Don't Tempt Me (Georgian 4)

Simon left Lysette’s home possessing more than he had arrived with—namely, a set of garments that belonged to the footman, Thierry. They were of the same size and height, and it would not be notable for Thierry to visit Desjardins, which was Simon’s destination.

He hid his own clothes within a yew hedge lining the stone walls of the rear garden and exited out through the alley. Tugging Thierry’s tricorn low over his brow, Simon thrust his hands into his pockets and began the journey to Desjardins on foot.

The distance was neither short nor long. It was perfectly timed to allow him to think carefully about what pieces of information he had and which pieces he lacked. He glanced around furtively as he went, but found nothing amiss. Because he was so prepared, he was startled by the gloved hand that was thrust out of an unmarked and somewhat dilapidated carriage sitting just around the corner from the Desjardins residence.

He paused midstep, then quickly recovered, accepting the missive with his head tilted away to prevent recognition. The curtains were closed, the hand and arm completely covered.

“Tell him I am growing impatient,” growled a raspy, grating voice from the interior.

There was a rap on the roof and the carriage rolled away.

Simon kept walking, tucking the letter in his pocket and maintaining the appearance that nothing of note had transpired. Inside, however, he was plagued with a growing disquiet.

L’Esprit was apparently not a creative ploy by Desjardins, as Simon had originally assumed. He was real, which made him another threat to manage.

He reached Desjardins’s front steps within moments and rapped on the knocker with obvious impatience. The door swung open and the butler appeared prepared to allow him entry, then he noted the caller was not Thierry.

“Monsieur Quinn.”

Withdrawing his calling card, Simon extended it, then he shouldered his way into the foyer before he could be denied.

The servant opened his mouth to protest, but a narrowing of Simon’s eyes seemed to alter his mind. Instead, Simon was led to the study, and he made himself comfortable by pouring a ration of brandy before sitting on a settee.

“Quinn,” Desjardins greeted, as he entered shortly after. “What a pleasure.”

But the comte’s gaze rested on Thierry’s clothes overlong and revealed a wariness that Simon took advantage of.

“I have something for you,” he said, setting his goblet on the table and reaching into his pocket for the missive from L’Esprit. He examined it with theatrical interest. “Interesting seal. Or lack thereof.”

“Give that to me,” Desjardins said crossly, snapping his fingers.

“No.” Simon broke the seal and withdrew the contents.

The comte lunged and ripped the note from his hands.

Simon smiled. “What does L’Esprit want now?”

Desjardins paled. “What do you know of L’Esprit?”

“Not enough, but you are about to tell me more.”

“Get out.” The comte shoved the torn letter into the pocket of his coat with shaking hands. “Before I have you thrown out.”

“You would have me leave without investigating further? That is not your nature.” Simon hummed and mimicked confusion. “I wonder what would make you act out of character. Terror perhaps?”

“Ridiculous!” the comte scoffed. “You are nothing. Nothing to me, nothing to the English. If you were to be misplaced, there is no one to miss or worry over you.”

“Is that a threat?” Grinning, Simon leaned forward. “You must have thought the same about Lysette Baillon. Or is it Rousseau? I admit, I am confused. Regardless, you were wrong. She is missed and now she has been found.”

Desjardins’s fists clenched. “Explain yourself.”

“No, no. The only explanations we shall be hearing are yours.”

“You would be better served by forgetting whatever it is you believe you know and leaving the country. The matters into which you pry will lead you to hell.”

“You have been bound to L’Esprit’s whims for twenty years. Obviously, you are unable to extricate yourself on your own. I can help you,” Simon said, “if it suits me.”

Desjardins sat, betraying his interest. “To what aim?”

“I will have Lysette and you will leave her life as if you were never in it.”

The grin that split the comte’s face was so triumphant, Simon laughed softly.

“I knew you fancied her!” Desjardins said smugly.

“Never mind what you believe you know. Tell me about L’Esprit.”

