“A jest?”
“A paramour once protested the cost of my gowns, saying that he preferred me naked, therefore why should he pay to dress me?” Solange handed the gown to Celie. “I wore this to prove that garments can have various effects, depending on the wearer and the occasion.”
Lynette studied the dress as she donned it, admiring the costly pearl accents. “ ’Tis beautiful.”
“I think so, too. Although I wore it only the one time.” Solange stepped closer and set her hands on Lynette’s shoulders. “You look a vision in white. Many women with your hair would be unable to forgo color; they would look pallid. Your skin, however, has a lovely rosy hue.”
“Thank you.”
Lynette thought it was just the sort of gown her sister would have worn. This impression was confirmed when a loud gasp from the doorway announced Marguerite’s arrival.
Turning, Lynette faced her mother, wincing when she noted how pale she was. Still, the vicomtess managed a shaky smile. “You look lovely, Lynette.”
“I look like Lysette.”
“Oui. That, too.” Marguerite approached in an elegant cloud of swaying blue satin and examined her daughter from head to toe. “Does this gown please you?”
“Of course, Maman. I would not choose it otherwise.”
“As long as you are happy,” Marguerite said. Then she gave a shaky laugh. “I am slowly adjusting to this new woman you have become.”
“She is not completely changed,” Solange pointed out gently. “She is quite eager to attend the baroness’s ball.”
Lynette nodded and smiled wide, hoping to relieve her mother’s melancholy. “I would not miss it for anything. I have heard tales of such events, but never thought to attend one.”
“Mon Dieu.” Marguerite winced. “De Grenier will think I’ve gone mad if he hears of this.”
“He won’t,” Lynette assured her, walking to Solange’s bed, where a proliferation of masks were laid out. The array of colors, ribbons, and feathers was impressive. Her gaze raked over the lot and settled upon a half-mask of crimson silk. Scooping it up, she held it aloft. “My face will be covered with this.”
For the space of a breath, there was silence, then the vicomtess’s face lit up with a genuine grin. “That is just the color I would have picked for you!”
Solange reached over and squeezed Marguerite’s hand. “It will be great fun for all of us. And the baroness has admirable taste in men.”
Marguerite snorted. “No man attending such an event would be suitable for my daughter.”
Lynette hid a smile, briefly thinking of the man on horseback and others like him whom she had met over the years. Dark and dangerous. Delicious. As much as grief had changed her, that was one thing that remained the same.
“I see that smile,” her mother accused.
But there was a sparkle in Marguerite’s blue eyes that had been absent for years.
It warmed Lynette from the inside. Perhaps the time for healing had finally begun.
From the shadowed depths of the parked carriage, Lysette studied the man strolling briskly down the street.
The flow of carts and pedestrians was steady, often impeding her view. Regardless, Edward James was difficult to miss due to the purposefulness of his stride. He moved through the milling crowd with ease, his hand touching the brim of his hat repeatedly as he greeted those he passed.
Tall and almost slender, Mr. James was definitely of the bookish variety of male, yet he was blessed with a confident bearing and long, muscular legs. His hair was a lustrous brown, nothing extraordinary but not lamentable either. The color of his ensemble was a dark green that was more sensible than noteworthy. His garments were nicely tailored and well maintained, though inexpensive. In short, Edward James was an average man leading an average life . . . if not for his employer.
“Did you study the notes I provided you?” Desjardins asked from his seat opposite her.
“Naturellement.”
Mr. James led a quiet life. He spent his free time reading or visiting with friends. While he occasionally accompanied Mr. Franklin to elevated social events, he was said to be subdued, yet charming on those occasions, displaying no signs of avarice or a surfeit of ambition.
“James appears to have no aspirations,” the comte said with obvious disdain. “It is hard to lure a man to vice when you do not know what motivates him.”
“I agree.”
“That is why we must provide the motivation.”
Lysette watched Mr. James disappear from view into a shop. “And what will that be?”
“Love.”
Her brows rose and she glanced at him. “For me?”
“Of course.”
“Your faith is touching,” she murmured, “but misplaced. No one has ever loved me.”
“I love you.” Desjardins smiled when she snorted. “Beyond that, you cannot say for a certainty, can you? You have no recollection.”
“If I had been loved, someone would have come for me.” Her fists clenched. “Someone would have searched until they found me.”
“I gave up fourteen men for you, ma petite. Is that not love?”
For himself, perhaps. She served a purpose, that was all.
“Are we here for a reason?” she asked crossly, irritated by the feeling of being a pawn. “Or are we merely spying?”
“I want you to cross paths with him.” Desjardins rapped on the roof to signal their intent to alight.
“And then?” She was often fascinated by the workings of the comte’s mind. It was the one thing about him that she admired.
“Then you will continue on your way and I will appear. I shall offer him a chance to indulge his fascination.”
The carriage door opened and the comte stepped down first, then extended his hand to her.
“Fascination?” she queried, pausing in the doorway.
“With you. After he sees you, thoughts of you will linger with him all day. He will be desperate to see you again.”
“And what chance for indulgence do you have in mind?” She took his hand and stepped carefully down to the street.
