“Then lay it to rest,” she pleaded.
Simon’s head went back and he gazed at the ceiling, as if looking for divine guidance. Beneath her palm, she felt his heart beating steady and strong. For the first time since Lysette passed, Lynette felt as if she had a purpose and Simon gave her the support she needed to pursue it.
“How did you find me?” he asked finally, returning his gaze to her face.
“Eavesdropping.” She smiled. “I think Solange champions you. She was describing your home in detail to my mother this afternoon. She was quite flattering in regards to your taste and wealth.”
A change came over him, a steely resolve taking hold with such tenacity it was tangible.
“From now onward,” he directed resolutely, “I want you to follow your mother’s admonishments to stay hidden. No more parties. No more outings.” He cupped her face and reinforced the severity of his words by touch. “Whatever reasons your family may have for their discretion, you must add the risk of being seen by Lysette Rousseau or someone she works with or for. That cannot happen, Lynette. You trusted me when you came here. I need you to trust me when you leave, as well.”
“What is she?”
“She is an assassin. And I am not certain murder is the gravest of her crimes.”
“Mon Dieu . . .” Lynette shook violently, the chill starting from the inside and spreading outward to coat her skin with gooseflesh. Her hand rose to his face, her quivering fingertips brushing over his sinner’s mouth. “I am grateful to have your guidance.”
She drew strength from him and comfort. For the first time in two years she felt like herself. It was a precious gift and meeting Simon had given it to her.
“A thiasce,” he whispered, his eyes darkening. “I wish we had never met. No good can come of it. The only path on which I can guide you is one that leads you straight to hell.”
Chapter 10
It was nearly midnight before Simon found Richard Becking in a tavern in an undesirable part of town. The Englishman was occupying a far corner of the room with a buxom serving wench on his lap and a singing Frenchman to his right. Richard himself was grinning from ear to ear and he lifted a hand in a wave when he spotted Simon approaching.
“Richard,” Simon greeted him, pulling out the only vacant chair at the table. He glanced at the seat, arched a brow, then laid his kerchief atop it before sitting.
“Putting on airs, Quinn?” Richard laughed, as did the maid and the drunk, although Simon doubted they’d understood a word.
“I have recently come into financial difficulty,” Simon said, his mouth curving on one side. “I ruined one set of garments last night. I cannot afford to ruin another.”
“Fighting again?”
“In a fashion.”
Simon studied Becking closely, searching for any lasting ill-effects from his stay with Desjardins. Fortunately, there did not appear to be any. He was fit and trim, and maintained the understated genial appeal that enabled him to blend in anywhere. His brown hair and eyes were nondescript, his height and build unremarkable, his voice lacking any distinguishing qualities. In short, Richard did not attract undue attention and people found him both innocuous and pleasant to associate with.
Richard kissed the maid on the cheek before shooing her off to refill his ale, then he tossed a coin at the Frenchman and waved him away, too. “How is it that you are suddenly lacking coin?” he asked when they were alone.
“Eddington has seized my accounts.” Simon’s fingertips drummed into the tabletop. “Stupidity on my part. I had no plans to return to England anytime soon. I should have cleared all my assets before departing.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Let that be a lesson to you, eh?”
“I cannot believe he had the audacity to aggravate you in that manner.” Richard whistled and leaned into his spindle-backed chair. “He must be desperate. Quite frankly, I enjoy picturing Eddington in that light.”
Simon’s chuckle turned into a cough, the result of the tobacco smoke in the tavern aggravating lungs irritated by the smoke inhalation of the night before. “When I returned to France with Mademoiselle Rousseau, I thought I would proceed with my life unencumbered. Now, I am beset on all sides. Eddington has proven that my interests are of little concern to him, which leaves me with no one to turn to but you, my friend.”
“I knew it was not happenstance that you would seek me out.” Richard’s face beamed with a broad smile. “But I admit to having had a faint hope that you joined me simply for a night of tupping and drinking.”
