Simon watched James’s face closely but furtively, wondering if the man had been aware of the vast difference between his station and the one Lysette occupied. To his credit, James showed no outward sign of any of his thoughts as he greeted de Grenier.

The two men sat, filling the two seats that faced Simon’s desk.

“You may speak freely in front of Mr. James, my lord,” Simon said.

“As you can imagine, the vicomtess is deeply disturbed by your visit yesterday,” the vicomte said grimly. “I am here to arrange a meeting with this woman you claim is our daughter and to discuss your thoughts on this matter of L’Esprit.”

“Perhaps you will share what you know, my lord?” Simon asked. “Have you had any correspondence from L’Esprit?”

“No. However, I was with the vicomtess when she received a missive bearing that name. It arrived the afternoon Saint-Martin was attacked and left for dead, so I comprehend the danger.”

“Apparently, some of Lysette’s memory may be returning.”

“Oh?” The vicomte appeared to weigh the news a moment. “I am relieved to hear that, as memories of events known only to Lysette will strengthen your argument regarding her identity.”

“Did you see the body identified as Lysette’s?” Simon asked.

“No. Sadly. I wish I could have taken that gruesome burden from the shoulders of my wife, but I was in Paris. I returned a sennight after the event had occurred.”

“Were there any other women in the area who went missing during that time?” James asked.

“I have no idea, Mr. James,” the vicomte replied. “In truth, I did not pay any attention to surrounding activities for months following. My wife was nearly destroyed by our loss, my remaining daughter was deeply grieving and altered by guilt. Apparently, Lysette was running an errand for her when the accident happened.”

“Fetching a muff, perhaps?” James asked with narrowed gaze.

“Yes.” De Grenier’s frame tensed and he glanced with wide eyes at Simon. “It is Lysette, is it not? How else would you know that?”

“Yes, it is she.”

The vicomte sat back, his shoulders rising as if a great weight had been removed. “The return of Lysette would restore my family to the happiness we once knew, at least in part. Does she remember what happened to her?”

“Not entirely.” James did not look away from the vicomte, but Simon sensed he was searching for clues on how to proceed.

“She is in grave danger,” Simon said, “as long as this man, L’Esprit, hunts her.”

“And you believe L’Esprit is Saint-Martin?” De Grenier looked between the two of them with bright eyes. “In retaliation for the loss of my wife?”

“It seems a logical conclusion, unless you know of someone else who would wish to harm you so gravely?”

“No. There is no one else.”

“So how do we force him to reveal his hand?” James asked.

“I think the best way to go about the business is to bring Lysette out into the open,” Simon suggested. “However, my lord, Lysette is not well.”

“Not well?” De Grenier leaned forward. “What is the matter with her? She should be attended.”

“She has been, my lord,” James said. “And she is recovering, but she is not yet well enough to venture out and put herself at risk.”

“So how do you suggest we manage this?” the vicomte asked.

“If you are willing, my lord,” Simon said, “we could switch the two. Lysette would stay with Solange Tremblay and Lynette would move into Lysette’s home. We would set the trap there. I am being followed, so I doubt more than a few public sightings would be necessary to ensure that she is seen.”

De Grenier gaped a moment, then snapped his mouth shut. “You want me to risk one daughter for the other?”

“I can think of no other way.”

“Well, think harder,” the vicomte said. “By your own account, Lysette has learned to care for herself. Lynette is still innocent. She would be an easy target.”

“I am open to ideas, my lord. You must trust that Lynette’s safety is my primary concern and the impetus for my involvement to begin with. Perhaps you should discuss this plan with both your wife and Lynette, then contact me with your thoughts?”

The vicomte looked to James, who shrugged. “I am at a loss, my lord.”

De Grenier stood, shaking his head. “I will speak with the vicomtess and send for you when we have reached a decision. In the interim, please consider alternate routes that do not include Lynette’s involvement.”

“I will endeavor to keep her separate as much as possible,” Simon said.

The vicomte studied him with narrowed eyes, then nodded. “I think I believe you in that regard, Mr. Quinn.”

They shook hands and parted, leaving Simon with James.

“In regards to your offer of assistance . . .” Simon began.

