by Sylvia Day
“She used to be quite flirtatious, oui?”
“Very much so, but no longer. She is altered. I used to worry about her future; she seemed unable to be serious about anything. Now she is far too solemn about everything.”
“I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose the person with whom you have spent the entirety of your life. A person who is identical to you. Perhaps, in truth, a piece of her is forever lost.”
Hot tears leaked out from beneath Marguerite’s closed lids. “I cannot lose both of my children. I can’t bear it.”
“Mon amie . . .”
Marguerite heard the goblet come to rest on a table, then the rustle of satin as her friend crossed the space between them to join her. She sank gratefully into the offered embrace, finding comfort in the physical closeness. She had been lonely for so long. The birth of her daughters had damaged her womb and prevented future conception. Her barren state had created a rift in her marriage that grew wider with every passing year.
“You are still deeply grieving. Is it any wonder that Lynette is also restrained by mourning?” Solange’s delicate hand smoothed over Marguerite’s unbound hair. “One of you must return to the land of the living, so that the other may follow.”
“How can it be me?” Marguerite asked, wiping at her tears. “I ceased living long ago.”
“You’ve returned to Paris. It is a start.”
But it was not an easy one. Marguerite had been content in Poland, despite the gulf between her and de Grenier. There were no specters there, no temptations, no regrets. There were many things to haunt her here.
Straightening to a seated position, she reached for her friend’s abandoned glass and downed the expensive contents in one desperate swallow. She inhaled deeply, relishing the sudden warmth brought by the burn of alcohol in her gut, then she glanced over her shoulder. “Tell me how.”
“A party.” Solange’s pretty features transformed with a mischievous smile. The combination of a French mother and Italian father had given her an exotic attractiveness that made her much sought after. “It is no tame affair, I must tell you. Baroness Orlinda revels in bawdy, scandalous parties.”
“I cannot take my daughter to an orgy!” Marguerite protested with wide eyes.
“Mon Dieu.” Solange laughed her girlish giggle. “It is not so bawdy as that!”
“I do not believe you. Regardless, we cannot allow our presence in Paris to become known. It is too hazardous.”
“After all these years, you are still afraid?”
“If you had seen the horror of that day, you would never forget.”
“Do you love him still?”
“Everything I have done from that day to this one has been because of my love for Philippe.”
Marguerite rose, her gaze roaming along the length of the room’s red damask-covered walls. It was a space designed to startle and titillate with its gilded accents and exotic candle scents. Oddly, it relaxed Marguerite to occupy it. There was no artifice here. The purpose and appeal were clear, just as it was with Solange.
Marguerite collected the empty glass and moved over to the console, where several decanters waited.
“I think he still pines for you,” Solange said.
Pausing midpour, Marguerite watched her hand shake violently, an outward sign of the inward jolt the news brought her. “What kind of woman would that make me,” she asked quietly, “if I wished that were true?”
“An honest one.”
Marguerite exhaled audibly, then continued to refill the glass. “I am a married woman. I respect my vows and my husband. It is why de Grenier must not learn of our visit. He has sacrificed a great deal for me. I will not have him concerned that I cuckold him with a former lover.”
“I understand. That is why I suggested the baroness’s gathering, which, I assure you, is no more shocking than this boudoir. I doubt there will be many of your former acquaintances in attendance. You can assume another name and wear a mask as added protection.”
“That still does not address the impropriety of taking my innocent daughter to a gathering of licentious revelry!” Marguerite returned Solange’s goblet to her, then set her hands on her hips.
“She is numb with grief and has been for two years. Do you imagine jaunts to museums will wake her?” Solange held up a jewel-encrusted hand to halt any further protest. “Why don’t you ask her if she would like to attend?”
“Ridiculous!”
“Is it? If she says no, then nothing is lost. If she says yes, does that not imply that some of the Lynette of old still dwells in her? Would that not be worth one night of impropriety?”
Marguerite shook her head.
“Sleep on it,” Solange suggested. “You may feel differently when rested.”
“Saner, perhaps.”
“Sanity, as defined by Society, is overrated, non?”
For a moment, Marguerite contemplated arguing further, then she turned about and poured herself a drink instead.
Chapter 5
“Mr. Quinn.”
A cool, tentative hand touched Simon’s shoulder. Years of living under duress had made his valet’s stealthy approach into the bedchamber impossible to overlook, but exhaustion kept Simon prone on the bed and unmoving.
He opened one eye and met the frown-capped gaze of the servant. The man was blushing. Most likely because of the woman lying beside Simon. With his head turned away, Simon could not be certain, but he would not be surprised if the lovely brunette was baring more of her lush body in slumber than she ever would while awake.
“You have a caller, Mr. Quinn.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“Bloody hell.” He closed his eye, but he was fully aware now. He was not a man people visited to discuss inanities. “Unless they are ablaze or otherwise mortally wounded, tell whoever it is to return at a decent hour.”
“I attempted to. He responded by moving a large quantity of trunks into one of the guest bedrooms.”
