“Evenin’,” greeted a voice to his side, drawing Colin from his introspection.
Beside him stood an elderly gentleman who spent most of his life in the taverns on this street, offering companionship to those who would buy him a drink or something to eat. Occasionally, the man overheard something worth selling, and Colin was willing to pay for it, as he was well aware.
“Have a seat,” Colin replied, gesturing to the chair opposite his own.
Hours passed. He used the time to question those who found him familiar from his previous sojourns there. Many hoped to earn a coin or two by passing along information of note. Sadly, there was nothing of interest about Cartland, but Colin bought a pint for anyone who talked with him and used their company to deepen his disguise.
Then, quite miraculously, the man he most hoped to see appeared in a swirl of heavy black cape. Simon Quinn paused at the bar and exchanged words with the keep, then turned with wide eyes to find Colin waving from the corner.
“By God,” Quinn said as he approached, unclasping the jeweled frog that secured his cloak to his neck. “I have been searching all over London for you, half-starved, and you have been here in my lodgings the entire time?”
“Well”—Colin grinned—“the last few hours, at least.”
Quinn muttered a curse under his breath and sank wearily into the seat across from him. A pint was brought over, then a plate of food. Once he was fully settled, he said, “I come bearing both good and bad news.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Colin said dryly.
“I have been betrayed in France.”
Colin winced. “Did Cartland forfeit the names of everyone?”
“It would appear so. I believe that is how he was able to prove his loyalty.”
“The man has loyalty to no one but himself.”
“Very true.” Quinn stabbed a piece of meat, brought it to his mouth, and chewed angrily.
“So that is the bad news, then. What is the good?”
“I have been able to secure a promise of a pardon for all of us, including you.”
“How is that possible if they hunt you as well?”
Quinn’s smile was grim. “Leroux was valuable to the agent-general, enough so that the capture of his killer is of greater concern than the routing of English spies. I was allowed to leave on the promise that I would return with the murderer—whoever that may be. To guarantee my return, they hold the others Cartland betrayed.”
Colin straightened. “By God . . . we must work swiftly, then.”
“Yes.” Quinn finished off his pint. “And there are conditions to complicate matters. First, I must persuade Lord Eddington to release a French spy whom he has in captivity. Then, we must convince a member of Cartland’s group—a man named Depardue—to vouch that Cartland has confessed to the crime.”
The first seemed unlikely, and the second seemed highly difficult, but Colin would take what opportunities were given to him and gladly.
I want to know you, Amelia had said. If only he had the chance to make that happen.
“You seem unduly pleased by this,” Quinn said around a bite. “It is not much.”
“I saw Amelia,” Colin confessed. Held her, touched her, tasted her.
Quinn stilled with a forkful of food lifted halfway to his mouth. “And?”
“It is complicated, but hopeful.”
Setting his utensils down, Quinn gestured for more ale. “How did she take your emergence from the grave?”
Colin smiled ruefully and explained.
“A mask?” Quinn asked when he finished. “Out of all the guises you are capable of donning, you chose a mask?”
“Originally, it suited the masquerade. Later, she saw it on Jacques and it drew her to him. It seemed appropriate to wear it a third time under those circumstances.”
“She is more like her sister than I thought.” Quinn’s lips curved into the slight smile he always wore when referring to Maria. “However, I fail to see how the situation is hopeful. Amelia has no idea who you are.”
“That is a bit of a problem,” Colin agreed.
“A bit? My friend, you are the master of understatement. Trust me, she will not take the news well. She will take it as lack of affection. When she discovers that you were not chaste and pining for her the entire time, she will have her proof that you do not love her.”
Colin heaved out a sigh and sank back into his chair. “This was your plan! You said that I should become a man of means in order to make her happy.”
“Also to make you happy. You would always doubt your worth if you came to her as an underling.” Quinn smiled at the serving girl who brought over the fresh pint, then sat back and studied Colin for a long moment. “I hear she is betrothed to the Earl of Ware.”
