Sylvia Day - [Georgian 04] (18 page)

Lynette bit her lower lip and nodded, her chest tight with an emotion akin to grief.

Simon cupped her face with both hands and pressed a far-too-swift kiss to her trembling mouth. “Thank you.” His hands shook as he held her, then he backed away. “Go inside now.”

With dragging steps, she headed toward the stables, where her clothes waited. She glanced back at him once and found him staring after her, hands behind his back. Her vision blurred with tears and she looked away, departing the alley with silent sobs.

 

It was a painful crick in his neck that pulled Edward from the depths of dreamless sleep into waking. He groaned and straightened, discovering that he had slept for hours sitting up in Corinne’s bed. He straightened away from the headboard, rolling his shoulders, glancing to the side to see where she had gone to.

She lay curled atop a pillow on the far side of the bed, watching him with eyes so ravaged by illness they looked bruised.

He stilled, wary. “Good morning.”

“Are you drunk?” she whispered.

A smile threatened, but he restrained it. “I am afraid that smell is you. You were feverish and we needed to cool you.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have been asking myself that question for three days.”

“Three days?”
she gasped, clearly horrified.

Leaving the bed, Edward stretched his arms wide and glanced at the clock. He would have to leave for work shortly and, perhaps, not be allowed to return.

He reached for the pitcher and glass on the nightstand, and poured a small ration. Rounding the bed to the other side, he deliberately moved without haste so as not to aggravate the high tension he sensed in her. She rolled with him, facing him.

“Can you sit up?” he asked.

Corinne blinked slowly, wearily. “I think so.”

“If you require assistance, you have only to ask.”

She struggled to a seated position on her own. “Where are the Fouches?”

“Most likely preparing for the day. They are old,” he pointed out.

“Thierry is not.”

“Madame Fouche was disinclined to have him tend to you.”

Holding out her hand, she accepted the glass. She looked like a child in the big bed, so small and delicate. “But she had no objection to you?”

“Her age gave her little choice, and in the end, she felt a lover would be more acceptable to you than her son.”

Corinne choked on her first swallow and he thumped her carefully on the back.

“A lie, of course,” he pointed out, in case she thought more had happened to her while ill than she knew.

“You are impossibly arrogant,” she gasped.

“Yes, that is true.” He straightened. “I must prepare for work now. Would you allow me to visit you tomorrow in the evening?”

She stared at him.

He waited, knowing that he would think of her all night.

However, tonight would best be spent in study of Quinn, a mystery that niggled at him relentlessly over the last two nights. Tomorrow he was free of any duty and he could catch up on missed sleep, enabling him to return to Corinne refreshed and perhaps armed with more information. It also gave her time to rebuild her strength. He knew she felt vulnerable now, which would only make her ill at ease and defensive. One wrong move could ruin everything.

A knock came to the door, and shortly after, Madame Fouche bustled in, huffing from the journey up the narrow servants’ staircase. She paused upon seeing Corinne awake and curtsied. “Good morning, Madame Marchant.”

Corinne frowned. “Good morning.”

She still did not respond to Edward’s question and he reluctantly took that as an answer in the negative.

“She will need plenty of fluids,” he said to the housekeeper. “Beef tea and vegetable stock, both salted lightly. Lots of water.”

“Yes, sir.”

Edward held out his hand to Corinne and she placed hers within it. The skin was paper-thin and lined with thin blue veins. So fragile, yet she was so strong in other ways. He kissed the back and withdrew.

He would pursue her anew when she was fully recovered. This would not be the end.

“Where are your spectacles?” she asked.

“They were crushed the night of the fire.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “You saved me.”

“Actually, you were well on your way to saving yourself. I simply caught you.”

“And tended me for three days. Thank you.”

He bowed, released her hand, and turned away.

“I anticipate your visit tomorrow,” she said in barely a whisper.

Edward’s steps faltered slightly, but he gave no other outward sign of his relief. He could not appear eager, not with a woman so frightened of overt male interest.

“Until then,” was all he said, but he was smiling as he departed.

