly meant for extended stays; and for someone as high class as Celeste, he supposed that did make sense, after all.

Spinning smoothly on his heel, Celeste settled down on a dark red velvet settee, the very definition of an invitation to amorous activity. Lazzaro would be lying if he said he was not tempted; however, he was there to catch a killer and needed to remember that.

Before he could speak, Celeste clucked his tongue in disapproval. "You are all unpleasant business, your grace. I promise the business will not be less grave if you sit and have a drink, relax a little bit."

Lazzaro shook his head in amusement. "Said the cat to the mouse, 'Come and share my cream; it is too good for me to pounce you'."

Celeste laughed, and something in the way he threw his head back, the way his whole body shook—it was artless, uncontrived. He could be that talented, but Lazzaro had a sharp eye for deceit; he believed the laughter genuine.

He should not be pleased that he had extracted an honest response.

Dismissing the errant thought, Lazzaro leaned against a heavy table on which rested a vase of costly roses and a tray with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He crossed his arms over his chest, merely lifting one brow when Celeste ceased laughing and looked at him. "I only pounce when paid to do so, your grace, and if you are a mouse then I am a kitten. You strike me as more of a fox."

"I have been called such before," Lazzaro admitted, "but I have been called many things."

"Mm," Celeste murmured. "I should think so. Even I, tucked away here in my humble little corner of the city, have heard of the monkish peasant who became a Duke, and is best friend to the crown prince and acknowledged by his royal father. They say you dabble in solving crimes, as well. Smart, although some say too smart. The rumors of your handsomeness were not exaggerated. A miser, also true. Is it true you persuaded his Highness to marry Princess Anastasia instead of Princess Heather?"

"Yes," Lazzaro confirmed. "I met Princess Heather well before his Highness ever saw her. They would have hated each other."

"Well, this disreputable citizen of the royal city approves of our flame-haired demon princess, for however little that is worth," Celeste said, then smirked and added, "I will miss his Highness' patronage."

Lazzaro laughed. "I would imagine so; his Highness believes in generosity."

Celeste tilted his head inquisitively. "You are not troubled that his Highness has paid for my services?"

"Why would I be?" Lazzaro asked, genuinely surprised.

In reply, Celeste shook his head. "Men are always troubled, but you are not here for my charms, your grace. I have little else to offer, though."

Lazzaro sincerely doubted that. "Information."

Celeste's face shuttered, all of the playfulness snuffed like a candle. If Lazzaro had not been watching so closely, he would have missed the flicker of disappointment. Why would Celeste be disappointed? He tucked the puzzle away to sort out later as Celeste spoke. "There is precious little I am not willing to sell, your grace, but information is precious indeed and I do not sell it. Many a person has offered me kingdoms in exchange for the secrets they think I possess. You will notice I do not reside in a castle."

"Offering you a castle is as foolish as offering to buy out your contract. I may as well offer a city to a farmer. A castle would not suit your purposes."

Celeste smiled faintly. "Just so. I do not sell information, your grace, not to anyone. My greatest asset is my discretion. All my looks and talents are not worth half as much as my ability to keep my mouth shut when necessary. I do not bend that rule; truly am I sorry."

He was, Lazzaro realized. He would not be swayed and he was sorry for it. His respect for Celeste grew significantly. He knew so-called honorable men who did not have a smidgen of the integrity that Celeste had just displayed. "I confess my disappointment, jewel, but I respect your stance. For what little it is worth, I am seeking a murderer. I know he is too clever and too smart. Probably good looking, but not of extraordinary looks. He is wealthy, likely privileged, yet no one can recall his face or any real details about him. No one can recall much of anything; even the facts I possess are deduction and supposition. He must have been seen by many, yet not a single person recalls him."

Celeste frowned. "A murderer? Certainly I have serviced many an unpleasant element; I will not deny men come to me with blood on their hands but little upon their consciences. I can say honestly none of those men match what little you have provided."

Lazzaro fought despair. Would he never catch the bastard?

"If I may ask, who has he killed?"

At first, Lazzaro hesitated—but he would not have come here if he had not been willing to divulge his information, and he firmly believed Celeste kept his silences. Finally he said, "Four people over the last year. Lady Accardi, Lord Croce, Lord Lecce, and Lady Salvai."

"Lady Salvai," Celeste repeated. "Your mother was said to have dead of apoplexy. I am sorry; she was in all ways a beautiful woman, from what I heard."

"Yes," Lazzaro replied. "Thank you. She was poisoned, as were the other three. Political motives, mostly, we believe. My mother was probably killed because she had so strong an influence on my father and it was known she was vehemently against certain bills." Namely those to do with the taxes that would hurt the Entertainment Quarter where she had grown up; his mother had never shied away from admitting the flaws of the Entertainment Quarter, and many there had called her disloyal because of it.  "They were killed weeks and months apart, and each from a different 'health problem'. I have been hunting the killer for the past year. His Highness said if anyone could tell me something new it would be a jewel, and that there was no better resource than the Crown Jewel."

"He would have the money, too, but it's peculiar for men like that to want to part with it. Men who can spend large sums of money on someone like me, but are not nobility, tend to be noticed," Celeste mused. "Being noticed is not something he can afford. Have you considered that your killer is a jewel or a cut flower?"

"Impossible," Lazzaro said. 'Cut flower' was what his mother had been—a member of the 'half world' of people who flitted on the edge of being proper nobility. They were wealthy, popular, but never truly a part of the elite. They were cut flowers, prettily arranged, rather than properly part of the noble garden. "The men and women killed were murdered in private sections of the palace, where such persons are not permitted to go."

"The 'Secret Palace', yes," Celeste said. "Only the royal family and a short list of nobles, guests, and servants are permitted. Certainly no half-world or pleasure-world persons are admitted." He tilted his head back, hair spilling over his shoulders and falling over part of his face. The smirk that curved his lips made Lazzaro want to bite them, drag his tongue across them, kiss them until he left them bruised and throbbing. "Only last week, a man paid triple my usual price so that I would visit him in a particular place. I arrived at the appointed time, was escorted as I was told I would be, and spent three hours in a lovely room. The walls were covered in lavender and cream paper; the furniture was all rich brown and a darker lavender, with accents matching the walls, golden woods, a beautiful brass candelabra, and crystal lights dripping from the ceiling. The brown fur rug before the fireplace is very soft against bare skin." He propped one arm on the sofa armrest, resting his head in hand and letting his robes gape slightly open—

And Lazzaro could all too easily imagine why someone would pay triple the price to fuck Celeste on the floor of the Lavender Room, in the heart of the Secret Palace. He did not bother to contemplate which of the six people who had access to that room had broken such an important rule; he could narrow it to three in a moment and would put the fear of the gods into all of them later. "You have made your point," he said dryly.

"Look for a jewel or a cut flower; that is the best advice I can offer, your grace," Celeste said.

"Thank you for the information," Lazzaro replied. "Especially as you revealed something you probably should not have."

Celeste smiled. "I have not revealed nearly as much as you think, your grace."

Lazzaro shook his head. "Does an honest, open, uncalculated word ever fall from that pretty mouth of yours?"

"I would not be very good at my job if I let that happen," Celeste replied. "But tell me true, your grace—how many truly honest men do you know?"

"None," Lazzaro conceded with a nod. "I thank you again for your assistance, Celeste."

Celeste laughed and rose, tossing his hair over his shoulder with a smooth, practiced movement. "Conversation is easy enough, your grace." He stopped just short of touching Lazzaro as he pushed away from the table and rose to his full height. "I can say honestly that it has been a very long time since the only thing anyone wanted from my mouth was words."

Lazzaro smiled faintly. He lifted his right hand, and lightly traced Celeste's mouth with the knuckle of his forefinger. "I can admit honestly that I understand the temptation for more. Beautiful evening to you, jewel, and a warm rest." He left coins on the table and slipped from the room, retracing his steps out of the House of Peace and back into the night.

Only when he was well away from the Jewel District was he able to breathe properly again. The scent and taste of cinnamon chased him until morning.

*~*~*

Celeste stared at the money on the table, truly surprised. Three sovereigns; that was roughly a third of what he would charge for one night, a veritable fortune in the eyes of most. Even the most shameless courtesan would not charge more than one sovereign for conversation. He was the most infamous courtesan in the quarter and he would not dare charge that simply for talking.

Everyone knew—or at least knew of—Lord Lazzaro Salvai, the first Duke of Nascimbeni. He was not loose with his money; in a city of decadence and free-flowing gold, it was a noteworthy trait. He would not have given three sovereigns if he had not thought Celeste deserved them. Of course, there was always the far more likely possibility that the good Duke was simply trying to soften him up with gold so he would be more amenable to giving information the next time he came around—and he would return. They always did. The cynical part of Celeste's mind would not overrule the rest of him as usual, however; he believed the money had been given sincerely.

Celeste knew he was beautiful, knew how to tempt even the most prudish of men. More importantly, he knew how to resist temptation himself. The Duke of Nascimbeni was hardly the first to seek him out explicitly for information. Celeste did not doubt that had he surrendered it, the Duke would have been extremely generous. He was the first man to walk away without taking something else while he was there; Celeste had never been refused before and he was not certain what to make of it. He smiled ruefully and pocketed two of the sovereigns. It would not do for Pio to know what the Duke had really paid him.

Reaching up, Celeste touched his lips with the knuckle of his forefinger, remembering the way the Duke had caressed them. All of the hard fucks he had taken over the years did not feel half as intimate as that caress. It really only made the whole encounter stranger. He had seen the way the Duke had looked at him—yet he had walked away.

No matter how he tried, Celeste could not dismiss that he had been resisted. Men succumbed to him; that was his job, and bedding the Duke would not have even been a chore. He had no cause to complain about his current set of customers, and liked that he had managed to arrange one whole night to himself, he would not have minded adding the Duke to his client list.

Chuckling softly, rather taken by the unexpected challenge, Celeste picked up the remaining sovereign. He played with it idly, in no hurry to return downstairs, moving it back and forth between his fingers, making it dance across his knuckles before twisting his wrist sharply and catching it neatly in his palm.

Like most residents of the Entertainment Quarter, Celeste's earliest memories were of life on the street. His mother had been a 'paste jewel'—a cheap prostitute who never managed to climb the ranks to be a true courtesan. She had died from disease when Celeste was—well, best estimate was eight, give or take a year. He had been of an age to remember her well, but simply did not; she had never factored greatly into his life.

Celeste had begun as a thief, it seeming the most exciting option as a child uninterested in sharing his mother's dreary fate. In only a couple of years he had made of himself a more than fair pickpocket, and after four years he was head of his own little gang. He had met Viola shortly thereafter, a woman for whom the word 'beautiful' simply did not suffice. She was breathtaking, elegant, refined, wealthy, adored—and a jewel. It was the first time he had really had something other than his mother and other women like her to put to that word, the first time he ever heard the term 'crown jewel'. After that, life on the streets as a pickpocket, a life of crime, just did not compare. He wanted the luxury, the comfort, for people to come to him instead of always running away from him.

As he had gotten older, Celeste had also appreciated the safety of being a jewel. Although no one in the Entertainment Quarter had an easy life, the jewels had a relatively safe one compared to many—once they reached a certain level, at least. At roughly thirty years of age, Celeste lived the best life a courtesan could ever hope and expect to attain; he had worked hard for it and for the most part he enjoyed it. He never regretted giving up the life of a thief, but he never forgot it either. Still his fingers remembered how to slip coin from the pocket of an unsuspecting passerby. He could smoothly cut purse strings or stroke a man off so well he gleefully handed over that same purse. Whatever the profession, it was all in the hands.

Celeste flipped the coin neatly in the air and caught it with his other hand, then laid it back on the table. Turning away, he strode back to the settee to steal a few more pages of his book—only to hear a sudden commotion in the hallway: shouting, swearing, the unmistakable sound of flesh violently striking flesh. Sighing, for it could only be one of two things, he turned, walked to the door, and pulled it open, loosening his robe as he went because there was little as distracting as bare flesh.

In the hallway, several of the men and women of the house were gathered around two figures, all of them in various states of dress. The two figures in the middle of the mess were Pio, the Master of the House, and Tula—young for her level of expertise, but for very good reasons. Currently, she had a livid red handprint on one cheek and was poised to strike out herself as Pio tensed to lunge for her again.

Celeste pushed through the ring of people and caught Pio's wrist as he lifted his arm to strike. "Pio, why do you persist in wasting your time on the girls? Girls are too delicate for you." Never mind that Tula's specialty was anything but delicate.

Pio whipped around and anger flooded Celeste—his eyes were dilated, hazy-looking; clearly he had indulged—overindulged—in dream smoke. Damn it, he had told those bastards to stop selling to Pio. He had made special arrangements for them to ensure it.

Burying his anger, Celeste released Pio's wrist and instead smoothed his hand along Pio's shoulders, letting his robe fall a bit from his own. He slowly slid his hand up behind Pio's neck, drawing them closer together and distracting Pio entirely from the slowly emptying hallway. No man, no matter how jaded, drugged, or angry, could resist being the focus of amorous intent—especially when that focus came from the Crown Jewel. "Come now, Pio. Do not hit the girls. You may as well expect children to satisfy you." He slid his other hand down Pio's chest, nails raking lightly, before slowly undoing the lacings of Pio's hose and pulling out his half-hard cock.

Sliding to his knees, Celeste made short work of guaranteeing Pio would be too sated and tired to try messing with anyone else the rest of the night. Pio came in his mouth with a whiny groan, and Celeste pulled away once he had finished, catching Pio so he did not fall on his face as drugs and release overwhelmed him. Only a moment later, Pio passed out completely, his clothes rumpled and skewed, stinking of booze and dream smoke, his limp cock hanging out, still wet from Celeste's mouth. Tula handed him a handkerchief.

"Thank you, Celeste. He came out of nowhere, caught me by surprise. I was only trying to get him into my room, that was all. I would have made certain the bastard passed out, then, one way or another." She blew out an irritated breath. "I know it's disrespectful and all, but honestly Celeste—the man is a menace. One day he's really going to hurt one of us, and then what will happen? What happens when a customer sees, or worse, he goes after a customer?"

Celeste acknowledged her words with a nod, wiping his mouth and face with the kerchief. He directed the two house guards who had finally appeared to cart Pio away. "Lock him in his room and make certain the door is unlocked around dawn. Tula, make certain everyone is where they should be and that no customers were disturbed." He did not bother to say they had better hope all was well, because the amount of money Pio had spent on dream smoke, alcohol, and gambling had probably taken most of the night's profits.