“Not yet.”
“She could be a marchioness, despite her father’s scandal and her sibling’s reputation. Quite an accomplishment.”
Glancing around the room, Colin’s gaze paused a moment on every patron, taking stock of each one. “Yes, but she does not love him. She still loves me. Or rather, the boy I used to be.”
A lovely blonde entered the room from the staircase that led to the bedchambers above. Dressed in deep purple and wearing a black ribbon and cameo at her throat, she reminded Colin of a doll. Her delicate features and slender build roused protective instincts, her heavy-lidded eyes and full, red lips inspired carnal musings.
His brows lifted as she turned her head and locked eyes with him. Her smile made him frown in confusion, and he watched her approach with much curiosity, pushing to his feet when she came to a halt behind Quinn.
She set her hands on the Irishman’s broad shoulders. “You should have told me you were back, mon amour,” she said, her voice inflected with an unmistakable French accent.
The look Quinn shot Colin was intriguing, bearing more than a trace of irritation. He did not stand, merely caught the blonde’s hand and tugged her around, directing her to a chair he pulled closer with his foot. Considering Quinn’s love of females, his apparent disinterest in such a beautiful woman was beyond surprising. In close proximity, she was a delight. Pale blue eyes were framed by long, thick chocolate lashes and accented by finely arched brows.
“Is this him?” she asked, studying Colin with an appreciative eye.
Quinn growled.
She smiled wide, revealing straight white teeth. She offered her hand and said, “I am Lysette Rousseau. You are Monsieur Mitchell, oui?”
Colin glanced at Quinn, who cursed under his breath and resumed his meal. “Perhaps,” he replied with caution.
“Excellent. Should it become necessary to kill you, it will be much easier now that I have catalogued your appearance.”
Blinking, he asked, “What the devil did you just say?”
“Provoking wench,” Quinn muttered. “He is innocent.”
“They all say that,” she replied sweetly.
“It is true in this case,” Quinn argued.
“They all say that, too.”
“Pardon me.” Colin glanced between them. “What are you talking about?”
Quinn gestured toward Lysette with an off-hand jerking of his fork. “She is an additional part of my guarantee. She is to return to France with either Cartland, you or me.”
“Or a confession,” she purred. “A confession from any of you would suffice. See? I am not so difficult to please.”
“Christ.” Resuming his seat, Colin examined the Frenchwoman. It was then that he noted a hardness to her eyes and mouth that he had missed before. “How do you find these femmes fatales, Quinn?”
“They find me,” Quinn grumbled, biting into a potato with gusto born of frustration.
“You see only the negatives,” Lysette said, gesturing for service. “There are three of us at this table, all searching for the same thing. I am here to assist you.”
Quinn glared. “If you think holding a sword over my head is endearing, you are sadly mistaken.”
Colin was not so quick to dismiss her. “How can you help?”
“In many ways.” The blonde took a brief moment to order wine from the attending serving girl. “Think of the places I can go where you cannot. All the people who might speak to me but not to you. All the wiles I employ as a woman that you cannot employ as a man. Why, the possibilities are endless!” She lifted a delicate hand to the cameo at her throat, and he found it nearly impossible to imagine her killing anyone.
“How does your participation relate to Depardue?” Colin asked.
Something dark passed over her features. “If he resolves this, it will save me the trouble.”
“The agent-general is determined to leave nothing to chance,” Quinn explained. “Depardue watches Cartland. Lysette watches me. They perform the same service. She is an added . . . warranty.”
Colin winced. “I cannot imagine Depardue appreciates the intimation that he might not be successful.” He looked at Lysette, wondering what the lure of such a position would be. “Why are you doing this?”
“My reasons are my own. A word of advice”—she stared at him intently—“you can trust nothing about me except this: I want Leroux’s killer brought to justice.”
