“You say that simply because he came by?”
“I say that because he has a man watching your home.”
Lysette stiffened, eyeing Desjardins carefully. There was something odd about him today, a moody tension that was far removed from his usual ease of deportment. It set her nerves on edge and made her wary. Restless predators were always dangerous.
“I must say,” he murmured, “it does ease my mind to see that you are not pleased to hear that.”
“Of course not,” she scoffed. “I do not like anyone prying into my life. It is hard enough knowing that nothing escapes your notice.”
“I wish that were true.”
Dropping the kerchief, she crossed her arms. “Tell me what ails you.” She presently lacked the patience to continue with meaningless discourse when something important was afoot.
He removed a missive from his pocket and tossed it in her direction. It spun gracefully on its side and landed near her thigh. She picked it up and examined it, noting the broken black wax that bore no seal. The front was blank, not addressed to anyone.
She looked up at him and asked, “Should I read it?”
“Please do.”
Using more care than usual, she opened the letter and read.
“Who is this from?” she breathed, horrified by the curt and heartless way it demanded information about Simon, at the cost of Desjardins’s daughter if the request was not met.
“A man known only as L’Esprit,” the comte said, his voice dripping venom. “A thorn in my side for over two decades.”
Her hands fell to the bed. She was so startled by the thought of Desjardins being as helpless as she often felt. “Has he been using your family against you all of this time?”
“From the beginning. I would never assist him otherwise.” The comte stood and began to pace angrily. “L’Esprit is the reason for your work with James. He is highly interested in Benjamin Franklin and I had hoped that you might learn something of such great import that it would lure L’Esprit out of the shadows.”
“I will do what I can, of course.”
“It is beyond that now. You read his latest demands. Quinn’s man was seen following Thierry to my home. It will not be long before L’Esprit follows Thierry or Quinn to you.”
Suddenly cold, Lysette burrowed deeper under the covers. “That upsets you a great deal.”
“It should upset you as well,” Desjardins said. “Depardue was his spy within the Illuminés. If L’Esprit learns that you killed his most trustworthy lieutenant, he will take you from me. If he kills you, that would be kind. I have seen him destroy men.”
“Destroy?” she whispered, more frightened by Desjardins’s obvious disquiet than by the tale itself. After all they had been through, she had never once seen him anything less than completely self-assured.
“He once bore a grievance against the Marquis de Saint-Martin. He robbed Saint-Martin of everything he held dear. Nothing was sacred.”
“What can we do?”
“Use your illness as a way to ingratiate yourself into James’s life. Allow him to do what he can to make you comfortable. Allow the bond between you to grow. That should not be too difficult, he saved your life.”
“And what about Quinn? He will return.”
“I will manage Quinn.”
Menace laced the comte’s words and Lysette felt her stomach roil. Desjardins’s urgency goaded hers. “I will do what I can with James, I promise.”
“Thank you.” The comte approached and kissed the back of her hand, then he retrieved the note from L’Esprit and returned it to his pocket. “I will look into moving you. I no longer feel this residence is a safe haven.”
With that, he left, closing the door behind him. Lysette lay with her cheek to her pillow and wept silently, fearful that she would not be allowed to learn of her past before her future became the death of her.
“Your life is a mess.”
She jumped, her heart racing at the sound of the low voice behind her. Rolling, she faced the sitting room door and found Simon lounging there, his gaze trained on the exit Desjardins had just made his egress through.
“How did you get in here?” she asked, struggling to sit up while swiping furiously at her wet cheeks.
“Come now,” he chided, straightening. “We all have our ways.”
Lysette watched him enter her bedchamber as if he owned it. He caught up the chair the comte had just vacated, spun it about, and sat with his arms crossed atop the back.
He was so blatantly male and dominant in the overtly feminine surroundings of her rose-hued bedroom, making no effort to meld or be less incongruous. Simon contrasted so completely with Edward that she could not fail to note it. Edward was every inch a male and a strikingly intense one at that, yet he had tempered that for her this morning. Her chest grew tight and she pushed the memory away. She could not think of him now. It was simply too much for her beleaguered and weary soul to manage.
“Tell me about yourself, Lysette,” he drawled, his gaze narrowed and examining.
“I should kill you for trespassing,” she hissed, hiding her tumult under aggression, as she had learned to do to stay alive.
“I should like to see you make the attempt. You are as weak as a kitten.”
“If I scream, help will come.”
“The servants Desjardins provided?” Simon laughed.
Her jaw clenched. He was right, she was weak, something she had promised herself she would never be again.
“I am not here to injure you,” he said softly, the levity leaving his features. “I simply want to know who you are.”
“Why?”
“I believe I have met a relation of yours, and I want to see if I am correct.”
Lysette paled, her palms dampening with distress.
“What did your parents do to make you resort to this elaborate ruse?” he asked quietly. “Threaten to marry you off? Cut your allowance?”
“What do you want?” she bit out.
His brow rose. “This does not have anything to do with me.”
“My family is dead.”
He made a chastising noise with his tongue. “Lying is a sin. Though I suppose it is probably the least of yours.”
“You are so smug,” Lysette snapped. “As if you know everything. As if you are so superior.”
“At the moment, I feel as if I know nothing at all. I do hope you will enlighten me.”
Having survived due in large part to her ability to accurately judge others, Lysette labored under the feeling that Simon was being sincere. Her mind told her it was a trick of some sort, her heart told her otherwise. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Your sister loves you a great deal and mourns deeply over your loss. Do you care nothing for her? Is your heart so cold that you can excise her from your life without a qualm?”
“My s-sister?” Lysette’s hand went to her throat as the room began to spin. Her stomach roiled and she reached blindly for the basin on the nightstand.
