Glancing over her shoulder, Lynette met her mother’s frown with a shaky smile. “You will leave with Lysette, Maman. Surely that makes you happy.”
“But I risk you, ma petite,” her mother said gravely.
Her father’s lips tightened and he gripped the vicomtess’s arm more securely.
Lynette looked forward again and clung to Simon’s arm as he led her into the bowels of the city. They traversed a maze of winding stone-lined paths, their way lighted by a single burning torch carried aloft by Simon. Eventually he turned off the main corridor and led them up a short flight of stairs to a wooden door.
Thrusting the torch into a sconce on the wall, he then pushed open the portal and stepped into a cellar. Row upon row of wine racks filled the cool space, startling Lynette for a moment. It was such an innocuous sight after the ominous air of the catacombs. The change in scene was jarring and caused her apprehension to return in full force.
Simon’s hand squeezed hers again and her shoulders went back.
Her heartbeat increased with every step, her breathing growing shallower until she found herself standing before a small, slender man dressed in gold satin. He looked her over from head to toe.
“Remarkable,” he said, his voice loud in the relative stillness of the house.
“Lynette, may I introduce—”
Simon’s words were cut off when de Grenier lunged and tackled Desjardins to the floor. A one-sided scuffle ensued, and Simon reached out to the stunned vicomtess and pulled her into the study, where he shut the door.
Lynette was so startled by her father’s attack, it took her the length of several heartbeats to sense the heavy weight of tension in the room. It settled on her nape first, raising the tiny hairs there and sending a shiver down her spine.
Inhaling deeply, she turned slowly, her breath held within seized lungs, her heart hammering against her corset-bound ribs.
She found Lysette by the grate, pale and ethereally lovely in a gown of white with multicolored embroidered flowers, her arm extended to grasp the hand of a somber-looking man in dark gray.
Lynette studied her without blinking, seeing her beloved sister on the exterior but a stranger reflected in her eyes, one both cold and wary. If not for the man beside Lysette—Mr. Edward James, according to her father—she might have remained reserved. But James was precisely the sort of suitor Lynette would have chosen for her sibling.
Without a word, she took a step forward, unaware that she was sobbing until hot tears fell on her breast.
Her sister looked at Mr. James, who nodded his encouragement. He stepped closer, placing his hand at the small of her back and guiding her forward.
A sob rent the highly charged air and her mother rushed past her, embracing Lysette with a cry of agonized joy. Her sister’s face crumbled, the stony façade falling away to reveal a vulnerable young woman with deeply rooted pain.
The sight was so intimate Lynette looked away, searching for Simon, who must have felt her need of him. He drew abreast of her and wrapped his arm around her waist.
“A thiasce,” he murmured, handing a handkerchief to her. “Even tears of joy pain me when they fall from your eyes.”
His large hand cupped her waist with gentle pressure and she leaned against him, taking comfort from his stalwart presence.
The vicomtess pulled back, her shaking hands cupping Lysette’s face. Searching, touching, remembering. Lysette was crying softly, her shoulders folded down and inward, her frame so frail and quaking with the force of her emotions.
Then her eyes shifted, moving upward until she met Lynette’s returning gaze.
“Lynette,” she murmured, extending her hand.
Marguerite composed herself with great effort, stepping back and hugging herself, rocking gently.
Simon pressed a kiss to Lynette’s forehead. “I will be here for you,” he whispered.
Nodding, she straightened and stepped away from him. She took one step, then another. She watched her sister do the same, searching the beloved features for any sign of condemnation or fury for being the cause of her torment these last few years.
But there was nothing but hope and a joy so wary it broke Lynette’s heart. Like her mother, she ran the rest of the way, one hand holding her skirts while the other was extended in grateful welcome.
They collided, the impact jolting through them both, more for the feeling of having two broken halves reunited than from the physical force.
Laughing and crying, they clung to each other, speaking over each other, words and tears mingling together in a scouring wash that wiped the years away. It suddenly felt as if they had never been apart, as if it had all been a horrible nightmare.
Marguerite joined them and together they sank to the floor, a puddle of feminine skirts and golden hair in the stark whiteness of Desjardins’s parlor.
They did not hear the men leave or the door shut behind them.
Simon glanced at James in the hallway as the latch clicked into place behind them. “Does Lysette understand the arrangements?”
