Sylvia Day - [Georgian 04] (20 page)

“I think,” he said, turning his attention back to the vicomtess, “that the
L’Esprit
who once demanded vengeance
from
Saint-Martin has become one who demands vengeance
for
him.”

The vicomtess frowned. “I still do not understand.”

“Who would have a grievance against you and your children? Who would resent your happiness and wish to destroy it?”

She pushed to her feet. “Are you speaking of Saint-Martin?”

Simon stood. “Desjardins told me that
L’Esprit
’s goal was to ruin Saint-Martin, yet the new
L’Esprit
—the one who hand-writes his notes and does not visit him in the cellar—makes demands that have nothing to do with the marquis. Their purpose is to bedevil Desjardins.”

“Saint-Martin would never hurt me,” she refuted. “Never.”

“Who is Saint-Martin?” Lynette asked.

“By all accounts he fell into a rapid decline when you left him,” Simon continued. “Yet you married, had children, lived life.”

“How would he know about
L’Esprit
?” the vicomtess challenged. “I received the one and only missive from him the night I left France and I took it with me. Saint-Martin never saw it.”

“If
L’Esprit
was so determined to take every happiness away from the marquis, would he not gloat when he succeeded? Would he not have sent something to Saint-Martin advising him that his misfortune was not an aberration but a well-planned attack? What satisfaction would there be in defeating your enemy if they did not know they were defeated?”

“Mon Dieu,”
Solange whispered.

“He isn’t capable of such viciousness,” the vicomtess insisted.

Simon glanced at Lynette, but spoke to the vicomtess. “A man can be driven mad with wanting, my lady.”

“What do
you
believe has transpired, Mr. Quinn?” Lynette met his gaze directly.

“I believe your sister was taken,” Simon advised. “I believe another body was dressed in her clothing and burned in the carriage. I believe these acts were committed by a man named Depardue, who was working on behalf of Saint-Martin. Somehow, Lysette’s brain was damaged and her memory lost. Desjardins learned of Lysette and took her in, knowing full well who she was. He created an identity for her and has used her for his own purposes these two years, hoping that one day her existence would prove useful in freeing him from
L’Esprit
. I do not believe Saint-Martin knows she is alive.”

“I do not believe any of that,” the vicomtess said, but her white face and wringing hands said something else entirely.

“All this because my mother broke off their affair?” Lynette guessed.

“It is a possibility.”

“No, it is not.” The vicomtess straightened her shoulders. “You do not know him, Mr. Quinn, to make such aspersions on his character.”

“Or perhaps you contribute feelings to him regarding your children that he cannot feel. You know more than he, after all.”

“You are very clever, Mr. Quinn,” Solange said softly.

“What are you talking about?” Lynette asked.

Simon looked at the vicomtess, hoping she would speak up and explain. She said nothing, merely looked away.

Lynette sighed. “
Maman
, you will have to be less secretive, if we have any hope of success.”

“We will have to lure
L’Esprit
out into the open,” Simon said, “in order to free Lysette completely. She and Lynette will both be at risk as long as his involvement is unaddressed.”

Lynette stood. “I will help you however I can.”

“You will not become involved in this morass!” her mother said crossly.

“I am sorry,
Maman
.” Lynette’s voice was sure and unwavering. “It is not my wish to disobey you, but I cannot allow Mr. Quinn to risk himself alone for us and I cannot allow Lysette to continue to live as she has been if I can spare her. She would do no less for me.”

“You do not know if this woman is your sister.”

“I do,” Lynette said. “I know it without a doubt.”

Solange exhaled audibly. “What can we do, Mr. Quinn?”

“Speak with de Grenier when he arrives a few days hence. Share my suspicions. We will need every able-bodied man we can find.”

“De Grenier . . . Yes, you are correct.” The vicomtess’s relief was palpable. “He will assist you.”

“In the interim,” Simon said, “I will do what I can to keep Lysette safe from harm.” He looked at Lynette. “Please remain indoors, mademoiselle. I would be much aggrieved if something untoward were to befall you.”

“Of course.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “I will not jeopardize myself in any manner.”

Simon bowed. “I am in your service if you should need me, but please, do not venture to my home during this time. It is not safe for any of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quinn.” Lynette came to him and offered her hand. The smell of her skin as he kissed the back filled his mind with memories he cherished. He released her with the greatest reluctance, fighting his most basic instincts to squire her away and protect her from all harm.

