Don't Tempt Me

again and shot a warning look at his son.

For his part, Edward strode from the room at his customary brisk pace and collected his jacket from the foyer.

He glanced at the clock again on his way out and sighed. He hated to be late.

The courtesan's house was small but elegant and located in an area of the city where only the most successful purveyors of the trade could afford to live.

The procession of carriages and riders on the street was steady, though not heavy, so lengthy observance of any household would be noted in short order. Because of this, the upper-floor chambermaid was hard pressed to slip from Solange Tremblay's home and reach the unmarked carriage across the road in a timely manner. It was not easy, not with the housekeeper forever scolding her to complete three chores at once. Still, she was nothing if not wily.

Keeping her head bent low, she walked a small distance up the street, then crossed it and backtracked to the nondescript black equipage. She paused outside the door.

'Well?'

The black curtains were closed, preventing her from seeing who spoke to her. Nor that she cared what he looked like. His coin was good and that was all she needed to know.

'They have made no plans to leave.'

'I see.'

There was something sinister in the tone used to say the two words. It made her shiver.

A gloved hand was extended and in its palm rested a small purse. She accepted it and dipped a quick curtsy, although she doubted he could see it. 'Merci beaucoup, m'sieur.'

It always paid to be polite to those who paid you. She might argue with the housekeeper, but she was nothing but smiles to Mademoiselle Tremblay. If she was released from her position due to insubordination, L'Esprit would have no further use for her and she would lose both wages at once.

She began walking back the way she had come, her steps hurried in an effort to return to her station before her absence was noted.

L'Esprit watched the woman until she disappeared through the side gate leading to the servants' entrance. She did not look back at him, a tiny detail he appreciated. It was so hard to find good help.

He leaned back against the squab and rapped on the roof. The coachman set the carriage into motion with a sharp whistle.

Marguerite had returned to Paris.

He had expected as much, which was why he'd paid the maid to join Solange's household so many years ago. It was a simple, relatively inexpensive thing to keep the woman on retainer, and he had known that one day the expense would prove valuable.

Nothing could be allowed to alter the course of events put into motion two decades ago.

Most especially not Marguerite Baillon.

Corinne's house was quiet as a tomb by five o'clock in the evening.

Edward sat at her dainty escritoire and worked quietly, his gaze moving to the bed at regular intervals to monitor her breathing. He had returned just a little past four and found her raging with fever and incoherent. The staff was exhausted. The footman had run to and fro for water all day and the housekeeper had given Corinne cooled cloth baths until her arms were protesting their exhaustion with tingling aches. When Edward arrived, they had conceded Corinne's care to him with undisguised gratitude. He in turn, appreciated the many hours he had spent researching how best to care for an invalid in her condition.

He had immediately relocated her to a guest room. There, Madame Fouche removed the soiled night rail from her body, while Edward stripped her bed and remade it with fresh linens. He'd ordered that Corinne be bathed again and that vodka should be rubbed beneath her arms, behind her neck, and into the soles of her feet. She smelled like a drunkard now, but her temperature had cooled considerably. She'd then been swaddled like a child and he had returned her to the comfort of her freshly made bed.

In appreciation for their efforts, the Fouches had been dismissed early. Their son, Thierry-who was around the same age as Edward's score, ten, and three years-remained in service. With only two people left awake in the house, it was eerily silently in contrast to the explosion of activity just an hour ago. The thick blanket of peace left Edward with too much rime to contemplate his involvement in Corinne's life and too little in the way of answers.

That was why, when the door knocker was rapped impatiently, Edward felt relief. It was a distraction when he felt in desperate need of one.

He paused with his quill suspended above parchment, his hearing alert. A moment later he heard voices, too distant to be distinguished. Expecting Desjardins, he waited for the sound of footsteps approaching. When they did not come, Edward pushed to his feet and walked through the open door into the gallery.

From there, he looked directly down the stairs into the small, marble-lined entry. Thierry stood in the front doorway, speaking at length with whoever stood there. Finally, the servant retreated into the house and closed the door.

Curious as to who else occupied Corinne's life, Edward rounded the landing and entered the upper parlor. He moved to the window and pushed the curtains aside, affording him a clear view of the street in front of the house.

The man named Quinn was unhitching his horse from the post with casual ease. The cut and quality of the man's garments spoke of wealth and privilege, as did the beautiful lines of his mount.

How did he know Corinne?

Quinn stilled just before placing his booted foot into the stirrup. He glanced over his shoulder at the house, lifting his gaze until it met with Edward's. The tension that gripped the man's large frame was tangible even across the distance between them.

There had been a brief moment when Edward considered backing up and out of view. It was not his place to intrude in Corinne's life. They were nothing to each other, not even true acquaintances. When she awoke, she might rail at his arrogance in taking charge of her household-and her-while she was helpless to protest.

But a long-buried part of him reared up and exerted a claim on the lovely Corinne, and he was unable to resist it. He would have her. It was the only reason for the madness of his actions since meeting her.

Edward's eyes examined the man who might be a rival, noting every detail. They were as opposite as opposite could be, except for their facial expressions. Quinn looked the way Edward felt-taut, challenged, and malevolent.

Was this the man who had so wounded Corinne? Who had made her fearful and given her that haunted look in her eyes?

His fists clenched at his sides. 'I will know who you are,' Edward warned softly.

Quinn touched the brim of his hat, smiled in a near sneer, and mounted his horse. He could not have heard Edward or even seen his lips moving, but the fact that he'd picked up the gauntlet was clear.

Another complication in an already tangled affair.

Edward lowered the curtain and returned to Corinne.

Simon stood in the entryway of his home and pulled off his gloves one fingertip at a time, his movements deliberate and evenly paced. The action was meant to calm him, but it was ineffectual. His breath heaved with his anger, and his neck ached with tension.

Edward James had been visiting Lysette while she was 'indisposed.' The man had stood in the window sans coat and waistcoat as if he were at home, his posture both defensive and possessive.

Simon had played this game before, coming to a head with a man over a desirable female. It was a diverting activity and Simon rarely had a true stake in the outcome. If he won the lady's regard, the sex was wild and hot. If he lost it, he conceded with a smile and caught another.

This time, he was incensed. He would like to think it was only his pride that was bruised, but the truth was more disturbing than that. He had been happy those brief, passionate moments in the library. Not merely content or