“Baroness Orlinda is having a fête this evening.”
“But . . .” Her eyes widened. “What of Depardue’s associates? You know it is not wise for me to be too visible!”
“It will be a brief sojourn, and visibility is not our aim. We want him to pursue you, not find you easily.”
“He will not enjoy such a gathering,” she pointed out, “if your study of him is correct.”
As Lysette shook out her skirts, she tried to imagine the understated James enjoying the shocking revelry of an Orlinda party and failed. She also searched inwardly for any feelings of guilt and found only determination. James was her last impediment to freedom. Desjardins had promised her emancipation, if she could succeed in gaining information about Franklin through his secretary.
“No, he will be uncomfortable, as you will be.” Desjardins smiled. “You will suggest departing and James—already enamored with you from your meeting this morning—will arrange to take you away. That will begin a series of shared memories that will build the foundation of your romance.”
“Or so you hope.”
“Trust me.” The comte kissed her on the temple and gave her a gentle push. “I will join you in a few moments.”
Straightening her shoulders and steeling her resolve, Lysette looked both ways, then weaved through the carts traversing the busy thoroughfare. Her focus narrowed, a huntress closing in for the kill. Because of this preoccupation with her quarry, she did not notice the Irishman who lounged insolently within the recessed entryway of a nearby merchant.
But then, Simon Quinn had spent the entirety of his life perfecting the art of fading into shadows. It was a skill that had saved his life many times.
“Poor bastard,” Simon muttered, commiserating with the unfortunate Mr. James.
He watched Lysette assume a casual stance before a shop window, then he straightene
d. From his vantage, he’d heard enough to begin a hunt of his own.
Tugging down his tricorn, he passed Desjardins’s unmarked equipage and set off toward the Baroness Orlinda’s residence. Months ago, he’d met the lovely baroness while playing a game of cards and they had struck up a flirtation. She would be pleased to learn that he had returned to France.
And he would be pleased to attend her ball.
Through a storefront reflection, Lysette watched Mr. James approach. He appeared distracted—his head was bent and his lips moved as if he spoke to himself. Beneath one arm, he carried a wrapped bundle. He raised his other hand to adjust his spectacles for a better fit.
She waited until he was nearly behind her, then she stepped back abruptly, placing herself directly in his path. He hit her with the force of a falling bag of rice, hard and impossible to withstand. She cried out in surprise, stumbling, nearly falling. Distantly, she heard him curse under his breath, then she was snatched close with such speed and strength that she lost her breath.
“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” he asked, startling her anew with the sound of his voice. It was deep and slightly rumbling.
Clinging to his sinewy forearms, Lysette lifted a hand to straighten her skewed hat and found herself gazing raptly up into his face.
He was scowling, and glancing up and down the street. Still, his profile arrested her. His jaw was square and strong, his skin kissed by the sun. The knot of his cravat was simple, yet perfect.
To add to her already overwhelming astonishment, James seemed completely unaffected by their public embrace. Truly, he appeared to have forgotten she was there. He stepped back and released her, bringing her attention to the fact that he had dropped his purchases in order to catch her.
Lysette sensed that the time when she could capture his attention was nearly at an end. She acted on instinct, reaching out and sliding her hand between his coat and waistcoat, her palm pressing firmly over his heart.
“Forgive me,” she breathed. “I am so clumsy.”
James’s hand caught her wrist in a lightning-quick movement, his head swiveling to face her, revealing astonished brown eyes behind his brass-rimmed spectacles. She could see the moment when he became aware of her as an individual woman, rather than merely an anonymous intrusion into his path.
As she gazed into his luxuriously lashed eyes, Lysette realized how hard he felt beneath her hand. She gave a tentative squeeze and a dark rumble vibrated beneath her touch.
“I was not minding my direction,” he said, pulling her hand away. He lifted it to his lips and kissed the back. “Edward James.”
“Corinne Marchant.” She smiled and he flushed slightly, the crest of his cheekbones darkening with high color.
That response soothed her jangled nerves slightly.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” James said. “Although I would have preferred to introduce myself in a more refined manner.”
In any other instance, she would have flirted more heavily; perhaps she would have said the collision was worth it in order to meet him. But Mr. James was not the type of man women lured in that manner. He was too . . . intense for such play. He was also lacking the very qualities that enticed women to try and win a man’s regard. He was in trade and he was not handsome.
So she backed up to a more appropriate distance and busied herself with resettling her hat back into its former jaunty angle. “I am a featherhead to have been so absorbed in a pair of shoes.”
His gaze narrowed on her, then he turned his head to look at the slippers she referenced. Pale pink and studded with diamonds, the cost for such detailed craftsmanship was unquestionable.
“No one would notice such extravagance when worn by a woman so lovely as you,” he said gruffly. “They would not be looking at your feet.”
Lysette smiled. The compliment was difficult for him to voice, which made it all the more charming. “Thank you.”
She was not sure why he did not move away. His eyes were not lit with the masculine appreciation she was accustomed to seeing. Instead he examined her, as if she were an anomaly he wished to classify. His dropped package rested at his feet, but he seemed in no hurry to reclaim it. Pedestrians brushed past them as they completed their errands, yet he seemed not to be aware of any of them.
