Sylvia Day - [Georgian 04] (21 page)

“It seems I have more to tell,” she whispered, accepting the glass with gratitude.

He nodded grimly. “I am listening.”

Simon was awake before dawn. Although he had slept only a handful of hours, he did not suffer from fatigue. He was alert and primed, so much so that he went to his study and began to plan in depth, knowing he needed a lure and a worthy trap. He was so occupied by the task that the hours passed swiftly, a circumstance he noted only when his butler announced a caller and presented the visitor’s card to Simon.

His brows rose and he glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven. “Show him in.”

Setting his quill aside, Simon waited. When a tall, dark form filled his doorway, he stood and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. James.”

“Mr. Quinn.” Edward James’s returning grip was strong and steady, as Simon supposed the man himself was.

“An unexpected visit, although not unwelcome.” Simon gestured to the seat across from him, eyeing Edward James carefully. “To what or whom do I owe this honor?”

His visitor was dressed somberly in dark brown, his garments well kept, his cravat neat, his heels polished. Unremarkable, really, aside from the obvious fastidiousness.

“First,” James said curtly, “you should know that you will never hear a word about Franklin’s business from me. Ever. Neither will Desjardins, so both of you will have to find another woman to torment and bully.”

Leaning back, Simon crossed his arms and bit back a smile. “I see.”

“No, you do not,” James muttered, scowling. “But you will.”

“Good God!” Simon grinned. “Another threat. I must be doing something correctly.”

“You may find this amusing, Mr. Quinn, however—”

“I have to find some humor in this,” Simon interjected, his smile fading. “I have a great deal at risk, more than I believe I could bear to lose.”

James’s gaze narrowed considerably.

“I hope you are circumspect in your association with Madame Marchant,” Simon said.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” James corrected, “or whatever in hell her surname truly is. And I am always circumspect, Mr. Quinn. I know everything about her, as little as she can share. Every sordid, heartbreaking detail. I cannot condone the many wrongs she has done, but I can collect the necessity of some of it and the feelings of helplessness and melancholy that inspired the rest.”

James lifted his chin. “But do not mistake my sympathy for weakness. I am not the sort of man who loses his head over a woman. Regardless of my affection for her, you will not find my emotions altering my ability to react to jeopardy and subterfuge.”

“Admirable.”

“She claims you hope to extricate her from this morass.”

Simon nodded. “I do.”

“I am here to assist you.”

There was a slight rapping on the open door. Simon glanced up and saw Eddington eyeing James with an assessing glance.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the earl greeted, entering with a decided flourish.

James stood. Simon remained seated, although he did make the necessary introductions.

“Forgive my intrusion. I am off to the tailor’s this morn,” his lordship drawled, fluffing his jabot with a careless, bejeweled hand. “I saw a waistcoat yesterday that was nothing short of divine and knew I must have it immediately. Would either of you care to join me?”

“No, my lord,” Simon said, biting back a smile.

“No, thank you, my lord,” James said, scowling.

“Pity that,” Eddington said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye and studying James from head to toe. “Ah well. Good day, gentlemen.”

There was a brief silence after his lordship had departed, then James muttered, “I imagine that foppish guise fools most.”

“Most, yes.” Simon stared out the empty doorway, thinking.

“Why do you have that look on your face?”

Simon’s gaze moved back to James. “What look?”

“As if you have discovered something new.”

“I was simply thinking that appearances can be deceiving. It is something we could use to our advantage, considering we have two women who are identical to one another.”

“Mademoiselle Rousseau is too ill.”

“I know.” Simon’s fingers drummed atop the papers on his desk. “But very few of us know that. You, me, Desjardins . . . That is all.”

“You did not inform her family?”

“No. Someone wanted her dead and has yet to learn that she is alive due to Desjardins’s hiding of her. Perhaps it is time to relieve
L’Esprit
of his misconception.”

“She had a dream. Last night.” James crossed his arms. “We’ve no notion of whether it is simply a figment of her mind or an actual recollection that is incomplete.”

“Anything at all, at this point, would be an improvement over what we have.”

“I agree. She witnessed a man abusing a maid for failing to intercept all of the vicomtess’s outgoing posts.”

“Did she recognize him?”

