Eddington attempted a more serious mien, but it was too late. Simon was infuriated as he had never been before. The whole of his life he had made every move by necessity, never having an option if he wanted to survive. The thought of finally achieving independence had been dear to him. Never looking over his shoulder, never fearing he would be discovered with something to hide.
. . . to be thrust back into that life against his will . . .
He realized he’d never had any power at all.
He should have followed Mitchell’s example—gathered his coin, changed his name, and traveled to a distant land.
Although he collected his error too late, Simon was a man who lived by his wits. He never made the same mistake twice. Eddington had him on a leash now, but he would not always. When all was said and done, Simon intended to ensure that he was never under anyone’s thumb again.
And Eddington would rue the day he set this plan in motion.
Pulling out his chair again, Simon sat. “Tell me everything you know.”
Lynette turned back and forth before the mirror with wide eyes.
“I am not certain I possess the aplomb to carry this garment,” she said, her gaze meeting Solange’s reflected perusal.
“Absurde. You are a vision.” Solange stood at her back, fluffing out the many layers of lace and shimmering blue-green silk. “You remind me of your mother when we first met.”
It seemed not long ago that Lynette had enjoyed nothing so much as shopping (except, perhaps, flirting). Her modiste expenditures had been exorbitant, a fact her father often scolded her about. It could not be avoided, she used to say, pointing out how the richer colors and fabrics she favored were costlier than the pastels Lysette preferred.
The gown she presently wore would once have been a delight. The glorious color, accented with layers of gold lace and satin, was alluringly cut to accent her slender waist and full bosom. As she moved from side to side, the veriest hint of rosy areola peeked above the dangerously low bodice. It was the garb of a seductress, a role she had once prided herself on aspiring to.
Now she felt her cheeks flushing and her hands tugged at the material trying to pull it into a less revealing position. She could not help but hear Lysette’s admonishment that the brain was as much a sexual organ as the breasts and hips.
“You are more than beauty, Lynette,” her sister would say.
“You are the brilliant one,” Lynette would retort without heat. She loved her sister too much to compete with her. It was simply the way things were. Lysette was a creature of calculated reason; Lynette was more tactile and emotional.
At least she had been. She was not that girl any longer.
Since Lysette’s passing, Lynette had taken to reading the many books her sister had left behind, finding comfort in the feeling of closeness the activity engendered. She also found comfort in the changes wrought by her new awareness of mortality. There had been so much remaining for Lysette to accomplish. Lynette—too long aimless and frivolous—realized that life was finite and she wished hers to be filled with more than mere flirtations and parties.
“You met Maman while visiting a modiste, did you not?” Lynette asked, gesturing for her mother’s maid, Celie, to approach and undress her.
“Twirling before a mirror, just as you are doing now,” Solange agreed, moving to her open armoire in search of another gown. “Of course, the attire she was fitted for that afternoon was not suitable for more than a lover’s eyes.”
For a moment, Lynette considered asking more questions, then she shuddered and thought better of it. She did not want to think of her mother and father in carnal congress.
“How about this?” Solange asked, shaking out a pure white gown. It was lovely, if demure, with elbow-length sleeves and cream satin bows. “I commissioned this gown as a jest.”
“A jest?”
“A paramour once protested the cost of my gowns, saying that he preferred me naked, therefore why should he pay to dress me?” Solange handed the gown to Celie. “I wore this to prove that garments can have various effects, depending on the wearer and the occasion.”
Lynette studied the dress as she donned it, admiring the costly pearl accents. “ ’Tis beautiful.”
“I think so, too. Although I wore it only the one time.” Solange stepped closer and set her hands on Lynette’s shoulders. “You look a vision in white. Many women with your hair would be unable to forgo color; they would look pallid. Your skin, however, has a lovely rosy hue.”
“Thank you.”
Lynette thought it was just the sort of gown her sister would have worn. This impression was confirmed when a loud gasp from the doorway announced Marguerite’s arrival.
Turning, Lynette faced her mother, wincing when she noted how pale she was. Still, the vicomtess managed a shaky smile. “You look lovely, Lynette.”
“I look like Lysette.”