Exhaling harshly, Colin drummed his fingertips atop the table. “I do not like this. While Cartland hunts me, we have a serpent in our midst.”
Quinn nodded his agreement.
Lysette pouted as she accepted the goblet she had ordered previously. “I would rather be Eve than the snake.”
“Eve was alluring,” Quinn retorted.
Colin choked, never having heard the Irishman say an unkind word to a female before.
“What have you accomplished up to this point?” she asked, dismissing Quinn’s rudeness and directing her attention to Colin.
“My days are spent evading Cartland and anyone who sounds French, and my nights are spent searching for him.”
“That is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard,” she scoffed.
“What do you suggest I do, then?” he challenged. “I know nothing.”
“So you must learn.” Lysette took a dainty sip of the blood red wine and licked her lips. She sat with a ramrod straight spine and uplifted chin, the hallmarks of good breeding and proper schooling. “You cannot do that while hiding, which is exactly what Cartland will expect you to be doing. Why do you not contact the man you both work for? Surely, he has the resources to help you bring this to a swift end.”
“That is not his purpose,” Quinn argued. “We are responsible for the managing of our assignments. If we are caught, the cost is ours to pay. I expect your arrangement is similar.”
For a moment, it seemed frustration marred the Frenchwoman’s lovely features, and then it was gone, replaced by a honeyed, careless smile.
Colin could not help but wonder at her, and contemplate how much of a risk she presented. She was so slender and feminine, yet he knew from tales of Amelia’s sister that appearances could be very deceiving. “Do you have other suggestions, mademoiselle? Perhaps you think I should search in the bright light of day?”
“Will you wear a mask?” Quinn asked, finally pushing his plate aside.
“Why would he?” She raked Colin with an assessing glance from the top of his head, down the length of his outstretched legs, to his booted feet. “It would be a shame to conceal such comeliness.” Her mouth curved seductively. “I should like to view all of it.”
Quinn snorted. “Now, you see, love. That is why you are not Eve. You lack the sense required to see the man is taken.”
“You may wear a blindfold,” she offered Colin with a wink, “and call me by whatever name you prefer.”
Colin laughed for the first time in days.
“Watch out for her,” Quinn warned.
“I will leave that task to you. I leave for Bristol in the morning. Cartland’s past may be affecting his present. I hope that something can be discovered that might give me some advantage.”
“Good thinking.” Quinn’s lips pursed with thought. “Lysette and I will stay behind and make inquiries here.”
“I am not comfortable allowing him to go off alone,” she said, with an underlying note of steel to her voice.
“You will grow accustomed.” Quinn lounged in his chair with his usual insolent grace—his body canted to the side, his arm slung across the spindle back, his legs spread wide.
“As handsome as you are,” she sniffed, “I sometimes find it difficult to like you.”
Quinn grinned. “So we are in accord. Mitchell will search elsewhere. You and I will work together in Town.”
“Perhaps I wish to go with him instead.” Lysette’s smile did not reach her lovely eyes.
“Oh, would you?!” Quinn’s exaggerated pleasure made Colin laugh again. “How delightful. At least for me, if not for Mitchell. Sorry, chap.” He shrugged one shoulder and set his hand on the table.
Before either of them could anticipate the action, Lysette was on her feet and Quinn’s discarded knife was piercing the table with precision . . . directly between his casually splayed fingers.
He froze and stared at how close he had come to losing a finger or two. “Damnation.”
She leaned over him. “Do not mock or underestimate me, mon amour. It is not wise to prick my temper.”
Colin stood. “Thank you for the kind offer of your companion’s company,” he said hastily, “but I must respectfully decline.”
Lysette looked at him with a narrowed glance.
“You trust me not at all,” he said, “but I promise you this: I have every reason to clear my name and no reason to flee.”
For a moment, she did not move. Then her mouth lifted slightly at the corner. “Your woman is here.”
He said nothing, but an acknowledgment wasn’t necessary.