“How fare you?” he asked, addressing the group with a sweeping glance. They were filthy and malodorous, their appearances haggard and unkempt, but they stood in a concentrated rush and seemed to be uninjured. They grabbed the bars with fisted hands and stared at him with hope-filled eyes.
“In need of a bath,” one replied.
“And ale,” said another.
“A woman?” Simon queried with a smile.
“Aye!”
“You will be freed tomorrow,” he explained, stepping closer. “I wish it could be now, but I wanted to be certain you all were in good health before I relinquish what I have that they desire.”
A man named Richard Becking extended a grimy hand through the cage and Simon took it without hesitation.
“Thank you, Quinn,” Richard said hoarsely.
“Thank you, my friend,” Simon returned, tightening his grip and thereby hiding the passing of a tiny rolled note.
Richard’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a silent assurance that he would keep the missive’s existence a secret. It detailed Simon’s plans for the exchange and the way he wished to be told of their safe release before turning over Lysette.
With that, Simon bade them farewell and returned to the surface the same way he had left it: partly with sight and partly blindfolded. He parted ways with Desjardins’s men when they reached their mounts and directed his horse to return home.
The streets were less populated now and only one carriage crossed his path on the journey home. He studied it in passing, noting the obviously female gloved hand curled over the window ledge and the noble coat of arms emblazoned on the door. Both attributes made the equipage and its occupants innocuous and easily forgotten.
The man on horseback was so comely, he stole her wits.
Lynette Baillon straightened from her reclined position on the carriage squab and leaned forward, twisting to watch the rider through the window until he was out of sight.
He rode tall in the saddle, his grip on the reins one-handed and loose. His other hand rested casually atop the hilt of his small sword, but she was not fooled. He was aware of everything around him. His eyes followed her equipage as it passed, his breathtaking features revealed by his lack of a hat.
“What is it?” her mother asked from her position opposite.
“I was admiring a handsome man,” she explained, settling back into her seat.
“Shameless,” the vicomtess admonished. “What if he had seen you craning your neck in that manner?”
“It is too dark,” Lynette argued, “since you will not allow us to turn up the lamps.”
“There is danger everywhere.” Her mother sighed and rubbed at her temples. “You do not understand.”
“Because you refuse to tell me.”
“Lynette . . .”
The weariness in the beloved voice made Lynette abandon the subject, just as she had done for years. Now that her sister was gone, she felt compelled to be a comfort to her mother. It was a role that did not suit her well. Lysette had been the gentle one, the quiet one. Lynette was the outrageous one, the flamboyant one, the one forever concocting schemes that landed them in trouble.
“Forgive me, Maman.”
“No need. It has been a long journey.”
The vicomtess had the appearance of a delicate beauty with her pale golden hair and finely wrought features, widely lauded attributes that she’d passed on to her children. Age had not diminished her appeal; she remained as ethereally lovely as always. Regardless, the impression of fragility was a false one. Marguerite Baillon, Vicomtess de Grenier, was a remarkably strong woman. When she set her mind to something, she could not be swayed.
Unless it was a request from one of her daughters.
She had never been able to deny them anything, and after the loss of one, she was even more likely to indulge the other. It was why they were in Paris now. Lynette had always wanted to visit the famed city, so when the vicomtess suggested a trip to Spain in an effort to cheer them both, Lynette had begged for a short detour. Although Marguerite disliked Paris and had rarely returned to France over the past two decades, she had conceded reluctantly to her daughter’s wish.
The vicomtess yawned. “I wish for a hot bath and two days in bed.”“But you allow us only a sennight to visit!” Lynette protested. “You cannot sleep two of those seven days.”
“I am jesting, ma petite. However, your father is due in town for business then,” her mother reminded her. “Neither of us wants a scolding for deviating from our stated plans.”
Her father was as cautious as her mother. He insisted on knowing their whereabouts at all times. “No, of course not.”
Lynette’s gaze moved back to the window and the view of the city beyond it. Her joy in the trip was tempered by the ever-present longing for Lysette to be with her. They had been inseparable from the moment of conception, and despite the two years since Lysette’s passing, Lynette still suffered the agony of loneliness that only a twin would know. It felt as if a part of her was missing and she was ever cognizant of that lack.
