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“First,” James said curtly, “you should know that you will never hear a word about Franklin’s business from me. Ever. Neither will Desjardins, so both of you will have to find another woman to torment and bully.”
Leaning back, Simon crossed his arms and bit back a smile. “I see.”
“No, you do not,” James muttered, scowling. “But you will.”
“Good God!” Simon grinned. “Another threat. I must be doing something correctly.”
“You may find this amusing, Mr. Quinn, however—”
“I have to find some humor in this,” Simon interjected, his smile fading. “I have a great deal at risk, more than I believe I could bear to lose.”
James’s gaze narrowed considerably.
“I hope you are circumspect in your association with Madame Marchant,” Simon said.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” James corrected, “or whatever in hell her surname truly is. And I am always circumspect, Mr. Quinn. I know everything about her, as little as she can share. Every sordid, heartbreaking detail. I cannot condone the many wrongs she has done, but I can collect the necessity of some of it and the feelings of helplessness and melancholy that inspired the rest.”
James lifted his chin. “But do not mistake my sympathy for weakness. I am not the sort of man who loses his head over a woman. Regardless of my affection for her, you will not find my emotions altering my ability to react to jeopardy and subterfuge.”
“Admirable.”
“She claims you hope to extricate her from this morass.”
Simon nodded. “I do.”
“I am here to assist you.”
There was a slight rapping on the open door. Simon glanced up and saw Eddington eyeing James with an assessing glance.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the earl greeted, entering with a decided flourish.
James stood. Simon remained seated, although he did make the necessary introductions.
“Forgive my intrusion. I am off to the tailor’s this morn,” his lordship drawled, fluffing his jabot with a careless, bejeweled hand. “I saw a waistcoat yesterday that was nothing short of divine and knew I must have it immediately. Would either of you care to join me?”
“No, my lord,” Simon said, biting back a smile.
“No, thank you, my lord,” James said, scowling.
“Pity that,” Eddington said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye and studying James from head to toe. “Ah well. Good day, gentlemen.”
There was a brief silence after his lordship had departed, then James muttered, “I imagine that foppish guise fools most.”
“Most, yes.” Simon stared out the empty doorway, thinking.
“Why do you have that look on your face?”
Simon’s gaze moved back to James. “What look?”
“As if you have discovered something new.”
“I was simply thinking that appearances can be deceiving. It is something we could use to our advantage, considering we have two women who are identical to one another.”
“Mademoiselle Rousseau is too ill.”
“I know.” Simon’s fingers drummed atop the papers on his desk. “But very few of us know that. You, me, Desjardins . . . That is all.”
“You did not inform her family?”
“No. Someone wanted her dead and has yet to learn that she is alive due to Desjardins’s hiding of her. Perhaps it is time to relieve L’Esprit of his misconception.”
“She had a dream. Last night.” James crossed his arms. “We’ve no notion of whether it is simply a figment of her mind or an actual recollection that is incomplete.”
“Anything at all, at this point, would be an improvement over what we have.”
“I agree. She witnessed a man abusing a maid for failing to intercept all of the vicomtess’s outgoing posts.”
“Did she recognize him?”
“No. Unfortunately, she saw him only from behind. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered . . . Could be anyone.”
“But there is one man we know of who enjoys wounding women,” Simon pointed out.
“Depardue.” The sharp edge to James’s voice betrayed a wealth of ill-will.
“Exactly. And I have suspected that—”
Another rap to the door silenced Simon and he met his butler’s gaze.
“Another caller, sir,” the servant said.
Simon accepted the card handed to him on a silver salver and read it, then glanced at James. “Prepare yourself, James,” he said.
James nodded, his posture altering to one more rigid.
“Inform his lordship that I have a visitor,” Simon said, standing, “but he is welcome to join us.”
A few moments later, a tall and comely man entered the room. Dressed modestly but elegantly in rich green velvet, the dark-haired man who approached Simon’s desk unwittingly confirmed a few of Simon’s suspicions. Curious as to whether the astute James would also latch on, Simon looked forward to the coming introductions.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Simon said.
“Mr. Quinn.”
“My lord, may I present Mr. Edward James to you? He is acquainted with your daughter, Lysette. Mr. James, this is the Vicomte de Grenier.”
Simon watched James’s face closely but furtively, wondering if the man had been aware of the vast difference between his station and the one Lysette occupied. To his credit, James showed no outward sign of any of his thoughts as he greeted de Grenier.
The two men sat, filling the two seats that faced Simon’s desk.
“You may speak freely in front
of Mr. James, my lord,” Simon said.
“As you can imagine, the vicomtess is deeply disturbed by your visit yesterday,” the vicomte said grimly. “I am here to arrange a meeting with this woman you claim is our daughter and to discuss your thoughts on this matter of L’Esprit.”
“Perhaps you will share what you know, my lord?” Simon asked. “Have you had any correspondence from L’Esprit?”
“No. However, I was with the vicomtess when she received a missive bearing that name. It arrived the afternoon Saint-Martin was attacked and left for dead, so I comprehend the danger.”
“Apparently, some of Lysette’s memory may be returning.”
“Oh?” The vicomte appeared to weigh the news a moment. “I am relieved to hear that, as memories of events known only to Lysette will strengthen your argument regarding her identity.”
“Did you see the body identified as Lysette’s?” Simon asked.
“No. Sadly. I wish I could have taken that gruesome burden from the shoulders of my wife, but I was in Paris. I returned a sennight after the event had occurred.”
“Were there any other women in the area who went missing during that time?” James asked.
“I have no idea, Mr. James,” the vicomte replied. “In truth, I did not pay any attention to surrounding activities for months following. My wife was nearly destroyed by our loss, my remaining daughter was deeply grieving and altered by guilt. Apparently, Lysette was running an errand for her when the accident happened.”
“Fetching a muff, perhaps?” James asked with narrowed gaze.
“Yes.” De Grenier’s frame tensed and he glanced with wide eyes at Simon. “It is Lysette, is it not? How else would you know that?”
“Yes, it is she.”
The vicomte sat back, his shoulders rising as if a great weight had been removed. “The return of Lysette would restore my family to the happiness we once knew, at least in part. Does she remember what happened to her?”
“Not entirely.” James did not look away from the vicomte, but Simon sensed he was searching for clues on how to proceed.