Simon’s eyelids lifted, as did his head. “Beg your pardon?”
“The Earl of Eddington has taken up residence here. He claims you would have it no other way.”
“Eddington? What in hell is he doing in Paris?”
Careful not to wake his companion, Simon extricated himself from the mass of tangled bedclothes. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and waited for the spinning room to settle. A night of hard drinking and harder sex had left him with only an hour or two of sleep.
The valet shook his head, his gaze darting over Simon’s shoulder.
Twisting at the waist, Simon glanced at his companion and found her sprawled lewdly in the very position she had been in when he last dismounted from her—legs spread wide with her fingers curled into the linens.
Apparently, he was not the only one exhausted.
He stood and caught up the counterpane, which had slipped off the end of the bed to puddle atop the carved wooden chest at the foot.
“I need a bath,” he said as he covered the woman.
“I will see to it.” The valet bowed and asked, “What should I tell his lordship?”
Simon straightened. “Tell him it’s damned early and my mood suits my lack of sleep. He has been forewarned.”
The servant choked and scurried from the room.
An hour later, bathed and dressed in a sapphire silk robe, Simon left his suite of rooms and descended the staircase to the foyer.
The early morning light streamed in through the decorative window above the front door, glimmering through the crystal chandelier to cast rainbow light upon the parquet floor. His hair was damp and his bare feet chilled despite the Aubusson runner that lined the stairs. The minor discomfiture kept him alert, which was the intent. Eddington was not a friend. There was no reason for the earl to decide to visit unannounced and uninvited so soon after Simon had left his employ.
Leastwise, no welcome reason.
Simon heard the sound of silverware making contact
with china at the same moment a footman bowed to him and gestured toward the dining room.
“My lord,” Simon greeted as he entered.
The earl looked at him and smiled. “Good morning, Quinn.”
“Is it?” Simon moved to the walnut buffet, where covered salvers kept food warm. He briefly wondered what the cook had thought of the menu request. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed morning fare, as he usually began with the midday meal. “I am not often awake at this time, so I’ve no notion of what constitutes a ‘good’ morning or not.”
Eddington smiled and resumed eating, supremely casual and confident as if he owned the house he dined in. Like most members of the peerage, he assumed his surroundings were his to control.
“Personally,” the earl drawled, “if I find myself waking with an attractive woman beside me, I consider it a fine morning indeed.”
Simon laughed and settled into a chair without a plate of food. The aromatic smells of eggs and kippers made his stomach revolt. He gestured for tea instead. “Why are you here?”
“May I eat first? The food on the ship left much to be desired.”
Contemplating why the earl would come here of all places, Simon’s gaze moved along the cloth-covered length of the table, then around the room. He frowned as he noted the minuscule floral pattern in the golden damask that covered the walls. He had never noted the flowers before and wasn’t certain he liked them. “Can you not eat and speak at the same time?”
“Not while maintaining my dignity,” the earl retorted.
Simon’s examining perusal returned to his guest. The earl was a figure of some notoriety in England, lauded for his dark handsomeness and exquisite garments. Women flocked to him and he cultivated his libidinous reputation with relish. The nearly foppish façade was brilliantly affected to deflect suspicion. It was difficult to believe that a man so concerned with his appearance would have any time remaining to head an elite organization of English spies.
“I may return to bed, then,” Simon said with more than a trace of irritation in his tone. He had no need to await anyone’s regard.
“Very well.” Eddington sighed and set his utensils down. “Privacy is in order.”
Simon nodded to the servant who had poured his tea, then waved the man away. The two footmen by the entrance also retreated, closing the door behind them.
“Since you left Jacques and Cartland in my care,” the earl began, “we’ve had the opportunity to question them at length. Both men have been extremely forthcoming, and Jacques, in particular, has a great deal of valuable information to share.”
“How fortunate for you,” Simon said dryly.
“Yes, but it also raises a great deal of questions. Mademoiselle Rousseau was traded for a dozen men. In addition to that expense, Jacques and Cartland were forfeited. We need to know why she is so important to the Illuminés.”
Lysette.
Simon arched a brow. The woman would forever be in trouble of some sort or another. “You need to know,” he corrected. “I do not care.”
“You will care,” the earl said, “once you understand the stakes involved.”
“I highly doubt that. Regardless, it would be wiser for you to stay with someone else. Someone who has no known history of aiding the British Crown.”
“But you may require my assistance.” Eddington reclined insolently into the high-backed chair.
“With what?” Simon’s hands wrapped tightly around the curved arms of his seat. “The only activity I am presently engaged in is carnal pursuit. I assure you, I can manage that task well enough on my own.”
Eddington ignored the jibe. “You spent some time with Mademoiselle Rousseau, did you not?”
“Too much time.”
“You tired of her?”
“We were never lovers, if that is your hope.”
“By all accounts, she is quite lovely.”
“Beautiful,” Simon agreed, “and a bit touched. I like my bedsport wild, but sane.”
“Interesting.” Blue eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you could overlook her brain in favor of her body?”
