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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 I 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.
Chapter 16
Lysette woke to the sound of the lock turning in her bedroom door. Blinking gritty eyes, she lifted her head and watched Madame Fouche peek her head around the corner.
“Madame Marchant?” she queried softly, most likely unable to see well into the dark room. “Are you well?”
“Yes, come in,” she rasped, clearing her throat.
The housekeeper bustled in and quickly had the lamps lit and coals heating in the grate. She approached the bed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. James is below and would like to see you.”
“Send him up in ten minutes,” Lysette said, knowing she should change first and receive him elsewhere but feeling too weary to make the effort. She also felt safe in her room, closed off from the world at large, protected from the prying eyes of Desjardins’s staff.
Madame Fouche departed and moments later returned with Edward in tow. Lynette was refreshed, her face washed and a robe tied securely over her night rail. She waited in a chair before the fire, her hands linked primly in her lap, her bearing collected and self-assured.
Or so she thought.
“What is it?” he asked, sinking to his haunches beside her with a concerned frown. He was dressed with care, his gray suit unremarkable yet nicely tailored, his cravat perfectly tied. “You have been weeping.”
An emotion on his face goaded her to reach out and touch his cheek with tentative, shaking fingertips. He exhaled harshly the moment they connected and the sound so startled her that she snatched her hand back.
Edward caught her withdrawal with such speed it was nearly too quick to see. He pressed his face into her palm, his eyes dark with something that frightened her . . . and made her tingle.
“Why do you come to me?” she asked hoarsely.
“Because I cannot stay away.”
“What do you hope will happen?”
He inhaled deeply and slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I hope you will give me enough time to show you how it can be between us, if only you allow me to know you.”
“The more you know, the less you will like.”
“You know that is not true. You can feel it. I can see it in your eyes.” He set one hand over her tightly linked ones and squeezed. “You would not be so afraid otherwise.”
; “Y-you want me,” she whispered. “I-in your b-bed.”
Standing, Edward held out both hands to her and helped her to her feet. She stood before him, trembling.
His touch drifted over her brow, his gaze hot and tender. “You feel fear, but not of me. It is the memories that frighten you. I can replace those. I can make them fade.”
Lysette watched his mouth lower to hers, the pace set to afford her the opportunity to turn away. Part of her wanted to, knowing what he would want after the kiss. Another part of her was enamored with the shape of his lips, so stern, so somber. There was no frivolity about him.
Edward was an anchor. She was adrift. There was no way to fight the urge to cling to him and find steadiness. She had been alone for so long, unable to rely on anyone but herself. And he was here . . . again . . . steadfast . . .
“Yes, I want you,” he said gruffly, his lips a hair’s breadth away from hers. “But I can wait. I will wait. Until you are ready, however long that might be.”
Lysette stood frozen, her heart racing in a panicked rhythm.
His mouth touched hers, gently but without hesitation. His tongue touched the seam of her lips, glided along it, caressed the curve. The scent of sandalwood and verbena filled her nostrils, warming her blood and causing her skin to tingle.
Low in her belly, heat spread.
Between her legs, dampness grew. She whimpered and clung to his coat, achingly aware of the cool air at her back and the heated length of hard male to her front.
“Let me in, Corinne.”
Trembling, she obliged, gasping when his tongue thrust deep and sure. The similarity to the sexual act could not be ignored and her trembles turned to violent shaking.
Breathing harshly, he pulled back. “See?” he rasped. “I can stop. At any time. You lead, I follow.”
“Lysette.”
He frowned. “Beg your pardon?”
“My name is Lysette.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists. “I lied to you.”
Something suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. It was rough and abbreviated, almost a bark. “Lysette suits you better.”
“I work for Desjardins,” she blurted out. “He needs information about Mr. Franklin, and he was using me to pry it from you.”