Desjardins was whistling as he entered his study shortly after breaking the fast. It was unfortunate that James had chosen to search the wrong side of the Orlinda manse first, which had led to Lysette being exposed to danger longer than he would have liked. However, the physician assured him she would survive without long-term damage and James was so smitten already that he had spent the last three nights tending to her himself.

But then such fortuitous events were the usual for him. His life had always been a charmed one. Take, for instance, the Fouches. While he regretted providing Lysette with such elderly and subsequently dubious help, he could afford no better without arousing undue suspicion in his wife. Comtess Desjardins was a beautiful woman, far too lovely for a man of his unremarkable appearance, but regardless, she loved him, as he loved her, and she would not allow him mistresses or even temporary dalliances. Keeping Lysette was one of his marriage’s enduring secrets, as were his less savory deeds performed with the goal of increasing their social stature.

Now it appeared the age of the Fouches was a blessing in disguise, providing James the excuse to act heroically once again.

The comte had just taken his seat behind his desk when a knock came to the open door. He smiled at the waiting butler and said, “Send him in.”

He knew the man’s identity already, as his arrival was scheduled and perfectly timed.

A moment later Thierry entered, smiling. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Yes, it is.”

His returning smile was sincere, his affection for the man bolstered by over two decades of loyal service. Thierry had filled many roles over the years, from courier to footman. His present guise as the Fouches’ son allowed him to stay apprised of the developing relationship between Lysette and James. Despite their years, the Fouches had no difficulty in assimilating new roles quickly, even becoming the parents of a grown man overnight.

“How is Lysette?” the comte asked.

“She woke this morning.”

“Lovely news.”

“She is tired and weak, of course,” Thierry said, “but seems well enough.”

Desjardins leaned back, his legs stretched out before him. “Any word on what she and James intend from this point?”

“James will return tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?”

“No, not that I blame the man. Mademoiselle Rousseau is not an easy woman to care for while unconscious, courtesy of Depardue and his men.”

“Damn the man.”

He would never forget his first sight of her, cowering and abused, ruthlessly shared among a coarse lot of men until little of her spirit remained. But again, it was another fortunate event for him, because acquiring Lysette had given him a valuable tool he would not have had otherwise, both in her loyalty and her identity. Only time would tell if he would ever have to use the latter, but it was there, if he should need it.

“I will see her this evening, then,” the comte said. “Tell her to expect me.”

“Yes, my lord.” Thierry straightened and leaned forward, setting a missive on the edge of the desk with a now familiar and much hated black seal on the reverse. “I was handed this on the way here.”

Thierry had become nearly the only bearer of the
L’Esprit
orders of late, but then Thierry was one of few whom Desjardins saw on a regular basis.

Clenching his jaw, Desjardins dropped the missive into a drawer and withdrew a nicely weighted purse.

“You may have the night to yourself. However, I should like to know why Quinn came to see her. I will need you in residence when he responds to her summons, hopefully tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Thierry stood and caught the purse when tossed to him. “I am at your service, as always.”

Desjardins responded to a few posts waiting his attention, and when the clock on the wall chimed the noon hour, he stood, straightening the lines of his coat with a practiced tug. A moment later his lovely wife filled the doorway, pulling on her gloves.

“Are you ready, Desjardins?” she asked, her dark hair expertly, elaborately coiffed, and her wrists and ears sparkling with emeralds that matched the exact color of her eyes.

“Yes, of course.” He rounded the desk. “I am as eager to offer my condolences to the Baroness Orlinda as you are.”

His wife had wanted to see the baroness immediately, but he had delayed the visit, explaining that the number of curious and sympathetic visitors to her sister’s residence where she was staying would be prohibitive.

The comtess shuddered. “I feel for the woman,” she said, “as I would anyone who suffered similarly, but truly, this is the sort of thing that happens when one engages in such immoral behavior.”

“Certainly,” he agreed.

He had no fear that his presence at the ball would become known. The baroness never discussed her guest list with anyone, and those who attended never spoke of whom they saw there, since that would be admitting their own involvement.

“Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm to the comtess.

