Don't Tempt Me

Chapter 15

Simon left Lysette's home possessing more than he had arrived with-namely, a set of garments that belonged to the footman, Thierry. They were of the same size and height, and it would not be notable for Thierry to visit Desjardins, which was Simon's destination.

He hid his own clothes within a yew hedge lining the stone walls of the rear garden and exited out through the alley. Tugging Thierry's tricorn low over his brow, Simon thrust his hands into his pockets and began the journey to Desjardins on foot.

The distance was neither short nor long. It was perfectly timed to allow him to think carefully about what pieces of information he had and which pieces he lacked. He glanced around furtively as he went, but found nothing amiss. Because he was so prepared, he was startled by the gloved hand that was thrust out of an unmarked and somewhat dilapidated carriage sitting just around the corner from the Desjardins residence.

He paused midstep, then quickly recovered, accepting the missive with his head tilted away to prevent recognition. The curtains were closed, the hand and arm completely covered.

"Tell him I am growing impatient," growled a raspy, grating voice from the interior.

There was a rap on the roof and the carriage rolled away.

Simon kept walking, tucking the letter in his pocket and maintaining the appearance that nothing of note had transpired. Inside, however, he was plagued with a growing disquiet.

L'Esprit was apparently not a creative ploy by Desjardins, as Simon had originally assumed. He was real, which made him another threat to manage.

He reached Desjardins's front steps within moments and rapped on the knocker with obvious impatience. The door swung open and the butler appeared prepared to allow him entry, then he noted the caller was not Thierry.

"Monsieur Quinn."

Withdrawing his calling card, Simon extended it, then he shouldered his way into the foyer before he could be denied.

The servant opened his mouth to protest, but a narrowing of Simon's eyes seemed to alter his mind. Instead, Simon was led to the study, and he made himself comfortable by pouring a ration of brandy before sifting on a settee.

"Quinn," Desjardins greeted, as he entered shortly after. "What a pleasure."

But the comte's gaze rested on Thierry's clothes overlong and revealed a wariness that Simon took advantage of.

"I have something for you," he said, setting his goblet on the table and reaching into his pocket for the missive from L'Esprit. He examined it with theatrical interest. "Interesting seal. Or lack thereof."

"Give that to me," Desjardins said crossly, snapping his fingers.

"No." Simon broke the seal and withdrew the contents.

The comte lunged and ripped the note from his hands.

Simon smiled. "What does L'Esprit want now?"

Desjardins paled. "What do you know of L'Esprit?"

"Not enough, but you are about to tell me more."

"Get out." The comte shoved the torn letter into the pocket of his coat with shaking hands. "Before I have you thrown out."

"You would have me leave without investigating further? That is not your nature." Simon hummed and mimicked confusion. "I wonder what would make you act out of character. Terror perhaps?"

"Ridiculous!" the comte scoffed. "You are nothing. Nothing to me, nothing to the English. If you were to be misplaced, there is no one to miss or worry over you."

"Is that a threat?" Grinning, Simon leaned forward. "You must have thought the same about Lysette Baillon. Or is it Rousseau? I admit, I am confused. Regardless, you were wrong. She is missed and now she has been found."

Desjardins's fists clenched. "Explain yourself."

"No, no. The only explanations we shall be hearing are yours."

"You would be better served by forgetting whatever it is you believe you know and leaving the country. The matters into which you pry will lead you to hell."

"You have been bound to L'Esprit's whims for twenty years. Obviously, you are unable to extricate yourself on your own. I can help you," Simon said, "if it suits me."

Desjardins sat, betraying his interest. "To what aim?"

"I will have Lysette and you will leave her life as if you were never in it."

The grin that split the comte's face was so triumphant, Simon laughed softly.

"I knew you fancied her!" Desjardins said smugly.

"Never mind what you believe you know. Tell me about L'Esprit."

Desjardins's lips pursed and he sat back, crossing his arms. There was a long, measured pause. Then he began to speak and Simon listened with great interest.

When the tale was finished, Simon asked, "How long was the gap between the ruination of Saint-Martin and the time you received the next correspondence?"

"Ten years, more or less."

"And when next you heard from him, he did not come to you in the cellar?"

"No."

"You did not find that strange?"

"I find the entire association to be strange," the comte snapped.

"The original notes bore no traceable handwriting and L'Esprit met with you in the cellar. The later notes came handwritten and L'Esprit does not approach you at all. The first notes bore jewels; the later notes do not."

"One did," the comte corrected. "It was only when I refused it and him that he began to pay me with threats against my family."

"And you never wondered if the origins were different?"

Desjardins stilled. "Why would I?"

Simon shrugged.

"He is unique, Quinn. Even you must see that."

The insult was not lost on Simon, but he ignored it. "Anything can be replicated, if one is clever enough."

The comte considered that thought carefully. "How do you intend to help me?"

"I think we proved today that the man can be fooled."

"You think we can lure him with Thierry?"

"No." Simon drummed his fingers atop his knee. "I think Thierry might know L'Esprit better than you realize. There was something in the man's voice when he spoke to me. It was not entirely an order. More of an admonishment. Such as one given to someone not completely an underling."

"Absurde. Thierry has been with me for years."

"The loyalty men such as you and I inspire can be purchased, and you fail to see that perhaps L'Esprit has also known Thierry for years."

"I fail to see nothing, aside from how you can help me," the comte said. "If Thierry worked for L'Esprit, he would have betrayed Lysette by now."

"Why? Did L'Esprit arrange her abduction?"

The comte said nothing, which told Simon a great deal.

