“To what aim?”

“Money, I believe.” Her fingers smoothed nervously over the muslin of her gown. “I went to him earlier and offered him whatever he required to leave and not return. He did not decline.”

“I sometimes think I should be grateful to have only sons. I am not certain I would tolerate fortune hunters well.”

Marguerite’s stomach clenched into a knot. “This has been my only experience in regard to my daughters. I am at a loss for how to manage the business. I must protect Lynette without alienating her.”

“I admire your courage in facing this man. What can I do?”

“Can you tell me more about him? What would goad him to approach my daughter? He is a wealthy man by all appearances. He also confessed to Lynette that he was once an English spy. De Grenier assists the king only on the periphery and not in any covert capacity. We reside in Poland. What would he gain by an association with my daughter?”

“Is there any possibility that he truly cares for her? If she is even half as beautiful as her mother, any man would find her irresistible.”

Marguerite gifted him with a sad smile. “Thank you. But if that were the case, why concoct the tale of this woman?”

“I do not know.” Philippe bent forward. “Do you know who she is? Do you have a surname?”

She hesitated a moment, her fingers twisting in her lap. “Rousseau.”

He drew back as if struck. “Mon Dieu . . . You believe this woman is a relation of mine?”

Edward lay for a moment in the darkness, attempting to discern what had woken him. When a sob rent the still night, he leaped to his feet, abandoning the chaise he slept upon to cross the short distance to Corinne’s bed.

He lit the single taper on the nightstand and sat upon the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to touch her burning forehead. Tears coursed from the corners of her eyes and wet the hair at her temples, and her chest heaved with gasping cries.

Another nightmare. In the past two nights, she’d had several, all resulting in quiet sobbing and pleas for mercy.

Was every night of her life like this? Were these fever dreams, or the torment of the damned?

His chest tight with sympathy for her plight, Edward dipped a clean cloth in the bowl of water by the taper and ringed out the excess liquid. With soothing strokes, he wiped at her forehead and cheeks, unable to stop the river of tears or ease her distress.

Standing, he caught up the end of the counterpane and tossed it back, baring her night rail–covered body to the chill of the evening air. She whimpered and curled into a ball.

He cursed, hating the sight of her cowering, filled with fury by the violent quivering of her lips and the fist she pressed against them in a vain attempt to stem the sounds of pain spilling from her.

His hands fisted, the water from the cloth showering to the rug by his bare feet.

Why was he not running far, far away? Corinne was so damaged he wondered if she would ever be right again. He had not slept a single hour’s length of time in four days, which diminished his capability to do his job, the one thing in his life that held any meaning to him.

“No cunt, however tempting, is worth this trouble,” he growled.

Her shoulders jerked in time to each of his harshly stated words and remorse filled him. Sighing, Edward returned to her. He set the cloth in the bowl, then climbed into the bed beside her. He sat up, his back to the gilded headboard, his long legs stretched out before him.

Settled comfortably, he reached for her, warding off her blows and vicious curses, confining her wrists in one of his hands and hauling her against his side.

Corinne struggled with stunning force for so slender a woman, her fear giving her unnatural strength. But Edward held fast, his jaw clenched against the occasional painful strike of kicking feet, his limbs kept carefully away from snapping teeth.

Weakened by fever, lack of breath, and sufficient sustenance, she tired quickly and soon collapsed against him, coughing and shivering.

He began to sing then, a simple song remembered from his childhood. The sound of his voice seemed to calm her. He pondered that even as he continued.

Eventually, she clung to him. Her small hands fisting in his shirt, her cheek atop his chest. She still smelled like a drunkard, but he did not care. She was a slight, sweet weight against him, her curves molding perfectly to his hardness.

This was why he was here, why he had lied to Corinne’s staff and intimated that they were lovers so they would cease trying to turn him away.

It was the way she felt in his arms, the rightness of it. He owned a favored knife that had a similar appeal to him. The hilt fit into his palm as if it were made for him alone. Yes, the edges were sharp and he had injured himself occasionally in the caring of it, but it was worth the effort to own such a unique and valuable piece.

And then there was the way Corinne responded to him, even in slumber. The way his touch and voice penetrated through the shell around her. As if some part of her knew that he would fit her just as well.