Stifling a sigh, Celeste returned to his room and discarded his silk robe. Opening his wardrobe, he pulled on breeches, stockings, a linen shirt, and a plain black waistcoat and jacket. Then he pulled on and laced up sturdy boots, sliding a thin dagger into each of them. He slipped a few more daggers into other bits of clothing, totaling seven in all. After the daggers, he slid a small thin case into a hidden pocket inside his jacket. Poison was an old trick in the entertainment business; perhaps he should have mentioned that to the good Duke.

Lastly, he tucked away a small purse, then braided his hair and twisted it up and out of his way, securing it with a plain comb. Ready at last, Celeste slipped out of his room again and headed down the hall to the back stairs. At the bottom, he turned down another hallway and ended at a door that led to the back alley. Only he and Pio had keys to the door. Once outside, it took him only moments to find the pair he sought. "Beautiful evening," he murmured, smile razor sharp.

The men blanched, but were smart enough not to bolt. "B-Beautiful evening, Celeste."

Celeste drew closer. "I told you to stop selling to him. I ensure it is worth your time not to sell to him. Do you want me to put an end to the arrangement?"

"Weren't us," the taller of the two men sputtered. "We don't sell to him, we wouldn't. Tula—anyway, he left us; don't know where he went. We can't stop the entire group selling, Celeste, you have to know that."

Ignoring the whining, Celeste asked, "Who can stop it?"

"Boss, maybe," the shorter man mumbled. "But ain't everyone going to refuse that kind of money even if the boss says to. And that's money lost, so the boss ain't likely—"

"Where is he?" Celeste interrupted.

"Why do you care so much what Pio does?' the taller man whined.

Celeste shook his head. "I don't give a damn about Pio, only what he does to the other jewels. We lose money when Pio does this, and we'll lose a lot more if the jewels decide to work elsewhere. No one likes to be roughed up, not even jewels." He smirked and added, "Unless, of course, we're being handsomely paid to be roughed up."

The men chuckled at that, already distracted by the lovely thoughts of what they would be doing to Tula later. Celeste left them to their lustful daydreaming for the moment, his own mind preoccupied with Pio and keeping him away from dream weed for the next seven months. That was all he needed, and then he would have enough coin and leverage to buy the House of Peace from Pio. Then he would have all he wanted.

The Duke's face flickered through his mind then, startling him. Dismissing it, he turned his full attention back to the job at hand. "I will not ask again—where do I find Marco at this hour?"

Scratching his chin, the taller man replied, "This time of night, he's always in the Theatre District, usually the Primrose Teahouse."

Celeste slapped his cheek playfully, putting only a little bit of sting into it. "Good boy. You should perhaps be more diligent about seeing he does not get the dream weed. The way he slapped Tula tonight, next time she may not be able to service you. Ta, gentlemen." Slipping away, he cut quickly through the Pleasure District and soon slipped past the twin mermaid statues that marked the beginning of the Theatre District.

Actors, he thought scornfully, watching as a few of them stumbled drunkenly past him, still dolled up in cheap make-up and cheaper costumes from whatever farce they had put on. No different than jewels, really, but they loved to think they were better—as though flaunting their ability to act made them special. The best actors never gave any indication they were acting, as any proper jewel knew. Actors were just gaudy little bitches who wanted to rise to the half-world, the closest any peasant got to nobility, as if that was the smart thing. All that make-up addled their brains. Celeste loathed the Theatre District; they were unpolished jewels pretending to be something grand. All show and no substance.

Bypassing the theatre houses, he made for the throng of teahouses that stretched along the water front portions of the district. Pastel-colored paper lanterns lined the entries and walkways, along with bells and chimes, lush flowers and little ponds filled with exotic fish.

He walked up the well-lit white stone path of the Primrose Teahouse, one of the most expensive in the district—and one of the more notorious. He slipped under the overhanging roof and into shadow, then pulled the comb from his hair and unwound the braid, allowing his hair to tumble free again. It was long, heavy, difficult, and tiresome to deal with—but something about it always helped him earn those precious extra coins he had secreted away from the first day. Every detail mattered in the life of a jewel and his hair had always been an especially crucial one. His mouth was another, which was why he drew still more attention to it by way of his costly lip oils. He bothered with no other make-up, since they did more harm than good in the end, but the lip oils were infinitely worth it.

Reaching into his jacket, Celeste pulled out the small tin of lip oil that he perpetually carried, using his small finger to rub it on his lips, making them glisten and burn from the cinnamon oil in it. Ready, he entered the teahouse and strode past the hostess in her gaudy, over-patterned dress.

Teahouses were a popular thing, a peculiarity brought into the kingdom centuries ago. They were less formal than other establishments, but better than taverns and bars. He kept walking, ignoring the way other patrons stared, stopping only when he reached the large table in the middle of the room where Marco sat with a handful of his men.

It had been a very long time since he had laid eyes on Marco. They had gone their separate ways at thirteen, when Celeste had been old enough to take up legally as a jewel and Marco had gone down deeper into the criminal world. They had been good thieves together as children; a pity that Marco had blackened himself with the drug trade. "Marco."

Everyone at the table froze as a complete stranger addressed their boss so casually. Marco only laughed and sipped his wine from a delicate porcelain cup. "Well, a visit from the Crown Jewel himself. I am honored. You are more beautiful than all the rumors say."

"I need to discuss something with you," Celeste replied.

Marco lifted one brow, but said nothing. Instead, he motioned to one of his men and jerked his chin at Celeste. "Search him."

Celeste smirked and held his arms out, spreading his legs a bit. "Watch your hands," he told the leering bodyguard. "There is always a fee for touching me."

The man only laughed and, predictably, was very thorough as he searched Celeste's body for hidden weapons, tossing each of his daggers one by one to the ground. When he was done, a smug look on his face and a noticeable bulge in his breeches, he stepped back—and bellowed in outrage as Celeste backhanded him.

Dodging the angry swing he threw, Celeste tripped him, pinned him to the mat, and retrieved one of his daggers, pressing it to the man's throat. "Did you think I was lying, you weed-addled fool? No one touches me without my permission and plenty of coin. You owe me one sovereign."

The man sneered at him. "I'm not paying you a wooden pence, slut. You did nothing for me; I ain't doing nothing for you."

Celeste smirked, readjusting his grip on the dagger, then reached down with his other hand to grab the man's hard cock through his breeches. "Feels like I do plenty for you," he purred, tossing his hair and letting it fall just so around his shoulders. "Rough play isn't my thing, pet, but if you like pretty little men tossing you around and holding knives to your throat, I can recommend a few excellent jewels."

"Go to fucking—"

"Enough," Marco barked out. "Celeste!" He moved and Celeste twisted, neatly catching the flashing gold sovereign Marco tossed. Tucking it away, he then roughly released the man beneath him, standing and retrieving all his daggers. Sliding them back into place, he looked at Marco and said, "Your men lack discipline."

"Not for long," Marco said, making the offender pale—and gladly bolt when Marco indicated that he should. "So what brings the Jewel of Jewels to our humble teahouse? Must be interesting indeed, for you to come yourself."

Celeste tossed his hair and said scornfully "Jewels do their own work. A job worth doing is worth doing oneself."

Marco chuckled. "You haven't changed a bit." He tossed back the last of his wine, and then stood up. "So let's speak." He strutted off, leaving Celeste to follow.

Shooting last warning looks at the men eying him, Celeste followed Marco through the teahouse and past sliding paper doors to the rooms in the back. They smelled of tea and wine, flowers and cheap cologne and sex. He wrinkled his nose in distaste that the theatre district would so brazenly run a cheap brothel instead of directing such business to the Jewel District. Honor among thieves, indeed. Damned actors.

Marco led him down the narrow hallway and past several rooms from which all manner of sounds emanated, until they reached one at the end. Marco slid the door shut behind them, then moved to settle amongst the pillows scattered around a low, small table meant for two.

Sitting down on the opposite side, moving so that his hair slid and tumbled just so, Celeste tilted his head back and to one side. "Life is treating you well, Marco."

"I work hard to ensure it does," Marco replied, chuckling, eyes dragging slowly up and down Celeste's body. "It's treated you better."

"I worked hard to ensure it," Celeste mimicked. "A pretty form only goes so far, after all."

"Mm," Marco agreed. "So why has the Crown Jewel come to see me?"

Celeste slowly removed his jacket and tossed it casually aside. A server appeared then, knocking discreetly on the door. She slipped inside quietly and swiftly arranged a tray of wine and light food, then slipped away again. When they were alone, Celeste said, "I work for the House of Peace. It is owned and mastered by Pio. He is a wastrel and a dream addict. Right now, I own ten percent of the business; it was part of my terms for agreeing to move to the House of Peace. I want one hundred percent, but I will not get it if Pio dies or gets himself arrested before I can afford it. Seven months is all I need. I want him kept off dream smoke for those seven months."

"You want me to ensure he is not sold any. That could make him more dangerous."

Celeste gave a short, sharp shake of his head. "I can handle him, if he's off the drugs."

"For seven months," Marco repeated, as though tasting the words. He stood up abruptly and strode to the door, barking at someone down the hall. After a moment, he resumed his seat. Before Celeste could speak, someone else entered the room—a dark, handsome man with a foreign touch to his features. He spoke in a language Celeste only vaguely recognized; he knew just enough of it to know when he was being propositioned and how to explain just how much he cost.

"You still have a regrettable fondness for drama," Celeste drawled when the man had gone. "But I suppose you would fare poorly here in the Theatre District if you did not."

Marco snorted. "I find it interesting that a jewel mocks me for being dramatic."

Celeste smiled. "The art of the jewel is the art of subtlety."

"If you call your behavior tonight subtle, I would be interested to see how you behave when you are being obvious," Marco replied.

Laughing, Celeste tossed his hair again and leaned back against the pillows, putting his body on display. Marco might think he was not being subtly manipulated, but he was as foolish as anybody in that respect. Peasant, prince, duke, or drug lord—all were susceptible to the shine of a jewel. Marco believed he was only mildly interested, but he was already half-seduced. "Why should I need to be subtle with an old friend? As I said, you like drama." He licked his lips, tasting cinnamon. "So are we dealing or not, bello?"

"Maybe you should spell the deal out," Marco replied, sipping his wine, looking amused—and hungry.

"Seven months. No drugs go to Pio."

Marco sipped his wine. "He makes me two sovereigns a night. That is a healthy sum of money to lose."

Celeste laughed, even if he was alarmed to learn that Pio was wasting so much money—if he was spending that much already, he would only spend more and more, and bleed the house dry. "I am worth ten sovereigns a night. I am busy six out of seven days. You do the math."

Marco smirked in a smug little way that he had possessed since they were children. Strange, and a little funny, how people never really changed at all. "Maybe I prefer the money to fucking you."

"Maybe you do," Celeste conceded. "But I never knew of 'Lord Marco' to lose a chance to brag." Marco had always wanted power, status, and all the fine things that went with being the man in charge. But even a man as powerful and wealthy as Marco, who controlled all dream smoke trade in the city, could not afford regular appointments with someone like Celeste.

Everyone tonight would wonder why the Crown Jewel wanted a private word with Marco. Later, when Celeste had gone, Marco would ensure everyone believed that Celeste had come to him on orders, that Marco had the Crown Jewel at his beck and call. It would do things for his reputation that fear and violence could not. Marco would thrive on having Celeste in his power for seven months—not that Celeste cared; he could handle Marco for seven months, and after that he would own the House of Peace and be able to retire from actively tending clients.

Silence stretched on between them and Celeste did not break it. The next move was Marco's. He would come to Celeste or send him away, and that would be that. Finally, just when he was getting fed up with the game, Marco finished his wine and abruptly shoved the table out of the way. He reached out and snagged Celeste's wrist, pulling him close and pushing him down into the pile of pillows. "A deal, then," he rumbled. "Now show me what makes you worth ten sovereigns a night, when the best dream smoke cannot get more than two a measure."

"Gladly," Celeste murmured. He pushed away all useless thoughts and emotions, focusing solely on being a crown jewel, determined to add Marco to the list of men who would do almost anything for just one more night in his bed.

*~*~*

Lazzaro finished his wine and beckoned for a fresh pitcher, smiling faintly at the serving maid who winked at him before scampering off to fetch the wine. Lazzaro was not typically one to indulge, but the Festival of Secrets existed solely for that purpose and Benito would not hear of him remaining behind.  Given his options, it seemed best to go along with the revelry.

"La, to be unencumbered by a future husband and a future throne," Anastasia complained playfully, purple-painted mouth curving in a smile beneath the purple and silver feathers of her ornate mask. Benito lifted her hand and kissed the gloved palm, which she withdrew with mock haughtiness, tossing her dark-stained ringlets about to hit him in the face.

Benito only laughed and snagged them, dragging her around to press a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Fidelity certainly is not stopping anyone else, demon."

"Oh, really?" Anastasia challenged.

"It's stopping me," Benito corrected, grinning. "La, woman. Go dance with something pretty and leave me to my drinking."

Laughing, Anastasia blew him a kiss and obeyed, twirling off in a tumble of purple and silver. Ordinarily, the royal couple would never be permitted to gallivant about in the heart of the city so freely, especially with so much chaos around them. But during the Festival of Secrets, identities were the greatest of secrets. Not a person in the city went without a mask, and so it was safe in a way it would not otherwise be. That aside, there were numerous guards scattered discreetly about, braced for any unforeseen problem.

Lazzaro thanked the pretty serving maid as she returned with a pitcher of wine, and for a fleeting moment he considered taking up her unspoken offer. The man who had plagued his thoughts for the past month again flickered through his mind and banished any fleeting thoughts of the serving girl.

It was damned annoying to suddenly desire something that was easily within his reach, and yet completely out of it. He did not make sense even to himself; he could easily afford Celeste, so it should not be a problem. He did not want to purchase Celeste, however, and that annoyed him because there was no good reason to feel that way. One brief meeting was not sufficient to have mucked with his head as much as it had. He had gone to Celeste for one thing and Celeste had refused. Lazzaro would not ask for anything else. He drank deeply from his cup, suddenly not entirely opposed to getting drunk and ignoring his problems for the rest of the evening. Benito would be delighted with him, at least. He traced the rim of his goblet, frowning at the dark red wine within. He should indulge, in everything. One good tumble would surely banish Celeste from his thoughts.

Nodding, decided, Lazzaro looked around to see where the serving girl had gone—and felt something tighten and twist in his chest as his eyes landed on a figure across the way. It could not be; the man probably just had similar hair, for the coincidence was too much. No, it was definitely Celeste. Lazzaro had seen Celeste only once, but he would remember that hair, that form, anywhere. If he felt like being honest, he wanted to comb his fingers through that pale, beautiful hair, tangle them in it as he held fast to Celeste's hips, guided Celeste up and down on his cock—

The pleasure would be fleeting and cost him several sovereigns, and he was annoyed that it was not the number of coins that bothered him—merely that there must be coins involved at all. One brief exchange should not leave him in such a sorry state. He should ignore Celeste and go find the serving girl.

