Don't Tempt Me

'Your men were released when you arrived, Mr. Quinn,' the comte said, 'as promised.'

Simon moved over to the window and looked outside, then he glanced at the clock on the mantel. 'I will enjoy your company for a few more moments, if you have no objections.'

Lysette's mouth quirked. They all knew Simon would not leave without ensuring his men were safe, objections or not.

The comte shrugged. 'As you wish. Stay as long as you desire. I am grateful to you for returning Mademoiselle Rousseau in good health.'

'I take no pleasure in wounding others,' Simon said grimly. 'And I cannot expect to receive my men unharmed if I return damaged goods.'

'Very civilized of you. So what are your plans now?' Desjardins asked, rocking back on his heels and smiling innocently.

'None of your damned concern,' Simon drawled, growing impatient with the comte's facetiousness. 'No offense, my lord.'

'None taken.'

A short rap on the door heralded the arrival of a tea service delivered by a housekeeper as elderly as the butler. Both looked as if they should have been pensioned off long ago. As Lysette began to strip off her gloves, Simon looked out the window again. Across the street, a flash of red caught his eye. He grinned and turned about.

'I will take my leave now,' he said.

'See?' Desjardins gloated. 'I am a trustworthy fellow.'

Simon choked. He moved to Lysette and she extended her bare hand to him.

'Au revoir, mon amour,' she purred.

He bent and kissed the smooth skin, his gaze locking with hers. 'Try to stay out of mischief.'

'What fun would there be in that?' Although she teased, the lines of strain that rimmed her eyes and mouth belied her nonchalance.

Simon glanced at Desjardins with a scowl, irritated to discover that he was unable to leave Lysette if she felt endangered. But the regard the comte bestowed upon her was affectionate. There was warmth in his eyes and his smile. The inequality of the exchange for her return was also a sign of her value. She would land on her feet, of that Simon was certain. And if there was trouble, she knew where to find him.

With a last squeeze of her hand, he released her, and after bowing to the comte, he departed. There was a slight spring to his step as he returned to his waiting carriage.

When the bars restraining his men had been opened, he had been freed as well. He answered to no one now and nothing held him back.

As Lysette poured tea, she also watched Desjardins. The comte stood at the window, watching as Simon left. He looked thinner and more gaunt, which was disturbing. But when he turned about and faced her, he seemed genuinely happy.

'You look well,' he said, assessing her carefully.

'As well as can be expected under the circumstances.' She added liberal amounts of sugar and cream to the comte's serving, then held the cup and saucer out to him.

He stepped closer and accepted it. 'Tell me what transpired.'

Lysette straightened. Her last assignment had gone horribly awry, despite how simple the plan had seemed on the outset. Quinn's closest associate, Colin Mitchell, had left Quinn's employ with the intent to return to England. Jacques had been tasked with befriending Mitchell in an effort to discover the identity of Quinn's superior-the man who took French secrets directly to the English king.

Unfortunately, on the night Mitchell and Jacques wore due to board the ship, another of Quinn's men-an Englishman named Cartland-murdered a man closely connected to Agent-General Talleyrand-Perigord. Cartland was apprehended and accused Mitchell of the crime. To add weight to his protestations of innocence, he revealed the names of other men working for Quinn, thereby exposing a broad network of English spies.

At that point, they should have abandoned Mitchell and waited for another opportunity. Instead, Lysette's desperation to be freed from obligation to Desjardins led her to make a reckless offer-she would associate with Quinn and salvage the mission, and in return, Desjardins would release her from further service to him.

'Shortly after arriving in England,' she said, 'we were discovered by Mr. Mitchell, which enabled us to place obstacles in his path. We hoped this would lead to his seeking assistance, which might reveal the identity of the man we sought.'

The comte sat on a nearby gold velvet chair. 'Sounds ideal.'

'It would have been, if Mitchell had not been so well connected. He had no need to seek out his superior for help.'

'Hmm…' Desjardins watched her over the rim of his cup. When he lowered his hands, the smile he revealed was chilling. 'An interesting tale.'

She shrugged. 'It is the truth. No more, no less.'

'Is it?'

'Of course.' Her tone was casual, but the hairs on her nape prickled with alarm. 'What else would it be?'

'An elaborate ruse, perhaps?'

'Absurde,' she scoffed. 'What purpose would that serve?'

'I've no notion, ma petite.' His smile faded and his eyes hardened. 'But you have been in the company of Mr. Quinn for some time now. A man rather infamous for his appeal to women. Perhaps you have succumbed to his charm.'

Lysette stood in an angry swirl of floral skirts. 'And now I seek to betray you?'

'Do you? You told him your real name. Why?'

'Because that was to be my last favor for you.'

'A curious way to exert your independence.'

'Kill me, then,' she challenged with a jerk of her chin. 'There is no way to prove any denial of your claims.'

Desjardins rose with maddening leisure and set his tea on the table. 'As you killed Francois Depardue? A man working to serve the interests of the agent-general?'

Lysette felt the familiar knot of ice form in her stomach. 'He deserved it. You know he did.'

'Yes, he was an animal. A vicious, rutting beast who associated with others of his ilk.' The comte came to her and wrapped her in his skeletal embrace. She shuddered with revulsion, but did not pull away. He had taken her from Depardue, clothed and fed her, trained her to survive.

'I will help you,' he crooned, stroking his hands down her back as a loving father would. 'No one will ever learn of your involvement in his death. In return, you will help me. One last time.'

The nightmare of her life was never ending. 'What do you want?' she asked wearily, her shoulders drooping.

'I have an introduction to make.'

'Whom do you want dead now?'

He pulled back and gifted her with a soft smile. 'I need a different sort of femme fatale for this.'

That statement frightened her more than an order to kill.

'I am dreadfully worried about her, Solange,' Marguerite said sadly, her fingers pushing needle through cloth by habit more than actual thought. 'She has changed so drastically since Lysette passed.'

'I noticed.'

Marguerite glanced up at her dearest friend, a courtesan she had met years ago during an afternoon of shopping. Solange Tremblay was a lovely brunette, blessed with a girlish laugh and smile that kept her in demand. On the surface, they had little in common. Solange had pulled herself up from the serving class, while Marguerite had fallen from the heights of nobility. Solange was dark, Marguerite was fair. And yet they shared a deep affinity. They had both borne the censure of the world to live their lives as they saw fit.

After the tragic end of her affair with Philippe, Marguerite had wed the steadfast de Grenier and traveled with him to Poland, never to return to France… until now. It was only through correspondence that her friendship with Solange had grown and strengthened, and now that they were together again in the flesh, it felt as if no time had passed.