This would be no mere social visit for him; if so, he would have allowed his wife to speak for both of them. He had more interest in this excursion than a need to offer his sympathy. Before he left the baroness’s home, he would know if Quinn’s presence at the ball had been happenstance or not. With the additional visit to Lysette shortly after, he had begun to doubt that as being the case. Lysette said Quinn had ceased to work for the English, so why was he still in Paris?

Of course, perhaps it would just be simpler to kill the man and be done with it. There would be no reprisal for the death of a man no longer in service.

The idea held merit and Desjardins tucked it away to consider in greater depth later.

Chapter 14

I
t was barely noon when the first missive arrived on Simon’s desk. Written in a beautiful, flowing feminine hand, it asked if he had reached a decision regarding his discussion with the Vicomtess de Grenier the day before. He thought of burning it, but thrust it into a drawer instead.

Later, another arrived, this one containing only the address of a tailor’s shop and nothing more. Unlike the vicomtess’s, it was a message Simon was relieved to see.

Donning his coat, he left his house posthaste. His residence was now a torment, occupied as it was with both Eddington and memories of Lynette. It was the last place he wanted to be and yet the only place to both wait for news and bide his time until the hour was sufficiently late to allow him to visit Lysette.

He rode swiftly, goaded by the feeling of being trapped, forced to act against his will and in ways that went against the grain. He could not move forward or back, and lack of information was what hampered him.

Familiar with the direction sent to him, Simon was still forced to travel in ever-minimizing circles, searching for anyone who might be following him before finally reaching his destination.

The ringing of bells on the shop door heralded his arrival, but no one he knew was inside.

Simon removed his hat, his gaze sweeping over the various bolts of cloth and the customer speaking to the red-haired woman at the counter before discovering the waving hand peeking out from behind a curtain. Moving to the rear, he slipped behind the thick wool and found himself in the back of the store. He also found Richard.

“Took you long enough, Quinn,” the man said, laughing.

Richard was seated at a table covered in multiple scraps of cloth and spools of thread. As always, he looked relaxed and carefree. Simon was not fooled, though the less observant would be.

Taking the seat Richard gestured to, Simon set his hat on the table and said, “Interesting choice of venue.”

“Courtesy of Amie”—Richard gestured to a rather plain-faced girl who sat in the corner tugging needle through thread—“and her mother, Natalie.”

The redhead rounded Simon’s back, set a chipped and mismatched tea service atop the mess on the table, and began to pour.

“Natalie’s husband is the tailor,” Richard explained. “But he is home ill this week.”

“Merci beaucoup,”
Simon said to Natalie, then he pressed a kiss to his fingertips and tossed it at the girl. Amie blushed and lowered her eyes.

“Women come too easy to you,” Richard complained. “It took me two hours before she would even look at me.”

“But your efforts paid off.”

“I would rather expend no effort, like you.”

Simon accepted the cup and saucer offered to him, and settled as comfortably as possible into his wobbly seat. “Tell me you have something valuable.”

“I am not certain how valuable it is, but it’s damned interesting.” Declining tea, Richard crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “The Vicomte de Grenier is most likely one of my easiest assignments.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He was embroiled in a scandal of such note, that it is still remembered to this day.”

“Always lovely when that happens.”

“Yes, it is. Apparently the vicomte was betrothed to Marguerite Piccard, who was a diamond of the first water, I understand.”

“Still is,” Simon said, setting his cup down without drinking from it. He wanted liquor, not tepid tea.

“However, before they could wed, she hared off with the Marquis de Saint-Martin, a noted libertine who happened to be married at the time. I heard some diverting tales about women crying in the streets over the man, but his reputation was obviously not a deterrent to Mademoiselle Piccard.”

Simon remembered the haughty and icy woman he had met in his parlor, and his brows rose. Then he thought of Lynette and the heat of her passion. It seemed both women were determined to have what they wanted.

“She was his mistress for over a year,” Richard continued, “then she returned to de Grenier, who married her anyway. He is some sort of diplomat to the Polish and she has been living in Poland ever since. De Grenier returns quite often, always alone. They had two daughters, but one is deceased.”

