“Celie?”
It was not in character for Celie to leave such a mess lying about. Marguerite began to worry, her steps quickening as she rushed toward the boudoir. She hurried through the open door and drew to a halt, lifting her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream of terror.
Celie stared sightlessly from the floor, her mouth foamed and lips blue. In one hand, she clutched a sheaf of papers. In the other, a wax seal.
“Celie!” Marguerite sobbed in grief and horror. A chill seeped through her skin to solidify as ice within her gut, prompting a violent shudder to wrack her frame.
Goaded by terror, she ran from the suite, racing across the hallway to Lysette. She shut the door behind her and turned the key, breathing so heavily she thought she might faint.
“Maman!” Lysette rushed forward. “What is it?”
“Celie . . .” she gasped. “Celie is dead.”
In the same manner the servants in her household had been killed years ago. Poison. She would know the signs anywhere now.
“No,” Lysette whispered, mouth quivering and eyes filling with tears.
Marguerite’s stomach knotted as the room tilted precariously. “Mon Dieu, what are we going to do?”
The lock turned. Marguerite spun about, shielding her daughter behind her back.
The door opened, and Saint-Martin walked in.
Seeking purchase in the rocking carriage, Simon held tight to the window ledge and stood, redressing as quickly as possible in Eddington’s breeches. The journey to Solange Tremblay’s home was not long, but a stone’s throw would be too far for him now.
He had never enjoyed gambling. With the stakes in this game being the safety of Lynette, he detested it. But if he should win, they would all be free. Yes, the risks were great, but the possible gain was greater.
With the blessing of her parents, he could court his precious Lynette. He could woo and win her, cherish her. Surely they would at least consider his suit, if he delivered them from the enemy who had tormented them for so long.
“Hurry!” he shouted to the driver, hating the necessary delay. He sat and tugged on his boots, his breathing labored by anxiety.
Dear God, keep her safe.
Grimly determined, he reached for his dagger and sheath.
“Are you L’Esprit?” Eddington asked, his gaze never leaving the mouth of the pistol pointed at his chest. The man who stood on the other side was tall and broad, about the same size as Quinn, but this man’s eyes were cold and dark.
Thierry growled. “Where in hell is Quinn?”
“Not here obviously.”
“Damn you.” He glared. “If I had known who she was before now, I could have been a rich man.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Eddington drawled, his senses alert despite the casualness of his pose. “Perhaps I can be of assistance in lieu of Quinn?”
“I need Quinn to kill her!” Thierry growled, gesturing over Eddington’s shoulder with a jerk of his gun.
“Hmm . . .” Eddington nodded. “I see. English spy kills French spy. Nothing too odd about that, is there?”
“It might not be wise to goad him,” Mademoiselle Baillon said. “He has a weapon.”
“I can see that. So what do we do now? If he is not L’Esprit, we’ve little use for him.”
“Who are you?” Thierry snapped.
“A friend of Quinn’s.”
Thierry’s frustration was palpable and dangerous. “Go to the bedroom.”
Eddington followed Mademoiselle Baillon as she led the way, thinking that perhaps utilizing Quinn in the future might not be so wise. The man had become embroiled in one morass after another over the last few months, making him less and less valuable. After all, what good was a spy whose covert activities were known to all and sundry? And . . . what good was a man who dragged his superiors into tangles such as these?
They had barely stepped into the room when a sickening thud, followed by a loud grunt, was heard behind him. Eddington pivoted and crouched, ready to defend both himself and Mademoiselle Baillon. Instead, he faced Mr. James, who was brandishing a weighty silver candlestick.
Thierry crumpled to the floor, his pistol dropping and misfiring, the report deafening in the enclosed space of the bedroom.
“Edward!” Mademoiselle Baillon rushed toward him and the man caught her close, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead.
“Forgive me,” he said huskily. “I came as soon as I could.”
Eddington frowned. “You are not Mademoiselle Baillon, are you?” he asked.
