The weariness in the beloved voice made Lynette abandon the subject, just as she had done for years. Now that her sister was gone, she felt compelled to be a comfort to her mother. It was a role that did not suit her well. Lysette had been the gentle one, the quiet one. Lynette was the outrageous one, the flamboyant one, the one forever concocting schemes that landed them in trouble.
“Forgive me, Maman.”
“No need. It has been a long journey.”
The vicomtess had the appearance of a delicate beauty with her pale golden hair and finely wrought features, widely lauded attributes that she’d passed on to her children. Age had not diminished her appeal; she remained as ethereally lovely as always. Regardless, the impression of fragility was a false one. Marguerite Baillon, Vicomtess de Grenier, was a remarkably strong woman. When she set her mind to something, she could not be swayed.
Unless it was a request from one of her daughters.
She had never been able to deny them anything, and after the loss of one, she was even more likely to indulge the other. It was why they were in Paris now. Lynette had always wanted to visit the famed city, so when the vicomtess suggested a trip to Spain in an effort to cheer them both, Lynette had begged for a short detour. Although Marguerite disliked Paris and had rarely returned to France over the past two decades, she had conceded reluctantly to her daughter’s wish.
The vicomtess yawned. “I wish for a hot bath and two days in bed.”
“But you allow us only a sennight to visit!” Lynette protested. “You cannot sleep two of those seven days.”
“I am jesting, ma petite. However, your father is due in town for business then,” her mother reminded her. “Neither of us wants a scolding for deviating from our stated plans.”
Her father was as cautious as her mother. He insisted on knowing their whereabouts at all times. “No, of course not.”
Lynette’s gaze moved back to the window and the view of the city beyond it. Her joy in the trip was tempered by the ever-present longing for Lysette to be with her. They had been inseparable from the moment of conception, and despite the two years since Lysette’s passing, Lynette still suffered the agony of loneliness that only a twin would know. It felt as if a part of her was missing and she was ever cognizant of that lack.
I will enjoy this adventure for the both of us, Lysette, she thought, her hand rising to her aching heart. I will see all of the places we talked about, even the ones I said I had no desire to see. I will pretend that you are with me, showing me the world through your eyes.
“I miss her,” Lynette whispered through a throat clenched tight with sorrow and guilt. “Dreadfully.”
“We will live for her,” the vicomtess murmured. “Every day.”
“Yes, Maman.” She slouched against the squab and closed her eyes.
Oddly, the man on horseback entered her mind again. He had been so vital, so alive even from a distance. She would have spoken with Lysette about him, if she had been here.
Have you ever seen a man more handsome? Lynette would have asked.
Men such as him are trouble, her sister would say. Better to find a quiet companion who shares similar interests and will be steadfast. Wild men do not marry. Hence the reason they are wild.
Her impulsiveness had always been tempered by Lysette’s unshakable reason. Her sister had been her anchor, and without her, she felt adrift.
Lynette would give everything and do anything to have her sister back. But death had stolen Lysette away. Now, she would have to learn how to go on alone.
The Comte Desjardins was in his cellar searching for a particular burgundy vintage when a scraping sound heralded the opening of a door. He stiffened, his blood running cold.
“My lord.”
Desjardins exhaled with relief at the sound of a normal albeit coarsely accented voice, the knots of tension in his shoulders diminishing only slightly. At this point, even that was a blessing. One could never be relaxed when he danced to the tune of another.
He turned and faced the waiting lackey, his gaze briefly lifting over the man’s shoulder to the rock-hewn stairs that led to the catacombs below. Searching for the devil, even though L’Esprit had ceased to communicate directly with him years ago.
Missives were all he received anymore.
His brows rose and the man nodded. No words needed to be said. The exchange with Quinn would take place on the morrow, and the lovely Lysette, arguably his greatest assest, would be returned to him.