"Arrange a meeting with Saint-Martin," Simon said, standing. "Then apprise me of when and where it will be held."

"You act as if I trust you," Desjardins retorted, standing.

"Who else do you have?"

The comte's already thin lips thinned further. "What do you have in mind?"

"A trap."

"For whom?"

Simon grinned and walked toward the door, exiting to the right in the hallway and moving toward the rear of the house. "You will have to do as I say, if you hope to find out."

He moved through the kitchen, then down the stairs to the cellar. Desjardins was fast on his heels, nearly running to keep up with Simon's much longer stride. Opening the door to the catacombs, he looked down.

"I need a torch," he said.

"As if there are any simply lying about," the comte scoffed.

Glancing aside at him, Simon raised one brow. A long moment passed, then the comte cursed and exited to the kitchen. He returned within moments with a blazing torch.

"There is nothing of note down there, Quinn."

"Of course not." Simon stepped into the rock-lined hallway and closed the door behind him.

As he suspected, a half hour later Simon found himself emerging in the cemetery where he had been led to see his men. The paths below the city were winding and miles long, but the trail of charred torches and smoke trails on the walls betrayed the path most often traversed.

The home where Lynette was staying was not too great a distance away. Simon discarded his torch and set off in that direction, determined that Lynette and her mother should know about Lysette as soon as possible.

The following hours and days would grow more hazardous-digging up buried secrets always was-and if something untoward were to happen to him, Lysette did not know enough about her family to find them and Lynette might never know that her sister was alive, if not quite well.

He approached the courtesan's house through the alley and knocked on the delivery door. To say the young maid who answered was shocked to see a guest there would be an understatement. However, in short order, she recovered her aplomb. She allowed him entry and left him in the lower receiving parlor while she announced his arrival to the butler.

As he was left cooling his heels, Simon strolled about the tastefully decorated room and discovered hidden amusements which made him smile. While the palette of cream and pale gold was fit for a king, hints of the sensuality of the owner were evident if one looked close enough at the details. Half-dressed nymphs and satyrs danced across the moldings and frolicked on the bases of lamps, and miniature Grecian statues had modifications to their designs that would make many a lady blush.

"Mr. Quinn. So good of you to dress for the occasion."

He pivoted to find the lovely vicomtess sweeping regally into the room. Her attire was more informal than it had been on her visit to him. Wearing a floral gown of thin muslin, she appeared no older than her two daughters. On her heels was a lovely brunette who flashed him a smile so warm and genuine he could see why she was in such demand. He sketched a courtly bow to them both.

The vicomtess made quick and curt introductions, then gestured for him to sit.

"A note would have sufficed," she said coldly.

"To inform you that Lysette is alive and well?" he drawled. "Even I, with my admitted lack of breeding, have more tact than that."

Stiffening, she shot a glance at Solange seated beside her. The brunette reached over and linked hands.

"What do you want, Mr. Quinn?" the vicomtess asked. "I am not in the mood to play these games with you."

He ignored her curtness, believing it understandable in light of the circumstances. "She claims not to remember her life prior to two years ago, which is why she has not sought you out before now."

"How convenient," she said cloyingly. "No possibility of remembering the details incorrectly if you do not remember anything at all. When will you be bringing her by? I am certain she will wish to rejoin us and our wealth."

"I will not bring you together until I am certain it is safe to do so."

"Oh, I see. How much will it cost me to make it safe for you?"

Simon smiled, thinking he should like to speak with the vicomtess one day when she was in charity with him. "Were you aware of a man named L'Esprit when you were with the Marquis de Saint-Martin?"

She paled.

"I see," he murmured. "Have you heard from him in recent years?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"I find it odd," he murmured, "that both you and Comte Desjardins are so defensive about a man who plagues you."

"Some things are private and painful. They are not easy to share with strangers and those you distrust."

"I trust him."

Lynette's voice flowed over his skin like sunshine and brought an ache to his chest that was painful in its intensity. He stood and steeled himself to look at her. When he did, he inhaled sharply, noting the bruising around her eyes and her kiss-swollen mouth that betrayed his mark on her.

She had never been more beautiful.

He bowed. "Mademoiselle Baillon, you are a vision."

"Mr. Quinn." Her voice was low and throaty, reminding him vividly of her passionate cries in his bed. "How dashing you look in disguise."

"Lynette…" the vicomtess chastised. "Please return to your room."

"No." Lynette crossed the room and sat on a gilded armchair with her slender hands curled around the carved claw ends. "I believe I will stay. Mr. Quinn would only be here in regard to me."

Simon smiled and sat.

"I do not-"

Solange squeezed her friend's hand and the vicomtess fell into silence.

"Desjardins has been receiving demands from L'Esprit for the past ten years," Simon continued.

"I cannot think of a better man to torment," the vicomtess said.

"I believe he may have something to do with Lysette's ailment, although I wonder if he is the same man you knew as L'Esprit twenty years ago."

Solange leaned forward. "Why do you say that, Mr. Quinn?"

He explained the differences between the two communication styles.

"But I do not understand why someone would effect such a ruse," the vicomtess said, "or why they would want anything to do with Lysette."

"Is it her?" Lynette asked with hopeful eyes.

"Yes," Simon said softly. "I believe so. But she is not the sister you once knew. Her memory is lacking beyond two years past and the woman she has become during that time is not the one you remember."

"I do not care," Lynette said stubbornly.

"You might when you meet her," he warned, bur his gaze promised support to her. She nodded and looked at him with such adoration he wondered how he remained seated.

"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. 1 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 1 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.