I will enjoy this adventure for the both of us, Lysette, she thought, her hand rising to her aching heart. I will see all of the places we talked about, even the ones I said I had no desire to see. I will pretend that you are with me, showing me the world through your eyes.
“I miss her,” Lynette whispered through a throat clenched tight with sorrow and guilt. “Dreadfully.”
“We will live for her,” the vicomtess murmured. “Every day.”
“Yes, Maman.” She slouched against the squab and closed her eyes.
Oddly, the man on horseback entered her mind again. He had been so vital, so alive even from a distance. She would have spoken with Lysette about him, if she had been here.
Have you ever seen a man more handsome? Lynette would have asked.
Men such as him are trouble, her sister would say. Better to find a quiet companion who shares similar interests and will be steadfast. Wild men do not marry. Hence the reason they are wild.
Her impulsiveness had always been tempered by Lysette’s unshakable reason. Her sister had been her anchor, and without her, she felt adrift.
Lynette would give everything and do anything to have her sister back. But death had stolen Lysette away. Now, she would have to learn how to go on alone.
The Comte Desjardins was in his cellar searching for a particular burgundy vintage when a scraping sound heralded the opening of a door. He stiffened, his blood running cold.
“My lord.”
Desjardins exhaled with relief at the sound of a normal albeit coarsely accented voice, the knots of tension in his shoulders diminishing only slightly. At this point, even that was a blessing. One could never be relaxed when he danced to the tune of another.
He turned and faced the waiting lackey, his gaze briefly lifting over the man’s shoulder to the rock-hewn stairs that led to the catacombs below. Searching for the devil, even though L’Esprit had ceased to communicate directly with him years ago.
Missives were all he received anymore.
His brows rose and the man nodded. No words needed to be said. The exchange with Quinn would take place on the morrow, and the lovely Lysette, arguably his greatest assest, would be returned to him.
He still had difficulty believing that she had been taken prisoner. In the two years she’d worked for him, there had never been an instance of failure. Perhaps she had been compromised? He prayed that was not the case, because he required the assistance of a beautiful woman now. One who could lie and kill without a qualm. Sadly those were few and far between.
The man slipped back into the tunnel and Desjardins ascended the stairs to the kitchen, passing the many industrious servants who prepared supper for his family and their guests. He left the bottle of wine on a counter and returned to the formal parlor.
It was his least favorite room in the house. His wife had decorated the space in a mixture of white and a blue so pale it was nearly white. All the metal accents in the room were silver, creating the impression—for him—of a snow cave of some sort. The only spot of color in the room was provided by the portrait of Benjamin Franklin that graced the wall.
He liked and felt a deep respect for Mr. Franklin. The man was charming, brilliant, and the Grand Master of the Lodge Les Neuf Sœurs.
He was also the latest target of L’Esprit.
Desjardins had received another damnable missive just a sennight past. Rejecting monetary compensation had not been sufficient to sever that tie. Now he received nothing for his efforts beyond the promise that his family would not be harmed.
Because of this, he was grateful that Lysette had failed in her mission. He had hoped to discover the identity of the mastermind behind Simon Quinn’s activities in France, hoping to use the information to lure L’Esprit out in the open. However, this recent focus on Franklin made her continued cooperation a necessity. L’Esprit wanted reports of Franklin’s meetings, conversations, and correspondence. In-depth accounts, not merely generalizations such as one would find through gossip.
“I found it,” Desjardins said as he drew to a halt beside the man who had become a pivotal part of his plan.
Edward James turned his gaze away from the portrait of Franklin and tilted his head in acknowledgment. The comte had yet to see the man smile. “I appreciate the effort expended and look forward to sampling the wine you speak so highly of, my lord.”
“It was no effort at all,” Desjardins said, inwardly thinking that sharing his favorite wine was the least he could do considering what James would most likely go through in the weeks ahead.
James worked as secretary to Benjamin Franklin, a position of prestige that had become a curse. He accompanied Franklin nearly everywhere and knew minute details of his life, details L’Esprit was determined Desjardins would access. It was a painstaking business, costing a great deal of time and resources to yield very little. So far he had kept L’Esprit content, but he did not want the man content. He wanted him dead. In order to make that happen, he required information so valuable it would give him an advantage.