“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.

“Mr. Quinn. So good of you to dress for the occasion.”

He pivoted to find the lovely vicomtess sweeping regally into the room. Her attire was more informal than it had been on her visit to him. Wearing a floral gown of thin muslin, she appeared no older than her two daughters. On her heels was a lovely brunette who flashed him a smile so warm and genuine he could see why she was in such demand. He sketched a courtly bow to them both.

The vicomtess made quick and curt introductions, then gestured for him to sit.

“A note would have sufficed,” she said coldly.

“To inform you that Lysette is alive and well?” he drawled. “Even I, with my admitted lack of breeding, have more tact than that.”

Stiffening, she shot a glance at Solange seated beside her. The brunette reached over and linked hands.

“What do you want, Mr. Quinn?” the vicomtess asked. “I am not in the mood to play these games with you.”

He ignored her curtness, believing it understandable in light of the circumstances. “She claims not to remember her life prior to two years ago, which is why she has not sought you out before now.”

“How convenient,” she said cloyingly. “No possibility of remembering the details incorrectly if you do not remember anything at all. When will you be bringing her by? I am certain she will wish to rejoin us and our wealth.”

“I will not bring you together until I am certain it is safe to do so.”

“Oh, I see. How much will it cost me to make it safe for you?”

Simon smiled, thinking he should like to speak with the vicomtess one day when she was in charity with him. “Were you aware of a man named L’Esprit when you were with the Marquis de Saint-Martin?”

She paled.

“I see,” he murmured. “Have you heard from him in recent years?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I find it odd,” he murmured, “that both you and Comte Desjardins are so defensive about a man who plagues you.”

“Some things are private and painful. They are not easy to share with strangers and those you distrust.”

“I trust him.”

Lynette’s voice flowed over his skin like sunshine and brought an ache to his chest that was painful in its intensity. He stood and steeled himself to look at her. When he did, he inhaled sharply, noting the bruising around her eyes and her kiss-swollen mouth that betrayed his mark on her.

She had never been more beautiful.

He bowed. “Mademoiselle Baillon, you are a vision.”

“Mr. Quinn.” Her voice was low and throaty, reminding him vividly of her passionate cries in his bed. “How dashing you look in disguise.”

“Lynette . . .” the vicomtess chastised. “Please return to your room.”

“No.” Lynette crossed the room and sat on a gilded armchair with her slender hands curled around the carved claw ends. “I believe I will stay. Mr. Quinn would only be here in regard to me.”

Simon smiled and sat.

“I do not—”

Solange squeezed her friend’s hand and the vicomtess fell into silence.

“Desjardins has been receiving demands from L’Esprit for the past ten years,” Simon continued.

“I cannot think of a better man to torment,” the vicomtess said.

“I believe he may have something to do with Lysette’s ailment, although I wonder if he is the same man you knew as L’Esprit twenty years ago.”

Solange leaned forward. “Why do you say that, Mr. Quinn?”

He explained the differences between the two communication styles.

“But I do not understand why someone would effect such a ruse,” the vicomtess said, “or why they would want anything to do with Lysette.”