Even as he told himself that is what he should do, however, he finished his wine, murmured absently to Benito, and rose. His head swam with the warm buzz of good wine, muffling the noise of the crowd around him, attention only for the beauty on the balcony across the way. Snagging a lush, dark pink rose from a flower peddler at the edge of the crowd, he tossed her a bit and pushed on the last few steps to where Celeste leaned over a balcony railing, staring down at the crowd below. Coming up behind him, not quite pressing against his back, Lazzaro presented the rose and murmured in Celeste's ear, "Beautiful evening, jewel."

Tensing, clearly taken by surprise, Celeste took the rose and half-turned. He smiled, slow and taunting, already recovered from his shock—and something in his smirk, in his eyes, said that he was no more deceived by Lazzaro's costume than Lazzaro had been by his. "Beautiful evening, handsome stranger." He held the rose to his nose, then let his hand fall to his side. "Enjoying the festival?"

"Of course. What of you, jewel?"

Celeste licked his lips, clearly teasing, and mimicked, "Of course."

Lazzaro chuckled. "What games do you play during the Festival of Secrets? Any favorites?"

"I play only those games I am well paid to play," Celeste replied. "I am not so lofty I can flirt with pretty serving girls and drink too much wine."

Startled by the realization that Celeste had clearly marked him some time ago, Lazzaro said, "I do not believe you. Even a jewel can take time off to play during Festival."

"Perhaps," Celeste said, clearly meaning 'no.'

Lazzaro buried the disappointment he had no business feeling, but could not keep all the bite from his tone as he said, "So what does the Crown Jewel charge for a dance, if I cannot ask you to dance freely?"

Celeste must be tired, or upset, because that made the second time in as many minutes that he had let his surprise show. "A dance?" Celeste repeated softly—then abruptly tensed, eyes focused past Lazzaro's shoulder and his mouth tightening into a flat, pinched line. Lazzaro was dismayed, because Celeste was not the sort of man to upset easily or ever show that upset.

He reacted instinctively, determined to drive away whoever had distressed Celeste—and there was one sure way to ensure that they were left alone. Lazzaro pushed Celeste up against the railing, pinned him there, and bent to take his mouth. In response, Celeste bit his lip hard. Lazzaro grunted at the pain, but did not break the kiss. To his surprise, Celeste did not break it either, instead tangling his fingers in Lazzaro's elaborate jacket and kissing him back.

Lazzaro really hated to admit it, but he was beginning to truly appreciate why Celeste was able to charge several sovereigns for a single night. He sank his hands into the fine hair and held fast, groaning at the softness of it, the greater softness and warmth of Celeste's too-talented mouth. He finally tore away at the sound of someone loudly clearing his throat and stared for a moment into Celeste's eyes. They really were the warmest, softest brown he had ever seen. He had meant to say something, he thought, but could not for the life of him recall what. He could not seem to recall much of anything.

Another throat-clearing finally snapped him out of it. Slowly letting go of Celeste, but not stepping away at all, Lazzaro half-turned to address the intruder. "I was always taught it was in the poorest of taste to interrupt a man in the middle of a seduction."

Celeste pinched him then, generous with his nails, but Lazzaro gave no sign of having felt it.

"I am afraid the dark faerie is mine," the man said, indicating Celeste in his elaborate black and silver costume.

Lazzaro met his gaze coolly, every bit the haughty Duke. "You are mistaken."

Against him, Celeste muttered a soft curse and tried to push Lazzaro away, even as the stranger drew closer to them. "I will not say it again," the stranger repeated. "He is mine."

"Gods strike you both!" Celeste snapped. "I am not a festival prize." He finally pushed Lazzaro away and made to move past him—but stopped short as the stranger caught him up. "Leave me alone, Marco. I am attending you tomorrow night, not now."

"You will attend me now or—"

Lazzaro pulled Celeste back again. "Back off," he ordered Marco. In reply, Marco took a swing at him, which Lazzaro neatly ducked, before countering with the same. Marco only came at him again, this time with a glint of silver in his hand, and Lazzaro lost all patience. He had come out tonight for revelry, not violence. Catching the man's wrist, bending it until he was forced to drop the dagger, he threw the bastard over the low balcony so that he landed in the lush greenery below. Bastard attended to, he turned back to Celeste. "Are you all right?"

"I am perfectly capable of defending myself," Celeste said coldly. "If you think playing the hero you masquerade as will get you more free kisses, then you are as arrogant and foolish as he."

Stiffening as though struck, Lazzaro stared at him a moment. He reached into his purse and withdrew a single sovereign, holding it up so that Celeste could clearly see it—then let it drop to the ground at Celeste's feet. "For your lips, courtesan. I bid you a warm and pleasant night." Lazzaro strode past him, never glancing in Celeste's direction as he went back across the pavilion. He did not stop as he reached his table, but walked past it, ignoring Benito when he called out.

He walked down the wide stone steps that led up to the pavilion and across a smaller courtyard, fighting through the boisterous crowds until at last he reached a smaller, deserted street. Alone at last, he could no longer ignore his thoughts. The entire debacle would certainly teach him to…except he was not entirely certain what it had taught him. Not to flirt with a courtesan? Not to think he could ignore the boundaries of their respective stations? That Celeste would never see past the sovereigns? Lazzaro sighed and told himself whatever the lesson, it had been learned. That was the last time he spent money on a jewel.

His tolerance for revelry banished, he tried to put his mind back to the frustrating and fruitless task of finding his mother's killer—but wine and humiliation still buzzed in his head, making concentration impossible. He thought of his mother, how happy she had been the day of her death, and felt ashamed. They had never been as close as maybe they could have been, but he had loved her and she him. Many a woman in her rare position would have rid herself of a child or used him to milk all she could from his father.

The beautiful and gracious Lady Salvai, however, was no ordinary woman. She had begun life as an actress and raised herself to the level of an affluent cut flower. Then, straight out of one of the silly tales from the boards she had once tread, she had become lover and beloved of the King himself. A few years after their affair had begun, she had born him a son—a son she had hidden away in a monastery until he was thirteen, before finally calling him home to her side. He had never been happier than on the day he had received her letter ordering him home, except a week after when he finally reached home and embraced his mother for the first time in years.

She had been a lovely, vibrant woman of rare integrity—and she had been poisoned in the sanctity of her private chambers, murdered long before she should have died. Now, Lazzaro was too busy sulking over a whore to focus on finding her killer.

"Your grace!"

The shout, the fear in it, struck him just as the scuff of boots registered, and Lazzaro whipped around—barely avoiding the knife that would have landed in his back. Instead, it sliced his arm, so sharp and smooth that at first he felt no pain.

Lazzaro grabbed the arm of his assailant, punching him in the gut and throwing him off. He drew his own blades, a matching sword and main gauche that had been gifts from Benito on his birthday three years ago. The man—Marco—drew his own sword and attacked.

The duel was short and brutal; Lazzaro had fought more difficult opponents in worse circumstances, and while he was handicapped by being a little drunk, he still possessed more skill than his opponent. It took only for Marco to carelessly lower his guard for Lazzaro to knock his blade away, then lunge forward and shove his own main gauche into Marco's gut.

He watched dispassionately as Marco slumped to the ground, leaving Lazzaro covered in his blood, the rest of it spilling out over the cobblestones. Only then did it strike Lazzaro that it had been Celeste who had called out and saved his life. He looked up, away from Marco, and stared down the street to where Celeste stood silently watching. They stared at one another for a moment, then Lazzaro looked back at Marco, slowly and painfully dying on the filthy street known as Peddler's Row. Kneeling, Lazzaro slit Marco's throat. After a moment, hearing feet approach, he said, "You called him Marco."

"Marco de la Vega," Celeste replied quietly, slowly dragging his eyes from Marco to Lazzaro. "He controls the dream smoke trade."

Lazzaro sighed. "So I just murdered a drug lord. Wonderful." He cleaned his blades and sheathed them, then stood up. He started to turn away, but the clinking of metal against stone stopped him. He frowned at the bright gold sovereign laying on the cobblestones, just barely out of reach of the spreading pool of drying blood. Looking back at Celeste, he said, "I am relatively certain that refunds are one of the few things a jewel does not give."

"I should not have spoken as I did," Celeste said. "While I believe most men would help me only for a free tumble, I also know most men would not have left me three sovereigns for a mere conversation. Take back your sovereign, your grace."

The knot Lazzaro hadn't realized was in his chest eased. "I am sorry for my own words."

Celeste shrugged, sinuous and elegant even on a filthy street and standing over a dead body. "I am a whore and I don't give refunds." His gaze dropped again to Marco. "I did not think the night would end in such a terrible fashion. My experience with men does not extend to disposing of their bodies."

Lazzaro stifled a sigh. "Regretfully, that is experience I do possess. Too much of it, really."

Quirking a brow at him, Celeste replied, "Dare I ask?"

"Benito says I have a peculiar talent for drawing in life-threatening situations. He says that is what I get for having a taste for mystery solving. Such a talent requires a certain set of unique skills."

"Like disposing of bodies," Celeste drawled. "For what it is worth, after the initial panic, no one will miss him."

Lazzaro frowned, because the words did not match with the sadness that flitted briefly across Celeste's face. It should not have made him angry, seeing Celeste mourn over a drug lord, but it did. Anger, he thought in disgust. He was not angry—he was jealous. The man was dead, which made his behavior all the more contemptible. Shaking himself, he said quietly, "It seems you will."

Celeste glanced at him in momentary surprise, then shrugged and looked away. "We were children together on the streets. Later, I became a jewel and he became a better thief. We have not seen each other in years, but that old connection has been useful this past month. I have been using him, to put it plainly. Sometimes I am too good at what I do." He looked up, and for the barest moment, all of his years were in his eyes. "Whatever our present, it is hard to forget that once we were hungry children together, sleeping in whatever bit of alleyway or roof we could acquire for the night, sharing stolen bread, certain that no matter what the world did to us we would be friends forever."

"I see," Lazzaro said, not really seeing at all. He had grown up in a monastery, the only child in a place full of men who had no real concept of what to do with a child. He had not met anyone his own age until he was thirteen, and then he had met the crown prince, his half-brother. He had absolutely no concept of what life must have been for Celeste.

Shaking off thoughts of things he could do nothing about, Lazzaro pulled out the heavy gold chain around his neck, removed it, and then pulled off one of the four rings he had put there while he attended the Festival of Secrets. Handing it to Celeste, he said, "Show this to Beni; tell him to send me two men."

Celeste took the ring, Lazzaro's signet, and slid it over his own gloved finger. Then he glanced up at Lazzaro, the very image of innocence. "How will I know this 'Beni'?"

Lazzaro rolled his eyes, then leaned in close, murmuring, "I am certain you will manage, jewel. Now go."

"As you command, handsome stranger," Celeste murmured.

"Don't think you can simply vanish after either," Lazzaro added, snatching him back as it occurred to him that Celeste would do precisely that. He held fast to Celeste's wrist with one hand, using the other to grasp his chin. "You owe me an explanation."

"I will give it," Celeste said, and tugged free of his hold. He darted quickly away, before Lazzaro could say anything further.

Lazzaro watched him until he was out of sight, then sighed. How had his evening gone so awry? He had meant to spend it working, until Benito had dragged him out. Once at the festival, he had meant to spend the night drinking and bedding something pretty—then he had seen Celeste across the way and forgotten everything. Now he had a dead drug lord and no clue as to why the bastard had wanted him dead. Well, Celeste and probably the balcony had much to do with it. Surely drug lord should have been smart enough to exact revenge through other means.

Lazzaro moved and was suddenly reminded of the cut to his arm that he had been ignoring until that point. The cut was minor, though, and the blood was already drying; it could wait until he was back at the palace to tend. Kneeling again, he rifled through Marco's clothes, looking for any clue as to why a hardened drug lord would act like a jealous, besotted young idiot.

Unfortunately, his search turned up very little. Lazzaro scooped all the bits and bobs into his own purse to examine more closely later, and by the time he had finished, the royal guards had arrived to help him.

*~*~*

Celeste toyed with the heavy signet that Lazzaro had given him, and which until then had remained on his finger to minimize the risk of losing it. He had almost put it in Lazzaro's jewel case, upon his arrival in Lazzaro's private chambers, but at the last had kept it. Why, he did not know or particularly care to contemplate at present. But he rather thought he would keep it until Lazzaro mentioned it.

It was a handsome ring—white gold, with Lazzaro's name inscribed on the inside in the old language. The signet itself must be Lazzaro's personal crest, because the Nascimbeni crest was of a griffon clutching a sword and crown. The King himself had commissioned the crest when he had made Lazzaro the first Duke of Nascimbeni. However, the crest on the signet was of a building of some sort … a castle? No, Celeste abruptly realized in a flash, rolling his eyes at how long it had taken him to mark the obvious. A monastery, of course; what else would someone like Lazzaro choose for his personal insignia?

Sighing, still idly turning the ring around and around on his too-small finger, Celeste shifted on the window seat and stared down at the lush, moonlit gardens below, the dark, glistening sea beyond. More than once as a boy, he had wanted to hop a shop and sail far away, see what the rest of the world looked like, how they lived.

But professional whores did not board boats save to whore themselves to sailors, or take up the same profession on a different shore. Customers had offered him many things in the past—a house of his own, in a respectable quarter, trips on private ships to extravagant locations, other luxuries and opportunities. He would be lying if he said he was not tempted. But it was not true independence, being someone's private toy—merely an illusion of it. The life of a private jewel was, in some respects, more dangerous than being a public jewel. He would never put control of his fate into the hands of another, least of all a man who kept him around solely for the pleasure of having him available to fuck at a moment's notice. There was no stability in that.

Lazzaro flitted through his mind, and Celeste rather hated himself for letting his thoughts wander down that path—that very tempting, but so very treacherous, very impossible path. He had not expected Lazzaro to ask him to dance. No one did that. They danced with their spouses, their intended, their family. They met him in a secluded garden or bedroom, used him, then went back to the people with whom they wanted to be seen. A rose and a request to dance … if he were anything but a jewel, it would count as flirting. Even if it was, to what would it come? The Duke of Nascimbeni, as powerful as he was, could not publically take a jewel as his lover—and Lazzaro did not seem the type of man inclined to hide his lover.

