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 ma
n 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.”
She glanced at Simon and he answered with a querying lift of his brows. She frowned, apparently as clueless as he was.
“Your men were released when you arrived, Mr. Quinn,” the comte said, “as promised.”
Simon moved over to the window and looked outside, then he glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I will enjoy your company for a few more moments, if you have no objections.”
Lysette’s mouth quirked. They all knew Simon would not leave without ensuring his men were safe, objections or not.
The comte shrugged. “As you wish. Stay as long as you desire. I am grateful to you for returning Mademoiselle Rousseau in good health.”
“I take no pleasure in wounding others,” Simon said grimly. “And I cannot expect to receive my men unharmed if I return damaged goods.”
“Very civilized of you. So what are your plans now?” Desjardins asked, rocking back on his heels and smiling innocently.
“None of your damned concern,” Simon drawled, growing impatient with the comte’s facetiousness. “No offense, my lord.”
“None taken.”
A short rap on the door heralded the arrival of a tea service delivered by a housekeeper as elderly as the butler. Both looked as if they should have been pensioned off long ago. As Lysette began to strip off her gloves, Simon looked out the window again. Across the street, a flash of red caught his eye. He grinned and turned about.
“I will take my leave now,” he said.
“See?” Desjardins gloated. “I am a trustworthy fellow.”
Simon choked. He moved to Lysette and she extended her bare hand to him.
“Au revoir, mon amour,” she purred.
He bent and kissed the smooth skin, his gaze locking with hers. “Try to stay out of mischief.”
“What fun would there be in that?” Although she teased, the lines of strain that rimmed her eyes and mouth belied her nonchalance.
Simon glanced at Desjardins with a scowl, irritated to discover that he was unable to leave Lysette if she felt endangered. But the regard the comte bestowed upon her was affectionate. There was warmth in his eyes and his smile. The inequality of the exchange for her return was also a sign of her value. She would land on her feet, of that Simon was certain. And if there was trouble, she knew where to find him.
With a last squeeze of her hand, he released her, and after bowing to the comte, he departed. There was a slight spring to his step as he returned to his waiting carriage.
When the bars restraining his men had been opened, he had been freed as well. He answered to no one now and nothing held him back.
As Lysette poured tea, she also watched Desjardins. The comte stood at the window, watching as Simon left. He looked thinner and more gaunt, which was disturbing. But when he turned about and faced her, he seemed genuinely happy.
“You look well,” he said, assessing her carefully.
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” She added liberal amounts of sugar and cream to the comte’s serving, then held the cup and saucer out to him.
He stepped closer and accepted it. “Tell me what transpired.”
Lysette straightened. Her last assignment had gone horribly awry, despite how simple the plan had seemed on the outset. Quinn’s closest associate, Colin Mitchell, had left Quinn’s employ with the intent to return to England. Jacques had been tasked with befriending Mitchell in an effort to discover the identity of Quinn’s superior—the man who took French secrets directly to the English king.
Unfortunately, on the night Mitchell and Jacques were due to board the ship, another of Quinn’s men—an Englishman named Cartland—murdered a man closely connected to Agent-General Talleyrand-Périgord. Cartland was apprehended and accused Mitchell of the crime. To add weight to his protestations of innocence, he revealed the names of other men working for Quinn, thereby exposing a broad network of English spies.
At that point, they should have abandoned Mitchell and waited for another opportunity. Instead, Lysette’s desperation to be freed from obligation to Desjardins led her to make a reckless offer—she would associate with Quinn and salvage the mission, and in return, Desjardins would release her from further service to him.
“Shortly after arriving in England,” she said, “we were discovered by Mr. Mitchell, which enabled us to place obstacles in his path. We hoped this would lead to his seeking assistance, which might reveal the identity of the man we sought.”
The comte sat on a nearby gold velvet chair. “Sounds ideal.”