“Oui. That, too.” Marguerite approached in an elegant cloud of swaying blue satin and examined her daughter from head to toe. “Does this gown please you?”
“Of course, Maman. I would not choose it otherwise.”
“As long as you are happy,” Marguerite said. Then she gave a shaky laugh. “I am slowly adjusting to this new woman you have become.”
“She is not completely changed,” Solange pointed out gently. “She is quite eager to attend the baroness’s ball.”
Lynette nodded and smiled wide, hoping to relieve her mother’s melancholy. “I would not miss it for anything. I have heard tales of such events, but never thought to attend one.”
“Mon Dieu.” Marguerite winced. “De Grenier will think I’ve gone mad if he hears of this.”
“He won’t,” Lynette assured her, walking to Solange’s bed, where a proliferation of masks were laid out. The array of colors, ribbons, and feathers was impressive. Her gaze raked over the lot and settled upon a half-mask of crimson silk. Scooping it up, she held it aloft. “My face will be covered with this.”
For the space of a breath, there was silence, then the vicomtess’s face lit up with a genuine grin. “That is just the color I would have picked for you!”
Solange reached over and squeezed Marguerite’s hand. “It will be great fun for all of us. And the baroness has admirable taste in men.”
Marguerite snorted. “No man attending such an event would be suitable for my daughter.”
Lynette hid a smile, briefly thinking of the man on horseback and others like him whom she had met over the years. Dark and dangerous. Delicious. As much as grief had changed her, that was one thing that remained the same.
“I see that smile,” her mother accused.
But there was a sparkle in Marguerite’s blue eyes that had been absent for years.
It warmed Lynette from the inside. Perhaps the time for healing had finally begun.
From the shadowed depths of the parked carriage, Lysette studied the man strolling briskly down the street.
The flow of carts and pedestrians was steady, often impeding her view. Regardless, Edward James was difficult to miss due to the purposefulness of his stride. He moved through the milling crowd with ease, his hand touching the brim of his hat repeatedly as he greeted those he passed.
Tall and almost slender, Mr. James was definitely of the bookish variety of male, yet he was blessed with a confident bearing and long, muscular legs. His hair was a lustrous brown, nothing extraordinary but not lamentable either. The color of his ensemble was a dark green that was more sensible than noteworthy. His garments were nicely tailored and well maintained, though inexpensive. In short, Edward James was an average man leading an average life . . . if not for his employer.
“Did you study the notes I provided you?” Desjardins asked from his seat opposite her.
“Naturellement.”
Mr. James led a quiet life. He spent his free time reading or visiting with friends. While he occasionally accompanied Mr. Franklin to elevated social events, he was said to be subdued, yet charming on those occasions, displaying no signs of avarice or a surfeit of ambition.
“James appears to have no aspirations,” the comte said with obvious disdain. “It is hard to lure a man to vice when you do not know what motivates him.”
“I agree.”
“That is why we must provide the motivation.”
Lysette watched Mr. James disappear from view into a shop. “And what will that be?”
“Love.”
Her brows rose and she glanced at him. “For me?”
“Of course.”
“Your faith is touching,” she murmured, “but misplaced. No one has ever loved me.”
“I love you.” Desjardins smiled when she snorted. “Beyond that, you cannot say for a certainty, can you? You have no recollection.”
“If I had been loved, someone would have come for me.” Her fists clenched. “Someone would have searched until they found me.”
“I gave up fourteen men for you, ma petite. Is that not love?”
For himself, perhaps. She served a purpose, that was all.
“Are we here for a reason?” she asked crossly, irritated by the feeling of being a pawn. “Or are we merely spying?”
“I want you to cross paths with him.” Desjardins rapped on the roof to signal their intent to alight.
“And then?” She was often fascinated by the workings of the comte’s mind. It was the one thing about him that she admired.
“Then you will continue on your way and I will appear. I shall offer him a chance to indulge his fascination.”
The carriage door opened and the comte stepped down first, then extended his hand to her.
“Fascination?” she queried, pausing in the doorway.
“With you. After he sees you, thoughts of you will linger with him all day. He will be desperate to see you again.”
“And what chance for indulgence do you have in mind?” She took his hand and stepped carefully down to the street.
“Baroness Orlinda is having a fête this evening.”