The Comte Desjardins was in his cellar searching for a particular burgundy vintage when a scraping sound heralded the opening of a door. He stiffened, his blood running cold.
"My lord."
Desjardins exhaled with relief at the sound of a normal albeit coarsely accented voice, the knots of tension in his shoulders diminishing only slightly. At this point, even that was a blessing. One could never be relaxed when he danced to the tune of another.
He turned and faced the waiting lackey, his gaze briefly lifting over the man's shoulder to the rock-hewn stairs that led to the catacombs below. Searching for the devil, even though L'Esprit had ceased to communicate directly with him years ago.
Missives were all he received anymore.
His brows rose and the man nodded. No words needed to be said. The exchange with Quinn would take place on the morrow, and the lovely Lysette, arguably his greatest asset, would be returned to him.
He still had difficulty believing that she had been taken prisoner. In the two years she'd worked for him, there had never been an instance of failure. Perhaps she had been compromised? He prayed that was not the case, because he required the assistance of a beautiful woman now. One who could lie and kill without a qualm. Sadly those were few and far between.
The man slipped back into the tunnel and Desjardins ascended the stairs to the kitchen, passing the many industrious servants who prepared supper for his family and their guests. He left the bottle of wine on a counter and returned to the formal parlor.
It was his least favorite room in the house. His wife had decorated the space in a mixture of white and a blue so pale it was nearly white. All the metal accents in the room were silver, creating the impression-for him-of a snow cave of some sort. The only spot of color in the room was provided by the portrait of Benjamin Franklin that graced the wall.
He liked and felt a deep respect for Mr. Franklin. The man was charming, brilliant, and the Grand Master of the Lodge Les Neuf Soeurs.
He was also the latest target of L'Esprit.
Desjardins had received another damnable missive just a sennight past. Rejecting monetary compensation had not been sufficient to sever that tie. Now he received nothing for his efforts beyond the promise that his family would not be harmed.
Because of this, he was grateful that Lysette had failed in her mission. He had hoped to discover the identity of the mastermind behind Simon Quinn's activities in France, hoping to use the information to lure L'Esprit out in the open. However, this recent focus on Franklin made her continued cooperation a necessity. L'Esprit wanted reports of Franklin's meetings, conversations, and correspondence. In-depth accounts, not merely generalizations such as one would find through gossip.
"I found it," Desjardins said as he drew to a halt beside the man who had become a pivotal part of his plan.
Edward James turned his gaze away from the portrait of Franklin and tilted his head in acknowledgment. The comte had yet to see the man smile. "I appreciate the effort expended and look forward to sampling the wine you speak so highly of, my lord."
"It was no effort at all," Desjardins said, inwardly thinking that sharing his favorite wine was the least he could do considering what James would most likely go through in the weeks ahead.
James worked as secretary to Benjamin Franklin, a position of prestige that had become a curse. He accompanied Franklin nearly everywhere and knew minute details of his life, details L’Esprit was determined Desjardins would access. It was a painstaking business, costing a great deal of time and resources to yield very little. So far he had kept L'Esprit content, but he did not want the man content. He wanted him dead. In order to make that happen, he required information so valuable it would give him an advantage.
Beautiful women were excellent at luring such commodities from men.
"You have a lovely home," James said.
"Merci."
James was tall and lean with brown hair, dark eyes framed by brass spectacles, and a strong jaw. He was not handsome by any definition, but Desjardins's daughter Anne was infatuated with the man's "intensity" and spoke of him incessantly. Anne took great pains to join any outing or excursion that included James and noted all the minute details, such as how he liked his tea. Because of this, Desjardins felt he had a strong grasp of the type of man James was. He intended to feed that information to Lysette, which she could then use to become perfect for him.
"What are your plans for the rest of the week?" Desjardins asked.
He listened carefully to James's reply, cataloguing the finer points to include in his notes for Lysette. He hoped the secretary enjoyed his brief time with the lovely blonde who was far above his station.
She would cost him his employment and reputation, if not far more precious things. Such as his life.
Chapter 4
"So, we finally part ways," Lysette murmured.
Simon grinned. If this had been the end of a liaison, he would have affected a more flattering show of melancholy. As it was, such subterfuge wasn't necessary.
"Look how happy you are." A reluctant smile curved her lips and he noted how it transformed her features. Lysette was truly one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. Her glorious tresses were shot with various shadings of pale gold and light browns. Her skin was like the richest ivory satin, her eyes the blue of a clear summer sky, her lips lush and pouty within her heart-shaped face. She was petite and lithe but perfectly proportioned. Not too curvy or too thin. Because of her exterior flawlessness, he found it somewhat unnerving to realize that, aside from the moment he first met her, he had never had any desire to tumble her. Even after the last few weeks of abstinence and near constant proximity to her, he hadn't considered bedding her.
"You must be relieved to be rid of me, as well," he said easily.
"Of course."
The hard glimmer returned to her eyes and he sighed inwardly. Once again, the moment he felt the slightest softening toward her, she reminded him of why he did not like her. It had nothing to do with her lack of affection for him and everything to do with the fact that she was so mutable. At times she seemed confused, at others she appeared to relish her work far too much for his tastes. He suspected she was a bit touched and he had learned to avoid those who suffered afflictions of the mind. They were a danger to themselves and others.
As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the small home on a quiet street, Simon opened the door and leaped out. Then he extended his gloved hand to assist Lysette down.
Her hat rim came into view first, then it rose as she tilted her head back to gaze at the front of the residence.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"My home."
Simon studied her openly. She seemed pensive and melancholy, her pale blue eyes shadowed with secrets he did not care to know.
Lysette Rousseau was one of the most cutthroat individuals he'd ever had the misfortune to meet, one who took pleasure in the misery of others. It was oftentimes difficult to reconcile her beautiful, fragile exterior with the hardened woman he knew her to be. He'd watched her kill a man with novel ferocity, an act even more disconcerting when committed by a lovely seductress. Yet she had the bearing and tastes of a woman of breeding. The combination of civility and blood thirst was discordant.
Frankly, he could not wait to be rid of her and the mystery she represented. He was weary of prying into other people's lives on behalf of a king he cared little about. He wanted to live his own life and he had-finally-accumulated enough wealth to do so. No longer would he serve the needs of another. The world was his, or it soon would be, once he exchanged the wily Lysette for Richard and the others.