Don't Tempt Me

Chapter 17

It 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 hear swept across her skin.

My lover.

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.

I am grateful for you.

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.

I have missed you.

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 facade 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 facade 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.

Thierry stepped over the body on the floor and came out to the hallway. He scowled, "You are not Quinn," he barked.

Eddington straightened Simon's cinnamon-colored coat and smiled. "You are correct, chap. I am not Quinn."

Marguerite led her daughter into Solange's house with their hands clasped together. De Grenier brought up the rear carrying a satchel filled with letters to Desjardins written by L'Esprit. Marguerite shuddered even to think of the name, horrified by the realization that Lysette had been stolen from her for two long years. Years of purgatory where some days she had survived only because of her love for Lynette.

"This way, ma petite," she said to Lysette, directing her toward the curving staircase. "After you are settled, I should like to hear more about your Mr. James."

"Of course, Maman," Lysette murmured, her eyes wide within her pale face. Her hand quivered within Marguerite's grasp and her obvious fear and apprehension broke Marguerite's heart.

Setting her arm around Lysette's shoulders, she pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Here is the bedchamber Lynette has been using," she said as they reached the first door off the upper landing.

They stepped inside, finding the room still in shambles after Lynette's frantic search for something appropriate to wear.

"Celie?" Marguerite called out, releasing Lysette to search for the maid. She moved into the suite's boudoir and sitting room, but found no sign of her.

"Wait a moment," she said to Lysette, frowning. "Perhaps she is in my room. I confess, I was equally anxious about seeing you again and made as large a mess."

Nodding her acquiescence, Lysette stepped deeper into the space as Marguerite left and crossed the hall to her bedchamber. Her room was also still in disarray, with gowns and undergarments scattered across the bed and every chair.

"Celie?"

It was not in character for Celie to leave such a mess lying about. Marguerite began to worry, her steps quickening as she rushed toward the boudoir. She hurried through the open door and drew to a halt, lifting her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream of terror.

Celie stared sightlessly from the floor, her mouth foamed and lips blue. In one hand, she clutched a sheaf of papers. In the other, a wax seal.

"Celie!" Marguerite sobbed in grief and horror. A chill seeped through her skin to solidify as ice within her gut, prompting a violent shudder to wrack her frame.

Goaded by terror, she ran from the suite, racing across the hallway to Lysette. She shut the door behind her and turned the key, breathing so heavily she thought she might faint.

"Maman!" Lysette rushed forward. "What is it?"

"Celie…" she gasped. "Celie is dead."

In the same manner the servants in her household had been killed years ago. Poison. She would know the signs anywhere now.

"No," Lysette whispered, mouth quivering and eyes filling with tears.

Marguerite's stomach knotted as the room tilted precariously. "Mon Dieu, what are we going to do?"

The lock turned. Marguerite spun about, shielding her daughter behind her back.

The door opened, and Saint-Martin walked in.

Seeking purchase in the rocking carriage, Simon held tight to the window ledge and stood, redressing as quickly as possible in Eddington's breeches. The journey to Solange Tremblay's home was not long, but a stone's throw would be too far for him now.

He had never enjoyed gambling. With the stakes in this game being the safety of Lynette, he detested it. But if he should win, they would all be free. Yes, the risks were great, but the possible gain was greater.

With the blessing of her parents, he could court his precious Lynette. He could woo and win her, cherish her. Surely they would at least consider his suit, if he delivered them from the enemy who had tormented them for so long.

"Hurry!" he shouted to the driver, hating the necessary delay. He sat and tugged on his boots, his breathing labored by anxiety.

Dear God, keep her safe.

Grimly determined, he reached for his dagger and sheath.

"Are you L'Esprit?" Eddington asked, his gaze never leaving the mouth of the pistol pointed at his chest. The man who stood on the other side was tall and broad, about the same size as Quinn, but this man's eyes were cold and dark.

Thierry growled. "Where in hell is Quinn?"

"Not here obviously."

"Damn you." He glared. "If I had known who she was before now, I could have been a rich man."

"Sorry to disappoint," Eddington drawled, his senses alert despite the casualness of his pose. "Perhaps I can be of assistance in lieu of Quinn?"

"I need Quinn to kill her!" Thierry growled, gesturing over Eddington's shoulder with a jerk of his gun.

"Hmm…" Eddington nodded. "I see. English spy kills French spy. Nothing too odd about that, is there?"

"It might not be wise to goad him," Mademoiselle Baillon said. "He has a weapon."

"I can see that. So what do we do now? If he is not L'Esprit, we've little use for him."

"Who are you?" Thierry snapped.

"A friend of Quinn's."

Thierry's frustration was palpable and dangerous. "Go to the bedroom."

Eddington followed Mademoiselle Baillon as she led the way, thinking that perhaps utilizing Quinn in the future might not be so wise. The man had become embroiled in one morass after another over the last few months, making him less and less valuable. After all, what good was a spy whose covert activities were known to all and sundry? And... what good was a man who dragged his superiors into tangles such as these?

They had barely stepped into the room when a sickening thud, followed by a loud grunt, was heard behind him. Eddington pivoted and crouched, ready to defend both himself and Mademoiselle Baillon. Instead, he faced Mr. James, who was brandishing a weighty silver candlestick.