She smiled. “I am. But I am not Lynette.”
Marguerite gasped as Saint-Martin entered the room, followed immediately by de Grenier . . . who held a pistol to his back.
Her lungs seized with unalloyed terror. “Philippe,” she whispered, her heart breaking at the pain and regret she saw in his eyes.
Behind her, Lysette gave a strangled cry, backing away and pulling Marguerite with her. Protecting her mother, when it should have been the reverse.
All of these years . . . she had allowed her children to reside with a monster.
“Look who I found lurking about the place,” de Grenier drawled. “Could not be more convenient, I must say. I was expecting a few hours at least before I could lure him here.”
“Why?” Lysette asked, her voice shaking.
“To kill you, ma petite,” he drawled, the words piercing deep.
“No!” Marguerite spread her arms wide, blocking Lysette from harm. “How could you? She is your daughter!”
De Grenier’s smile was icy. “No, she is not. You must think I am a fool. She could not look more like Saint-Martin if she wished to.”
Marguerite’s chin rose, and her gaze moved to Philippe. He stared at Lysette, a look of wonder and joy erasing the lines of sorrow their tragic past had placed upon his countenance. Tears filled her eyes, the long-dreamed-of moment finally here, but marred by tragedy.
She forced her gaze back to her husband, beseeching. “You raised her,” she argued. “Watched her grow. You have been the only father she has ever known.”
“And what a delight that has been.” His eyes shone bright with malice. “Knowing I had everything Saint-Martin coveted—the woman he loved and the daughters he sired. Fucking his wife and killing her were added pleasures, but fleeting. Having you daily was my true joy.”
A low growl rumbled up from Philippe’s chest, frightening Marguerite with its unadulterated menace.
“You are L’Esprit,” Lysette said, her hand tightening on Marguerite’s.
“Things would have remained perfect,” de Grenier said, “if you had remained dead. I will kill Desjardins when this is done. His machinations have ruined everything.”
“Simon was correct,” Lysette said softly. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am that he was right.”
Something about Lysette’s tone set the hairs on Marguerite’s nape to rising. Tumultuous undercurrents swirled about the room, buffeting her with confusion and uncertainty.
“What in hell are you talking about?” De Grenier kicked Philippe farther into the room.
Philippe stumbled but recovered quickly, pivoting to take a position before Marguerite, shielding her as she shielded Lysette. She was torn between gratitude that he was with her, and panic that something untoward would befall him.
“Simon suspected you were the culprit,” Lysette said.
“Oh? Clever fellow.”
“Yes, he is,” she agreed. “Hence the reason Lysette is far from you with her memories protected, while I am here.”
“You lie.” De Grenier’s eyes narrowed.
“Lynette?” Marguerite queried, dazed by the revelation that no one was who she had thought them to be.
“I am the healthier of the two of us at the moment,” Lynette said with an elegant shrug, “far more capable of dealing with you.”
De Grenier’s lip curled in a sneer, devastating Marguerite with the knowledge that she had given herself to a man who hated her
and wished her nothing but harm. “Do not be so smug, ma chérie. Quinn is dead now, along with your sister. Soon you will be reunited for eternity. In hell.”
Marguerite whimpered, her free hand reaching for Philippe as her heart twisted with fear and grief. It was torment unparalleled to have her family reunited and intact, only to have it ripped asunder again.
“I have risen from the grave,” drawled an Irish-inflected voice.
De Grenier bellowed with something akin to agony. Marguerite watched in horror as the end of a small sword appeared straight through his right shoulder, protruding morbidly. As de Grenier dropped to his knees, Saint-Martin kicked, knocking the gun from his hand to clatter a few feet away. Quinn was revealed to be standing in the doorway, a crimson-covered blade in his hand.
Lynette grabbed Marguerite, pulling her out of the way.
Roaring, de Grenier lurched to his feet and tackled Saint-Martin to the floor.
Quinn leaped over the two writhing bodies, rushing toward Lynette and Marguerite.