Celeste tried to think about something else—like the fact that Marco was dead. Marco, who he had thought he could handle. But he had gotten arrogant, overconfident, and missed all the little signs that should have warned him of Marco's dangerous possessiveness. All jewels learned to watch for certain signs; there was nothing worse than a client who thought the entire transaction had any sort of reality to it.

Now Marco was dead, and it was his fault, and he could not even be that sorry. He was sorry for the boy Marco had been, but nothing more. He really wished he could erase the entire night, from fleeing the pleasure district in hopes of a peaceful night to being unreasonably annoyed when he saw Lazzaro flirting with the serving girl…to that moment when Lazzaro had flirted with him and asked him to dance. Never mind that kiss; that damned kiss. Celeste had never let a kiss be anything but a business transaction. He always controlled intimacy of any sort, because surrendering that control was dangerous and stupid. Try as he might, though, he could not remember anything except how Lazzaro had smelled—orange and sandalwood and musk, how he'd felt—warm and solid and firm. And his mouth, gods in heaven and hell, what he would give to forget Lazzaro's mouth.

Celeste rubbed at his temples, willing the images and memories away. He was the Crown Jewel, too experienced in such matters to do something as stupid and pathetic as become even the tiniest bit infatuated with the Duke of Nascimbeni. The idea was laughable; he was too jaded to become infatuated with anyone. He definitely had too keen a sense of self-preservation to do anything that foolish. That amateur.

Celeste scowled down at the sea. He needed to return home—the longer he stayed away from the House of Peace, the greater his problems would become. Yet still he did not move from the window seat in Lazzaro's private chambers, because he had said he would give Lazzaro an explanation. He owed Lazzaro an explanation—he just wished Lazzaro would deign to appear.

Despite himself, Celeste started to doze off, curled up with a throw stolen from the back of a couch to ward off the chill of the window itself. He jerked awake at the sound of a door opening, nearly toppling from his perch. The smell of food struck him hard, making his stomach growl abruptly. He looked up, across the room, and absolutely hated the way his whole body tensed up at the sight of Lazzaro.

He looked tired, ragged—and completely surprised to see Celeste. "What are you doing here?"

Refusing to let that sting, Celeste tossed his hair, then lowered his feet to the floor and gracefully stood, tugging his robes back into place in the same movement. "I was told not to vanish. Here I am, your grace, unvanished."

"In my bedroom," Lazzaro said dryly, but humor warmed his eyes, beating back some of the exhaustion. "Do I want to know how you got into the secret palace?"

"Probably not," Celeste murmured, trying not to stare at the tray of food Lazzaro balanced in one hand. Instead, he noted that Lazzaro's arm had been bandaged; he was relieved it did not seem to be a serious wound, despite the amount of blood that had poured out. "Is all well, your grace?"

Lazzaro yawned. "Only time will tell, but I think so. His body was given over to the proper authorities. He attacked me, I defended myself. When asked why he attacked, I said it was over a disagreement at a party. I saw it as petty, he viewed the matter quite more severely."

Celeste grimaced. During the Festival of Secrets—any festival for that matter—such squabbles were far too commonplace. Marco would not be the only one to die for such a trivial reason before the festival ended.

"I will go to court next week, but…" Lazzaro trailed off. He did not need to finish the statement, really. If he received any form of punishment at all, it would be a slap on the wrist. Lazzaro was not the sort of man to abuse his position, but he was a Duke, the King's bastard son, and brother and best friend to the crown prince. No one would punish him for such a crime, even if he deserved it—even if he demanded it. "Would you like some food?" Lazzaro asked. "There is plenty here, although only one goblet. If I had known you were here, I would have brought up more."

"You told me not to run off," Celeste pointed out. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

Lazzaro laughed. "True enough. So would you like some food?"

Celeste opened his mouth to refuse, simply because it was policy to refuse anything offered freely, but instead the words, "Yes, please," spilled out.

"And here I thought I would have to bully you into eating something," Lazzaro said, mouth curving in a half-smile.

Saying nothing, Celeste moved to the little table on the far side of the room. Lazzaro motioned to the one chair beside it. "Sit." He strode to the wall where a trunk sat and dragged it over to the table, then sat down. He poured wine from the pitcher to the goblet and popped a dark green olive in his mouth. "So tell me why all this happened."

Celeste ate a bite of bread and cheese, before finally replying, "Marco and I had an arrangement. The man who owns the House of Peace is severely addicted to dream smoke, and it is putting the House in danger, never mind my fellow jewels. I made a deal with Marco: he made certain his people stopped selling Pio dream weed and I made it worth his while." He just wished he had realized that Marco was one of the obsessive types. He should have marked it and he hadn't, and confound it if he knew how he had missed it. Not that it mattered anymore, but he was never that careless.

On the other hand, he was never careless enough just to let a man push him up against a balcony railing and kiss him senseless, either. The worst part of it all was that Lazzaro really had kissed him senseless. It was not a sensation Celeste wanted to experience again. A man jewel who lost control of his senses wound up dead or back on the streets.

"So may I safely assume that Marco desired more than the bounds of the arrangement granted?"

Celeste hid a grimace by stealing the wine and taking a long swallow. "You may. Some men forget it is fantasy and cannot let it go. I should have realized Marco was one of them. I was becoming his dream smoke, which put all my other clients in danger. He never took well to rivals, be they real or perceived."

Lazzaro made a derisive noise. "As though I was a rival."

It should not sting, but it did. But it shouldn't and Celeste was furious with himself. Was he not a crown jewel? Lazzaro might want him, but he had proven he could easily walk away anyway. He had only kissed Celeste to drive off Marco, not because he simply could not help himself. Of course Lazzaro would be derisive of the idea of being a rival for Celeste's attention.

And that, he told himself sharply, was why a good jewel never let even a kiss affect his senses. He pushed his food away, no longer hungry. "In the interests of being fair, you were flirting with me and you did kiss me. I think he was permitted to mistakenly believe you wanted to challenge him for my affections."

"I stand a better chance of gaining the moon's affections," Lazzaro replied. "I did not think jewels dealt in affection."

"No jewel can afford to," Celeste said. "Affection is far too costly." He started to say more, something caustic, but the emotion that flashed through Lazzaro's eyes made him forget. What was that? What about his words had caused such a strong reaction?

"What is the price of affection?" Lazzaro asked softly.

Celeste tossed his hair, lifted his chin, and replied, "Affection always means fidelity, your grace. To indulge in affection I would have to give up my livelihood. No man's fickle, fleeting lust is worth putting myself back on the street, which is exactly where stupid jewels wind up after indulging in affection."

Lazzaro said nothing, only ate a bit of soft cheese and a chunk of bread dipped in oil. He wasn't wearing gloves, Celeste noted belatedly. The two other occasions they had met, Lazzaro had been wearing gloves. It seemed oddly intimate, which was utterly ridiculous. His hands were not the hands of a noble—the knuckles were pronounced, marked with scars and nicks, even one that looked like a burn. They were brown from the sun, and he bet the palms were callused. Rough hands, worker hands. Not a Duke's hands.

He would not wonder how differently they would feel, as opposed to all the soft, pudgy, wealthy hands that touched him nearly every day. He did not want to know, did not want to find out—

—because he would only find out if Lazzaro became a client, and suddenly the thought of that turned his stomach. Why, though? Even earlier that same day, it would not have bothered him. Please, he thought miserably, please don't let him have been undone by a single, stupid request to dance.

Celeste expected Lazzaro to continue the discussion, and did not know how he felt when Lazzaro only said, "So what are you going to do about Pio, now that Marco is dead?"

"Manage," Celeste said, and bit into an olive. He only had six months left; he would figure something out. All he needed was money and time would give him that. Perhaps he would just surrender his free day and take on another client, as tired as the thought made him.

He tensed as a hand covered his and looked up sharply, frowning at Lazzaro. "What?"

"Is there any way I can help? I did kill Marco, after all—and that after provoking him."

"Does it bother you?" Celeste blurted, annoyed with himself but unable to take the question back. "That you killed him, as easy as that?"

Lazzaro frowned. "Why would you think it doesn't bother me?"

"I don't know how to deal with a dead body," Celeste replied, "but it is hardly the first time I have seen one. The first house I worked in, I saw three jewels killed over a period of a couple of years. One by a client, another by the owner, another by an angry drug dealer. None of those three lost any sleep over the lives they took. You do not seem as though you will."

"I won't," Lazzaro replied, meeting his gaze, eyes intent. "He tried to kill me—tried to stab me in the back. After he tried to threaten me and was clearly harassing you. I take no pleasure in killing, but I will not be sorry for defending me and mine." He fell silent, polishing off the wine and last bit of cheese. Then he added quietly, "The first time I killed someone, I threw up and did not sleep a full night through for more than a week. I kept seeing his face and there was so much blood."

Celeste looked away. He should not have asked. He was not even certain why he cared…but that was not true. He wanted—needed—a reason to hate Lazzaro. Anything. If he continued to like the bastard, to be drawn to him… well, that was the path of fools, and look how well that had ended for Marco and any number of others in the Entertainment Quarter. "I should be going," he said, and rose.

"Stay," Lazzaro said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. It was stupid to be shocked by his touch; Celeste was used to being touched. Except, perhaps not, because he could feel those rough fingers in a way he was not accustomed.

"Let me go," he ordered. "The night is gone and I will be missed—have been missed. I need to return. Everyone knows I took Marco as my newest client. By now they will know he is dead and that I am missing."

"Say you were with a client all night, one who paid an obscene amount of money to have you for the length of the Festival of Secrets. Would they believe that?"

Celeste grimaced, because they would. "The festival does not end until tomorrow night. What in the world am I supposed to do until then?"

"Stay here or I can take you to my home," Lazzaro replied. "Attend the festivities with me tomorrow. It will make your story true enough."

"You are really quite mad," Celeste replied. "I am not hiding myself away like some coward. I have a house to take of and I cannot do that while masquerading as your pleasure of the moment." He stood up—then sat down again as the room swayed and irritably wondered just how much of a fool he had become, that he would drink wine while exhausted.

Lazzaro sighed softly. "At the very least, stay long enough to get some rest and have your clothes cleaned. I do not think anyone will believe a word you say if they note the bloodstains on your hem and sleeves."

Making a face, because it was a point he could not argue, Celeste said, "Fine." Feeling reckless and angry and in need of wiping that triumphant look off Lazzaro's face, he undid the laces of his costume, dropping the various bits and pieces to the floor. He shucked the tunic and underclothes, leaving them in a tidy pile. Naked, he unwound his hair and combed his fingers through it. "Thank you for the hospitality, your grace."

Turning, he strode off across the sitting room and into the bedroom beyond. It took only a glance to see that Lazzaro favored sleeping on the left side of the enormous bed. Celeste walked around it and climbed up the raised dais on which it was situated, then slid beneath the blankets on the right side.

Despite himself, he sank right into the wonderful softness of the high quality mattress, the smoothness of good linen, and the sinful warmth of the heavy blankets. He had a decent bed, but it could not even begin to compare to this. What a treat it must be, to sleep in such a bed every night.

He hated himself for that thought, because it immediately led to the image of him in this bed very night, Lazzaro sliding in next to him—swearing, Celeste cut the frivolous images off. No doubt Lazzaro would reach for him and that would be that, and the bastard had better leave him nine sovereigns in the morning.

A short time later, just as Celeste was drifting off to sleep again, Lazzaro did slide into the bed. Celeste tensed, waited, braced himself as Lazzaro shifted—then settled, going still beside him, doing nothing but murmuring a soft good night. Celeste stayed frozen in place as Lazzaro fell asleep, until soft snores filled the room.

Twice Lazzaro had resisted, refused, when Celeste had clearly been available for the taking. The only kiss he had stolen had been with the intention of driving off Marco. Celeste was not used to feeling inadequate—he did not like it.

Sliding carefully from the bed, he went to fetch his clothes and go back to where he belonged, where everything made sense and he was in control.

*~*~*

Lazzaro finished signing the last of the various bills, permissions, rejections, and letters that Santino had put in front of him with a look and pointed clearing of his throat. He would throttle or at least reprimand Santino for being uppity, but Santino was the reason Lazzaro's household ran…although Lazzaro was still trying to determine how he had acquired a household (he suspected Benito).

Normally, paperwork did not trouble him. Lazzaro was more than happy to contend with the countless amounts of paper shuffling that came with being a Duke, since it was far more interesting a life than that of the scholar he had thought he would be.

All the stories went that a peasant turned Duke should be humbled, awed, falling over grateful, and lead as quiet and ordinary a life as he was able. To the hells with that. He was no directionless rake, but he liked being a Duke and had no qualms about settling into the life of a noble that he never should have had. The freedom being a Duke gave him was something he would have found nowhere else.

Presently, however, all Lazzaro really wanted to do was smash everything in sight and burn it all down. He wanted violence. Blood. He wanted the beautiful bastard who had slunk from his bed three weeks ago and refused to see him ever since. He wanted Celeste so he could wrap his fingers around that lovely throat and squeeze.

Snatching up his letter opener, he began to slice open the pile of correspondence that had also appeared on his desk with pointed throat-clearing and mildly threatening looks. Leave it to Santino to use his employer's foul mood to get some work done. Lazzaro glanced at the various envelopes with absolutely no interest, not needing to pull out the cards and letters within to know that most were invitations to various supper parties, teas, balls, musicals, and other such social engagements. Picking through the mess for names he cared about, he set them aside to pen personal responses. The rest, he began to go through and mark for either acceptance or rejection. When he finally finished, he dumped the lot back on the tray from whence they had come and put it on the corner of his desk for Santino to take away at some point. He scowled at his desk, both relieved and annoyed that he appeared to be out of work.

No doubt Santino would fix that posthaste. Lazzaro picked up the bell at his elbow to summon Santino, but right as he rang it the door flew open to admit a brightly dressed and smirking Benito, exasperated Santino two steps behind him. "I tried to keep him out, your grace, but he is—"

"A spoiled brat," Lazzaro interjected. "It's all right, Santino. Why not bring us all some wine?"

As Santino left to fetch the wine, Benito sat down in one of the chairs in front of Lazzaro's desk and stripped off his gloves. "Here I was told there would be a fire-breathing, ill-tempered, mannerless beast dwelling within this cave. You are clearly possessed of manners, so I do not see what all the fuss was about."

"The sooner you drink and say what you have come to say, the sooner I am rid of you," Lazzaro replied.

Benito only laughed. "My, your mood has gone from foul to truly vile. Methinks your ills canonly be cured by a strong dose of Crown J—"

"Do. Not. Say it," Lazzaro cut in sharply. "I will murder you myself, Benito." He swiped viciously at a book on his desk, but then set it down again before he pitched it across the room.