Thierry crumpled to the floor, his pistol dropping and misfiring, the report deafening in the enclosed space of the bedroom.

"Edward!" Mademoiselle Baillon rushed toward him and the man caught her close, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead.

"Forgive me," he said huskily. "I came as soon as I could."

Eddington frowned. "You are not Mademoiselle Baillon, are you?" he asked.

She smiled. "I am. But I am not Lynette."

Marguerite gasped as Saint-Martin entered the room, followed immediately by de Grenier… who held a pistol to his back.

Her lungs seized with unalloyed terror. "Philippe," she whispered, her heart breaking at the pain and regret she saw in his eyes.

Behind her, Lysette gave a strangled cry, backing away and pulling Marguerite with her. Protecting her mother, when it should have been the reverse.

All of these years… she had allowed her children to reside with a monster.

"Look who I found lurking about the place," de Grenier drawled. "Could not be more convenient, I must say. I was expecting a few hours at least before I could lure him here."

"Why?" Lysette asked, her voice shaking.

"To kill you, ma petite," he drawled, the words piercing deep.

"No!" Marguerite spread her arms wide, blocking Lysette from harm. "How could you? She is your daughter!"

De Grenier's smile was icy. "No, she is not. You must think I am a fool. She could not look more like Saint-Martin if she wished to."

Marguerite's chin rose, and her gaze moved to Philippe. He stared at Lysette, a look of wonder and joy erasing the lines of sorrow their tragic past had placed upon his countenance. Tears filled her eyes, the long-dreamed-of moment finally here, but marred by tragedy.

She forced her gaze back to her husband, beseeching. "You raised her," she argued. "Watched her grow. You have been the only father she has ever known."

"And what a delight that has been." His eyes shone bright with malice. "Knowing I had everything Saint-Martin coveted-the woman he loved and the daughters he sired. Fucking his wife and killing her were added pleasures, but fleeting. Having you daily was my true joy."

A low growl rumbled up from Philippe's chest, frightening Marguerite with its unadulterated menace.

"You are L'Esprit," Lysette said, her hand tightening on Marguerite's.

"Things would have remained perfect," de Grenier said, "if you had remained dead. I will kill Desjardins when this is done. His machinations have ruined everything."

"Simon was correct," Lysette said softly. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am that he was right."

Something about Lysette's tone set the hairs on Marguerite's nape to rising. Tumultuous undercurrents swirled about the room, buffeting her with confusion and uncertainty.

"What in hell are you talking about?" De Grenier kicked Philippe farther into the room.

Philippe stumbled but recovered quickly, pivoting to take a position before Marguerite, shielding her as she shielded Lysette. She was torn between gratitude that he was with her, and panic that something untoward would befall him.

"Simon suspected you were the culprit," Lysette said.

"Oh? Clever fellow."

"Yes, he is," she agreed. "Hence the reason Lysette is far from you with her memories protected, while I am here."

"You lie." De Grenier's eyes narrowed.

"Lynette?" Marguerite queried, dazed by the revelation that no one was who she had thought them to be.

"I am the healthier of the two of us at the moment," Lynette said with an elegant shrug, "far more capable of dealing with you."

De Grenier's lip curled in a sneer, devastating Marguerite with the knowledge that she had given herself to a man who hated her and wished her nothing but harm. "Do not be so smug, ma cherie. Quinn is dead now, along with your sister. Soon you will be reunited for eternity. In hell."

Marguerite whimpered, her free hand reaching for Philippe as her heart twisted with fear and grief. It was torment unparalleled to have her family reunited and intact, only to have it ripped asunder again.

"I have risen from the grave," drawled an Irish-inflected voice.

De Grenier bellowed with something akin to agony. Marguerite watched in horror as the end of a small sword appeared straight through his right shoulder, protruding morbidly. As de Grenier dropped to his knees, Saint-Martin kicked, knocking the gun from his hand to clatter a few feet away. Quinn was revealed to be standing in the doorway, a crimson-covered blade in his hand.

Lynette grabbed Marguerite, pulling her out of the way.

Roaring, de Grenier lurched to his feet and tackled Saint-Martin to the floor.

Quinn leaped over the two writhing bodies, rushing toward Lynette and Marguerite.

But Marguerite would have none of it. Inhaling courage, she skirted Quinn and raced toward the discarded pistol. A hand grabbed her ankle, yanking her balance from her and causing her to land with bone-jarring force prone on the floor.

Kicking at her attacker, she reached out for the pistol grip, her sweat-soaked fingertips slipping across the polished wood.

No one would harm her children again. Not while there was still breath left in her body.

And then it was there, the grip seated firmly in her palm. She rolled to her back, searching for de Grenier. He rose to his knees, a blade wielded high above a sprawled Saint-Martin.

"No!"

Lynette's cry reverberated through the room and gave Marguerite the strength to do what she must.

Saint-Martin reared up, the heel of his palm shattering the aquiline beauty of de Grenier's nose. The sound of cartilage breaking was like a thundercrack.

Marguerite aimed and pulled the trigger.