He still had difficulty believing that she had been taken prisoner. In the two years she’d worked for him, there had never been an instance of failure. Perhaps she had been compromised? He prayed that was not the case, because he required the assistance of a beautiful woman now. One who could lie and kill without a qualm. Sadly those were few and far between.
The man slipped back into the tunnel and Desjardins ascended the stairs to the kitchen, passing the many industrious servants who prepared supper for his family and their guests. He left the bottle of wine on a counter and returned to the formal parlor.
It was his least favorite room in the house. His wife had decorated the space in a mixture of white and a blue so pale it was nearly white. All the metal accents in the room were silver, creating the impression—for him—of a snow cave of some sort. The only spot of color in the room was provided by the portrait of Benjamin Franklin that graced the wall.
He liked and felt a deep respect for Mr. Franklin. The man was charming, brilliant, and the Grand Master of the Lodge Les Neuf Sœurs.
He was also the latest target of L’Esprit.
Desjardins had received another damnable missive just a sennight past. Rejecting monetary compensation had not been sufficient to sever that tie. Now he received nothing for his efforts beyond the promise that his family would not be harmed.
Because of this, he was grateful that Lysette had failed in her mission. He had hoped to discover the identity of the mastermind behind Simon Quinn’s activities in France, hoping to use the information to lure L’Esprit out in the open. However, this recent focus on Franklin made her continued cooperation a necessity. L’Esprit wanted reports of Franklin’s meetings, conversations, and correspondence. In-depth accounts, not merely generalizations such as one would find through gossip.
“I found it,” Desjardins said as he drew to a halt beside the man who had become a pivotal part of his plan.
Edward James turned his gaze away from the portrait of Franklin and tilted his head in acknowledgment. The comte had yet to see the man smile. “I appreciate the effort expended and look forward to sampling the wine you speak so highly of, my lord.”
“It was no effort at all,” Desjardins said, inwardly thinking that sharing his favorite wine was the least he could do considering what James would most likely go through in the weeks ahead.
James worked as secretary to Benjamin Franklin, a position of prestige that had become a curse. He accompanied Franklin nearly everywhere and knew minute details of his life, details L’Esprit was determined Desjardins would access. It was a painstaking business, costing a great deal of time and resources to yield very little. So far he had kept L’Esprit content, but he did not want the man content. He wanted him dead. In order to make that happen, he required information so valuable it would give him an advantage.
Beautiful women were excellent at luring such commodities from men.
“You have a lovely home,” James said.
“Merci.”
James was tall and lean with brown hair, dark eyes framed by brass spectacles, and a strong jaw. He was not handsome by any definition, but Desjardins’s daughter Anne was infatuated with the man’s “intensity” and spoke of him incessantly. Anne took great pains to join any outing or excursion that included James and noted all the minute details, such as how he liked his tea. Because of this, Desjardins felt he had a strong grasp of the type of man James was. He intended to feed that information to Lysette, which she could then use to become perfect for him.
“What are your plans for the rest of the week?” Desjardins asked.
He listened carefully to James’s reply, cataloguing the finer points to include in his notes for Lysette. He hoped the secretary enjoyed his brief time with the lovely blonde who was far above his station.
She would cost him his employment and reputation, if not far more precious things. Such as his life.
Chapter 4
“So, we finally part ways,” Lysette murmured.
Simon grinned. If this had been the end of a liaison, he would have affected a more flattering show of melancholy. As it was, such subterfuge wasn’t necessary.
“Look how happy you are.” A reluctant smile curved her lips and he noted how it transformed her features. Lysette was truly one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. Her glorious tresses were shot with various shadings of pale gold and light browns. Her skin was like the richest ivory satin, her eyes the blue of a clear summer sky, her lips lush and pouty within her heart-shaped face. She was petite and lithe but perfectly proportioned. Not too curvy or too thin. Because of her exterior flawlessness, he found it somewhat unnerving to realize that, aside from the moment he first met her, he had never had any desire to tumble her. Even after the last few weeks of abstinence and near constant proximity to her, he hadn’t considered bedding her.