Solange also reached out to him. “Be careful, Mr. Quinn.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle. You, as well.”

The vicomtess tilted her head. “If what you say about Lysette is true, I will owe you a great deal.”

“You owe me nothing. I am not here with any expectation.” He looked at Lynette one last time, wishing they were alone so that he could share with her all his concerns. In all of his life, he’d had no one to share his burdens.

“Godspeed.”

Simon left the way he had come, leaving behind turmoil he hoped he had the power to help mend.

 

Simon realized he was being followed within two streets’ length from the Tremblay home. His tracker was quite good.

Simon was better.

Slipping through two carts, Simon rounded the opposite side and came up behind him. Tucked in the sleeve of Thierry’s coat was Simon’s sheathed dagger. With a quick flick of his arm, the hilt slid down into his palm.

“Can I help you?” he drawled from a few feet behind the man.

Maintaining his air of insouciance, the individual slowed his steps gradually, then turned about in an elegant spin and touched the brim of his hat.

“Perhaps I can help you,” the man returned.

“Marquis de Saint-Martin, I take it?”

Although he asked, Simon knew it was he.

Saint-Martin tilted his head slightly. “Mr. Quinn.”

They eyed each other carefully.

“Shall we find a more private venue?” Simon asked.

“Certainly.”

Together they moved cautiously, selecting a small tavern off the street. The air was redolent of roasted meat and hearty ale, and the patrons as a rule were neatly attired and subdued.

The two men settled into a corner opposite each other, and Simon studied the marquis as he removed his hat.

Tall, blond, and well formed, the marquis and the equally golden Marguerite Baillon would make a striking couple together. They had certainly made striking issue.

“The vicomtess asked me to investigate you, Mr. Quinn.”

“Enjoying that task?”

“Immensely.” The marquis’s mouth curved and his fingertips drummed lightly on the table. “You are an interesting individual.”

“As are you.”

“Buried secrets are often best left beneath the ground,” the marquis said in a low, dark tone.

“What an intriguing turn of phrase,” Simon murmured, reclining into his seat. “I have one for you: It is too late to close the stable door once the mare is freed.”

Saint-Martin’s eyes narrowed ominously.

Simon was not fooled by the man’s lithe build and pretty face. There was a sharp intensity about the marquis and a tense desperation. Simon was reminded that the man had nothing of emotional value left to lose, which made him exceedingly dangerous. His hardened mien also brought to mind Simon’s future, which would lack Lynette. Perhaps Simon would look similar in the years to come. The thought was sobering and heartbreaking.

“Step lightly, Mr. Quinn. You tread on dangerous ground.”

“Yours is the fourth threat I have had presented to me today,” Simon said dryly. “I believe that must be a record of some sort.”

“You inspire murderous thoughts apparently.” The marquis’s smile was chilling.

Simon snorted. “So do you. Tell me about
L’Esprit
.”

Saint-Martin tensed visibly. “Beg your pardon?”

“I must confess, I am impressed with your ability to inspire such vehement hatred. Perhaps you might care to explain what you did?”

A slight whitening of the marquis’s knuckles was the only sign of disturbance.

“No comment?” Simon murmured. “Regardless, I will not allow this new threat to the vicomtess and her family to continue. As you said, some things that were once buried should remain that way. They should not be revived and utilized again.”

“Can you stop it?” Saint-Martin asked softly. “I think not.”

“A desperate man will resort to desperate measures. You seem to know that very well.”

“You are very clever, Mr. Quinn.” Saint-Martin stood and set his hat on his head. “Pray that you are also very prudent. You might live, if you are.”

Smiling, Simon called after him, “That makes five threats in a day.”

The tavern door closed behind the marquis without a sound.

Chapter 16

L
ysette woke to the sound of the lock turning in her bedroom door. Blinking gritty eyes, she lifted her head and watched Madame Fouche peek her head around the corner.

“Madame Marchant?” she queried softly, most likely unable to see well into the dark room. “Are you well?”

“Yes, come in,” she rasped, clearing her throat.

The housekeeper bustled in and quickly had the lamps lit and coals heating in the grate. She approached the bed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. James is below and would like to see you.”

