A Passion for Him (Georgian 3)

The first seemed unlikely, and the second seemed highly difficult, but Colin would take what opportunities were given to him and gladly.

I want to know you, Amelia had said. If only he had the chance to make that happen.

“You seem unduly pleased by this,” Quinn said around a bite. “It is not much.”

“I saw Amelia,” Colin confessed. Held her, touched her, tasted her.

Quinn stilled with a forkful of food lifted halfway to his mouth. “And?”

“It is complicated, but hopeful.”

Setting his utensils down, Quinn gestured for more ale. “How did she take your emergence from the grave?”

Colin smiled ruefully and explained.

“A mask?” Quinn asked when he finished. “Out of all the guises you are capable of donning, you chose a mask?”

“Originally, it suited the masquerade. Later, she saw it on Jacques and it drew her to him. It seemed appropriate to wear it a third time under those circumstances.”

“She is more like her sister than I thought.” Quinn’s lips curved into the slight smile he always wore when referring to Maria. “However, I fail to see how the situation is hopeful. Amelia has no idea who you are.”

“That is a bit of a problem,” Colin agreed.

“A bit? My friend, you are the master of understatement. Trust me, she will not take the news well. She will take it as lack of affection. When she discovers that you were not chaste and pining for her the entire time, she will have her proof that you do not love her.”

Colin heaved out a sigh and sank back into his chair. “This was your plan! You said that I should become a man of means in order to make her happy.”

“Also to make you happy. You would always doubt your worth if you came to her as an underling.” Quinn smiled at the serving girl who brought over the fresh pint, then sat back and studied Colin for a long moment. “I hear she is betrothed to the Earl of Ware.”

“Not yet.”

“She could be a marchioness, despite her father’s scandal and her sibling’s reputation. Quite an accomplishment.”

Glancing around the room, Colin’s gaze paused a moment on every patron, taking stock of each one. “Yes, but she does not love him. She still loves me. Or rather, the boy I used to be.”

A lovely blonde entered the room from the staircase that led to the bedchambers above. Dressed in deep purple and wearing a black ribbon and cameo at her throat, she reminded Colin of a doll. Her delicate features and slender build roused protective instincts, her heavy-lidded eyes and full, red lips inspired carnal musings.

His brows lifted as she turned her head and locked eyes with him. Her smile made him frown in confusion, and he watched her approach with much curiosity, pushing to his feet when she came to a halt behind Quinn.

She set her hands on the Irishman’s broad shoulders. “You should have told me you were back, mon amour,” she said, her voice inflected with an unmistakable French accent.

The look Quinn shot Colin was intriguing, bearing more than a trace of irritation. He did not stand, merely caught the blonde’s hand and tugged her around, directing her to a chair he pulled closer with his foot. Considering Quinn’s love of females, his apparent disinterest in such a beautiful woman was beyond surprising. In close proximity, she was a delight. Pale blue eyes were framed by long, thick chocolate lashes and accented by finely arched brows.

“Is this him?” she asked, studying Colin with an appreciative eye.

Quinn growled.

She smiled wide, revealing straight white teeth. She offered her hand and said, “I am Lysette Rousseau. You are Monsieur Mitchell, oui?”

Colin glanced at Quinn, who cursed under his breath and resumed his meal. “Perhaps,” he replied with caution.

“Excellent. Should it become necessary to kill you, it will be much easier now that I have catalogued your appearance.”

Blinking, he asked, “What the devil did you just say?”

“Provoking wench,” Quinn muttered. “He is innocent.”

“They all say that,” she replied sweetly.

“It is true in this case,” Quinn argued.

“They all say that, too.”

“Pardon me.” Colin glanced between them. “What are you talking about?”

Quinn gestured toward Lysette with an off-hand jerking of his fork. “She is an additional part of my guarantee. She is to return to France with either Cartland, you or me.”

“Or a confession,” she purred. “A confession from any of you would suffice. See? I am not so difficult to please.”

“Christ.” Resuming his seat, Colin examined the Frenchwoman. It was then that he noted a hardness to her eyes and mouth that he had missed before. “How do you find these femmes fatales, Quinn?”

“They find me,” Quinn grumbled, biting into a potato with gusto born of frustration.

“You see only the negatives,” Lysette said, gesturing for service. “There are three of us at this table, all searching for the same thing. I am here to assist you.”

Quinn glared. “If you think holding a sword over my head is endearing, you are sadly mistaken.”

Colin was not so quick to dismiss her. “How can you help?”

“In many ways.” The blonde took a brief moment to order wine from the attending serving girl. “Think of the places I can go where you cannot. All the people who might speak to me but not to you. All the wiles I employ as a woman that you cannot employ as a man. Why, the possibilities are endless!” She lifted a delicate hand to the cameo at her throat, and he found it nearly impossible to imagine her killing anyone.

“How does your participation relate to Depardue?” Colin asked.

Something dark passed over her features. “If he resolves this, it will save me the trouble.”

“The agent-general is determined to leave nothing to chance,” Quinn explained. “Depardue watches Cartland. Lysette watches me. They perform the same service. She is an added . . . warranty.”

Colin winced. “I cannot imagine Depardue appreciates the intimation that he might not be successful.” He looked at Lysette, wondering what the lure of such a position would be. “Why are you doing this?”

“My reasons are my own. A word of advice”—she stared at him intently—“you can trust nothing about me except this: I want Leroux’s killer brought to justice.”

Exhaling harshly, Colin drummed his fingertips atop the table. “I do not like this. While Cartland hunts me, we have a serpent in our midst.”

Quinn nodded his agreement.

Lysette pouted as she accepted the goblet she had ordered previously. “I would rather be Eve than the snake.”

“Eve was alluring,” Quinn retorted.

Colin choked, never having heard the Irishman say an unkind word to a female before.

“What have you accomplished up to this point?” she asked, dismissing Quinn’s rudeness and directing her attention to Colin.

“My days are spent evading Cartland and anyone who sounds French, and my nights are spent searching for him.”

“That is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard,” she scoffed.

“What do you suggest I do, then?” he challenged. “I know nothing.”

“So you must learn.” Lysette took a dainty sip of the blood red wine and licked her lips. She sat with a ramrod straight spine and uplifted chin, the hallmarks of good breeding and proper schooling. “You cannot do that while hiding, which is exactly what Cartland will expect you to be doing. Why do you not contact the man you both work for? Surely, he has the resources to help you bring this to a swift end.”

“That is not his purpose,” Quinn argued. “We are responsible for the managing of our assignments. If we are caught, the cost is ours to pay. I expect your arrangement is similar.”

For a moment, it seemed frustration marred the Frenchwoman’s lovely features, and then it was gone, replaced by a honeyed, careless smile.

Colin could not help but wonder at h

er, and contemplate how much of a risk she presented. She was so slender and feminine, yet he knew from tales of Amelia’s sister that appearances could be very deceiving. “Do you have other suggestions, mademoiselle? Perhaps you think I should search in the bright light of day?”

“Will you wear a mask?” Quinn asked, finally pushing his plate aside.

“Why would he?” She raked Colin with an assessing glance from the top of his head, down the length of his outstretched legs, to his booted feet. “It would be a shame to conceal such comeliness.” Her mouth curved seductively. “I should like to view all of it.”

Quinn snorted. “Now, you see, love. That is why you are not Eve. You lack the sense required to see the man is taken.”

“You may wear a blindfold,” she offered Colin with a wink, “and call me by whatever name you prefer.”

Colin laughed for the first time in days.

“Watch out for her,” Quinn warned.