Edward felt her heartbeat slow against his chest and his own followed suit. Soon, they were breathing in unison, their hearts beating as one.

His eyes closed and he slept.

Simon smiled as Lynette’s fingers drifted through the pelt on his chest. She was tucked against his side, her leg tossed over his thigh, dangerously near his cock. The feel of her silken limbs tangled so intimately with his kept his prick hard and aching. If tonight had not been her first for sex, he would have been at her again by now. As it was, he was biding his time. His end goal was too important to ruin for mere impatience.

He had been staring into the grate, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped around her bare shoulders. Now, he looked down at her and felt a familiar knotting of his gut. Her hair was in glorious disarray, part of it restrained by pins, other parts sticking out wildly owing to the fervency of her desire.

How devastating she was in the heights of passion, unabashed and shameless, begging for his cock as if she would die without it. Not as a separate and interchangeable device of pleasure, but because of him alone. Out of all the women whose beds he had shared, he was positive only Lynette wanted Simon Quinn and not merely any available lover of sufficient skill and attractiveness.

Having met the vicomtess, he knew some of the censure Lynette would face, he understood the future she could have and the value of her maidenhead to her future husband. She had forsaken a lifetime of breeding and training for one night with him. It humbled him that she thought he was worth such a price.

“Why were your accounts seized?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“Extortion,” he said dryly, his hand caressing the downy softness of her shoulder. “I resigned and they did not want to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“So you are a slave then,” she said, anger lacing her tone.

“In a fashion, but only temporarily.”

“What do they want you to do?” Lynette sat up and tucked the sheet modestly beneath her arms. Her lithe legs were curled beneath her and visible, creating a seductive montage for his eyes.

“Our friend, Lysette Rousseau, is up to mischief again. She is consorting with a Revolutionist and there is a need to know why.”

“They could find no one else?”

“Apparently not.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Does that surname sound familiar to you?”

“Rousseau? Not in an extraordinary fashion. Why?”

“Nothing. Just exploring a suspicion.”

Her fingers rubbed along the ribbon-edged hem of the linen. “Are you expected to seduce her?”

“It was suggested,” he murmured, watching her carefully.

Her pretty mouth thinned. “You won’t, of course.”

Simon grinned. “Of course.”

“Are you being serious?” she asked crossly, eyeing his humor with an adorable scowl.

“Are you being jealous?”

She looked piqued for a moment, then chagrined. “Will you tell me how you know her?”

He patted his chest with his hand. “If you come lie against me again, I might be persuaded.”

Lynette did as he asked. He tugged the sheet away so that nothing came between his skin and hers. Her breasts were a soft pillow against his chest, the curls between her legs a teasing tickle against his thigh. He had never truly absorbed such delights before, not to this degree. Every cell in his body was acutely attuned to every facet of her.

“Recently,” he began, wrapping his arms around her, “Mademoiselle Rousseau accompanied me on a journey to England. She claimed to be searching for the perpetrator of a crime and the main suspect was an associate of mine whom I knew to be innocent.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes, and all ended well, but it was revealed that Lysette’s purpose was not the hunt for my friend at all. It was another search entirely. She failed, but it was a lesson learned for me. I watched the woman stab a man to death and callously betray a comrade in an effort to save her own skin.”

“Oh . . .” Her head rested more heavily against him.

“What is it, a thiasce?” he murmured, feeling her mood alter.

“She does not sound anything at all like my sister. She sounds like a monster.”

Simon clutched her closer to him, giving her what little comfort he could. “In her defense, at times she seems to loathe herself and the man she killed was not a good one. The venom with which she attacked him also suggested that he had harmed her in some way in the past. There was no glee in her when she acted, only fury such as I have rarely seen in a woman.”

Lynette shuddered. “I cannot imagine killing anyone.”

“I hope you never have to. Regardless of the reasons for doing so, the taking of a life is not something one forgets.”

Her head tilted back, revealing wide China-blue eyes. “Have you ever taken a life?”

“Regrettably, yes.” He flinched when she did, fearing that her adoration of him would change and doubting he could bear it.

“A large number?”

“More than a few.”