Three weeks! He should have been over it, moving on to other matters. It was not as though there was so much between him and Celeste that he had the right to be angry. To be anything at all. But he had killed a man because of Celeste. They had shared food in his private quarters in the secret palace. They had talked, and not just idle conversation. He had offered his bed and not once succumbed to the desire—the need—to pull Celeste atop him and act out every wicked thought in his head … only to wake to find him long gone and no note—nothing. The bastard still had his signet ring, too, the one that had been a gift from his father. Every time he had gone to see Celeste, he had been refused admittance. It was enough to make a man contemplate murder.

Benito interrupted his thoughts, levity gone as he asked quietly, "Are you truly that enamored of him, Lazo?"

"Enamored?" Lazzaro echoed, then shook his head. "Besotted? Maybe. Aggravated? Definitely. Enamored? Certainly not." How could he possibly be enamored of a man he had only met twice? A professional whore who lied as often as he breathed and entered no commitment that did not come with monetary compensation—who tangled him up in jealously and death, and could not even say goodbye.

"What did the monks do to you, when you got into a snit like this?" Benito asked.

Lazzaro grimaced at the memory. "They carted me up the mountain to a waterfall and stuck me under it until the sun went down, when I no longer had the energy to be upset about anything."

Benito laughed. "Truly? Monks! Well played, indeed. Regretfully there is a lack of waterfalls around our beautiful city. Oh, but I am a liar. There is the one at the Palazzo di Santa Maria."

"If you try to stick me in that sewage, Benito, I will ensure you cannot have children."

"Violence will accomplish nothing," Benito replied loftily. "But if you ask me nicely, I will tell you what I have learned about your mysterious Pio for you."

Lazzaro's gaze snapped to him, attention completely captured. "You have been looking into it?"

"Of course," Benito replied, smile gentle. "I do not like to see my brother so unhappy, and you are out of sorts indeed if you did not look into Pio yourself."

"I appreciate it," Lazzaro said. "I am sorry to have been so difficult."

Benito flapped a hand, waving the words away. "Think nothing of it. His name is Pio di Caprio, a Jeweler of impressive and horrifying reputation. He owns the House of Peace and used to be a silent partner in others before his vices saw him forced to sell his shares. He has been struggling financially because like many men he cannot afford his addictions to dream smoke, alcohol, gambling, and staying young and vigorous forever. Your beauty came along and helped restore the reputation of the House of Peace, in exchange for a small cut of the profits, one night off a week, and the right to buy back his contract—with interest—over a set period of time. I believe that time comes to an end in six months. There is apparently a lot of speculation as to whether he will become a Jeweler in his own right. Some say he will buy out Pio, others say he will open his own house."

"An army could not have pried that sort of information out of Celeste or anyone he trusted with it. How the hells did you get it?"

Smirking, Benito replied, "I am the crown prince and have more wealth than I probably should. Also, I am engaged to a demon. You, my dearest friend, owe me a very large, dare I say obscenely large, debt."

Lazzaro sighed, loud and long, fighting the smile that twitched at his lips. He nodded to Santino as he appeared with a tray of wine and food, then said to Benito, "I do not suppose you would let me repay that debt in the same gold you spent?"

Benito just laughed, accepting the glass of wine Santino handed with a nod of thanks, before replying, "Of course not; do not be ridiculous."

Accepting his own glass of wine, Lazzaro set it absently aside and asked, "Do I want to know how you intend to make me repay the debt?"

"No," Benito replied cheerfully.

Lazzaro heaved another sigh. "Let's have it, then."

"I want you to be my voice while I am on my wedding voyage."

"No," Lazzaro replied immediately. "Our father—"

"Already gave his blessing. Papa adores you. He hates he cannot make you more than a Duke, you know that."

"The answer is still no," Lazzaro said, refusing to be distracted by comments about their father. "Santino, tell him he is out of his mind."

Santino grinned, pausing with his wine glass at his lips. "I think you will make an excellent stand in crown prince, your grace."

Lazzaro gave him a withering look, ignoring the way Santino snickered before drinking his wine. "It is not proper—"

"Oh, do be quiet," Benito said, lifting his own wine glass in a mocking toast. "You have been overruled by your brother, father, and secretary. Concede a graceful defeat."

"I concede only that you and our father are great—" He broke off as Santino cried out, books and the tray of food crashing to the floor as he toppled onto the desk. Then he fell to the floor, holding his stomach, and tossing up the contents of his lunch all across the carpet. "Santino!" Lazzaro cried out, launching from his desk and bolting across the room.

Benito, having beaten him there, shoved Santino at Lazzaro, then stood and ran to the door. He bellowed for servants and a healer to be fetched at once. Then he whirled back around and rejoined them on the floor. "Poison."

Lazzaro did not reply, too busy examining Santino, desperate for a way—any way—to keep him alive. "Watch him!" He stood up and ran through the house to his kitchens, searching for the cook. "Rosa!"

"Your grace!"

"Santino has been poisoned," Lazzaro cut in. "The wine, where did you get the wine?"

A look of horror overtook her face, and she started crying. "Came this morning, your grace, same as ever. But—but—but—"

"But what?" Lazzaro asked with a patience he did not feel.

"It was not Tomas who delivered it. The man who did said Tomas was sick."

Lazzaro swore softly. "What did he look like?

Rosa wiped her face with her apron. "Tall. Handsome. Dark skin, dark hair. Clean. He took the money you gave me to give the wine shop. Signed the receipt and everything!" She went over to her little desk and fluttered over the papers there for a moment, then finally handed him the receipt that Santino had written out just that morning.

Lazzaro's blood ran cold as he stared at it—then shot straight back to boiling. At the bottom of the receipt, in a short, brisk hand, was the name Marco.

He would know that handwriting anywhere. It had been his first clue that something more was afoot with the murder of his mother and three other nobles. Each one had received on the day of their death a delivery of some sort—wine, brandy, medicine, candy. Each had a receipt written in that very same hand. Lazzaro had visited each shop, only to be told that something had happened to their delivery persons—two were mugged, one was killed, another drugged. It had seemed to him that the killer played some sort of game by delivering the poisons in such fashion.

Lazzaro balled the receipt into his fist—then forced himself to smooth it out, fold it up, and tuck it away in his jacket. Leaving the kitchen, he headed for the front hall and snatched up his coat, hat, and gloves, then bolted from the house and through the city. Unable to simply walk, he ran, dodging most people, but shoving others out of his way. He reached the Entertainment Quarter and made straight for the Jewel District. Once there, he increased his pace still more, until at last he reached the House of Peace.

When Lazzaro finally reached it, he was sweaty, exhausted, panting for breath, red-faced, and burning hot. The guard's eyes widened upon seeing him, hand going to his sword. He drew it as Lazzaro got closer—and fell like a stone as Lazzaro punched him in the gut, then across the jaw. Shoving the unconscious guard aside, Lazzaro strode into the House of Peace.

There were half a dozen jewels loitering in the front room and they all fell silent when they saw him. "Where is Celeste?"

"Upstairs," said a woman with skin like cream and bright green eyes. Although she did not elaborate on what he was doing upstairs, her insinuation was clear. "You are not allowed on the premises."

"The guard!" Someone out in the hall bellowed, then a young man spilled into the parlor. "Someone—you—" He snarled as he saw Lazzaro and realized he must have taken out the guard. He drew a dagger and lunged.

Lazzaro grabbed him, twisted his wrist to make him drop the knife, and shoved him up against the wall before drawing his own main gauche. Raising his voice so they could all hear him, he said, "If Celeste is not brought to me in two minutes, I will arrest everyone in the House of Peace for conspiring and attempting to assassinate the Duke of Nascimbeni, acknowledged bastard son of the King. I want Celeste and I want him now."

"I'll get him," the green-eyed woman said, glaring as she stalked past him. A heavy silence fell in her wake, hostility thick enough he could all but taste it.

Santino was probably dead by now, and if Benito had taken a sip…it made Lazzaro cold with fear all over again. They could be as angry with him as they liked; he wanted answers and he would have them.

Lazzaro turned toward the door at the sound of footsteps—and hated the ache that sprung up in his chest at the sight of Celeste. It was not fair that he was even more beautiful than Lazzaro's vivid memories. It was not fair that despite everything, he felt better just seeing Celeste.

Oddly, his hair was braided, falling over one shoulder in a long tail and tied off with a plain black ribbon. He wore only black breeches, a simple linen shirt, black stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. Reading spectacles dangled from a silver chain around his neck. He looked ordinary, like a clerk doing paperwork. He also looked as though he would rather be entertaining his worst client rather than spend five seconds in Lazzaro's presence. "Come with me," he ordered tersely. "Stop upsetting everyone." He did not give Lazzaro a chance to reply, but turned sharply on his heel and strode off.

Lazzaro threw aside the man he had pinned to the wall and followed him, but he was halted by the green-eyed woman. "Do not hurt him," she said. "We will make you regret it if you do, noble."

He looked at her coldly. "One of my men is dead because of something I did for Celeste. If I do not get satisfactory answers, I will teach you regret."

She stepped back and he walked on, following Celeste up the stairs and into the room Lazzaro had seen the one other time he had been here. This time, however, it was obvious Celeste had not been expecting guests anytime soon. The table which before had held a vase of expensive flowers was now buried in paperwork and a tray of food and drink. "You do bookkeeping?" Lazzaro asked.

Celeste only folded his arms across his chest. "You threatened my people to ask me if I do bookkeeping in addition to whoring?"

"Do not be flippant," Lazzaro said, very slowly resting his hands on the table so he wouldn't succumb to a fit of temper and throw things.

"You are the one who asked about bookkeeping."

To the hells with not losing his temper, Lazzaro thought, slamming his hands down on the table. "My man is dead! Santino has been with me for ten fucking years, and he is dead of a poisoning that was meant for me and nearly killed Benito as well! The bastard signed his name as Marco when he delivered the poisoned wine; I have reason to believe it is the very man who murdered my mother. Do not be flippant with me, Celeste, you have no right! Not when you are part of this, not when you fled like a fucking coward!"

Silence fell between them, broken only by Lazzaro's heavy breathing. Still shaking with anger and fear and grief, Lazzaro finally said, "You will give me answers, Celeste, or by the gods I will take them from you."

"I'm sorry," Celeste said quietly, anger falling away. He looked away, then slowly back. "I do not know who was responsible or why, but I will do everything I can to help you find out. You are correct: I am culpable. I didn't—I'm sorry my problems became yours and that your friend suffered for it. If I had known you were in danger, I would have told you, your grace, I swear it."

Lazzaro's temper died as quickly as that, finished by the sincerity of the words and the way Celeste suddenly looked tired and twice his age. With the heat of anger gone, the grief over Santino struck him hard, finally given center stage. Santino was dead; he should not be. Lazzaro should be dead, and here he was in the House of Peace throwing temper tantrums and battling with the mixed emotions only Celeste seemed able to stir.

He jumped, startled, as hands covered his, realizing only then that he had never actually managed to put his gloves on. "You need to calm down, your grace."

Lazzaro withdrew his hands before he did something stupid, like try to pull Celeste close and hold him. "I need to find Santino's killer."

"You are in no shape for hunting," Celeste said sharply. "Not when you have so little control of yourself. Sit, rest, grieve—think. The man I know would not normally threaten innocent people to accomplish his goals."

"The man you know?" Lazzaro repeated. "What in the hells would you know about me, when you were too much of a coward to stay the night—or even say goodbye?"

"I could not afford to stay," Celeste retorted sharply, stepping back away from him.

Whatever he had expected Celeste to say, it was not that. "How do you know? You ran away before you ever knew the price."

Celeste laughed bitterly. "I am not discussing this. I am not going to indulge your temper because I did not stay in the bed of a man who has no use for me. There are plenty of men who do—"

Lazzaro cut him off by yanking him close and kissing him hard enough to bruise those pretty lips, pouring all of his frustration and misery and longing into it. He sank his hands into Celeste's hair, uncaring of the braid he was no doubt ruining, holding Celeste's head firmly in place. When he finally ended the kiss, he drew back only just enough to murmur, "I have a thousand ways and more to use you, beauty. But I am not interested in a whore. I wanted a lover, and you were the one who chose to run away."

"And when you get tired of me?" Celeste demanded, the words weary. "What am I supposed to do then? I am a whore and I have no intention of being a cut flower."

"Stop creating problems," Lazzaro said. He reluctantly let go of Celeste and stepped back, and as suddenly as that everything he had managed to stop thinking about came rushing back. "Santino is dead. I have a killer—"

He froze with shock as Celeste kissed him—just stepped in close again, pushed up on his toes, twined himself around Lazzaro and kissed him so deeply and thoroughly that Lazzaro felt like he was…he did not even know. Melting? Burning? Helpless, definitely. He groaned and sank into it, sliding his hands along the beautiful body he had ached to touch and claim from the first moment he had seen Celeste. Having Celeste pressed up against him, kissing him by choice—this was nothing like stealing a kiss at the Festival of Secrets.

Lazzaro broke the kiss after a moment, content for a moment just to admire. "I rather like you this way, all bookkeeping and—"

"Shut up," Celeste interrupted. "No more talking." He pulled away, dragging his shirt up over his head and casting it aside. Lazzaro wanted to ask if this was for real, what had brought it on, but he sensed Celeste had meant it when he said no more talking and he did not want to ruin whatever was happening. Lazzaro wanted to trust that this meant something—to both of them.

Reaching out, Lazzaro dragged Celeste close again, moaning as his hands smoothed over the beautiful, warm, smooth skin now bared to him. "You feel like the finest of sins."

Celeste gave a throaty chuckle. "I am the finest of sins, your grace."

Lazzaro smiled against his skin. "Then I will indulge." So saying, he dragged Celeste to the enormous bed, stripped off the rest of their clothes, and gave in to every want he had resisted since his first teasing taste of cinnamon-flavored lips.

*~*~*

Celeste knew he was a fool for giving in, but no matter how many times he reminded himself of that fact, it could not seem to overcome the feel of Lazzaro's fingers biting into his hips, the feel of his well-muscled chest beneath Celeste's fingers, the stretch and burn as he rode Lazzaro's cock.

A lifelong career in fucking people was not a terrible life by any means, but much of it had become rote over the years, a repetitive set of actions reorganized and tweaked per the wants and needs of each of his clients. Nothing about Lazzaro felt rote; in fact, it was hard to do anything but feel. His normally cool and collected mind was too overheated to collect any thoughts at all.

He began to move faster, pulling up and driving back down, Lazzaro thrusting up in time with his movements, matching them so seamlessly they might have done this a thousand times or more. Lazzaro opened his mouth to speak—then closed it again, clearly recalling Celeste's edict. Celeste made a soft noise of approval, grinding down on Lazzaro's cock and clenching tightly around it, loving the look on Lazzaro's face.