“No. Unfortunately, she saw him only from behind. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered . . . Could be anyone.”

“But there is one man we know of who enjoys wounding women,” Simon pointed out.

“Depardue.” The sharp edge to James’s voice betrayed a wealth of ill-will.

“Exactly. And I have suspected that—”

Another rap to the door silenced Simon and he met his butler’s gaze.

“Another caller, sir,” the servant said.

Simon accepted the card handed to him on a silver salver and read it, then glanced at James. “Prepare yourself, James,” he said.

James nodded, his posture altering to one more rigid.

“Inform his lordship that I have a visitor,” Simon said, standing, “but he is welcome to join us.”

A few moments later, a tall and comely man entered the room. Dressed modestly but elegantly in rich green velvet, the dark-haired man who approached Simon’s desk unwittingly confirmed a few of Simon’s suspicions. Curious as to whether the astute James would also latch on, Simon looked forward to the coming introductions.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Simon said.

“Mr. Quinn.”

“My lord, may I present Mr. Edward James to you? He is acquainted with your daughter, Lysette. Mr. James, this is the Vicomte de Grenier.”

Simon watched James’s face closely but furtively, wondering if the man had been aware of the vast difference between his station and the one Lysette occupied. To his credit, James showed no outward sign of any of his thoughts as he greeted de Grenier.

The two men sat, filling the two seats that faced Simon’s desk.

“You may speak freely in front of Mr. James, my lord,” Simon said.

“As you can imagine, the vicomtess is deeply disturbed by your visit yesterday,” the vicomte said grimly. “I am here to arrange a meeting with this woman you claim is our daughter and to discuss your thoughts on this matter of
L’Esprit
.”

“Perhaps you will share what you know, my lord?” Simon asked. “Have you had any correspondence from
L’Esprit
?”

“No. However, I was with the vicomtess when she received a missive bearing that name. It arrived the afternoon Saint-Martin was attacked and left for dead, so I comprehend the danger.”

“Apparently, some of Lysette’s memory may be returning.”

“Oh?” The vicomte appeared to weigh the news a moment. “I am relieved to hear that, as memories of events known only to Lysette will strengthen your argument regarding her identity.”

“Did you see the body identified as Lysette’s?” Simon asked.

“No. Sadly. I wish I could have taken that gruesome burden from the shoulders of my wife, but I was in Paris. I returned a sennight after the event had occurred.”

“Were there any other women in the area who went missing during that time?” James asked.

“I have no idea, Mr. James,” the vicomte replied. “In truth, I did not pay any attention to surrounding activities for months following. My wife was nearly destroyed by our loss, my remaining daughter was deeply grieving and altered by guilt. Apparently, Lysette was running an errand for her when the accident happened.”

“Fetching a muff, perhaps?” James asked with narrowed gaze.

“Yes.” De Grenier’s frame tensed and he glanced with wide eyes at Simon. “It
is
Lysette, is it not? How else would you know that?”

“Yes, it is she.”

The vicomte sat back, his shoulders rising as if a great weight had been removed. “The return of Lysette would restore my family to the happiness we once knew, at least in part. Does she remember what happened to her?”

“Not entirely.” James did not look away from the vicomte, but Simon sensed he was searching for clues on how to proceed.

“She is in grave danger,” Simon said, “as long as this man,
L’Esprit
, hunts her.”

“And you believe
L’Esprit
is Saint-Martin?” De Grenier looked between the two of them with bright eyes. “In retaliation for the loss of my wife?”

“It seems a logical conclusion, unless you know of someone else who would wish to harm you so gravely?”

“No. There is no one else.”

“So how do we force him to reveal his hand?” James asked.

“I think the best way to go about the business is to bring Lysette out into the open,” Simon suggested. “However, my lord, Lysette is not well.”

“Not well?” De Grenier leaned forward. “What is the matter with her? She should be attended.”

“She has been, my lord,” James said. “And she is recovering, but she is not yet well enough to venture out and put herself at risk.”

“So how do you suggest we manage this?” the vicomte asked.

“If you are willing, my lord,” Simon said, “we could switch the two. Lysette would stay with Solange Tremblay and Lynette would move into Lysette’s home. We would set the trap there. I am being followed, so I doubt more than a few public sightings would be necessary to ensure that she is seen.”