Afraid that her unabashed perusal of him was causing the suspicion, she tilted her head and said, “I hope the rest of your afternoon is less eventful.”
James bowed slightly. “And yours as well.”
They parted. As she walked away, she did not feel him looking after her. Curious, and hoping that if he sighted her glancing back at him, it would spark interest, she paused and turned. Edward James was striding away briskly.
Shrugging, she continued on to Desjardins’s carriage to wait.
Chapter 6
The Baroness Orlinda was infamous for the scope and grandeur of her bawdy gatherings. Still, Simon was fairly certain that tonight’s mythological theme would be difficult to surpass in sheer audacity and imagination.
The large ballroom was littered with potted trees and bushes to re-create the feeling of being in a forest. The four sets of French doors leading out to the balcony were thrown wide, allowing the evening breeze and the splashing sounds of the massive courtyard fountain to waft in. Sheer blue panels were draped between select pillars, simulating an afternoon sky and providing clever shielding for the occasional hidden chaise. Even the servants were dressed to enhance the mood, their bodies draped in white linen and their heads crowned with rings of leaves. The air was redolent with the scent of exotic candles and filled with the flirtatious laughter of reveling guests.
Simon found the whole affair highly diverting, yet he did not partake. He was not one to enjoy providing voyeuristic entertainment and his fouled mood from the morning continued into the evening. The sensation of being a puppet on Eddington’s strings was not a pleasant one. More than ever, Simon wanted to start anew and find a calling that soothed his restless spirit.
Perhaps his age was wearing on him. Where once he’d found his livelihood and its lack of structure to be liberating, now he found it stifling. He had no home, no roots, no family. He could do nothing about the latter things, but he could purchase a home. Ireland called to him, as it did to all her sons. If he reclaimed his wealth and rid himself of Eddington, he could return to her verdant shores and establish the roots denied him by his parentage.
A sharp trill of feminine laughter drew his gaze to a draped alcove where two women watched an amorous couple make use of a convenient chaise. From there his gaze roamed in a slow sweep of the ballroom, searching for Lysette, Desjardins, or the unfortunate Mr. James. The riot of colors on display was distracting, as was the creativity displayed in the masks most guests wore. It was odd that such a small shield could create the feeling of anonymity, but there was no denying that it did. Many of the guests in attendance would show much more restraint were they to expose their faces to view. And censure.
As he looked toward the main entrance to the ballroom, Simon stilled. An angel peaked out from behind a large fern, her pearlescent gown glimmering with the glow of blazing candlelight.
Watching him.
She stiffened when he spotted her, then side-stepped into full view. A silent challenge.
You may have found me, her pose said, but I am not ashamed to be caught staring.
Simon grinned.
Lysette.
Unwigged, her golden tresses were instantly recognizable, as were the enticing curves of her figure.
Then he frowned, confused.
She was . . . different; he could sense that straightaway. There was an air of expectation about her, a vibrating excitement that he detected from across the room. He had seen her become enlivened by only two things: death and drama. And truly, that had been more akin to morbid glee.
Then there was the mask she wore . . .
Crimson. Vibrant. He would never have chosen that color for her. In the months they had spent toge
ther, she had worn either pastels or dark colors. Lysette did not like to attract attention, a wise predilection when one’s livelihood consisted of secrets and lies.
Intrigued, Simon moved to a nearby pillar and leaned his shoulder against it. He smiled. She froze. He imagined her breath caught, a guess reinforced when her lips parted on a gasp. Her reaction and the subtle alteration of her stance were further curiosities.
She was attracted to him.
He watched her return his stare with unabashed frankness, which was not surprising. She had always challenged and annoyed him deliberately. Yet now, that did not appear to be her aim. Lysette’s hands rubbed nervously at the sides of her gown, her breasts lifted and fell with rapid breaths, her tongue stroked like a lover’s caress along her full bottom lip. All the while she looked at him. Rarely blinking, as if entranced.
Long minutes passed, yet he could not look away. She was a vision of heaven and hell, a devilish angel who apparently could fascinate men at will.
The question was: Why did she decide to fascinate him now?
And there was no denying that he was fascinated.
His smile faltered as his body tensed. Bloody hell. What was she doing? More to the point, what was she doing to him? The woman had bluntly offered him sex once and he had felt no interest at all. Now, he was fighting the urge to snatch her close and claim that lush mouth he’d previously found incapable of more than frustrating him.
There had always been an invisible cloak around her that discouraged intrusion. Stay away, it said, and he’d been only too happy to oblige. Now the mantle she wore was an enticing one. Surprise me, it whispered. Thrill me. The change was drastic. Wariness turned to eager anticipation.
It seduced him. She was seducing him.
Her perusal was heating his skin, creating the urge to shift uncomfortably, which he refused to do.
Her assignment was to lure Mr. James, damn her. Why, then, was she luring him instead?
The only way to find out was to ask her.
He straightened abruptly and strode toward her in a direct path, his purpose so determined that other guests moved out of his way.