Clenching his jaw, Desjardins dropped the missive into a drawer and withdrew a nicely weighted purse.

“You may have the night to yourself. However, I should like to know why Quinn came to see her. I will need you in residence when he responds to her summons, hopefully tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Thierry stood and caught the purse when tossed to him. “I am at your service, as always.”

Desjardins responded to a few posts waiting his attention, and when the clock on the wall chimed the noon hour, he stood, straightening the lines of his coat with a practiced tug. A moment later his lovely wife filled the doorway, pulling on her gloves.

“Are you ready, Desjardins?” she asked, her dark hair expertly, elaborately coiffed, and her wrists and ears sparkling with emeralds that matched the exact color of her eyes.

“Yes, of course.” He rounded the desk. “I am as eager to offer my condolences to the Baroness Orlinda as you are.”

His wife had wanted to see the baroness immediately, but he had delayed the visit, explaining that the number of curious and sympathetic visitors to her sister’s residence where she was staying would be prohibitive.

The comtess shuddered. “I feel for the woman,” she said, “as I would anyone who suffered similarly, but truly, this is the sort of thing that happens when one engages in such immoral behavior.”

“Certainly,” he agreed.

He had no fear that his presence at the ball would become known. The baroness never discussed her guest list with anyone, and those who attended never spoke of whom they saw there, since that would be admitting their own involvement.

“Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm to the comtess.

This would be no mere social visit for him; if so, he would have allowed his wife to speak for both of them. He had more interest in this excursion than a need to offer his sympathy. Before he left the baroness’s home, he would know if Quinn’s presence at the ball had been happenstance or not. With the additional visit to Lysette shortly after, he had begun to doubt that as being the case. Lysette said Quinn had ceased to work for the English, so why was he still in Paris?

Of course, perhaps it would just be simpler to kill the man and be done with it. There would be no reprisal for the death of a man no longer in service.

The idea held merit and Desjardins tucked it away to consider in greater depth later.

Chapter 14

It was barely noon when the first missive arrived on Simon’s desk. Written in a beautiful, flowing feminine hand, it asked if he had reached a decision regarding his discussion with the Vicomtess de Grenier the day before. He thought of burning it, but thrust it into a drawer instead.

Later, another arrived, this one containing only the address of a tailor’s shop and nothing more. Unlike the vicomtess’s, it was a message Simon was relieved to see.

Donning his coat, he left his house posthaste. His residence was now a torment, occupied as it was with both Eddington and memories of Lynette. It was the last place he wanted to be and yet the only place to both wait for news and bide his time until the hour was sufficiently late to allow him to visit Lysette.

He rode swiftly, goaded by the feeling of being trapped, forced to act against his will and in ways that went against the grain. He could not move forward or back, and lack of information was what hampered him.

Familiar with the direction sent to him, Simon was still forced to travel in ever-minimizing circles, searching for anyone who might be following him before finally reaching his destination.

The ringing of bells on the shop door heralded his arrival, but no one he knew was inside.

Simon removed his hat, his gaze sweeping over the various bolts of cloth and the customer speaking to the red-haired woman at the counter before discovering the waving hand peeking out from behind a curtain. Moving to the rear, he slipped behind the thick wool and found himself in the back of the store. He also found Richard.

“Took you long enough, Quinn,” the man said, laughing.

Richard was seated at a table covered in multiple scraps of cloth and spools of thread. As always, he looked relaxed and carefree. Simon was not fooled, though the less observant would be.

Taking the seat Richard gestured to, Simon set his hat on the table and said, “Interesting choice of venue.”

“Courtesy of Amie”—Richard gestured to a rather plain-faced girl who sat in the corner tugging needle through thread—“and her mother, Natalie.”

The redhead rounded Simon’s back, set a chipped and mismatched tea service atop the mess on the table, and began to pour.

“Natalie’s husband is the tailor,” Richard explained. “But he is home ill this week.”

“Merci beaucoup,” Simon said to Natalie, then he pressed a kiss to his fingertips and tossed it at the girl. Amie blushed and lowered her eyes.

“Women come too easy to you,” Richard complained. “It took me two hours before she would even look at me.”