De Grenier gaped a moment, then snapped his mouth shut. “You want me to risk one daughter for the other?”

“I can think of no other way.”

“Well, think harder,” the vicomte said. “By your own account, Lysette has learned to care for herself. Lynette is still innocent. She would be an easy target.”

“I am open to ideas, my lord. You must trust that Lynette’s safety is my primary concern and the impetus for my involvement to begin with. Perhaps you should discuss this plan with both your wife and Lynette, then contact me with your thoughts?”

The vicomte looked to James, who shrugged. “I am at a loss, my lord.”

De Grenier stood, shaking his head. “I will speak with the vicomtess and send for you when we have reached a decision. In the interim, please consider alternate routes that do not include Lynette’s involvement.”

“I will endeavor to keep her separate as much as possible,” Simon said.

The vicomte studied him with narrowed eyes, then nodded. “I think I believe you in that regard, Mr. Quinn.”

They shook hands and parted, leaving Simon with James.

“In regards to your offer of assistance . . .” Simon began.

James smiled grimly. “Tell me what you need.”

Chapter 17

I
t was nearly impossible for Lynette to sit still. Her heart raced desperately and the palms of her gloves were damp with sweat. As the hackney rolled inexorably toward the location where they would meet Lysette, Lynette found herself shifting nervously on the seat. Her sister was alive and only moments away. The miracle of that was almost too extraordinary to believe.

“Lynette,” de Grenier said, his tone a warning. “You will make yourself ill if you continue to fuss in that manner.”

“I cannot help myself, my lord.”

“I collect how you feel,” her mother said softly, offering a shaky smile.

“I have strong reservations about this,” her father muttered. “If this is an elaborate ruse, I doubt I can protect both of you.”

“I trust him,” Lynette said, bristling. “Implicitly.”

Her father offering protection? She bit back a snort. If she added up all the days of her life in which they had occupied the same home, they would be few and far between. He was always away. For years she had pined for any sign of affection or concern from him. Then she realized that he would never forgive her for being a daughter and not a son.

“You are obviously smitten,” he said, his lip curling.

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, I am.”

Her mother reached over and set her hand atop her father’s. He quieted and Lynette shot her a grateful smile.

The carriage drew to a halt. Lynette looked out the window, frowning at the sight of a cemetery.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

“This is the direction Quinn sent earlier,” de Grenier replied.

She felt confusion until Simon stepped into view, so tall and powerful and delicious in cinnamon-colored silk, his gait seductive and predatory. His gaze met hers and changed, becoming hotter. Hungrier. Burning with passion and possessiveness. Her breath caught and heat swept across her skin.

Her fingers curled desperately around the lip of the carriage window. Emotions flooded her in a deluge difficult to process—relief and joy, lust and longing. Yet even as the torrent of feeling swirled around her, her heart was firmly anchored in the middle, sure in its intent and the purity of her affection.

The unspoken words lodged in her throat, her eyes burning with unshed tears. He was doing this for her. Everything. All of it. And she could not go through the experience without him. It was his strength she looked toward. His returning affection for her gave her the confidence to face her parents and Lysette, a woman who would be a stranger to her.

Her heart swelled in her breast, aching at the sight of him, grateful for the gift of him.

Her lips mouthed the words which he saw, his jaw tightening. With a brusque wave of his hand, he gestured the driver away from the door and wrenched it open himself, catching her as she fell into his arms, his lips brushing against her cheek before he set her down.

“Mademoiselle Baillon,” he greeted her, his voice gruff. “You steal my breath.”

“You stole my heart,” she whispered.

His sharp exhale was a hiss of sound in the quiet of the cemetery. The look he gave her scorched her, made her cheeks flush with heat and her lips dry.

“Mr. Quinn.”

Her father alighted from the carriage and held out a hand to her mother.

Simon looked away from her, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. She felt the need in him, smelled it in the air, shivered as it called to her own desire for him. Her breasts swelled in response and the tender flesh between her legs dampened. It was an animalistic response, purely instinctive. That their reactions to one another were goaded by her original emotional response told her all she needed to know.