“Some other time,” Simon said, thinking of Lynette as he glanced around the large room. She was the only woman he was interested in tupping. He was interested to such an extreme that his ballocks ached, a discomfort he had not felt in so long he could scarcely remember it.
“So tell me,” Richard yelled, as a makeshift orchestra began playing a raucous tune, “what can I do for you?”
There had been a time when Simon deliberately sought out such noisy, boisterous venues. The revelry of others masked his personal discontent, as well as shielded the secrets passed between agents. Now, he found the din irritating.
“What task did Eddington set for you?” he asked, bending low over the table to be heard.
“He would like me to investigate Mademoiselle Rousseau and also Mr. James.”
“I ask the same, with an added request for you to learn whatever you can about the Vicomte de Grenier and his family.”
Richard’s brows rose, then he smiled. The man loved a challenge.
“Exercise more caution than usual,” Simon said, straightening slightly as two sloshing tankards were thumped down on the table between them. “There is something amiss. They hide secrets, something or someone they fear enough to flee France.”
“I will take care, and I will give you a day’s notice.”
“Day’s notice?” Simon shouted, just as the music fell from its crescendo and faded into silence.
Richard laughed at Simon’s scowl. “I will send whatever information I uncover regarding James and Mademoiselle Rousseau to you, then to Eddington the following day. I will keep any news about the vicomte separate, of course, as he did not ask for it.” Richard shrugged, then drank deeply. “I wish I could do more.”
“It is more than enough.” Simon lifted his own ale in a toast. “I am tremendously grateful.”
Eddington was paying for his request. Simon was begging a favor. Lacking any family of his own, Simon treasured every gift that came from loyalty and friendship.
“I am in your debt for ensuring our release,” Richard dismissed.
“It is what anyone would have done.”
“No, it is not, and well you know it.”
Simon’s lips had barely touched the rim of his stein when he was bumped from behind, causing his ale and its frothy head to spill over his chin, down his chest, and into his lap. He glanced at the subsequent mess and growled. Pushing back from the table, he confronted the man.
“Beg my pardon,” he demanded, damning the fate of another set of garments.
The offender, a man of equal height to Simon but twice the weight, looked at the stain running down Simon’s clothes and made a monumental error.
He laughed.
“Poor chap,” Richard muttered. “Has no idea what’s about to hit him.”
Simon drew back his fist and swung.
“I deeply regret returning to Paris. This place has only ever brought me misery.”
Lynette flinched at the pain in her mother’s voice and moved to sit beside her on the edge of a pink velvet chaise.
Late morning sunlight spilled in through the sheer-covered windows and bathed the upper parlor in soft, welcoming light. Despite having dreamt of Simon in ways that made her blush upon rising, Lynette had slept well. Refreshed and determined, she had approached her mother to share some of what she had learned yesterday and to ask her the questions that had waited too long for answers.
“Maman . . .”
“I told you to stay away from him!” Marguerite cried, her shoulders shaking. “Why could you not obey me?”
“Because I have to know who this woman is!”
“Lysette is dead!” Her mother pushed to her feet, her robe and night rail swirling around her feet. “I saw her with my own eyes.”
“You said her f-face was . . . too badly burned.”
“I saw her hair. Her dress. Her s-shoes—”
Covering her mouth to stifle a sob, Marguerite turned away.
“You may have made peace with her passing,” Lynette said flatly, her gaze turning to Solange for a moment, then dropping to the floor when tears threatened. “But I have not. I feel as if a part of me is missing.”
“This man is taking advantage of your grief!” Marguerite’s hands fisted at her sides.
“To what aim?”
“You are wealthy and beautiful. Marriage to you would be any man’s aim.”
“He is an English spy!” she argued. “What would he gain from wedding a French woman connected to a family who resides in Poland?”
“Perhaps he wishes to enjoy the rest of his days in comfort.”
Lynette snorted.
