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 naked 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.
“Edward,” she murmured, curling into her pillow.
Fate was so unfair to her, giving with one hand while taking away with the other. Would she forever be a torment to those who were kind to her?
She buried her head in her pillow and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 15
Simon left Lysette’s home possessing more than he had arrived with—namely, a set of garments that belonged to the footman, Thierry. They were of the same size and height, and it would not be notable for Thierry to visit Desjardins, which was Simon’s destination.
He hid his own clothes within a yew hedge lining the stone walls of the rear garden and exited out through the alley. Tugging Thierry’s tricorn low over his brow, Simon thrust his hands into his pockets and began the journey to Desjardins on foot.
The distance was neither short nor long. It was perfectly timed to allow him to think carefully about what pieces of information he had and which pieces he lacked. He glanced around furtively as he went, but found nothing amiss. Because he was so prepared, he was startled by the gloved hand that was thrust out of an unmarked and somewhat dilapidated carriage sitting just around the corner from the Desjardins residence.
He paused midstep, then quickly recovered, accepting the missive with his head tilted away to prevent recognition. The curtains were closed, the hand and arm completely covered.
“Tell him I am growing impatient,” growled a raspy, grating voice from the interior.
There was a rap on the roof and the carriage rolled away.
Simon kept walking, tucking the letter in his pocket and maintaining the appearance that nothing of note had transpired. Inside, however, he was plagued with a growing disquiet.
L’Esprit was apparently not a creative ploy by Desjardins, as Simon had originally assumed. He was real, which made him another threat to manage.
He reached Desjardins’s front steps within moments and rapped on the knocker with obvious impatience. The door swung open and the butler appeared prepared to allow him entry, then he noted the caller was not Thierry.
“Monsieur Quinn.”
Withdrawing his calling card, Simon extended it, then he shouldered his way into the foyer before he could be denied.
The servant opened his mouth to protest, but a narrowing of Simon’s eyes seemed to alter his mind. Instead, Simon was led to the study, and he made himself comfortable by pouring a ration of brandy before sitting on a settee.
“Quinn,” Desjardins greeted, as he entered shortly after. “What a pleasure.”
But the comte’s gaze rested on Thierry’s clothes overlong and revealed a wariness that Simon took advantage of.
“I have something for you,” he said, setting his goblet on the table and reaching into his pocket for the missive from L’Esprit. He examined it with theatrical interest. “Interesting seal. Or lack thereof.”
“Give that to me,” Desjardins said crossly, snapping his fingers.
“No.” Simon broke the seal and withdrew the contents.
The comte lunged and ripped the note from his hands.
Simon smiled. “What does L’Esprit want now?”
Desjardins paled. “What do you know of L’Esprit?”
“Not enough, but you are about to tell me more.”
“Get out.” The comte shoved the torn letter into the pocket of his coat with shaking hands. “Before I have you thrown out.”
“You would have me leave without investigating further? That is not your nature.” Simon hummed and mimicked confusion. “I wonder what would make you act out of character. Terror perhaps?”