Yes, this was what he was good at—making men forget everything else, making them feel and think about only him for as long as they were in his bed. He kept moving up and down, sweat stinging his eyes and making the loose strands of his hair stick to his skin. It was not long before he forced Lazzaro to and over the edge, and he thrilled at the way Lazzaro's shout filled the room—and cried out in surprise himself as Lazzaro wrapped a hand around his cock and forced Celeste to tumble over the edge with him.

He was still trembling with release when Lazzaro slipped from his body and tugged him down so they were pressed together, before giving him another of those long, thorough kisses that terrified Celeste because he was not at all accustomed to being the one enthralled. He didn't want to be enthralled; but he was not certain he had a choice in the matter. Why else would he take a man into his bed without coin upon his bureau? Not once in his career had he ever been that weak, that foolish.

Celeste did not fight it as Lazzaro settled them more comfortably in the bed, curled close together. He tried not to think about how much nicer it would be to do it all again in Lazzaro's bed. Such thoughts were dangerous.

Drawing himself from things with which he did not want to deal, Celeste finally looked at Lazzaro—and was completely unsurprised to find he had fallen asleep. The temptation to doze himself was strong, but if he fell asleep with Lazzaro like this, it felt like there would be no going back, and he did not know that he could just go forward blindly. All that aside, he had a murderer to find.

Who would try to kill Lazzaro over Marco's death, but leave Celeste alone, especially when Lazzaro had taken care to leave his name out of it. Celeste had waited for someone to come after him an, but Lazzaro had apparently done his job well. None but Lazzaro had troubled him in the past three weeks, and for entirely different reasons. Celeste had dreaded it every time Lazzaro had shown up—but when Lazzaro had finally stopped coming, the relief he had expected to feel had not appeared and Celeste had not looked too closely at what he felt instead.

Slowly Celeste sat up in bed, pushing away the strands of hair that had come loose from his braid. Lazzaro grunted in his sleep, but did not stir. Celeste reached out, and then caught himself, hand frozen midair. He started to draw it back, fingers curling inward, but then Lazzaro snuffled and moved closer, hair falling even further into his eyes, his breathes warm against Lazzaro's skin.

It wasn't fair, Celeste thought miserably. He was the Crown Jewel, beyond the control of any man; he knew how to play the game of lust better than anyone. He should not be undone by a request to dance—by a simple declaration of being wanted as a mere bookkeeper…by the way Lazzaro fell asleep so easily beside him. Uncurling his fingers, he gave into the urge to comb back the thick curls half-obscuring Lazzaro's face. He should not be drawn—gods knew he did not want to be. He had been happy with his life before the Duke of Nascimbeni had walked into it…but he had been miserable after he had forced Lazzaro back out of it. He did not want it, but now he did not know how he would do without it.

Sighing, Celeste finally pulled away, then climbed out of bed and headed over to the washstand. A few minutes with soap and water cleaned him of recent events, even if he could still feel every place Lazzaro had touched. Undoing his hair, he combed it out and braided it anew, then coiled it up at the back of his head. He went to his wardrobe and pulled on fresh clothes, sturdy stuff for a long day of extracting answers.

Ready, he hesitated over Lazzaro, before finally settling on leaving a note. He wrote it quickly and pinned it to his pillow, then crept from the room and down the stairs.

"Are you all right, Celeste?" Tula asked, coming out of the front parlor. She frowned at him, green eyes troubled. "Something's wrong."

He shook his head. "I'm only a little scattered. I have to go out and I am not sure when I will be back. Take food and drink upstairs in an hour or so. I promise he will be no further trouble."

Tula pursed her lips, but nodded. "Fine," she said, "but one more threat like that and I'll wallop him."

"Yes, wallop a Duke," Celeste dryly. "Tell me how that goes for you."

"What!" Tula exclaimed, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. She glared at him and hissed, "I didn't realize he was the Duke he was accusing us of trying to off. Is he really? That Duke?"

"Take care of him," Celeste said, and then turned away hastily, not liking the sudden knowing look that crossed her face. "I will probably not be back before tomorrow morning." He left, not giving her a chance to reply, as his mind raced with thoughts of what he needed to do, who he needed to see.

He went first to the palace, but it took only a few minutes of listening in the right places to realize that the murder had not happened there. Slipping away, he tried to remember where Lazzaro's house was located. He ran his tongue over his lips at the thought, but it was not a detail he had ever thought he would need to know. The Duke of Nascimbeni was not the sort of man he had ever imagined—

Nascimbeni, of course. The old Wine Quarter, now purely residential. Lazzaro had a manor house there, right up against a small, private inlet. It had once been a wine warehouse, the private inlet letting in the boats that brought wine from vineyards up and down the coast.

Moving quickly through the streets, Celeste made his way to the Lazzaro's home. When he reached it, a rather heavily-muscled servant was manning the door. "His grace is not receiving guests."

"Obviously not, when he is in my bed on the far side of the city," Celeste replied, and displayed the signet ring with which he had foolishly refused to part. "I am here in regards to your recent troubles."

"Shove off," the man said. "No fancy ring gets by me, poppet. You'll have to do better."

Celeste smiled, smooth and cool. "Very well. Tell his Highness that Celeste has arrived."

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased that Celeste knew of Benito's presence. "Wait here," he ordered, and then vanished inside. He reappeared only a couple of minutes later and said, "Come on, then." Turning around, he led the way through the enormous, old, and incredibly beautiful house. The stonework, the wood, the paintings, the sculptures…Celeste had never before envied another man's fate, or even his possessions, but he really would not mind the Bellerosa piece hanging in Lazzaro's foyer.

Shaking his head at himself, Celeste focused on the matter at hand and braced himself for whatever was to come as he entered the study to which the steward had led him. Prince Benito smiled tiredly as he saw Celeste. He sat at what must be Lazzaro's desk, drinking a glass of brandy. "Ah, Crown Jewel, I did wonder if it was you he raced off to see. How is he?"

"Asleep," Celeste said. "He was quite distraught."

"Asleep?" Benito echoed, clearly surprised. "How in the names of all the gods did you manage that?"

"The same way I exhaust all men who come to see me," Celeste replied.

Benito's expression changed from surprise to knowing speculation, and Celeste liked it as much on Benito's face as he had on Tula's. "Yet most men pay you and I sense Lazo did not, and that is not the Crown Jewel I know."

Celeste said nothing, for what was there to say? It was true. Instead, he asked, "Do you know the poison that killed … I am sorry, I do not believe Lazzaro ever gave the man's name, or I did not properly note it."

"Santino," Benito sad, "and by some miracle, he is still alive. Only barely, mind you; he could still die. If he survives until tomorrow morning, he should recover fully."

Relief flooded through Celeste. "That makes good hearing, Highness. Do you know the poison that was used?"

Benito nodded and tossed back the last of his brandy, before replying, "Royal rose. A good choice, I must say. Whoever the bastard is, he does know his business."

Celeste frowned, "That's illegal to grow now, and the fines and penalties are severe enough that most do not bother." No one had been happy about it either, when Benito's grandfather had outlawed the plant. It had been useful for many things, but it had been too often used as a poison, to the point where it really had been a bane to the kingdom.  Even Marco would not touch the stuff, despite the fact that it had been even more popular that dream smoke .

Something flickered, then; an old memory. Surely not. The coincidence would be too much and they had parted ways with him … but Marco had never been pleased about that. What if they had met up again after Celeste had left Marco to immerse himself in becoming a jewel?

"I need to look into some things," he said to Benito. "If you need Lazzaro, you know where to find him. My people are watching out for him. If you should need to contact me, best to leave a message there and someone will find me. I bid you good day." He swept Benito an absent bow and left.

Outside, Celeste weighed his options, then summoned a rickshaw and told the driver to take him to the Entertainment Quarter quickly. He flipped the man a silver piece when they arrived and clambered out of the seat, brushing dust from his clothes even as he started walking. He did not bother going to the teahouses; while they would undoubtedly provide information, it would take too long and he would have to scrape the useful bits from the lies and half-truths people gave him. No, Celeste had better ways of spending time and coin. If he was hunting who he thought, then he would do better simply to head to the lairs where the monster likely lurked—the dream smoke dens. He hated the dream smoke dens; there was nothing like a room full of fools and lunatics with no control over themselves to put a man completely off humanity. But he had unwittingly helped make this mess and he would set it to rights.

Celeste headed for the Theatre District again, walking away from the teahouses toward the far end of the Theatre District where only the inhabitants ever went. Visitors never saw that corner of the glamorous world of the stage—the shops and boutiques where costumes and paints and everything else was made, the warehouses that stored old sets, props, even entire buildings that had been torn down and hidden away until they could be used again for something else. Some of the buildings also granted access to the Catacombs.

The crown had ordered the Catacombs sealed up once and for all several years ago, on the grounds that they were too dangerous for the average person and provided prime fodder for breeding criminal elements—all of which was true, since the authorities had a damned hard time hunting down the scum that hid in the Catacombs. They still had trouble with it, although much less than they'd had before. Those portions of the Catacombs that could still be accessed were mostly given over to the secret, opulent chaos of the dream smoke dens. The majority of those were right there in the Theatre District, because separating the dens from the Theatre District was like trying to separate sex from the Pleasure District.

It took only a few coppers and the right smile to gain access to a den—but three hours and half a dozen dens later, Celeste still had not found any hint of the man he sought. He hung on the fringes of the latest den, looking on the dream smokers with contempt. They were everything he despised in people multiplied by a hundred—out of control, pretending to be shameless when they really came here to hide from their shame; people who tried too hard to be something they weren't and wasted all of their energy avoiding themselves. They were even worse than actors, and it did not surprise him in the least that most of them were of that profession.

All of the dream smoke lingering in the air was making Celeste's head spin and his eyes sting. He was getting nowhere this way—it was time to try something else … he just was not certain what. Abandoning the den, Celeste fled the warehouse section altogether.

Breathing in relatively fresh air, he contemplated what to do next—and stubbornly ignored the voice that kept urging him to return to the House of Peace and Lazzaro. There was absolutely no guarantee that Lazzaro would still be there; he had probably woken up and immediately set to work on finding the killer his own way. If he had not done that, then likely he would have returned home to face Santino's death, although Celeste hoped instead that Lazzaro was met with the good news that Santino would definitely live.

Celeste also was not certain he was ready for the discussion that they would likely be having soon. He did not know how he wanted it to play, or even what he wanted to say—what he wanted to hear. To what he would agree, if Lazzaro asked. He was so close to his goals; a few months was nothing after years. Was he really stupid enough to throw all that away because he was enamored of Lazzaro?

The fact he had just admitted he was enamored was answer enough and it was not an answer he liked— not even a little bit. In fact he rather hated it. Oh, to have never met the damnable Duke of Nascimbeni!

Stubbornly ignoring the urge to return to his room and see if Lazzaro was there, Celeste headed for the teahouses instead. The back of his neck prickled, but he was so lost in thoughts of Lazzaro that he noticed it a moment too late. He froze as a knife pressed against his throat, the pressure not quite enough to break skin. "Beautiful evening, sweet," a soft, sibilant voice murmured in his ear. The voice was older, harder, colder, but the underlying evil in it had not changed a bit.

Handsome. Clever. Arrogant. He was everything that Lazzaro had described the killer as being to Celeste all those weeks. Celeste had hoped never to see him again, the evil young man who had joined his band of thieves for a very short time, before Celeste had lost all patience and thrown him out.

Closing his eyes, Celeste drew a deep breath, steadying himself. Slowly opening his eyes again, he turned his head, the kiss of the blade stinging sharply as it drew the barest line of blood. Meeting the dark blue eyes he had fervently hoped never to see again, Celeste greeted, "Beautiful evening, Ezio."

*~*~*

Lazzaro did not do idle well. Neither did he take well to being thwarted. Unfortunately, he found himself enduring both of those, when the only three things he wanted to do at present, he could not. He wanted to see Santino; Benito's note informing him that Santino was alive and chances were good he would survive through to morning had made Lazzaro all but weep in relief. He had wanted nothing more than to race home and see Santino for himself—but Santino needed rest, and so it was better to leave him alone.

The killer needed to be found; Lazzaro very much wanted to find the bastard and slit his throat and be done with him once and for all … but to find him, Lazzaro needed Celeste, and he had no idea where Celeste had gone.

More than anything in the world, even seeing Santino, he wanted Celeste.

There was very little point in going home; Lazzaro was better off waiting at the House of Peace for Celeste's eventual return. Having no other means by which to spend his time, Lazzaro decided to be nosy. The paperwork scattered across Celeste's table proved to be mostly financial in nature—Celeste's accounting, that of the House of Peace, and the wages and contract details of the other jewels in residence. He also found a long list of names; it took him a few minutes to realize the names were all false, some sort of code to hide the real names of the individuals who visited the House of Peace. It also detailed the monthly average each one paid. Given the number of sovereigns involved, Lazzaro thought it would not be hard to decode the list—but his interest was not in the sexual appetites of his peers.

No, his only interest was in Celeste and doing whatever was necessary to keep him. A couple of hours after nosing through all of the documentation, he rang the little bell at his elbow. The door opened a moment laterand the green-eyed woman stared at him. "Yes, your grace?"

"Sorry to bother you," Lazzaro said. "I wonder if you know best how I can arrange to have three people brought to me?"

The woman smirked. "That depends on what you be wanting them to do, your grace, and how long you expect them to do it."

Lazzaro threw his head back and laughed. "Even in my youth, I was not that adventurous. No, I need my solicitor, a notary, and to see the mysterious Pio who apparently owns this establishment."

Her brows shot up to her hairline. "What do you want him for? Your grace," she tacked on belatedly.

"To relieve him of the House of Peace," Lazzaro replied.

"I see," the woman said. "You want it? Celeste will not be pleased with you. He's never admitted it, but everyone knows he's angling to buy it from Pio."

Lazzaro just smiled. "Celeste will be pleased with me when all is said and done, even if he will be quite put out to begin with."

She laughed. "You really have him twisted, your grace."

"It is probably more accurate to say we are twisted together. What is your name, by the way?"

"Tula, your grace," she said, and swept him an impressively graceful curtsy. "I am the Master of Pain in the House of Peace. All sadists and masochists must be vetted by me, jewels and customers alike, before they can work here or patronize the establishment."

Lazzaro smiled. "That is not a test I would want to undertake."

Chuckling, Tula replied, "I will see your people are fetched, your grace. What is the address of your solicitor? Have you a particular notary you would like summoned?"