“Was the parting with Saint-Martin amicable?”

“It is said the libidinous marquis suffered a great decline after they separated. He was not seen for months after she wed, and afterwards, was never the same.”

Frowning, Simon considered the news carefully. “What year did this transpire?”

“In ’57. Also, I am not certain if they are connected in any way, but Saint-Martin’s surname is Rousseau.”

“It cannot be coincidence. There are too many of those as it is.”

“What does it mean? Do you know?”

“I might.” Suddenly wishing he’d had more sleep, Simon growled and damned his brain for being sluggish. “Say nothing of this to Eddington.”

“Of course not,” Richard muttered. “You know me better than that.”

Simon pushed to his feet.

“Well? Are you going to tell me what in bloody hell is going on?” Richard demanded.

“No, not yet.”

“Damn it, Quinn . . . Do not go yet! I haven’t finished.”

Pausing midturn, Simon waited.

“I will tell you mine,” Richard offered, “if you tell me yours.”

“Becking . . .” Simon rumbled.

“Oh, very well. Since I felt rather successful after last night, I stopped by Mademoiselle Rousseau’s residence this afternoon. Just before I came here, actually. One of her servants was leaving at the time and I followed him. He went directly to Desjardins’s residence and was shown in like a guest, not a servant.”

“A bit odd perhaps,” Simon murmured, “but not surprising. I am certain Desjardins supports her and pays her staff. He would expect reports of her activities and visitors.”

Which was why Simon would not be announcing his next visit to her.

“That is not the best part.” Richard sat back and grinned. “That James chap was following him, as well. Damned good at the business, too. I had no notion he was in pursuit until after I mounted to meet you. I was turning a corner when he caught my eye.”

“So . . . the mouse senses the trap.” Simon nodded. “Excellent work as always, Becking. You can share that part with Eddington. It should keep him happy for a time.”

“Eh. It was a lucky day.”

Simon patted him on the shoulder. “See what news you can find regarding the marquis.”

“Already working on it,” Richard assured. “As much for my benefit as for yours. Been a while since I had anything this interesting to chew on.”

Smiling, Simon departed the shop and rode toward Lysette’s.

 

Desjardins fingered the missive in his pocket as he climbed the stairs to Lysette’s room. Another
L’Esprit
query, this time in regards to Simon Quinn. The man was coming far too close to Lysette for the comte’s comfort. If he was not careful, he would lose her.

He reached the door and knocked once, then entered without waiting for permission. It was his house, after all.

“Ma petite,”
he said, striding toward the bed.

Lysette was reclining, though more upright than on her back. Dressed in a night rail and covered to the breasts in the counterpane, she seemed so small and fragile. He was reminded of his daughter Anne and his throat tightened.

“My lord,” she murmured, her voice still tight and raspy.

“How are you feeling?” He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it closer to the bed before sitting.

“Tired. Confused.”

“I cannot help you with the former, but perhaps the latter is in my power to soothe.”

She sighed, which led to a brief fit of coughing. She caught up the large handkerchief resting in her lap and held it to her lips.

“Has the physician returned?”

“Not that I have been aware.”

“I will send for him when I leave.”

“Thank you.”

Desjardins smiled. “I would do anything for you.”

She nodded, her features grave.

“I hope you feel the same charity toward me,” he said.

“Have I not proven that over the last two years?”

“Yes, of course.” He placed one ankle over the opposite knee. “But the world is changing, wars are raging. Friends become enemies and enemies become friends. Such is the way of things.”

Lysette blinked at him, a slight frown marring the space between her brows. “What has happened?”

The comte glanced around the room, noting a pale pink chaise set in an awkward location. He gestured toward it with a jerk of his chin. “Is that where James slept?”

“I assume so.”

There was an odd note to her voice and he looked back at her. “Is that where your confusion stems?”

“Yes.” Her slender fingers twisted the handkerchief into a tangled rope. “I do not understand why he would go to such trouble, unless he is not as innocuous as he appears. Could he have some returning interest in you?”

