“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.
“Go now.”
Turning on her heel, Lynette stormed from the room.
“I wish I could have seen his face,” Eddington said, laughing with such abandon that he was forced to put his wine goblet back on the dining table. “I so enjoy watching you brawl.”
Simon spoke around a bite of veal. “There was nothing to see. One moment, he was standing. The next, he was on the floor.”
“Until the rest of the assembly joined in.”
“Well,” Simon shrugged, “that is the way such things are done.”
Eddington gestured for a servant to take his plate. “What were you doing there?”
“Spoiling for a fight, of course,” Simon said dryly. He noted the earl’s studiously casual deportment across the dining table and was not fooled by it. “Something about extortion puts me in the mood.”
The corner of Eddington’s mouth twitched.
There was a soft scratching at the door. Simon called out and the butler entered.
“Excuse me, my lord.” He glanced at Simon. “Sir, you have a visitor.”
Immediately, Simon’s gut tightened with a volatile mixture of concern and anticipation. He did not ask who it was due to the earl’s presence. He simply nodded and pushed back from the table.
“If you will excuse me, my lord.”
“Of course.”
Simon felt Eddington’s gaze on him until the door shut on his retreating back. He glanced at his butler.
“Blonde and beautiful, sir,” the servant said in answer to the unasked question.
Sweat dotted Simon’s brow. He breathed shallowly, lamenting the fact that he had only to think of Lynette and his body responded with ravenous ferocity. If only he had the means to go away. For her sake.
Inhaling deeply, he crossed the threshold of the lower parlor and paused, noting the vivid blue of Lynette’s gown. She stood with her back to him, her fingertips caressing a lovely China vase displayed on a wooden pedestal. But she was not relaxed. Her shoulders were tight and the air around her vibrated with tension.
“Lynette,” he said softly, infernally glad to see her, “you should not have come.”
She turned and he realized his mistake.
“Mr. Quinn.” The voice was low and throaty, yet under-laced with steel.
He bowed. “Vicomtess de Grenier.”
Gesturing for her to be seated, he glanced back out the door and nodded to his butler to bring refreshments. As the servant hurried away to inform the housekeeper, Simon sat opposite the vicomtess and contemplated her openly.
He was in agreement with the sentiment that the mother could pass for a sibling. Their coloring—pale blond hair and blue eyes—was identical. In addition, the vicomtess’s beauty remained unmarred by lines and her figure was as svelte and sweetly curved as Lynette’s.
“You are very handsome,” she said, studying him with narrowed eyes. “I can see the appeal.”
Simon’s mouth curved on one side. “Thank you. I can see whom your daughter favors. You are both the loveliest women I have ever seen.”
“What of the assassin?” she asked coldly. “I assume she is lovely, too?”
“Yes, of course.” He settled more comfortably, admiring the vicomtess’s fire, which she had passed on to her daughter.
“Of course.” Her smile was tight. “What do you want?”
He arched a brow. “Cut straight to the point, I see.”
Her bare fingers tangled in her lap, the knuckles adorned with various precious gems of impressive size. Small diamond clips glittered in her hair and a sapphire hatpin secured her chapeau to her head.
The woman had come prepared to dazzle him with her wealth. He was impressed with her, but also deeply insulted. The latter emotion made him laugh. He had survived these many years by selling whatever someone would buy, including his body. It was a fine time to develop scruples.
“I want for nothing,” he said.
“You want my daughter,” she refuted, “or the money at her disposal.”
“I don’t want her money.”
She snorted. “Do not tell me it’s love. I can only stomach so much.”
“No,” he agreed, “it isn’t love. But I do want her and I am cad enough to have her if presented with the opportunity, which is why I have asked her to stay away.”