“You must be relieved to be rid of me, as well,” he said easily.
“Of course.”
The hard glimmer returned to her eyes and he sighed inwardly. Once again, the moment he felt the slightest softening toward her, she reminded him of why he did not like her. It had nothing to do with her lack of affection for him and everything to do with the fact that she was so mutable. At times she seemed confused, at others she appeared to relish her work far too much for his tastes. He suspected she was a bit touched and he had learned to avoid those who suffered afflictions of the mind. They were a danger to themselves and others.
As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the small home on a quiet street, Simon opened the door and leaped out. Then he extended his gloved hand to assist Lysette down.
Her hat rim came into view first, then it rose as she tilted her head back to gaze at the front of the residence.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“My home.”
Simon studied her openly. She seemed pensive and melancholy, her pale blue eyes shadowed with secrets he did not care to know.
Lysette Rousseau was one of the most cutthroat individuals he’d ever had the misfortune to meet, one who took pleasure in the misery of others. It was oftentimes difficult to reconcile her beautiful, fragile exterior with the hardened woman he knew her to be. He’d watched her kill a man with novel ferocity, an act even more disconcerting when committed by a lovely seductress. Yet she had the bearing and tastes of a woman of breeding. The combination of civility and blood thirst was discordant.
Frankly, he could not wait to be rid of her and the mystery she represented. He was weary of prying into other people’s lives on behalf of a king he cared little about. He wanted to live his own life and he had—finally—accumulated enough wealth to do so. No longer would he serve the needs of another. The world was his, or it soon would be, once he exchanged the wily Lysette for Richard and the others.
He pivoted and wrapped her arm around his. “Ready?” he asked.
Lysette inhaled sharply, then nodded.
Simon noted that tiny act of gathering courage and felt a brief flare of concern. He almost asked her if there was some assistance she required, but he held his tongue. While the last vestiges of his chivalry urged him to assist a damsel in distress, the blunt truth of the matter was that she had made her own bed and now she must lie in it. His responsibility was not to her but to the dozen men who worked for him. Still, despite thinking so callously, he let kinder words leave his lips.
“I will remain in Paris for a month or so.”
The statement was not a romantic appeal and she knew it. He was offering a temporary harbor in case of a possible storm. The startled look she gave him in response afforded him a brief glimpse of an unaffected Lysette. For a moment she glowed from within, a shimmer of wary hope and innocence.
Then it was gone.
He steeled himself for a sharp and jeering rebuke, as was her usual response to any friendly overture. Instead, her mouth curved slightly and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Together they climbed the steps and entered her home. As they walked into the foyer, the lilting notes of a pianoforte greeted them. An elaborate and stunning crystal-covered chandelier hung above the gold-veined marble, and fresh flowers displayed in alcoves contributed their fragrance to the genial welcome.
Lysette led him into a parlor decorated in soothing shades of yellow and gold. Amid the soft palette, the emerald-garbed Comte Desjardins could not be missed.
“Bonjour, Mr. Quinn,” the comte greeted, rising to his feet from his seat at the pianoforte.
“My lord.” Simon once again marveled that such a short and slightly built man would have such a powerful voice. He doubted such volume could be contained in a whisper, a thought even more startling considering the body to which the voice belonged looked as if a stiff wind could topple it over.
“Lysette, ma petite.” Desjardins approached her with a look of pride and affection on his long face. He caught up her hands and kissed her cheek. “Comment te sens-tu?”
“Bien, merci.”
Lysette’s response was much more subdued, without a hint of warmth. The comte seemed unaffected by her lack of joy at being returned to his care.
“Excellent.” He turned back to Simon. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Quinn?”
“No, thank you.” Simon’s brows rose slightly at the ease with which Desjardins appropriated Lysette’s home. “I prefer to conclude our transaction and go on my way.”
“What of Jacques and Cartland?” Lysette asked.
Desjardins gestured for Lysette to take a seat. “Arrangements will be made.”