Don’t Tempt Me(30)
Author: Sylvia Day

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 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.