“Perhaps you can fuck her yourself,” Simon bit out. “Do not forget, my lord. I no longer work for you.”
The earl smiled. “I have not forgotten.”
“Good.” With his mood souring by the moment, Simon pushed back from the table and stood. Putting distance between him and Eddington was suddenly of primary importance. There were very few things as dangerous as a politically minded, ambitious man. “Enjoy the house. I believe I will quit France in favor of Spain.”
“You would be paid handsomely,” Eddington offered.
“You do not understand.” Simon set both hands palms-down atop the table. “Lysette is no fool. She knows I disdain her. If I approach her for sex, she would see straightaway that I had ulterior motives. There is no chance she would trust me.”
“She might, if you tell her that you have been betrayed by those you once worked for. Tell her that your accounts have been seized, and you thirst for revenge and restitution.”
Simon snorted. “Why in hell would she believe such a tale?”
“Because it’s true?”
Shock held Simon frozen for the length of several heartbeats, then he growled, “Surely you would not be so imprudent.”
“Desperate times lead to desperate measures.” The earl maintained his leisurely pose, but Simon felt the tension in him. He knew he’d provoked a dangerous enmity. “England is beset on all sides. I would do anything to protect her.”
“Spare me. This has nothing to do with the good of England and everything to do with your own lofty aspirations.”
“If my aspirations are achieved by assisting my country, what harm is there in that?”
Simon’s fist slammed into the table, rattling everything that rested upon it. Eddington flinched.
“What harm is there?” Simon barked. “You force me to risk my life when your own would do as well? You are comely enough. Why not manage the deed yourself?”
“I am at a disadvantage from the start. Since I lack even an introduction to Mademoiselle Rousseau, I have months of acclimation ahead of me. The same difficulty faces every other alternate I considered. I am left with no choice but you.”
“Just as I have no choice?” Simon snapped. “You drag me into your mire with a smile.”
Eddington attempted a more serious mien, but it was too late. Simon was infuriated as he had never been before. The whole of his life he had made every move by necessity, never having an option if he wanted to survive. The thought of finally achieving independence had been dear to him. Never looking over his shoulder, never fearing he would be discovered with something to hide.
. . . to be thrust back into that life against his will . . .
He realized he’d never had any power at all.
He should have followed Mitchell’s example—gathered his coin, changed his name, and traveled to a distant land.
Although he collected his error too late, Simon was a man who lived by his wits. He never made the same mistake twice. Eddington had him on a leash now, but he would not always. When all was said and done, Simon intended to ensure that he was never under anyone’s thumb again.
And Eddington would rue the day he set this plan in motion.
Pulling out his chair again, Simon sat. “Tell me everything you know.”
Lynette turned back and forth before the mirror with wide eyes.
“I am not certain I possess the aplomb to carry this garment,” she said, her gaze meeting Solange’s reflected perusal.
“Absurde. You are a vision.” Solange stood at her back, fluffing out the many layers of lace and shimmering blue-green silk. “You remind me of your mother when we first met.”
It seemed not long ago that Lynette had enjoyed nothing so much as shopping (except, perhaps, flirting). Her modiste expenditures had been exorbitant, a fact her father often scolded her about. It could not be avoided, she used to say, po
inting out how the richer colors and fabrics she favored were costlier than the pastels Lysette preferred.
The gown she presently wore would once have been a delight. The glorious color, accented with layers of gold lace and satin, was alluringly cut to accent her slender waist and full bosom. As she moved from side to side, the veriest hint of rosy areola peeked above the dangerously low bodice. It was the garb of a seductress, a role she had once prided herself on aspiring to.
Now she felt her cheeks flushing and her hands tugged at the material trying to pull it into a less revealing position. She could not help but hear Lysette’s admonishment that the brain was as much a sexual organ as the breasts and hips.
“You are more than beauty, Lynette,” her sister would say.
“You are the brilliant one,” Lynette would retort without heat. She loved her sister too much to compete with her. It was simply the way things were. Lysette was a creature of calculated reason; Lynette was more tactile and emotional.
At least she had been. She was not that girl any longer.
Since Lysette’s passing, Lynette had taken to reading the many books her sister had left behind, finding comfort in the feeling of closeness the activity engendered. She also found comfort in the changes wrought by her new awareness of mortality. There had been so much remaining for Lysette to accomplish. Lynette—too long aimless and frivolous—realized that life was finite and she wished hers to be filled with more than mere flirtations and parties.
“You met Maman while visiting a modiste, did you not?” Lynette asked, gesturing for her mother’s maid, Celie, to approach and undress her.
“Twirling before a mirror, just as you are doing now,” Solange agreed, moving to her open armoire in search of another gown. “Of course, the attire she was fitted for that afternoon was not suitable for more than a lover’s eyes.”
For a moment, Lynette considered asking more questions, then she shuddered and thought better of it. She did not want to think of her mother and father in carnal congress.
“How about this?” Solange asked, shaking out a pure white gown. It was lovely, if demure, with elbow-length sleeves and cream satin bows. “I commissioned this gown as a jest.”