“But your efforts paid off.”

“I would rather expend no effort, like you.”

Simon accepted the cup and saucer offered to him, and settled as comfortably as possible into his wobbly seat. “Tell me you have something valuable.”

“I am not certain how valuable it is, but it’s damned interesting.” Declining tea, Richard crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “The Vicomte de Grenier is most likely one of my easiest assignments.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He was embroiled in a scandal of such note, that it is still remembered to this day.”

“Always lovely when that happens.”

“Yes, it is. Apparently the vicomte was betrothed to Marguerite Piccard, who was a diamond of the first water, I understand.”

“Still is,” Simon said, setting his cup down without drinking from it. He wanted liquor, not tepid tea.

“However, before they could wed, she hared off with the Marquis de Saint-Martin, a noted libertine who happened to be married at the time. I heard some diverting tales about women crying in the streets over the man, but his reputation was obviously not a deterrent to Mademoiselle Piccard.”

Simon remembered the haughty and icy woman he had met in his parlor, and his brows rose. Then he thought of Lynette and the heat of her passion. It seemed both women were determined to have what they wanted.

“She was his mistress for over a year,” Richard continued, “then she returned to de Grenier, who married her anyway. He is some sort of diplomat to the Polish and she has been living in Poland ever since. De Grenier returns quite often, always alone. They had two daughters, but one is deceased.”

“Was the parting with Saint-Martin amicable?”

“It is said the libidinous marquis suffered a great decline after they separated. He was not seen for months after she wed, and afterwards, was never the same.”

Frowning, Simon considered the news carefully. “What year did this transpire?”

“In ’57. Also, I am not certain if they are connected in any way, but Saint-Martin’s surname is Rousseau.”

“It cannot be coincidence. There are too many of those as it is.”

“What does it mean? Do you know?”

“I might.” Suddenly wishing he’d had more sleep, Simon growled and damned his brain for being sluggish. “Say nothing of this to Eddington.”

“Of course not,” Richard muttered. “You know me better than that.”

Simon pushed to his feet.

“Well? Are you going to tell me what in bloody hell is going on?” Richard demanded.

“No, not yet.”

“Damn it, Quinn . . . Do not go yet! I haven’t finished.”

Pausing midturn, Simon waited.

“I will tell you mine,” Richard offered, “if you tell me yours.”

“Becking . . .” Simon rumbled.

“Oh, very well. Since I felt rather successful after last night, I stopped by Mademoiselle Rousseau’s residence this afternoon. Just before I came here, actually. One of her servants was leaving at the time and I followed him. He went directly to Desjardins’s residence and was shown in like a guest, not a servant.”

“A bit odd perhaps,” Simon murmured, “but not surprising. I am certain Desjardins supports her and pays her staff. He would expect reports of her activities and visitors.”

Which was why Simon would not be announcing his next visit to her.

“That is not the best part.” Richard sat back and grinned. “That James chap was following him, as well. Damned good at the business, too. I had no notion he was in pursuit until after I mounted to meet you. I was turning a corner when he caught my eye.”

“So . . . the mouse senses the trap.” Simon nodded. “Excellent work as always, Becking. You can share that part with Eddington. It should keep him happy for a time.”

“Eh. It was a lucky day.”

Simon patted him on the shoulder. “See what news you can find regarding the marquis.”

“Already working on it,” Richard assured. “As much for my benefit as for yours. Been a while since I had anything this interesting to chew on.”

Smiling, Simon departed the shop and rode toward Lysette’s.

Desjardins fingered the missive in his pocket as he climbed the stairs to Lysette’s room. Another L’Esprit query, this time in regards to Simon Quinn. The man was coming far too close to Lysette for the comte’s comfort. If he was not careful, he would lose her.

He reached the door and knocked once, then entered without waiting for permission. It was his house, after all.

“Ma petite,” he said, striding toward the bed.

Lysette was reclining, though more upright than on her back. Dressed in a night rail and covered to the breasts in the counterpane, she seemed so small and fragile. He was reminded of his daughter Anne and his throat tightened.

“My lord,” she murmured, her voice still tight and raspy.

“How are you feeling?” He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it closer to the bed before sitting.