“There are things you do not know, Lynette.”
“Yes, Maman. I never forget that. I am reminded every day, when something else is said that everyone else seems to understand except me.”
“Events of the past should remain in the past.”
“That is ridiculous. I am not a child.”
Marguerite pointed an accusing finger. “What is ridiculous is that I have allowed myself to be browbeaten into behavior I knew was ill conceived and it has led to this end. You have taken advantage of my grief. I missed your smiles and the brightness of your eyes. It affected my judgment and you exploited that.”
“The brightness is back,” Solange interjected in a murmur.
“Courtesy of a charlatan!”
“He is not a charlatan,” Lynette defended in as calm a tone as she could manage.
“Reconsider the facts,” Marguerite snapped. “This man—one of little consequence, whose presence in France has been compromised—eyes a lovely and obviously wealthy woman at a licentious gathering. He approaches her, removes her mask, kisses her . . . I know he kissed you, Lynette. Do not lie to me!”
Lynette flushed and swallowed her intended rebuttal.
“He whispers her name,” her mother continued, “and the girl—naïvely lost in her first seduction—hears what she wants to hear. ‘Lynette’ becomes ‘Lysette.’ Later, a well-acted and dashing rescue fuels her misguided infatuation and she follows him. She tells him just enough information for him to effect a brilliant scheme to win her trust and the opportunity to bed her and access her funds.”
“Mon Dieu,” Lynette muttered, crossing her arms. “That is a fantastical tale.”
Marguerite laughed without humor. “As fantastical as the story of a woman who might be your dead sister? A woman you cannot see with your own eyes because she is an assassin? Of all things, Lynette. An assassin?”
Said in that light, the whole story did sound remarkably improbable. But then, her mother had never spoken at length with Simon Quinn.
“You do not understand,” she said. “If you would only meet him.”
“Never,” Marguerite spat. “I am done with this excursion into madness. As are you. I forbid you to see him again. If you disobey me, you will deeply regret doing so. I promise you that.”
Lynette leaped to her feet, her palms dampening. “Give him time—”
“For what?” Her mother began to pace, occasionally glaring at Solange, who sat meekly at a small table sipping tea. “For him to continue raising doubts in you about your family? Creating a rift between you and those who love you so that only he remains for you to lean upon? Or perhaps we should wait until you are fat with his bastard child, so there can be no doubt that you are ruined?”
“You insult me without cause,” Lynette said, hiding her rising panic behind cool dignity. “He asked me to stay away from him. He told me to leave him be, to put as much distance as possible between us.”
“A clever tactic to win your trust. Do you not see?” her mother asked, holding both hands out to her. “By making you pursue the connection rather than the reverse, he creates the appearance of innocence.”
Marguerite moved to Solange. “Help me,” she begged.
Solange sighed and set down her cup. “There are men such as your maman describes, chérie.”
“But you do not think Simon Quinn is one of them,” she countered.
“Frankly, I do not know. I have never formally met the man.”
“Regardless,” Marguerite said, her shoulders squaring. “Your father is due to arrive in a few days and I will turn this matter over to him. In the interim, you will not leave this house for any reason.”
“Perhaps he will listen to reason!”
Her mother’s blue eyes took on a steely cast. “Perhaps he will wed you to a stern man who will manage your waywardness properly.”
“Maman!” Lynette’s heart stopped, then raced madly. Her grand-mère had done the same to her mother. While her parents were cordial, there was no passion between them. No fire. Theirs was a cold marriage and Lynette violently eschewed such a fate for herself. “You could have threatened anything but that,” she said bitterly, “and I might have heeded you.”
Marguerite stiffened and her arms crossed. “Enough. Not another word. Go to your room and calm yourself.”
“I am not a child! You cannot prevent me from discovering the truth about this woman.”
“Do not think to gainsay me. I will not tolerate these dramatics.”
Lynette’s eyes stung, then tears overflowed. Marguerite flinched, but did not relent.