He pivoted and wrapped her arm around his. "Ready?" he asked.
Lysette inhaled sharply, then nodded.
Simon noted that tiny act of gathering courage and felt a brief flare of concern. He almost asked her if there was some assistance she required, but he held his tongue. While the last vestiges of his chivalry urged him to assist a damsel in distress, the blunt truth of the matter was that she had made her own bed and now she must lie in it. His responsibility was not to her but to the dozen men who worked for him. Still, despite thinking so callously, he let kinder words leave his lips.
"I will remain in Paris for a month or so."
The statement was not a romantic appeal and she knew it. He was offering a temporary harbor in case of a possible storm. The startled look she gave him in response afforded him a brief glimpse of an unaffected Lysette. For a moment she glowed from within, a shimmer of wary hope and innocence.
Then it was gone.
He steeled himself for a sharp and jeering rebuke, as was her usual response to any friendly overture. Instead, her mouth curved slightly and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Together they climbed the steps and entered her home. As they walked into the foyer, the lilting notes of a pianoforte greeted them. An elaborate and stunning crystal-covered chandelier hung above the gold-veined marble, and fresh flowers displayed in alcoves contributed their fragrance to the genial welcome.
Lysette led him into a parlor decorated in soothing shades of yellow and gold. Amid the soft palette, the emerald-garbed Comte Desjardins could not be missed.
"Bonjour, Mr. Quinn," the comte greeted, rising to his feet from his seat at the pianoforte.
"My lord." Simon once again marveled that such a short and slightly built man would have such a powerful voice. He doubted such volume could be contained in a whisper, a thought even more startling considering the body to which the voice belonged looked as if a stiff wind could topple it over.
"Lysette, ma petite." Desjardins approached her with a look of pride and affection on his long face. He caught up her hands and kissed her cheek. "Comment te sens-tu?"
"Bien, merci."
Lysette's response was much more subdued, without a hint of warmth. The comte seemed unaffected by her lack of joy at being returned to his care.
"Excellent." He turned back to Simon. "Would you care for some tea, Mr. Quinn?"
"No, thank you." Simon's brows rose slightly at the ease with which Desjardins appropriated Lysette's home. "I prefer to conclude our transaction and go on my way."
"What of Jacques and Cartland?" Lysette asked.
Desjardins gestured for Lysette to take a seat. "Arrangements will be made."
She glanced at Simon and he answered with a querying lift of his brows. She frowned, apparently as clueless as he was.
"Your men were released when you arrived, Mr. Quinn," the comte said, "as promised."
Simon moved over to the window and looked outside, then he glanced at the clock on the mantel. "I will enjoy your company for a few more moments, if you have no objections."
Lysette's mouth quirked. They all knew Simon would not leave without ensuring his men were safe, objections or not.
The comte shrugged. "As you wish. Stay as long as you desire. I am grateful to you for returning Mademoiselle Rousseau in good health."
"I take no pleasure in wounding others," Simon said grimly. "And I cannot expect to receive my men unharmed if I return damaged goods."
"Very civilized of you. So what are your plans now?" Desjardins asked, rocking back on his heels and smiling innocently.
"None of your damned concern," Simon drawled, growing impatient with the comte's facetiousness. "No offense, my lord."
"None taken."
A short rap on the door heralded the arrival of a tea service delivered by a housekeeper as elderly as the butler. Both looked as if they should have been pensioned off long ago. As Lysette began to strip off her gloves, Simon looked out the window again. Across the street, a flash of red caught his eye. He grinned and turned about.
"I will take my leave now," he said.
"See?" Desjardins gloated. "I am a trustworthy fellow."
Simon choked. He moved to Lysette and she extended her bare hand to him.
"Au revoir, mon amour," she purred.
He bent and kissed the smooth skin, his gaze locking with hers. "Try to stay out of mischief."
"What fun would there be in that?" Although she teased, the lines of strain that rimmed her eyes and mouth belied her nonchalance.
Simon glanced at Desjardins with a scowl, irritated to discover that he was unable to leave Lysette if she felt endangered. But the regard the comte bestowed upon her was affectionate. There was warmth in his eyes and his smile. The inequality of the exchange for her return was also a sign of her value. She would land on her feet, of that Simon was certain. And if there was trouble, she knew where to find him.
With a last squeeze of her hand, he released her, and after bowing to the comte, he departed. There was a slight spring to his step as he returned to his waiting carriage.
When the bars restraining his men had been opened, he had been freed as well. He answered to no one now and nothing held him back.
As Lysette poured tea, she also watched Desjardins. The comte stood at the window, watching as Simon left. He looked thinner and more gaunt, which was disturbing. But when he turned about and faced her, he seemed genuinely happy.
"You look well," he said, assessing her carefully.
"As well as can be expected under the circumstances." She added liberal amounts of sugar and cream to the comte's serving, then held the cup and saucer out to him.
He stepped closer and accepted it. "Tell me what transpired."
Lysette straightened. Her last assignment had gone horribly awry, despite how simple the plan had seemed on the outset. Quinn's closest associate, Colin Mitchell, had left Quinn's employ with the intent to return to England. Jacques had been tasked with befriending Mitchell in an effort to discover the identity of Quinn's superior-the man who took French secrets directly to the English king.
Unfortunately, on the night Mitchell and Jacques wore due to board the ship, another of Quinn's men-an Englishman named Cartland-murdered a man closely connected to Agent-General Talleyrand-Perigord. Cartland was apprehended and accused Mitchell of the crime. To add weight to his protestations of innocence, he revealed the names of other men working for Quinn, thereby exposing a broad network of English spies.
At that point, they should have abandoned Mitchell and waited for another opportunity. Instead, Lysette's desperation to be freed from obligation to Desjardins led her to make a reckless offer-she would associate with Quinn and salvage the mission, and in return, Desjardins would release her from further service to him.
"Shortly after arriving in England," she said, "we were discovered by Mr. Mitchell, which enabled us to place obstacles in his path. We hoped this would lead to his seeking assistance, which might reveal the identity of the man we sought."
The comte sat on a nearby gold velvet chair. "Sounds ideal."
"It would have been, if Mitchell had not been so well connected. He had no need to seek out his superior for help."
"Hmm…" Desjardins watched her over the rim of his cup. When he lowered his hands, the smile he revealed was chilling. "An interesting tale."
She shrugged. "It is the truth. No more, no less."
"Is it?"
"Of course." Her tone was casual, but the hairs on her nape prickled with alarm. "What else would it be?"
"An elaborate ruse, perhaps?"
"Absurde," she scoffed. "What purpose would that serve?"