“Yes. She was not pleased, but she acquiesced.”
“Excellent. Pray the rest of this affair runs as smoothly as the first.” He gestured toward the study, where angry voices could be heard.
They paused on the threshold, taking in the sight of Desjardins sitting before the cold grate with a bloody lip and nose and de Grenier seated at Desjardins’s desk with a pile of missives from L’Esprit scattered all across the top.
“Mademoiselle Baillon remembers more this morning than she did yesterday,” James said. “I believe the reconciliation with her mother and sister will jar the rest of her memory loose in short order.”
De Grenier glanced up from the desktop.
“Excellent,” Simon replied, glancing at the comte. “Have you arranged a meeting with Saint-Martin?”
“ ’e replied that the next time ’e sees me will be in ’ell,” the comte mumbled from behind a crimson-soaked kerchief.
“Very well, then,” Simon said, shrugging. “We shall see what we can do about that.”
It was nearing two in the afternoon when Simon Quinn’s coach pulled away from Desjardins’s house. The equipage moved with studious leisure toward Lysette’s home, the pace deliberately set to enable a greater opportunity of being seen.
Simon reclined against the squab, his face set austerely to give no clue to his thoughts. The curtains were tied back to facilitate viewing by anyone searching them out, so there was nothing to do but wait. If his assessment of the situation was correct, he doubted they would be waiting long.
Occasionally, he glanced at the squab across from him, marveling at how much a garment could change the appearance of the wearer. Lynette and Lysette were identical, yet the floral gown of one and the sapphire silk of the other altered that mirroring enough to make them two separate and distinct women. In close proximity, the differences life’s toils—or lack thereof—had wrought in them became noticeable, but from a distance, they easily passed for one another.
As the carriage drew to a halt outside Lysette’s home, Simon shot a quick glance at the façade and noted the slight rustling of the sheers on the upper-floor window. A chill swept down his nape and curled around his spine. His instincts told him something was amiss and he trusted them implicitly.
And so the prearranged plan was set in motion. For the benefit of anyone watching, the cinnamon-clad man and the floral-garbed woman exited the equipage with insouciance, her hat set at a jaunty angle atop riotous blond curls and his hand set over the top of hers. The hackney was paid and sent on his way, then they climbed the short steps and entered the house.
The silence inside was deafening. And unnatural. Lysette’s household was small, yet there should have been some sounds of movement.
They stepped farther into the foyer, both tense, breaths caught, their heads turning from side to side, searching for entrapment. His fingers banded her wrist and he attempted to tug her behind him, but she resisted.
Slowly, carefully, they moved through the house. Room by room. Working in tandem as if they always had.
Ascending the stairs, they reached the first door, which belonged to the upper parlor. Reaching for the knob, he pushed the portal carefully open, pausing when the door’s progress was halted midswing by something heavy on the floor. He looked down. Saw an arm, the hand of which was splattered with blood. He stepped back, but not in time.
The muzzle of a pistol appeared, followed immediately by the person brandishing it.
“Bonjour,” the masculine voice drawled.
“Thierry,” Lynette murmured, her voice cold and devoid of emotion.
Thierry stepped over the body on the floor and came out to the hallway. He scowled. “You are not Quinn,” he barked.
Eddington straightened Simon’s cinnamon-colored coat and smiled. “You are correct, chap. I am not Quinn.”
Marguerite led her daughter into Solange’s house with their hands clasped together. De Grenier brought up the rear carrying a satchel filled with letters to Desjardins written by L’Esprit. Marguerite shuddered even to think of the name, horrified by the realization that Lysette had been stolen from her for two long years. Years of purgatory where some days she had survived only because of her love for Lynette.
“This way, ma petite,” she said to Lysette, directing her toward the curving staircase. “After you are settled, I should like to hear more about your Mr. James.”
“Of course, Maman,” Lysette murmured, her eyes wide within her pale face. Her hand quivered within Marguerite’s grasp and her obvious fear and apprehension broke Marguerite’s heart.
Setting her arm around Lysette’s shoulders, she pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Here is the bedchamber Lynette has been using,” she said as they reached the first door off the upper landing.
They stepped inside, finding the room still in shambles after Lynette’s frantic search for something appropriate to wear.
“Celie?” Marguerite called out, releasing Lysette to search for the maid. She moved into the suite’s boudoir and sitting room, but found no sign of her.