James smiled grimly. “Tell me what you need.”

Chapter 17

It was nearly impossible for Lynette to sit still. Her heart raced desperately and the palms of her gloves were damp with sweat. As the hackney rolled inexorably toward the location where they would meet Lysette, Lynette found herself shifting nervously on the seat. Her sister was alive and only moments away. The miracle of that was almost too extraordinary to believe.

“Lynette,” de Grenier said, his tone a warning. “You will make yourself ill if you continue to fuss in that manner.”

“I cannot help myself, my lord.”

“I collect how you feel,” her mother said softly, offering a shaky smile.

“I have strong reservations about this,” her father muttered. “If this is an elaborate ruse, I doubt I can protect both of you.”

“I trust him,” Lynette said, bristling. “Implicitly.”

Her father offering protection? She bit back a snort. If she added up all the days of her life in which they had occupied the same home, they would be few and far between. He was always away. For years she had pined for any sign of affection or concern from him. Then she realized that he would never forgive her for being a daughter and not a son.

“You are obviously smitten,” he said, his lip curling.

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, I am.”

Her mother reached over and set her hand atop her father’s. He quieted and Lynette shot her a grateful smile.

The carriage drew to a halt. Lynette looked out the window, frowning at the sight of a cemetery.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

“This is the direction Quinn sent earlier,” de Grenier replied.

She felt confusion until Simon stepped into view, so tall and powerful and delicious in cinnamon-colored silk, his gait seductive and predatory. His gaze met hers and changed, becoming hotter. Hungrier. Burning with passion and possessiveness. Her breath caught and heat swept across her skin.

My lover.

Her fingers curled desperately around the lip of the carriage window. Emotions flooded her in a deluge difficult to process—relief and joy, lust and longing. Yet even as the torrent of feeling swirled around her, her heart was firmly anchored in the middle, sure in its intent and the purity of her affection.

I am grateful for you.

The unspoken words lodged in her throat, her eyes burning with unshed tears. He was doing this for her. Everything. All of it. And she could not go through the experience without him. It was his strength she looked toward. His returning affection for her gave her the confidence to face her parents and Lysette, a woman who would be a stranger to her.

Her heart swelled in her breast, aching at the sight of him, grateful for the gift of him.

I have missed you.

Her lips mouthed the words which he saw, his jaw tightening. With a brusque wave of his hand, he gestured the driver away from the door and wrenched it open himself, catching her as she fell into his arms, his lips brushing against her cheek before he set her down.

“Mademoiselle Baillon,” he greeted her, his voice gruff. “You steal my breath.”

“You stole my heart,” she whispered.

His sharp exhale was a hiss of sound in the quiet of the cemetery. The look he gave her scorched her, made her cheeks flush with heat and her lips dry.

“Mr. Quinn.”

Her father alighted from the carriage and held out a hand to her mother.

Simon looked away from her, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. She felt the need in him, smelled it in the air, shivered as it called to her own desire for him. Her breasts swelled in response and the tender flesh between her legs dampened. It was an animalistic response, purely instinctive. That their reactions to one another were goaded by her original emotional response told her all she needed to know.

“This way,” Simon said, leading them through the cemetery. Lynette hurried forward, catching his arm with her own.

“Lynette,” her father snapped. “Walk with us.”

She looked up at Simon, who frowned down at her, and she winked.

“Witch,” he said under his breath. But a hint of a smile curved his mouth and made her heart clench.

“Lover,” she purred.

His growl rumbled over her skin and soothed the part of her made restless by the upcoming reunion with her sister. The tension she had carried in her shoulders all morning relaxed. His hand came over hers and squeezed, and the look he gave her told her that he understood her anxiety and agitation.

Simon understood everything about her, in a way those who had known her for years did not.

They approached a crypt with an open door and she slowed.

“We must travel the distance through there,” he said.

Lynette nodded and lifted the hem of her sapphire skirts in her hand.

“Mon Dieu,” her mother said. “Is this really necessary?”

“Desjardins’s home is being watched. This is the most convincing way in which to make the switch. I entered the home with Lysette, I will depart with Lynette. Whoever is watching will never know the difference.”