"So you are unaware that she passed," Lynette said gently.
Simon frowned. "Passed what?"
"Passed on."
"Bloody hell." He paced, his thoughts returning to the events of the night before. Desjardins. James. Carrying an injured woman in yellow out to the comte's carriage. The posturing of James in the window had been protective, not possessive. "When? This afternoon?"
Lynette's frown matched his. "Beg your pardon?"
"When did she die?" he asked slowly, feeling disoriented.
"Two years ago."
"That is not possible, Lynette. 1 saw her alive and well just yesterday."
Lynette's stomach clenched hard and violently. She reached for the armrest of the settee for support and then Quinn- Simon-was crouched before her, studying her face with a worried frown.
"I think there is a great deal that you and I do not understand," he said, his Irish lilt soothing and gentle. "Perhaps you should tell me about your Lysette, then I shall tell you about mine."
Inhaling and exhaling in measured rhythm, Lynette attempted to calm her racing pulse. In the space of only moments, she had been barked at, kissed senseless, and now told that her sister was alive and well as recently as yesterday. She knew that was impossible, that there must be some grievous error, but some tiny part of her shouted in vindicated exaltation. The part of her that still felt Lysette as keenly today as it had the last time they had been together.
"Two years ago," she whispered, "my sister was killed when the carriage she occupied overturned and the lamps set fire to the whole."
Simon moved to take a seat beside her. "You have only the one sister?"
"Yes. No other siblings."
"What are the odds that there would be a woman of identical appearance to you who is not a relation?"
"With the name Lysette? Impossible." She turned slightly to face him. "I must see her."
"I should like to be there when you do."
Lynette stared at Simon's breathtaking features and felt calmed by his mere presence. It was astonishing to feel such a connection to a stranger, but she did not doubt it.
Simon would not allow harm to befall her. She was convinced of that.
"This woman cannot be my sister." Her voice quavered and she cleared her throat. "In addition to the fact that I was there when Lysette was buried, the simple truth is that she and I were very close. There is no chance that two years would pass without a word from her."
"I do not understand any of this." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But 1 can tell you the Lysette I know is not… well."
"Not well?"
"A bit touched."
"Oh…" Lynette worried her lower lip between her teeth. "How did you become acquainted with her?"
"My life is not one you wish to delve too deeply into, Mademoiselle…"
"Baillon."
His frown deepened. "Lysette goes by the name Rousseau. Does that sound familiar to you?"
"Rousseau?" Lynette frowned, trying to recall if she knew anyone by that name and finding that she did not.
"Mademoiselle-"
"Please," she interjected, "call me Lynette. After last night… and now. You almost… against the door…" Her face heated.
His large hand rose to cup her cheek with something akin to reverence. "You cannot even say it, can you?"
She swallowed hard, riveted by his tenderness and the way the stroking of his thumb over her cheekbone reverberated all over her body.
A half-smile curved his beautiful mouth and made her stomach flutter. His glance moved over her, from the top of her head to her feet. "You mentioned a father, but not a spouse."
"I am not married."
"Of course not." Simon shook his head. "You are innocent. The daughter of a peer."
The way he said the words, so flatly and resigned, struck her like a blow. She realized he no longer intended to ravish her. She knew she should be relieved, but she was profoundly disappointed. All of her life, she had led the way with men. Teasing, flirting, and steering their conversations in the direction she wished them to go. With Simon Quinn, she was swept away, in control of nothing at all. It was a heady sensation to be so lost in a man, and to know that he was equally lost in her.
"Give me some time," he said, "to investigate this a little further before you proceed. You have no reason to trust me-"
"But I do!"
"You shouldn't." The rueful little smile touched his mouth again, and unable to help it, she lifted her fingers to it. The muscle in his jaw ticked beneath her caress and his blue eyes burned so hot her skin flushed in response.
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. The feel of his lips sent tingles up her arm and made her shiver. "I have never known innocence, Lynette. I have no notion of what to do with it beyond corrupt it."
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying that if you do not put as much distance as possible between us and maintain it, I will ruin you." The deep timbre of his voice added credence to his threat. "You will find yourself in my bed and your life deeply entangled in a web of deceit, lies, and danger. As bright as your future is now, it would be equally dark."
"Yet Lysette Rousseau occupies this world you speak of?" she queried, lifting her chin.
"Yes, she does."
"Are you an English spy?" Her gaze moved around the room as it had when she'd arrived. Again, she admired the obvious expense of the design and decor. The palette was one of deep reds balanced by lighter-stained woods. It was both deeply masculine, yet welcoming to all.
"I was," he said easily. But when she returned her gaze to his, his focus on her was sharp.
"You want to know how I would gain such knowledge." She smiled. "By no nefarious means, I assure you. One of the women with me last night is a courtesan. A well-connected paramour of hers once said something of that nature to her."
"How is it that a peer's daughter would be associating with a courtesan?" Simon's hand had moved to her shoulder and his thumb absently caressed along her collarbone.
The touch made her want to purr like a kitten and arch in delight. She swallowed and replied, "My mother met her years ago in a modiste's shop, when my parents used to live in France."
"Why would the wife of a peer have an appointment at the same time as a courtesan? Usually discretion would prevent such a meeting."
Lynette wrinkled her nose, thinking.
Without warning, Simon's hand cupped the nape of her neck and his lips were pressed to the tip of her nose. His new proximity brought the scent of his skin to her nostrils, a stirring mixture of leather and horses, musk and tobacco. Her mind became flooded with memories of that scent… last night in the library… moments ago against the door…
Her body responded by aching and she moaned.
He cursed and pushed to his feet in a hurried but graceful movement. "I cannot think when you are near and I need my blasted wits now more than ever."
"Simon-"
"Is there any possibility that your mother had a child that you do not know about?"
Lynette lowered the hand she had held out to him. "No. The birth of my sister and I destroyed her womb."
"Before you, perhaps?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely. I will ask her directly, if I must."
"And your father?"
"The Vicomte de Grenier. His coloring is very dark. My sister and I take after our mother. Some have thought she was a sister to us."
"De Grenier?" Simon moved to a console against the far wall where various decanters waited. A painting of the countryside hung above it, the blues of a stream and the greens of a forest lending color to the room. "He is unknown to me."
"My parents quit France before I was born. We have lived in Poland these many years."
Holding a thick crystal glass in one hand, he faced her, resting his hip against the furniture and one palm flat atop the surface. There were now several feet of space between them, which left her feeling oddly bereft. "When did your family return to Paris?"