But Marguerite would have none of it. Inhaling courage, she skirted Quinn and raced toward the discarded pistol. A hand grabbed her ankle, yanking her balance from her and causing her to land with bone-jarring force prone on the floor. Kicking at her attacker, she reached out for the pistol grip, her sweat-soaked fingertips slipping across the polished wood.
No one would harm her children again. Not while there was still breath left in her body.
And then it was there, the grip seated firmly in her palm. She rolled to her back, searching for de Grenier. He rose to his knees, a blade wielded high above a sprawled Saint-Martin.
“No!”
Lynette’s cry reverberated through the room and gave Marguerite the strength to do what she must.
Saint-Martin reared up, the heel of his palm shattering the aquiline beauty of de Grenier’s nose. The sound of cartilage breaking was like a thundercrack.
Marguerite aimed and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 18
Four weeks later . . .
Simon alighted from his carriage and ascended the steps to the front door of Marguerite Baillon’s home. The day was bright and beautiful, the air cleansed from a brief spate of early morning rain. From the exterior, the home was cheery and welcoming, with red flowers overflowing from urns flanking the entrance.
The door opened before he knocked, revealing the much-loved sight of Lynette standing on the threshold.
“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he greeted her, removing his hat and sweeping a low bow.
“You are tardy, Mr. Quinn,” she chastised him sternly.
“I am not,” he protested, withdrawing his pocket watch. “It is precisely one o’clock, the same time I visit you every day.”
“It is nearly five after one.” She caught his arm and tugged him into the foyer, shutting the door behind him. She collected his hat and tossed it agilely to the rack, where it caught and swayed into place.
“Excellent shot,” he praised, staring down at her lovely, animated features.
“Do not change the subject.”
“You are piqued with me.” He smiled. “Did you miss me, a thiasce?”
“You know I did,” she grumbled, leading him toward the lower parlor. “I thought you might not come.”
“Nothing could keep me away,” he murmured, the fingers of his free hand clenching with the need to touch her. Everywhere.
Weeks of abstinence were taking their toll, but he was determined to woo her properly. She and Lysette had decided to take Saint-Martin’s name in an effort to right the wrongs done by de Grenier. Their declaration of bastardy had ruined them, making them unsuitable for an esteemed social marriage. Because of this, Simon was firm in his intent to court Lynette as she might have been if only he were worthy and she were not tainted by scandal.
“I think you might be falling in love with me, Simon,” Lynette purred, her smile wicked and filled with feminine satisfaction.
“I might be,” he agreed, squeezing her hand where it rested over his forearm.
She was so brave. He admired as well as desired her. She had not wanted to believe that the man she knew as her pater would be so heinous, but she had trusted Simon and displayed great courage by agreeing to his plan. Her fortitude when faced with the darker side of his world had ensnared him.
He was not an easy man to live with. He was coarse, roughened by years spent in the gutter, surviving by his wits and his fists. It would take an exceptional woman to manage him and love him regardless. What a miracle it was to have found Lynette, gently bred yet strong, demure but passionate. She took all that he was and all that he had ever been, and wanted him, regardless.
Over the last four weeks he had shown her both the best and the worst of himself, visiting her daily, good humor or bad. At times his longing for her made him curt, but she tolerated him easily. She, too, had shown the various facets of her temper—sometimes sweetly cajoling, at others pensive or cross. He’d found that he would rather be with a disgruntled Lynette than any other woman in the world.
He was firmly caught and happy for it.
They entered the parlor, and Simon discovered Lysette and Mr. James sitting on the window seat, sharing a book between them. The vicomtess was engaged in needlepoint on the settee, and the Marquis de Saint-Martin was occupied at the small escritoire.
“See?” Lynette murmured. “Saint-Martin and Mr. James have already arrived.”
Simon pulled out his timepiece again and scowled down at it. “I may need a new watch,” he said.
“Or a ring.”
His gaze met hers and she winked.