Simon moved so quickly, he was at her side the same moment the chair he had occupied toppled to the floor. He held the basin beneath her mouth as she retched violently, her body so weakened it was unable to tolerate the stresses of the day.
When she had finished, and had fallen back listlessly into the pillows, he moved to the door and locked it. A moment later a knock came and then the knob was tried, rattling briefly in an attempt to turn it.
A feminine voice came muffled through the portal, “Madame Marchant? Are you well?”
Arching a brow, Simon dared her to reveal his presence.
Lysette gasped for a deep breath, then answered. “I knocked a chair over on the way to the chamberpot. There is nothing to worry yourself over.”
“I will fetch the key and help you,” Madame Fouche offered.
“No! Please. I want sleep, nothing more.”
There was a long pause, then, “Very well. Ring the bell on the table if you need me.”
Simon stood with his ear to the door. Eventually, he nodded and returned to her, righting the chair and sitting in it properly. He waited patiently for her to speak.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked, her head throbbing unmercifully. Spots danced before her eyes and sweat dotted her brow.
“I am attempting to understand how you relate to Lynette.”
“Lynette?”
A shadow passed over his handsome features. “You do not know the name, do you?”
She shook her head, feeling a spark of hope that made her nigh as dizzy as casting up her accounts.
“Where is your family, Lysette? Who are they?”
“I do not know,” she whispered, feeling as vulnerable as if she were nak*d in a crowd.
“How can you not know where you come from? I am a bastard, yet I know I was born in Dublin and my mother was a seamstress.”
Swallowing hard, she reached for the damp cloth on the plate beside her and laid it around the back of her feverish neck. “I do not remember anything of my life prior to two years ago.”
He stilled, staring at her unblinkingly. “How is that possible?”
“I wish I knew!” she cried, sobbing quietly. “I wish it every day.”
“Bloody hell.” Simon stood and paced, just as Desjardins had. “Two years ago, a young woman with your name was killed in an accident and buried by her family. She is survived by a twin sister, Lynette, and her parents.”
“A twin?”
Could it be true? Would fate be kind to her at last, giving her a sibling whose identity could not be questioned?
“Yes.” He stilled and exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair and setting his queue in disarray. He did not appear to notice, nor care. “How did you come by your name?”
“Depardue called me Lysette. It felt . . . right. So I kept it.”
“Depardue?”
“Yes. Regrettably, he is my earliest memory.” She shuddered and felt ill again. She might have retched anew, if there had been anything remaining in her stomach.
“And Rousseau? Or is it Marchant?”
“Desjardins gave me the surname Rousseau, said it suited me. I use Marchant as a rule, as added protection against Depardue. He was angry to lose me, and while he could not keep me permanently after Desjardins interceded, he would have come to me at his leisure, if he knew where to find me.”
“You did not use it with me.”
“My journey to England was to have been my last assignment for Desjardins. He promised me that if I was able to bring back the name of your superior, I would be free. I saw no reason to hide who I was, most especially since I was not even certain the name was true.”
“I think Desjardins knows very well who you are,” Simon said, standing with arms akimbo. “I think he has kept you close as leverage, a hidden asset to withdraw when necessary.”
“No . . .” Her lip trembled and she bit it to hide the display of weakness.
“Do you truly think he cares for you? Sending you to kill those who impede his plans?”
Lysette said nothing, heartbroken at the feeling of having no one at all to turn to. No, she did not believe Desjardins loved her in any fashion, but she did hope that he might have some kindness for her, if only a little.
Simon came to the bed and sat next to her, taking one of her hands in his. He searched her face, his own starkly austere. “Your family loves you. They miss you. Despite all you have done, they would welcome you home with great joy, I am sure of it.”
She swallowed hard. “I am not worthy. Not any longer.”
“That is not for you to decide,” he said gruffly, his callused fingertips rubbing soothingly across the back of her hand. “However, someone wants you dead. And someone went to great lengths to make it appear as if you were. There is a body buried in Poland with your name on the crypt. For now, you should stay buried.”
“Do they know about me?” she asked, disengaging her hand from his to wipe at her tears.
“In a fashion, but only your sister holds out hope. Your mother saw a body, as did her spouse. She finds it harder to reconcile.”
“I see.”
“One look at you and there will be no doubt.” He growled low in his throat.
“You have never liked me,” she whispered. “Why are you telling me this? Why not leave me for dead?”
“I wish I could.” Simon shook his head. “I cannot see how you could bring them anything but pain.”
Lysette considered what he had told her, how angry he had been on behalf of her sister. Her eyes widened. “It is for Lynette, is it not? You do this for her.”
His jaw tensed.
She laughed softly and he pushed up from the bed with a curse.
“Poor Simon,” she crooned, “how taxing it must be for you to have a tendré for a woman who looks like me.”
“Witch.” His glare was chilling, but it did not alarm her. All bark, he was. He only bit when necessary.
“What do we do now?”
“You will continue on as you are,” he said. “Tell no one what I have told you. Give me time. There is still a great deal we do not yet know.”
“There is a man hunting you.”
“So I heard. Leave him to me.”
Lysette held her breath a moment, attempting to think of something suitable to say, some way to help and show her gratitude. “I wish I could do something.”
“You can. Whatever you learn from James, pass it along to me first.”
“James?” Her heart stopped beating for a moment. “Why must you involve him?”
“He is the reason why I am still here in Paris, tangled in the web of your past.” Simon moved back toward the sitting room, clearly distracted by his thoughts. “Get well,” he muttered. “In the days ahead I may need you.”
As quickly as he had come, he was gone.
Lysette lay alone in her bed, sick in mind and body, torn between elation and deep regret.