“This way,” Simon said, leading them through the cemetery. Lynette hurried forward, catching his arm with her own.

“Lynette,” her father snapped. “Walk with us.”

She looked up at Simon, who frowned down at her, and she winked.

“Witch,” he said under his breath. But a hint of a smile curved his mouth and made her heart clench.

“Lover,” she purred.

His growl rumbled over her skin and soothed the part of her made restless by the upcoming reunion with her sister. The tension she had carried in her shoulders all morning relaxed. His hand came over hers and squeezed, and the look he gave her told her that he understood her anxiety and agitation.

Simon understood everything about her, in a way those who had known her for years did not.

They approached a crypt with an open door and she slowed.

“We must travel the distance through there,” he said.

Lynette nodded and lifted the hem of her sapphire skirts in her hand.

“Mon Dieu,”
her mother said. “Is this really necessary?”

“Desjardins’s home is being watched. This is the most convincing way in which to make the switch. I entered the home with Lysette, I will depart with Lynette. Whoever is watching will never know the difference.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Lynette met her mother’s frown with a shaky smile. “You will leave with Lysette,
Maman
. Surely that makes you happy.”

“But I risk you,
ma petite
,” her mother said gravely.

Her father’s lips tightened and he gripped the vicomtess’s arm more securely.

Lynette looked forward again and clung to Simon’s arm as he led her into the bowels of the city. They traversed a maze of winding stone-lined paths, their way lighted by a single burning torch carried aloft by Simon. Eventually he turned off the main corridor and led them up a short flight of stairs to a wooden door.

Thrusting the torch into a sconce on the wall, he then pushed open the portal and stepped into a cellar. Row upon row of wine racks filled the cool space, startling Lynette for a moment. It was such an innocuous sight after the ominous air of the catacombs. The change in scene was jarring and caused her apprehension to return in full force.

Simon’s hand squeezed hers again and her shoulders went back.

Her heartbeat increased with every step, her breathing growing shallower until she found herself standing before a small, slender man dressed in gold satin. He looked her over from head to toe.

“Remarkable,” he said, his voice loud in the relative stillness of the house.

“Lynette, may I introduce—”

Simon’s words were cut off when de Grenier lunged and tackled Desjardins to the floor. A one-sided scuffle ensued, and Simon reached out to the stunned vicomtess and pulled her into the study, where he shut the door.

Lynette was so startled by her father’s attack, it took her the length of several heartbeats to sense the heavy weight of tension in the room. It settled on her nape first, raising the tiny hairs there and sending a shiver down her spine.

Inhaling deeply, she turned slowly, her breath held within seized lungs, her heart hammering against her corset-bound ribs.

She found Lysette by the grate, pale and ethereally lovely in a gown of white with multicolored embroidered flowers, her arm extended to grasp the hand of a somber-looking man in dark gray.

Lynette studied her without blinking, seeing her beloved sister on the exterior but a stranger reflected in her eyes, one both cold and wary. If not for the man beside Lysette—Mr. Edward James, according to her father—she might have remained reserved. But James was precisely the sort of suitor Lynette would have chosen for her sibling.

Without a word, she took a step forward, unaware that she was sobbing until hot tears fell on her breast.

Her sister looked at Mr. James, who nodded his encouragement. He stepped closer, placing his hand at the small of her back and guiding her forward.

A sob rent the highly charged air and her mother rushed past her, embracing Lysette with a cry of agonized joy. Her sister’s face crumbled, the stony façade falling away to reveal a vulnerable young woman with deeply rooted pain.

The sight was so intimate Lynette looked away, searching for Simon, who must have felt her need of him. He drew abreast of her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

“A thiasce,”
he murmured, handing a handkerchief to her. “Even tears of joy pain me when they fall from your eyes.”

His large hand cupped her waist with gentle pressure and she leaned against him, taking comfort from his stalwart presence.

The vicomtess pulled back, her shaking hands cupping Lysette’s face. Searching, touching, remembering. Lysette was crying softly, her shoulders folded down and inward, her frame so frail and quaking with the force of her emotions.

Then her eyes shifted, moving upward until she met Lynette’s returning gaze.

“Lynette,” she murmured, extending her hand.

