“Tired. Confused.”
“I cannot help you with the former, but perhaps the latter is in my power to soothe.”
She sighed, which led to a brief fit of coughing. She caught up the large handkerchief resting in her lap and held it to her lips.
“Has the physician returned?”
“Not that I have been aware.”
“I will send for him when I leave.”
“Thank you.”
Desjardins smiled. “I would do anything for you.”
She nodded, her features grave.
“I hope you feel the same charity toward me,” he said.
“Have I not proven that over the last two years?”
“Yes, of course.” He placed one ankle over the opposite knee. “But the world is changing, wars are raging. Friends become enemies and enemies become friends. Such is the way of things.”
Lysette blinked at him, a slight frown marring the space between her brows. “What has happened?”
The comte glanced around the room, noting a pale pink chaise set in an awkward location. He gestured toward it with a jerk of his chin. “Is that where James slept?”
“I assume so.”
There was an odd note to her voice and he looked back at her. “Is that where your confusion stems?”
“Yes.” Her slender fingers twisted the handkerchief into a tangled rope. “I do not understand why he would go to such trouble, unless he is not as innocuous as he appears. Could he have some returning interest in you?”
“Doubtful. Is it so difficult to believe that he tended to you because he cares for you?”
“How? He does not know me.”
Desjardins shrugged. “What is there to know? Your favorite foods, favorite places? Such tidbits are interesting and can lead to conversation, but truly, does that change the feeling one has about a person upon the first meeting? You know instantly, within a few moments, whether you wish to know a person better or not. Obviously, James felt that way about you.”
Her lips pursed.
“I think you are a puzzle to him,” he said, “and he is the sort of man who enjoys such challenges.”
“A puzzle,” she repeated.
“I think so.”
“Hmm . . .” Her gaze sharpened on him. “So tell me why you are here.”
“To make sure you are well.”
“Thierry would have told you that.”
The comte grinned. “Yes, but I prefer to see some things with my own eyes.”
“Think I might run away?” she drawled softly.
“You might. Quinn seems disinclined to forget about you. Perhaps there is more to your association than you want me to know.”
“You say that simply because he came by?”
“I say that because he has a man watching your home.”
Lysette stiffened, eyeing Desjardins carefully. There was something odd about him today, a moody tension that was far removed from his usual ease of deportment. It set her nerves on edge and made her wary. Restless predators were always dangerous.
“I must say,” he murmured, “it does ease my mind to see that you are not pleased to hear that.”
“Of course not,” she scoffed. “I do not like anyone prying into my life. It is hard enough knowing that nothing escapes your notice.”
“I wish that were true.”
Dropping the kerchief, she crossed her arms. “Tell me what ails you.” She presently lacked the patience to continue with meaningless discourse when something important was afoot.
He removed a missive from his pocket and tossed it in her direction. It spun gracefully on its side and landed near her thigh. She picked it up and examined it, noting the broken black wax that bore no seal. The front was blank, not addressed to anyone.
She looked up at him and asked, “Should I read it?”
“Please do.”
Using more care than usual, she opened the letter and read.
“Who is this from?” she breathed, horrified by the curt and heartless way it demanded information about Simon, at the cost of Desjardins’s daughter if the request was not met.
“A man known only as L’Esprit,” the comte said, his voice dripping venom. “A thorn in my side for over two decades.”
Her hands fell to the bed. She was so startled by the thought of Desjardins being as helpless as she often felt. “Has he been using your family against you all of this time?”
“From the beginning. I would never assist him otherwise.” The comte stood and began to pace angrily. “L’Esprit is the reason for your work with James. He is highly interested in Benjamin Franklin and I had hoped that you might learn something of such great import that it would lure L’Esprit out of the shadows.”
“I will do what I can, of course.”
“It is beyond that now. You read his latest demands. Quinn’s man was seen following Thierry to my home. It will not be long before L’Esprit follows Thierry or Quinn to you.”
Suddenly cold, Lysette burrowed deeper under the covers. “That upsets you a great deal.”
“It should upset you as well,” Desjardins said. “Depardue was his spy within the Illuminés. If L’Esprit learns that you killed his most trustworthy lieutenant, he will take you from me. If he kills you, that would be kind. I have seen him destroy men.”
“Destroy?” she whispered, more frightened by Desjardins’s obvious disquiet than by the tale itself. After all they had been through, she had never once seen him anything less than completely self-assured.
“He once bore a grievance against the Marquis de Saint-Martin. He robbed Saint-Martin of everything he held dear. Nothing was sacred.”
“What can we do?”
“Use your illness as a way to ingratiate yourself into James’s life. Allow him to do what he can to make you comfortable. Allow the bond between you to grow. That should not be too difficult, he saved your life.”
“And what about Quinn? He will return.”
“I will manage Quinn.”
Menace laced the comte’s words and Lysette felt her stomach roil. Desjardins’s urgency goaded hers. “I will do what I can with James, I promise.”
“Thank you.” The comte approached and kissed the back of her hand, then he retrieved the note from L’Esprit and returned it to his pocket. “I will look into moving you. I no longer feel this residence is a safe haven.”
With that, he left, closing the door behind him. Lysette lay with her cheek to her pillow and wept silently, fearful that she would not be allowed to learn of her past before her future became the death of her.
“Your life is a mess.”
She jumped, her heart racing at the sound of the low voice behind her. Rolling, she faced the sitting room door and found Simon lounging there, his gaze trained on the exit Desjardins had just made his egress through.
“How did you get in here?” she asked, struggling to sit up while swiping furiously at her wet cheeks.
“Come now,” he chided, straightening. “We all have our ways.”
Lysette watched him enter her bedchamber as if he owned it. He caught up the chair the comte had just vacated, spun it about, and sat with his arms crossed atop the back.
He was so blatantly male and dominant in the overtly feminine surroundings of her rose-hued bedroom, making no effort to meld or be less incongruous. Simon contrasted so completely with Edward that she could not fail to note it. Edward was every inch a male and a strikingly intense one at that, yet he had tempered that for her this morning. Her chest grew tight and she pushed the memory away. She could not think of him now. It was simply too much for her beleaguered and weary soul to manage.
“Tell me about yourself, Lysette,” he drawled, his gaze narrowed and examining.
“I should kill you for trespassing,” she hissed, hiding her tumult under aggression, as she had learned to do to stay alive.
“I should like to see you make the attempt. You are as weak as a kitten.”
“If I scream, help will come.”
“The servants Desjardins provided?” Simon laughed.
Her jaw clenched. He was right, she was weak, something she had promised herself she would never be again.