“Mr. Quinn,” the marquis called out. “Come here, if you would, please.”
“Will you walk with me in the garden today?” Lynette asked.
“I will walk with you anywhere.”
Her smile warmed him from the inside, offering him the home he had searched for all his years. He belonged somewhere, to someone. After a lifetime of loneliness, her presence in his life was an oasis in the desert.
“I will fetch my shawl while you speak with the marquis.” She ran from the room in a swirl of dark green and white striped skirts.
Simon moved to the escritoire. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“You, as well.” Saint-Martin straightened and gestured to the profusion of papers before him.
“Are those the items found with the maid?”
“Yes. Poor Celie. I cannot imagine what purgatory she suffered all these years. To take her own life . . .” He shook his head. “I wish she had known that we would not fault her.”
“Have you found anything that reveals de Grenier’s motivations?”
Heaving out his breath, the marquis sat back and nodded. “There was a woman in my past. The affair was brief and forgettable, if not for her reaction to our parting. She went into a decline, weeping on the steps of my home and creating a scene every time we crossed paths.”
“I had heard tales of that, I think,” Simon said, wincing in sympathy.
“People still speak of it today. It was dreadful, for both of us. At the time, I had yet to meet Marguerite so I could not collect why the woman was so distraught. I had no understanding of love or obsession.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Regrettably, I did not handle the ordeal well and her family sent her away to avoid further embarrassment for us all.”
“De Grenier knew her?”
“He loved her, apparently. She was a distant cousin and he had hoped to wed her. She took her own life shortly after her removal from Paris and he set the blame on my doorstep. Perhaps, rightly so.”
Simon set his hand atop the marquis’s shoulder. “While your affair may have brought her illness to light, I think it likely that she would have succumbed to madness regardless of your involvement. From de Grenier’s actions, I suspect mental defect is a trait in their family line.”
“If only it were that simple.” The marquis reached up and patted Simon’s hand, the paterna
l gesture startling and deeply moving. “Marguerite is still shaken by de Grenier’s death and her hand in it. She has nightmares, as does Lysette. I have lost years of my daughters’ lives. Their childhood is gone and they are about to be wed.” Saint-Martin arched a brow. “They are about to be wed, oui?”
Laughing, Simon stepped back. “I cannot see to both of them, my lord. Only the one.”
“What are you laughing about, Mr. Quinn?” Lynette asked, sweeping into the room with a soft smile. She held her bare hand out to him and he accepted it, lifting it to his lips.
“Nothing,” he evaded, wrapping her arm around his. “Shall we walk?”
“I should like that.”
They excused themselves and left the parlor, moving down the gallery to the doors leading to the outside. Once they had exited to the garden, Simon drew her closer, breathing deeply of the scents of rain-cleansed air and the seductive scent of Lynette’s perfume.
“You know,” she murmured, her lips curved sweetly, “when I first saw you, I marveled at your handsomeness and thought to myself that you would never be tamed.”
“Tamed?” His brows rose. “I am not certain I like the sound of that.”
“Oh?” She glanced up at him from beneath thick, chocolate-colored lashes. “Do you not have honorable intentions toward me, Mr. Quinn?”
“‘Mr. Quinn,’ is it?” He sidestepped behind a tall hedge and dragged her with him. Cupping her face, he kissed her, releasing only the veriest portion of his insatiable desire for her.
He licked across her lips, nibbling, teasing. Relishing the wordless entreaties she made, soft pleas for more than he could possibly give her here. His tongue stroked deep into her mouth, licking, tasting, drinking her in. “You would not want me tamed, a thiasce.”
“Let me come to you tonight,” she whispered, her head tilted back, her eyes closed.
“Don’t tempt me,” he growled.
“Simon.” She gave an exasperated laugh and opened her eyes. “You will drive me insane. Have you any notion of how I dream of you? How I miss you? Sometimes at night I think of you lewdly. I feel your hands on my skin, your mouth on my breasts, your body covering mine . . .”