“It would have been, if Mitchell had not been so well connected. He had no need to seek out his superior for help.”
“Hmm . . .” Desjardins watched her over the rim of his cup. When he lowered his hands, the smile he revealed was chilling. “An interesting tale.”
She shrugged. “It is the truth. No more, no less.”
“Is it?”
“Of course.” Her tone was casual, but the hairs on her nape prickled with alarm. “What else would it be?”
“An elaborate ruse, perhaps?”
“Absurde,” she scoffed. “What purpose would that serve?”
“I’ve no notion, ma petite.” His smile faded and his eyes hardened. “But you have been in the company of Mr. Quinn for some time now. A man rather infamous for his appeal to women. Perhaps you have succumbed to his charm.”
Lysette stood in an angry swirl of floral skirts. “And now I seek to betray you?”
“Do you? You told him your real name. Why?”
“Because that was to be my last favor for you.”
“A curious way to exert your independence.”
“Kill me, then,” she challenged with a jerk of her chin. “There is no way to prove any denial of your claims.”
Desjardins rose with maddening leisure and set his tea on the table. “As you killed François Depardue? A man working to serve the interests of the agent-general?”
Lysette felt the familiar knot of ice form in her stomach. “He deserved it. You know he did.”
“Yes, he was an animal. A vicious, rutting beast who associated with others of his ilk.” The comte came to her and wrapped her in his skeletal embrace. She shuddered with revulsion, but did not pull away. He had taken her from Depardue, clothed and fed her, trained her to survive.
“I will help you,” he crooned, stroking his hands down her back as a loving father would. “No one will ever learn of your involvement in his death. In return, you will help me. One last time.”
The nightmare of her life was never ending. “What do you want?” she asked wearily, her shoulders drooping.
“I have an introduction to make.”
“Whom do you want dead now?”
He pulled back and gifted her with a soft smile. “I need a different sort of femme fatale for this.”
That statement frightened her more than an order to kill.
“I am dreadfully worried about her, Solange,” Marguerite said sadly, her fingers pushing needle through cloth by habit more than actual thought.
“She has changed so drastically since Lysette passed.”
“I noticed.”
Marguerite glanced up at her dearest friend, a courtesan she had met years ago during an afternoon of shopping. Solange Tremblay was a lovely brunette, blessed with a girlish laugh and smile that kept her in demand. On the surface, they had little in common. Solange had pulled herself up from the serving class, while Marguerite had fallen from the heights of nobility. Solange was dark, Marguerite was fair. And yet they shared a deep affinity. They had both borne the censure of the world to live their lives as they saw fit.
After the tragic end of her affair with Philippe, Marguerite had wed the steadfast de Grenier and traveled with him to Poland, never to return to France . . . until now. It was only through correspondence that her friendship with Solange had grown and strengthened, and now that they were together again in the flesh, it felt as if no time had passed.
“You described her as so vivacious,” Solange murmured, sipping delicately from a half-full goblet of brandy. She was curled atop a ruby red velvet chaise in her decadent boudoir, her long legs bared by the slit in her ivory satin negligee. “All the stories you used to share about your daughters. How different they were, despite the fact they were twins—the elder one so outrageous and wild, the younger one so contemplative and studious. If I did not know better, I would think it was Lysette who came with you, not Lynette.”
“That is it exactly,” Marguerite said, discarding her needlepoint on the seat beside her. “At times it feels as if she is trying to be Lysette.”
“Perhaps she does not want to burden you. Perhaps this is her way of giving you comfort.”
Closing her eyes, Marguerite leaned her head back and fought the weight of depression and weariness that had grown more and more oppressive since the night she left Paris with de Grenier twenty-three years ago. “It is no comfort to me to see her so wan and unhappy,” she whispered. “It is as if all the life in her died with Lysette. She should have been a wife by now. A mother. Yet she shows so little enthusiasm when courted, the gentlemen soon set their sights elsewhere.”
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