“Send him up in ten minutes,” Lysette said, knowing she should change first and receive him elsewhere but feeling too weary to make the effort. She also felt safe in her room, closed off from the world at large, protected from the prying eyes of Desjardins’s staff.

Madame Fouche departed and moments later returned with Edward in tow. Lynette was refreshed, her face washed and a robe tied securely over her night rail. She waited in a chair before the fire, her hands linked primly in her lap, her bearing collected and self-assured.

Or so she thought.

“What is it?” he asked, sinking to his haunches beside her with a concerned frown. He was dressed with care, his gray suit unremarkable yet nicely tailored, his cravat perfectly tied. “You have been weeping.”

An emotion on his face goaded her to reach out and touch his cheek with tentative, shaking fingertips. He exhaled harshly the moment they connected and the sound so startled her that she snatched her hand back.

Edward caught her withdrawal with such speed it was nearly too quick to see. He pressed his face into her palm, his eyes dark with something that frightened her . . . and made her tingle.

“Why do you come to me?” she asked hoarsely.

“Because I cannot stay away.”

“What do you hope will happen?”

He inhaled deeply and slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I hope you will give me enough time to show you how it can be between us, if only you allow me to know you.”

“The more you know, the less you will like.”

“You know that is not true. You can feel it. I can see it in your eyes.” He set one hand over her tightly linked ones and squeezed. “You would not be so afraid otherwise.”

“Y-you want me,” she whispered. “I-in your b-bed.”

Standing, Edward held out both hands to her and helped her to her feet. She stood before him, trembling.

His touch drifted over her brow, his gaze hot and tender. “You feel fear, but not of me. It is the memories that frighten you. I can replace those. I can make them fade.”

Lysette watched his mouth lower to hers, the pace set to afford her the opportunity to turn away. Part of her wanted to, knowing what he would want after the kiss. Another part of her was enamored with the shape of his lips, so stern, so somber. There was no frivolity about him.

Edward was an anchor. She was adrift. There was no way to fight the urge to cling to him and find steadiness. She had been alone for so long, unable to rely on anyone but herself. And he was here . . .
again
. . . steadfast . . .

“Yes, I want you,” he said gruffly, his lips a hair’s breadth away from hers. “But I can wait. I
will
wait. Until you are ready, however long that might be.”

Lysette stood frozen, her heart racing in a panicked rhythm.

His mouth touched hers, gently but without hesitation. His tongue touched the seam of her lips, glided along it, caressed the curve. The scent of sandalwood and verbena filled her nostrils, warming her blood and causing her skin to tingle.

Low in her belly, heat spread.

Between her legs, dampness grew. She whimpered and clung to his coat, achingly aware of the cool air at her back and the heated length of hard male to her front.

“Let me in, Corinne.”

Trembling, she obliged, gasping when his tongue thrust deep and sure. The similarity to the sexual act could not be ignored and her trembles turned to violent shaking.

Breathing harshly, he pulled back. “See?” he rasped. “I can stop. At any time. You lead, I follow.”

“Lysette.”

He frowned. “Beg your pardon?”

“My name is Lysette.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists. “I lied to you.”

Something suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. It was rough and abbreviated, almost a bark. “Lysette suits you better.”

“I work for Desjardins,” she blurted out. “He needs information about Mr. Franklin, and he was using me to pry it from you.”

“Was?” His hands moved—one cupping her nape, the other banding her waist.

Lysette stared up at him, afraid to breathe. “I am not a good person. I have done things—”

“I do not care.” Edward studied her, his gaze burning. “What concerns me is how you are with me from this moment onward. You must decide, Lysette: Will you trust me to care for you, as I have since I met you, or will you send me away?”

Lysette swallowed hard. “I want to trust you.”

“That is a beginning, I suppose.”

His fingers kneaded into the tense muscles of her neck, driving her mad. Her brain fought to stay frightened, urging her to flee. But her body, fickle thing, was melting into his touch. The feel of his hard, sinewy frame against her was not unpleasant.

“I have never trusted anyone,” she confessed.

“Ever?”

Her smile was wry. “As long as I can remember. Would you like to hear the tale of my life? It is lamentably short but true.”

Edward kissed the tip of her nose. “I should relish the opportunity to listen to whatever truths you have to tell me. I would, however, be grateful if you would return to bed and drink some beef tea.”

