Don't Tempt Me

  “She is in grave danger,” Simon said, “as long as this man, L’Esprit, hunts her.”

  “And you believe L’Esprit is Saint-Martin?” De Grenier looked between the two of them with bright eyes. “In retaliation for the loss of my wife?”

  “It seems a logical conclusion, unless you know of someone else who would wish to harm you so gravely?”

  “No. There is no one else.”

  “So how do we force him to reveal his hand?” James asked.

  “I think the best way to go about the business is to bring Lysette out into the open,” Simon suggested. “However, my lord, Lysette is not well.”

  “Not well?” De Grenier leaned forward. “What is the matter with her? She should be attended.”

  “She has been, my lord,” James said. “And she is recovering, but she is not yet well enough to venture out and put herself at risk.”

  “So how do you suggest we manage this?” the vicomte asked.

  “If you are willing, my lord,” Simon said, “we could switch the two. Lysette would stay with Solange Tremblay and Lynette would move into Lysette’s home. We would set the trap there. I am being followed, so I doubt more than a few public sightings would be necessary to ensure that she is seen.”

  De Grenier gaped a moment, then snapped his mouth shut. “You want me to risk one daughter for the other?”

  “I can think of no other way.”

  “Well, think harder,” the vicomte said. “By your own account, Lysette has learned to care for herself. Lynette is still innocent. She would be an easy target.”

  “I am open to ideas, my lord. You must trust that Lynette’s safety is my primary concern and the impetus for my involvement to begin with. Perhaps you should discuss this plan with both your wife and Lynette, then contact me with your thoughts?”

  The vicomte looked to James, who shrugged. “I am at a loss, my lord.”

  De Grenier stood, shaking his head. “I will speak with the vicomtess and send for you when we have reached a decision. In the interim, please consider alternate routes that do not include Lynette’s involvement.”

  “I will endeavor to keep her separate as much as possible,” Simon said.

  The vicomte studied him with narrowed eyes, then nodded. “I think I believe you in that regard, Mr. Quinn.”

  They shook hands and parted, leaving Simon with James.

  “In regards to your offer of assistance . . .” Simon began.

  James smiled grimly. “Tell me what you need.”

  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 heat 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 le
d 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 façade 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 façade 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 splatter
ed 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.