“Doubtful. Is it so difficult to believe that he tended to you because he cares for you?”

“How? He does not know me.”

Desjardins shrugged. “What is there to know? Your favorite foods, favorite places? Such tidbits are interesting and can lead to conversation, but truly, does that change the feeling one has about a person upon the first meeting? You know instantly, within a few moments, whether you wish to know a person better or not. Obviously, James felt that way about you.”

Her lips pursed.

“I think you are a puzzle to him,” he said, “and he is the sort of man who enjoys such challenges.”

“A puzzle,” she repeated.

“I think so.”

“Hmm . . .” Her gaze sharpened on him. “So tell me why you are here.”

“To make sure you are well.”

“Thierry would have told you that.”

The comte grinned. “Yes, but I prefer to see some things with my own eyes.”

“Think I might run away?” she drawled softly.

“You might. Quinn seems disinclined to forget about you. Perhaps there is more to your association than you want me to know.”

“You say that simply because he came by?”

“I say that because he has a man watching your home.”

Lysette stiffened, eyeing Desjardins carefully. There was something odd about him today, a moody tension that was far removed from his usual ease of deportment. It set her nerves on edge and made her wary. Restless predators were always dangerous.

“I must say,” he murmured, “it does ease my mind to see that you are not pleased to hear that.”

“Of course not,” she scoffed. “I do not like anyone prying into my life. It is hard enough knowing that nothing escapes your notice.”

“I wish that were true.”

Dropping the kerchief, she crossed her arms. “Tell me what ails you.” She presently lacked the patience to continue with meaningless discourse when something important was afoot.

He removed a missive from his pocket and tossed it in her direction. It spun gracefully on its side and landed near her thigh. She picked it up and examined it, noting the broken black wax that bore no seal. The front was blank, not addressed to anyone.

She looked up at him and asked, “Should I read it?”

“Please do.”

Using more care than usual, she opened the letter and read.

“Who is this from?” she breathed, horrified by the curt and heartless way it demanded information about Simon, at the cost of Desjardins’s daughter if the request was not met.

“A man known only as
L’Esprit
,” the comte said, his voice dripping venom. “A thorn in my side for over two decades.”

Her hands fell to the bed. She was so startled by the thought of Desjardins being as helpless as she often felt. “Has he been using your family against you all of this time?”

“From the beginning. I would never assist him otherwise.” The comte stood and began to pace angrily. “
L’Esprit
is the reason for your work with James. He is highly interested in Benjamin Franklin and I had hoped that you might learn something of such great import that it would lure
L’Esprit
out of the shadows.”

“I will do what I can, of course.”

“It is beyond that now. You read his latest demands. Quinn’s man was seen following Thierry to my home. It will not be long before
L’Esprit
follows Thierry or Quinn to you.”

Suddenly cold, Lysette burrowed deeper under the covers. “That upsets you a great deal.”

“It should upset you as well,” Desjardins said. “Depardue was his spy within the
Illuminés
. If
L’Esprit
learns that you killed his most trustworthy lieutenant, he will take you from me. If he kills you, that would be kind. I have seen him destroy men.”

“Destroy?” she whispered, more frightened by Desjardins’s obvious disquiet than by the tale itself. After all they had been through, she had never once seen him anything less than completely self-assured.

“He once bore a grievance against the Marquis de Saint-Martin. He robbed Saint-Martin of everything he held dear. Nothing was sacred.”

“What can we do?”

“Use your illness as a way to ingratiate yourself into James’s life. Allow him to do what he can to make you comfortable. Allow the bond between you to grow. That should not be too difficult, he saved your life.”

“And what about Quinn? He will return.”

“I will manage Quinn.”

Menace laced the comte’s words and Lysette felt her stomach roil. Desjardins’s urgency goaded hers. “I will do what I can with James, I promise.”

“Thank you.” The comte approached and kissed the back of her hand, then he retrieved the note from
L’Esprit
and returned it to his pocket. “I will look into moving you. I no longer feel this residence is a safe haven.”