Lazzaro rattled off all of the information she required and thanked her as she left. He fervently hoped his idea worked; if it did not, his only fallback was to kidnap Celeste, drag him home, and tie him to Lazzaro's bed until he succumbed. That plan had more than a few flaws.

He went over the paperwork again, making certain he had missed no minute detail, and then began to draft the necessary paperwork. His solicitor was more than capable of it, but everything would move much faster if he only had to polish up what Lazzaro had already written.

Just as he was finishing, the door opened. The slovenly, hungover, hard-eyed man who slowly walked into the room without even a half-hearted knock could only be Pio. "Who the hells are you?" Pio demanded. "Why are you here without Celeste, and where is Celeste?"

Lazzaro sat back in his seat, arms falling to rest lightly on the arms of the chair, acting as though he owned everything he saw. His voice dripped arrogance as he said, "I am 'your grace' to you, and I would have thought the man who owned the House of Peace would recognize the Duke of Nascimbeni when he saw him. You need not concern yourself with the whereabouts of Celeste. We have other matters to discuss, you and I. Sit."

Terrified as he realized who he had treated so rudely, Pio sat. After the silence stretched on long enough to make Pio even more uncomfortable, Lazzaro finally spoke. "You are going to sell me the House of Peace."

Pio jerked in his seat, nearly shooting out of it. "Like hells—" He snapped his mouth shut, then said with only a touch more respect, "The House of Peace ain't for sale."

Acting as though he had not spoken, Lazzaro said, "Your name is Pio di Caprio and I've a long list of crimes associated with that name. Blackmail, the giving and receiving of bribes, violence, drug use … and that is only the start. Do I need to continue?" He was guessing on all of them, but from the way Pio's face darkened, he was hitting every mark. "It will be easy enough to summon the guards and have you arrested. That will then make it simple to see that when your assets are seized, the House of Peace is given to me."

Pio's mouth pinched, and Lazzaro knew he was stewing over the fact that Lazzaro was right—it would be a very easy thing for Lazzaro to exercise the full weight of his authority and relationship with the king to get exactly what he wanted. It was his for the asking and they both knew it. "So do it then," Pio finally spat.

"I would rather pay you ten thousand sovereigns, with an additional thousand to ensure you never trouble the House of Peace or anyone associated with it ever again."

"What—" Pio's eyes widened comically, before he hastily said, "Fine. Tell me where to sign."

Lazzaro almost sneered, but managed not. He had wondered if Pio even knew the true value of the House of Peace. Just the House itself, given its location, age, and condition was worth fifteen thousand sovereigns. Taken together with the people still contracted to it, the base worth of the business that came with ownership of the House …

Well, Pio should have been smarter or at least less hasty.

"The papers are being drafted," Lazzaro said. He paused as the door opened and Tula entered, followed by Lazzaro's solicitor and his preferred notary. "Here are the men I was waiting upon and now we can conduct our business." He made the introductions, explained his intentions, and after that, it was hours of writing, arguing, rewriting, and finally signing the papers.

Tucking everything away and accepting the refilled wine glass that Tula handed him, Lazzaro turned to Pio and said, "You may stay here the rest of the night, but come sunrise you will pack your belongings and leave. You will be able to fetch your money from the bank in the morning and know where to find me should you have any problems."

Pio tucked away the note granting him the promised eleven thousand sovereigns, stood, and walked off without a word. Tula, called as a witness, blew out a breath. "I don't even know what to say, your grace. Damn."

"I believe that suffices," Lazzaro said with a smile. "Thank you for all of your help, Tula. Gentlemen, I appreciate you coming so quickly and on such short notice. I am in your debt."

Chuckling, the men bid him good night and followed Tula from the room. Lazzaro began to put away the rest of the paperwork and plan out how exactly he would begin the conversation he would soon be having with Celeste. He glanced at the bed, reliving every bit of the short time they had spent together in it, before forcing his mind away from the distracting images.

He was just finishing up putting away the paperwork when Tula came bursting back into the room, looking like a terrified cat. "Your grace! A d-delivery for you!" She held out her hand, which trembled slightly.

Lazzaro felt his heart drop into his stomach as he looked as the long tail of Celeste's braid. A ribbon secured each end, and to the topmost was pinned a note, his name written on it in livid red ink. "I will take care of it," Lazzaro told Tula firmly. "Go. Calm yourself, calm the staff, keep everything under control. I will save Celeste."

"You had better," Tula said. She turned and left, door closing sharply behind her.

Unpinning the note, Lazzaro opened it and read the brief message. Come to the Spring Blossom Teahouse. Ask for Ezio.

Lazzaro dropped the note to the table, then ran a thumb over the beautiful braid of hair. Celeste would kill the bastard who had cut it if given just half a chance. If the bastard had harmed Celeste any further than cutting his hair, Lazzaro would exercise all of his power and authority to teach him the true meaning of suffering.

Gathering up his belongings, Lazzaro pulled on his jacket and gloves, then quickly penned a note to Benito. He went downstairs and handed the note off to Tula, who came out of the parlor when she saw him. "See this is taken to Prince Benito. If you cannot reach him, give it to Princess Anastasia. Directly to them, not to any messenger."

"Yes, your grace," Tula said, and tucked the note into her corset.

Lazzaro squeezed her shoulder in reassurance, then departed. It took him only a few minutes to obtain directions and reach the Spring Blossom Teahouse. At the door, he waited until the hostess was forced to approach him. When she fluttered up to him, he said, "I am here to see Ezio."

"This way," the woman said, dropping her fluttery demeanor. She led him through the teahouse, across the garden in the back, and stopped before a boardinghouse that was two stories tall and looked as though it contained roughly twenty rooms. Pulling a key from a hidden pocket, she said, "Up the stairs, turn right, third room on the left."

He took the key without a word and walked on, moving silently up the stairs and down the hall. He tested the door when he reached it, examining the frame, the lock, the handle, the door itself; he was far too used to the tricks and traps that could be used. When all seemed well enough on this side, he slid the key into the lock and turned. After nothing further happened, he drew his sword and kicked the door open—

A dark-skinned, dark-haired, tall, handsome man looming over Celeste, who sat huddled in one corner of the mostly barren room. Beyond them, there was only a table, a small heat stove, and a pile of bedding in one corner. The floor was composed of mats made from tightly-bound reeds, firm beneath Lazzaro's feet as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "The esteemed Ezio, I presume?"

"Nascimbeni," Ezio greeted, letting go of the fistful of Celeste's hair to which he had been clinging, rising to his full height. He held a dagger in his other hand, loose and easy. His lips gleamed wetly and Lazzaro could not help but note that Celeste's did as well. What else had the bastard done to him, after cutting his hair?

He held his temper in check, but only barely. "What is this all about?"

"Men have brought requests to kill you before," Ezio said, ignoring his question. "Marco met with several men who offered to pay handsome sums to have me kill the King's pet bastard. But handsome is not good enough, with the risk involved. A pity, really, because you have killed and imprisoned several men who were fun to have around. Achille, Ovidio, Dafne, Gian. I really miss Gian."

Lazzaro frowned. He knew those names. Achille had been a cut flower who had been blackmailing a friend of his mother's—and several other people, as it turned out. He was currently in prison. Ovidio was a murderer, another cut flower that Lazzaro had killed. Dafne was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Palmiro; she had contracted the death of a girl she hated. Lazzaro had never found the killer, but by chance discovered Dafne had purchased the death. Gian … Gian was the dead brother of Guido, the Duke of Mondadori, and had been guilty of much worse than murder. Guido had never forgiven Lazzaro for revealing his brother's crimes, resulting in his imprisonment. "Marco was your handler," he said.

"Marco kept him in line," Celeste said. "It was the same when we were children. Ezio only listened to Marco and Marco did not mind the awful things Ezio did. I threw Ezio out of our little gang." He glared hatefully at Ezio. "I wish I had possessed the sense to kill you."

Ezio laughed. "You do not possess the stomach for murder, pretty. Your only talent is spreading your legs. A pity that Marco was weak to your charms; but then, he whined for a long time after you parted ways. Don't move!" he snapped, lifting his dagger as Lazzaro started toward them. "Go sit on the bed, your grace, and leave all of your weapons by the door first, including any daggers you have secreted away. I will make you strip if I think you are hiding any. Remember that there is enough space between us that no matter how fast you move, I will kill him before you reach me."

Lazzaro silently obeyed, but only because of the look Celeste gave him. Throwing his weapons to the floor, including his hidden daggers, he moved to the bedding and sat down. "So with Marco dead you finally decided to kill me?"

"The money I would get for your head is a nice bonus, your grace, but not the point. You killed Marco." Ezio said, voice almost sing-song, sending a cold chill down Lazzaro's spine. "Marco was the only one who appreciated me, who gave my talents the credit they deserved. Marco was mine—" He reached out and grabbed Celeste by the hair, jerking him to his feet. "Dead because of the cowardly little whore who walked back into his life and the worthless bastard fighting to get between his legs." He pressed the dagger to Celeste's throat. "I am torn, Nascimbeni. Do I make you watch as I kill him or make him watch—" He broke off abruptly, gasping hoarsely for air. His dagger tumbled from his finger as he scrabbled at Celeste, gripped him, shoved him into the wall. But in the next moment he went slack, leaned heavily against Celeste, and whatever he tried to say only came out a garbled mess.

Celeste shoved him away, tripping as they tangled together and landed hard on the floor, back in the corner where he had first been. Ezio tumbled face down on the floor, twitching for several seconds before he finally went still.

Lazzaro stared uncomprehending for a moment, then slowly moved to the body. Only a cursory examination was necessary to determine that Ezio was dead. Lazzaro looked at Celeste.

"Do not touch him or anything of his," Celeste said, voice flat. "I am certain at least half of all he owns is in some way tainted with his damnable poisons. He always did like them too much."

Lazzaro did not bother to point out that he was wearing gloves and several layers of clothing. Instead, he just heaved Ezio's body over so he was lying face up and took in the discoloration. "His lover was also his killer. How did you do it?"

"All whores learn poison," Celeste replied, beginning to sound weary. "We are not in ideal positions to fight back physically, should a customer get out of control. He should have remembered that, but like all of us in this sad comedy, his mind was consumed by other thoughts."

Standing, Lazzaro moved to Celeste and sat beside him. He combed a hand through Celeste's hair, mourning the loss of the long, golden tresses, but far more concerned about Celeste. "Are you all right, jewel?"

"I am alive and very tired, and would very much like not to kill anyone ever again," Celeste said, still staring at Ezio's body as though he could not look away. "He searched me, after he took me, but not very well. He believed you killed Marco in a fit of jealousy over me and thought to take the shine from the jewel of which you were so enamored, before he killed us. You arrived a bit sooner than he anticipated." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Kiss of Death, the poison is called."

"The monks called it Snake Tears," Lazzaro remarked idly, recognizing the name. "They use it in tea, in small doses, for 'meditative purposes.' I never indulged, myself."

Celeste sneered at that, as Lazzaro had known he would, but he still did not look away from the body. Lazzaro grasped Celeste's face, forced him to turn his head, and bent to kiss him—but was stopped short as Celeste turned sharply away. "The poison was on my lips. I've wiped it away, but I would not kiss me until I can clean more thoroughly and be certain it is gone."

In reply, Lazzaro just kissed his cheek, nuzzled against his hair, the soft, warm skin. "Come, jewel. We have no reason to linger here. This body can be disposed of by others. Men like him, no one asks questions. Let us go home, and tomorrow we will deal with the rest." He did not give Celeste a chance to reply, but pulled him to his feet and out of the room.

Still Celeste was too quiet, too compliant. Lazzaro stopped and abruptly swept him up, carrying him down the stairs in his arms. When they reached the bottom, Celeste hit him—hard. "Put me down this instant! Do I seem a damned invalid to you, your grace? Some frail—" He scowled as Lazzaro set him down, then struck him a second time. "Do not do that again."

"Yes, my jewel," Lazzaro replied, smiling to see Celeste revive a bit. "Shall we to home, then?" He took Celeste's hand, holding fast when him tried to pull free, and led him back across the garden and through the teahouse. He paused at the front and flagged down the hostess. "Pen and paper."

When they were brought, Lazzaro quickly penned two notes. "See this is taken to the House of Peace. See this one is taken to the royal palace and given into the hands of Prince Benito. I will be expecting replies from both, so ensure that it is done." He laid the notes on the hostess' table, along with four coins. Not waiting for her reply, he left the teahouse, Celeste at his side.

It was further testament to Celeste's state of mind that it took him as long as it did to say, "This is not how we get home."

Lazzaro laughed and held fast to Celeste's hand, not letting him get away. "I never said to which home we were going. If you went back to the House of Peace, you would get no rest. Stay with me for the night and we will return to your home tomorrow."

Celeste was silent for a long time, but finally his hand relaxed in Lazzaro's and he said, "Fine."

Smiling, but not saying anything, Lazzaro only increased their pace until they reached his home in the old Wine District. The door opened as they climbed the front steps, his butler greeting them with a sleepy murmur. Benito must have told them to stay awake; normally they knew to turn in if he was not home by a certain hour. "Thank you," Lazzaro said. "Go get some sleep."

He led the way up to his rooms, still holding Celeste's hand, until they reached his bedchamber. Celeste said something soft and indistinct, looking annoyed as he stared at the bed. "What?" Lazzaro asked, amused for no good reason. He moved away from Celeste to strip off his outerwear and deposit his purse, jewels, and daggers on the bureau, hanging his sword on a hook alongside.

"I thought your bed in the secret palace was absurd," Celeste said.

Lazzaro looked at his bed, which was even larger and finer than the one installed in the secret palace, but had been well worth the exorbitant cost. He was especially fond of the headboard, carved with images from all of the stories he had grown up with at the monastery: monkeys, tigers, ghosts, dragons, and more. It had taken quite a long time for the artist he'd commissioned to finish it. "I spent the first half of my life sleeping on a cheap cot that was as hard as stone, and I only know how hard it was because I often misbehaved and so was made to sleep on stone. I never could tell the difference between the two. I am firmly against the notion that suffering improves the mind; it only makes it sharper and more cynical."

"I think most would count those as improvements," Celeste said dryly.

"I do not believe sacrificing happiness improves anything," Lazzaro replied, and stripped off the last of his clothes. "Do you want to continue this esoteric discussion or go to bed?"

Celeste finally dragged his eyes from the bed and looked at him. "Go to bed or go to sleep?"

"You could try to sleep, and I am certain you are exhausted, but I do not think it would work well," Lazzaro said, and walked over to him, air cool against his bare skin. He took hold of Celeste's jacket and pushed it off his shoulders, then tugged his shirt free of his breeches and yanked it up over his head. He bent and pressed a kiss to Celeste's shoulder, breathing in his scent and nuzzling his throat. "I said bed, Celeste, and I meant it."