Marguerite composed herself with great effort, stepping back and hugging herself, rocking gently.

Simon pressed a kiss to Lynette’s forehead. “I will be here for you,” he whispered.

Nodding, she straightened and stepped away from him. She took one step, then another. She watched her sister do the same, searching the beloved features for any sign of condemnation or fury for being the cause of her torment these last few years.

But there was nothing but hope and a joy so wary it broke Lynette’s heart. Like her mother, she ran the rest of the way, one hand holding her skirts while the other was extended in grateful welcome.

They collided, the impact jolting through them both, more for the feeling of having two broken halves reunited than from the physical force.

Laughing and crying, they clung to each other, speaking over each other, words and tears mingling together in a scouring wash that wiped the years away. It suddenly felt as if they had never been apart, as if it had all been a horrible nightmare.

Marguerite joined them and together they sank to the floor, a puddle of feminine skirts and golden hair in the stark whiteness of Desjardins’s parlor.

They did not hear the men leave or the door shut behind them.

 

Simon glanced at James in the hallway as the latch clicked into place behind them. “Does Lysette understand the arrangements?”

“Yes. She was not pleased, but she acquiesced.”

“Excellent. Pray the rest of this affair runs as smoothly as the first.” He gestured toward the study, where angry voices could be heard.

They paused on the threshold, taking in the sight of Desjardins sitting before the cold grate with a bloody lip and nose and de Grenier seated at Desjardins’s desk with a pile of missives from
L’Esprit
scattered all across the top.

“Mademoiselle Baillon remembers more this morning than she did yesterday,” James said. “I believe the reconciliation with her mother and sister will jar the rest of her memory loose in short order.”

De Grenier glanced up from the desktop.

“Excellent,” Simon replied, glancing at the comte. “Have you arranged a meeting with Saint-Martin?”

“ ’e replied that the next time ’e sees me will be in ’ell,” the comte mumbled from behind a crimson-soaked kerchief.

“Very well, then,” Simon said, shrugging. “We shall see what we can do about that.”

 

It was nearing two in the afternoon when Simon Quinn’s coach pulled away from Desjardins’s house. The equipage moved with studious leisure toward Lysette’s home, the pace deliberately set to enable a greater opportunity of being seen.

Simon reclined against the squab, his face set austerely to give no clue to his thoughts. The curtains were tied back to facilitate viewing by anyone searching them out, so there was nothing to do but wait. If his assessment of the situation was correct, he doubted they would be waiting long.

Occasionally, he glanced at the squab across from him, marveling at how much a garment could change the appearance of the wearer. Lynette and Lysette were identical, yet the floral gown of one and the sapphire silk of the other altered that mirroring enough to make them two separate and distinct women. In close proximity, the differences life’s toils—or lack thereof—had wrought in them became noticeable, but from a distance, they easily passed for one another.

As the carriage drew to a halt outside Lysette’s home, Simon shot a quick glance at the façade and noted the slight rustling of the sheers on the upper-floor window. A chill swept down his nape and curled around his spine. His instincts told him something was amiss and he trusted them implicitly.

And so the prearranged plan was set in motion. For the benefit of anyone watching, the cinnamon-clad man and the floral-garbed woman exited the equipage with insouciance, her hat set at a jaunty angle atop riotous blond curls and his hand set over the top of hers. The hackney was paid and sent on his way, then they climbed the short steps and entered the house.

The silence inside was deafening. And unnatural. Lysette’s household was small, yet there should have been some sounds of movement.

They stepped farther into the foyer, both tense, breaths caught, their heads turning from side to side, searching for entrapment. His fingers banded her wrist and he attempted to tug her behind him, but she resisted.

Slowly, carefully, they moved through the house. Room by room. Working in tandem as if they always had.

Ascending the stairs, they reached the first door, which belonged to the upper parlor. Reaching for the knob, he pushed the portal carefully open, pausing when the door’s progress was halted midswing by something heavy on the floor. He looked down. Saw an arm, the hand of which was splattered with blood. He stepped back, but not in time.

The muzzle of a pistol appeared, followed immediately by the person brandishing it.

“Bonjour,”
the masculine voice drawled.

“Thierry,” Lynette murmured, her voice cold and devoid of emotion.