Desjardins’s lips pursed and he sat back, crossing his arms. There was a long, measured pause. Then he began to speak and Simon listened with great interest.

When the tale was finished, Simon asked, “How long was the gap between the ruination of Saint-Martin and the time you received the next correspondence?”

“Ten years, more or less.”

“And when next you heard from him, he did not come to you in the cellar?”

“No.”

“You did not find that strange?”

“I find the entire association to be strange,” the comte snapped.

“The original notes bore no traceable handwriting and L’Esprit met with you in the cellar. The later notes came handwritten and L’Esprit does not approach you at all. The first notes bore jewels; the later notes do not.”

“One did,” the comte corrected. “It was only when I refused it and him that he began to pay me with threats against my family.”

“And you never wondered if the origins were different?”

Desjardins stilled. “Why would I?”

Simon shrugged.

“He is unique, Quinn. Even you must see that.”

The insult was not lost on Simon, but he ignored it. “Anything can be replicated, if one is clever enough.”

The comte considered that thought carefully. “How do you intend to help me?”

“I think we proved today that the man can be fooled.”

“You think we can lure him with Thierry?”

“No.” Simon drummed his fingers atop his knee. “I think Thierry might know L’Esprit better than you realize. There was something in the man’s voice when he spoke to me. It was not entirely an order. More of an admonishment. Such as one given to someone not completely an underling.”

“Absurde. Thierry has been with me for years.”

“The loyalty men such as you and I inspire can be purchased, and you fail to see that perhaps L’Esprit has also known Thierry for years.”

“I fail to see nothing, aside from how you can help me,” the comte said. “If Thierry worked for L’Esprit, he would have betrayed Lysette by now.”

“Why? Did L’Esprit arrange her abduction?”

The comte said nothing, which told Simon a great deal.

“Arrange a meeting with Saint-Martin,” Simon said, standing. “Then apprise me of when and where it will be held.”

“You act as if I trust you,” Desjardins retorted, standing.

“Who else do you have?”

The comte’s already thin lips thinned further. “What do you have in mind?”

“A trap.”

“For whom?”

>

Simon grinned and walked toward the door, exiting to the right in the hallway and moving toward the rear of the house. “You will have to do as I say, if you hope to find out.”

He moved through the kitchen, then down the stairs to the cellar. Desjardins was fast on his heels, nearly running to keep up with Simon’s much longer stride. Opening the door to the catacombs, he looked down.

“I need a torch,” he said.

“As if there are any simply lying about,” the comte scoffed.

Glancing aside at him, Simon raised one brow. A long moment passed, then the comte cursed and exited to the kitchen. He returned within moments with a blazing torch.

“There is nothing of note down there, Quinn.”

“Of course not.” Simon stepped into the rock-lined hallway and closed the door behind him.

As he suspected, a half hour later Simon found himself emerging in the cemetery where he had been led to see his men. The paths below the city were winding and miles long, but the trail of charred torches and smoke trails on the walls betrayed the path most often traversed.

The home where Lynette was staying was not too great a distance away. Simon discarded his torch and set off in that direction, determined that Lynette and her mother should know about Lysette as soon as possible.

The following hours and days would grow more hazardous—digging up buried secrets always was—and if something untoward were to happen to him, Lysette did not know enough about her family to find them and Lynette might never know that her sister was alive, if not quite well.

He approached the courtesan’s house through the alley and knocked on the delivery door. To say the young maid who answered was shocked to see a guest there would be an understatement. However, in short order, she recovered her aplomb. She allowed him entry and left him in the lower receiving parlor while she announced his arrival to the butler.

As he was left cooling his heels, Simon strolled about the tastefully decorated room and discovered hidden amusements which made him smile. While the palette of cream and pale gold was fit for a king, hints of the sensuality of the owner were evident if one looked close enough at the details. Half-dressed nymphs and satyrs danced across the moldings and frolicked on the bases of lamps, and miniature Grecian statues had modifications to their designs that would make many a lady blush.