For a long, tense moment, Celeste was still and silent, to the point that Lazzaro started to think he had made a serious error in judgment—but then Celeste's hands came up to curl around his hips, slid around to splay across his lower back. He tipped his head to the side and slightly back.

Lazzaro had never been the sort of man to refuse such a lovely invitation. He grazed the fine expanse of Celeste's throat with his teeth, then mouthed his way up to Celeste's mouth—only to be pushed away. "Poison," Celeste bit out. "Get in the bed."

Obediently, Lazzaro climbed into his bed and watched as Celeste finished stripping and cleaned himself at the washbasin in the corner of the room. Finished, he stalked across the room and climbed up onto the bed, crawling across to Lazzaro. If a more intoxicating sight was possible, Lazzaro did not want to know of it. Making a rough noise, he reached out and snagged Celeste close, rolling him over to lie on his back, before straddling his hips and bending to take a hungry kiss.

Celeste kissed him back, the finest of drugs and better than the most potent of wines. Lazzaro drew back just far enough to say, "You had better be here come morning or I will hunt you down and tie you up here until you agree to stay."

"I am not a pet to stay where you put me," Celeste replied, and nipped his jaw.

Lazzaro matched the stinging bite with a sharp kiss. "You may not be my pet, my jewel, but you are definitely mine."

"We will see," Celeste said, but did not protest when Lazzaro kissed him again.

Breaking away after several minutes, Lazzaro kissed and licked and nibbled his way down Celeste's body, memorizing the scent and flavor of his skin. "Lazzaro—" Celeste stared at him, half-propped up on pillows, eyes wide, genuinely surprised—and then anything he might have said turned into a gasp as Lazzaro took his cock and began to suck in earnest.

He was too tired to make it last as he would have liked, but Lazzaro spared no effort, fed by every noise that fell from Celeste's lips, the fingers that teased his hair because Celeste would not quite grip it the way he clearly wanted. Lazzaro supposed Celeste was not often in the position of the one being sucked. Hot satisfaction poured through him, to be doing something that so few did, putting his mark on Celeste in his own way. He sucked all the harder, fingers cupping Lazzaro's soft sack, and pulling his climax from him; only at the last did Celeste fist a hand in Lazzaro's hair, crying his name on an unsteady breath.

Pulling off Celeste's cock, Lazzaro crawled back up his body and took a deep, hard kiss, grunting in surprise and pleasure as a hand wrapped around his cock and began to stroke in earnest. Lazzaro clung to Celeste, continuing to feed upon his mouth and thrust into the hand stroking him until he came hard, cries swallowed by Celeste.

Eventually he rolled away, climbing from his bed long enough to fetch a rag from the washstand to clean them up. Tossing it aside, he climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets over them, keeping Celeste close when he rolled away. "I passed up one chance to hold you close, jewel; I will not do it again."

"You're a presumptuous fool," Celeste said, but did not move.

Lazzaro only smiled, settling down close and breathing in their mingled scents as he drifted off to sleep.

*~*~*

Celeste thanked the serving girl who brought him a breakfast tray and let her pour the tea just because it seemed to make her less flustered to be doing something. Was he that intimidating to a mere girl? He thanked her again as she left, then added sugar to the cup and stirred it slowly. Taking the cup, he moved to the window and pushed back the drapes, staring out at the ocean beyond, sparkling in the morning sunlight.

He took a sip of tea, not in the least surprised to find it was the finest that money could buy. Lazzaro might watch every coin that left his purse, but that seemed to end in the finest of results. His mouth quirked as he wondered if that included only settling for a crown jewel, as well.

Rolling his eyes at himself, because he should not be in such a good mood after all that had transpired the previous night, Celeste returned to the table to begin eating. His hair fell in his face as he sat and he felt another pang. Even at the best of times, his hair had been cumbersome and difficult.  There was simply no easy way to manage hair so long it reached his hips—but he had been proud of it and he had liked the spark that appeared in Lazzaro's eyes when he looked at it. Lazzaro had not said a word about it, but he hardly needed to. Growing it out again would take years and damn Ezio anyway for that final little insult on top of all the injuries he had inflicted. So many people murdered, just because Ezio liked poison and Marco liked to make a profit.

Celeste closed his eyes and tried not to think about it—Ezio dragging him away, cutting his hair, spelling out all of the awful things he would do to Celeste just to make Lazzaro suffer. He winced at the memory of the way Ezio had grabbed him so hard that it had left bruises on his arm, had thrown him to the floor and made it very plain that dawn was hours away, and there was plenty of time to add to the nightmare.

He shuddered and drank more tea, still feeling slightly sick from the traces of poison he had ingested. It had been impossible not to ingest some when his only chance of getting Ezio to take it had been to smear it on his own lips.  It was a poison he had always carried, carefully marked in a container of lip oil, but never had cause to use.

The look on Ezio's face … the way he had gasped and writhed …

Celeste gulped down his tea and poured more, adding the sugar and hastily stirring it before immediately downing half of it. When he felt a bit steadier, he tried once more to eat, but the good mood he had felt bad about was ruined. Grimacing at himself, he drank more tea.

He should return to the House of Peace; there must be a hundred things requiring his attention and Pio would be pitching a perfect fit. The very last thing he should be doing was lingering in the private chambers of the Duke of Nascimbeni, indulging in an opulent breakfast, waiting for his softly snoring … what precisely? Because that was the crux of it. Lazzaro was not 'the Duke' to him, no matter how much he might wish to keep that wall between them. Sex should not be a sign of commitment from a jewel, but it certainly seemed to be when Celeste engaged in it without expecting coin.

Sighing at himself, Celeste strode again to the window and stared out at the sea, watching the seagulls drifting over the waves and the distant ships that would shortly arrive in harbor to deposit their goods and load fresh cargo. The sound of movement drew his attention and he turned just in time to see Lazzaro appear from the bedchamber, barely dressed in a dark red silk robe, his hair going in at least twenty different directions and his face in dire need of a shave. It took Celeste a moment to realize he was staring and that he should say something … but he could think of nothing. Lazzaro smiled as he approached and slid one arm around Celeste's waist, as though they had done it a thousand times, started a thousand mornings precisely that way. "Beautiful morning, jewel."

"Beautiful morning, handsome stranger," Celeste replied, tilting his head in invitation, because he could not quite bring himself to initiate the kiss himself. Lazzaro's mouth was warm and tasted faintly of mint, his kiss lazy and slow and sweet.

"You taste like tea," Lazzaro said when he drew back. "Is there more?"

Celeste rolled his eyes. "Yes, on the table."

"Marvelous," Lazzaro said, kissing the corner of his mouth before moving to the table to pour his own cup. "How does the morning find you?"

"Well," Celeste replied, in no mood to voice his thoughts. The matter was over; better to let it lie. "How did Tula and the others treat you while I was away?"

"Very well," Lazzaro said—then reached out as Celeste drew close, grabbing his wrist and pulled Celeste down into his lap. He kissed him hard, then said, "What is troubling you?"

Celeste tried to squirm free and stand up, but could not quite manage. "I said I am well, therefore I am well. I am not some delicate flower in need of coddling."

"Only a man who killed someone last night, after being kidnapped, and I doubt he was nice to you, jewel. So I ask again, what is troubling you?"

"I—" Celeste nodded. "I am fine. Merely still a bit sick from the poison and—" He broke off again. "I am fine and will be better."

Lazzaro sighed, but only kissed him once more. "Yes, you will be better. I am sorry you had to kill."

"You've killed more than me," Celeste pointed out. "Let us just drop the matter; I am tired of dwelling upon it."

"As you like," Lazzaro conceded.

Celeste pinched him. "Let me go."

"Must I?" Lazzaro complained, but obeyed.

Moving quickly around to his seat on the opposite side of the table, Celeste asked, "What has you in such a fine mood this morning?"

"My mother's killer is dead, you are safe, and you are mine," Lazzaro replied, smiling over the rim of his teacup. "Why should I not be in a fine mood?"

Celeste frowned at him. "I never said I was yours."

"You are still here," Lazzaro pointed out, voice calm, but eyes so intent.

Sighing, Celeste only picked up his teacup and took a sip. "I am a whore, your grace. Not the sort of lover the bastard son of the King, or any noble for that matter, can take around town. Or anywhere. You have a great deal of—"

"I do not need to be told of my responsibilities and obligations," Lazzaro said firmly, but without reprimand. "I know them all. I also know they were given to me by my father only after I made it perfectly clear I would accept simply if I was permitted to be a Duke in my own way. I was never meant to be one; I have no grand ambitions in regards to my title. If I lost it all tomorrow, I would survive. I am not concerned with passing on the title and everything else that fills the heads of my peers. I want you and I will pay whatever price I must to have you."

Celeste said nothing, only scowled, because so complicated a situation—so foolish and reckless and stupid a situation—should not be made to sound so easy. "Even if you are allowed to be a spoiled brat and do as you please, I cannot think it will reflect well on the throne for you to flaunt me." Never mind the devastating effect it would have on his livelihood if everyone knew the Crown Jewel was taken—and by the king's bastard son, no less. Celeste had no other sources of income, not yet. What he wanted did not matter, even if he was stupid enough to become Lazzaro's lover. The reality was that he needed an income and he would not rely upon another man to provide it.

"I have no qualms with a secret lover," Lazzaro said into the silence. "You cannot run the House of Peace if everyone thinks you are my little jewel because my father likes to indulge me. My business is my own and I do not need to show off my lover in order to feel that he is really mine. I would never jeopardize your livelihood, jewel. All I want is you."

"Let me reiterate," Celeste said, annoyed and disconcerted that Lazzaro appeared capable of reading his mind. "I am a whore. My livelihood is fucking men for gold—" He broke off as something Lazzaro had said struck him belatedly, and why was it he never seemed at his best when Lazzaro was in the room? "What do you mean, run the House of Peace?"

Lazzaro rubbed his nose with one knuckle, looking sheepish, and then said, "I had hoped to have this conversation when you were in a better mood and less inclined to throttle me."

Celeste stared at him and asked, "What conversation?"

"I forced Pio to sell me the House of Peace," Lazzaro said.

"You did what?" Celeste snarled, nearly slamming his teacup down in fury. He should be controlling his temper and some part of his mind tried to make him see that, but Celeste simply did not care. "Why in the all the hells—"

"Peace, jewel," Lazzaro interrupted. "Wait just a moment." He stood up and rang the bell pull by the door, closing his robe just as a servant entered and bowed. "Some papers should have been delivered for me this morning. Where are they?"

"Right outside here, your grace. We thought you might want them," the servant replied, and slipped away, returning almost immediately with a packet of papers. He bowed and slipped away again, closing the door quietly behind him.

Lazzaro strode back to the table and handed the bundle to Celeste. "I forced Pio to sell me the House of Peace, then drew up further papers selling it to you. I told you, I will pay any price. I believe that this will make an even trade?"

Celeste did not reply, too busy reading over all the papers. "You pawed through my paperwork, didn't you? You are the nosiest—"

Laughter interrupted his words. "I am often accused of that, yes. It is how I find myself solving mysteries and rooting out murderers. But I am also ruthless, and combined with nosy—"

"You are lucky your father likes you, because otherwise he would have ordered you executed rather than made a Duke," Celeste broke in tartly. "You are being heavy-handed and entirely too bossy. So I have to buy the House of Peace from you and in return I get to be your lover?"

Sighing, Lazzaro said, "You could look at the price I am demanding before you cast aspersions. You said you could not afford to be my lover. This ensures you can and I will not deny I am being entirely selfish, but not just selfish."

Celeste said nothing, merely pulled out the papers that wanted only his signature to make the House of Peace his, and it was not fair at all that it could really be so simple. He read over them, scowling when he reached the paragraph that said sold for the sum total of one dance at the Winter Ball in the current year, to be paid in one month, and a kiss, to be paid immediately.

He threw the papers down in disgust and looked at Lazzaro, absolutely refusing to be otherwise moved by the ridiculous terms. "You are going to give me a property worth forty thousand sovereigns in real estate and jewel contracts for a dance and a kiss? Is that legal?"

"Quite," Lazzaro assured, finishing his tea and leaning back in his chair. His robe gaped open to the reveal the fine, well-muscled expanse of skin beneath and a hint of the thatch of dark curls crowning his cock. He would be distracting at a time like this, and that he could be distracting in such fashion did nothing to improve Celeste's mood. "My solicitor loves me because I make such fluid use of dusty old laws that most of his clients do not even know exist. I am fully within my rights to sell whatever I own for gold, goods, or services as I so choose. So do you accept the terms or not, Celeste?"

Celeste scowled at his teacup. "I killed a man last night. A man who was furious with you for killing the man he loved, and that man in turn was obsessed with me—and all of this began because you were seeking your mother's killer, who happened to be the man who kidnapped me last night because he wanted to hurt you the way you unintentionally hurt him. This is making my head hurt." He shook his head, but did not give Lazzaro a chance to speak. "All of this trouble with murderers and we are discussing whether or not I will cease to be a whore to take up as your lover? I feel we are perhaps brushing aside important matters for selfish reasons."

"I am not going to waste time and energy discussing men who are better off dead," Lazzaro said. "It is an amazing tangle of coincidences that brought me to you, that brought you into my life. The monks were not good for much, but they did teach me fate and not to sneer at it. If you want to go back to your life and live it as you want, I will not stop you. I believe a man has a right to his own choices and should not be forced into them. But I am offering and asking."

He would not offer or ask a second time—and despite all of the reasons he knew he should walk away and go back to the life he knew, Celeste could only draw a breath and say, "Only a kiss, your grace? That seems a paltry price to demand for such a fine establishment." He stood up and let his own robe, taken from Lazzaro's wardrobe, fall open.

"Then you vastly undervalue your kisses, my jewel," Lazzaro replied, tugging Celeste down onto his lap.

Celeste rolled his eyes, but a smile twitched at his mouth as he leaned in and paid his price.

Fin

About the Author

Megan grew up a military brat and traveled extensively with her family. She is now firmly settled in Ohio, with two roommates and their four cats. She has always been book obsessed, and writing obsessed since she first gave it a whirl in college. Romance and fantasy are her primary obsessions, but she's game to write just about anything and enjoys a challenge. She is a sucker for stories of enemies becoming lovers. When not writing, Megan is drinking too much coffee, reading still more books, and harassing family and friends, or otherwise doing whatever possible to avoid editing.

She loves to hear from her readers, and can be found on her website and her livejournal:

http://maderr.com
http://maderr.livejournal.com