“As you wish.” Her smile wavered, shaken by gratitude at the care he displayed for her well-being.

With his hand at her lower back, he walked her to the bed.

To her surprise, she gave him the lead without reticence or fear for hidden intentions. The half-smile that curved the stern lines of his mouth made the concession worth it.

 

Marguerite was abed and nearly asleep when a raised masculine voice in the adjoining boudoir of her bedroom alerted her. She sat up, tossed back the covers, and fetched her robe from where it was draped over the foot of the bed. Rushing to the door, she pulled it open and found herself faced with her husband.

De Grenier was travel dusty and obviously weary, yet his handsome face lit when he saw her. Celie, her maid, stood behind him, holding his cane and hat.

“I reached Paris tonight,” he said, “and found your note waiting for me. I came straightaway.”

“You may go,” Marguerite said to the maid, linking her arm with de Grenier’s and leading him into the bedroom.

She shut the door behind them, briefly noting the disgruntled frown on the servant’s face. Celie always looked displeased when de Grenier was with Marguerite. Since the maid had been with her since her affair with Saint-Martin, she suspected it was simply a case of liking one master more so than the other.

“Why are you here in Paris?” he asked, moving to the grate and holding his hands out to the banked fire.

“There is so much that I have to tell you,” she said urgently. “So much has transpired since you and I last spoke.”

Their marriage was a distant one, with de Grenier gone from their house more often than he was there. Even when he was home, he was often occupied in his study, working on diplomatic matters between France and Poland. But it was her fault, as well. With her heart engaged elsewhere, she had never given herself to him as she should have.

“Perhaps we should retire to our own home,” he suggested.

“That would take hours and I cannot wait that long. As it is, I thought I might go mad before you arrived.”

Nodding, de Grenier shrugged out of his coat, baring broad shoulders encased in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He was younger than Saint-Martin by a decade, his body in its prime and beautifully maintained, his dark hair unmarred by gray. Women admired and coveted him, fawned over him, yet he was most often too distracted to take note of their interest.

He sank into a slipper chair and removed his heels. “You have my undivided attention, madame.”

Nodding, Marguerite linked her hands behind her back and began to relate the events of the past sennight. She paced with agitation, but her words were spoken clearly. The entire affair was too important to say anything incorrectly.

“And you believe this man? This Quinn?” he asked when she finished. “You saw Lysette’s body with your own eyes, Marguerite. How can this woman be our daughter?”

“I do not know. I confess, I am completely confused.”

“What do you want me to do?” He stood and approached her, taking her hands in his. His gaze was clear and direct, capped by a slight frown.

“What do you think of Quinn’s tale of
L’Esprit
?” she asked. “Do you think it has merit?”

He exhaled, then shook his head. “Are you asking me if I think Saint-Martin is responsible? I’ve no notion. There are too many unanswered questions. What happened to the original
L’Esprit?
How involved is Desjardins?”

“I detest that man,” she hissed. “It frightens me how deeply I wish him ill.”

Pressing his lips to her forehead, he said, “I will visit Quinn tomorrow and judge his sincerity for myself.”

“Thank you.” Marguerite looked up at him and felt deep gratitude. Through every tragedy of her life, he had been available to her, offering support and commiseration.

One of his hands slipped from her shoulders and cupped her unfettered breast. She inhaled sharply, startled by the abruptness of his advance. His thumb brushed across her nipple, then circled it, expertly bringing it to a hard and aching point.

“It is late,” he murmured, watching her reactions with heavy-lidded eyes. “Let us retire here. On the morrow, I will take you and Lynette home, and resolve this dilemma.”

She nodded. As always, Philippe came to mind unbidden and her stomach knotted. Marguerite pushed the inevitable feelings of guilt and betrayal aside with effort and took her husband to her bed.

 

 

Lysette woke with a cry, her body shuddering with remembered fear and horror.

“Lysette.” Edward rose from his seat before the fire, his jacket gone, his reddened eyes telling her he had fallen asleep as well. “Another nightmare?”

“Mon Dieu . . .”
she breathed, lifting a hand to her racing heart. She had never been gladder to see anyone than she was to see Edward. “Bless you for being here.”

“I will always be here,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and pouring her a glass of water. “I stayed tonight because I thought you might sleep restlessly after telling me your story.”