"You say that simply because he came by?"
"I say that because he has a man watching your home."
Lysette stiffened, eyeing Desjardins carefully. There was something odd about him today, a moody tension that was far removed from his usual ease of deportment. It set her nerves on edge and made her wary. Restless predators were always dangerous.
"I must say," he murmured, "it does ease my mind to see that you are not pleased to hear that."
"Of course not," she scoffed. "I do not like anyone prying into my life. It is hard enough knowing that nothing escapes your notice."
"I wish that were true."
Dropping the kerchief, she crossed her arms. "Tell me what ails you." She presently lacked the patience to continue with meaningless discourse when something important was afoot.
He removed a missive from his pocket and tossed it in her direction. It spun gracefully on its side and landed near her thigh. She picked it up and examined it, noting the broken black wax that bore no seal. The front was blank, not addressed to anyone.
She looked up at him and asked, "Should I read it?"
"Please do."
Using more care than usual, she opened the letter and read.
"Who is this from?" she breathed, horrified by the curt and heartless way it demanded information about Simon, at the cost of Desjardins's daughter if the request was not met.
"A man known only as L'Esprit," the comte said, his voice dripping venom. "A thorn in my side for over two decades."
Her hands fell to the bed. She was so startled by the thought of Desjardins being as helpless as she often felt. "Has he been using your family against you all of this time?"
"From the beginning. I would never assist him otherwise." The comte stood and began to pace angrily. "L'Esprit is the reason for your work with James. He is highly interested in Benjamin Franklin and I had hoped that you might learn something of such great import that it would lure L'Esprit out of the shadows."
"I will do what I can, of course."
"It is beyond that now. You read his latest demands. Quinn's man was seen following Thierry to my home. It will not be long before L'Esprit follows Thierry or Quinn to you."
Suddenly cold, Lysette burrowed deeper under the covers. "That upsets you a great deal."
"It should upset you as well," Desjardins said. "Depardue was his spy within the Illumines. If L'Esprit learns that you killed his most trustworthy lieutenant, he will take you from me. If he kills you, that would be kind. I have seen him destroy men."
"Destroy?" she whispered, more frightened by Desjardins's obvious disquiet than by the tale itself. After all they had been through, she had never once seen him anything less than completely self-assured.
"He once bore a grievance against the Marquis de Saint-Martin. He robbed Saint-Martin of everything he held dear. Nothing was sacred."
"What can we do?"
"Use your illness as a way to ingratiate yourself into James's life. Allow him to do what he can to make you comfortable. Allow the bond between you to grow. That should not be too difficult, he saved your life."
"And what about Quinn? He will return."
"I will manage Quinn."
Menace laced the comte's words and Lysette felt her stomach roil. Desjardins's urgency goaded hers. "I will do what I can with James, I promise."
"Thank you." The comte approached and kissed the back of her hand, then he retrieved the note from L'Esprit and returned it to his pocket. "I will look into moving you. I no longer feel this residence is a safe haven."
With that, he left, closing the door behind him. Lysette lay with her cheek to her pillow and wept silently, fearful that she would not be allowed to learn of her past before her future became the death of her.
"Your life is a mess."
She jumped, her heart racing at the sound of the low voice behind her. Rolling, she faced the sitting room door and found Simon lounging there, his gaze trained on the exit Desjardins had just made his egress through.
"How did you get in here?" she asked, struggling to sit up while swiping furiously at her wet cheeks.
"Come now," he chided, straightening. "We all have our ways."
Lysette watched him enter her bedchamber as if he owned it. He caught up the chair the comte had just vacated, spun it about, and sat with his arms crossed atop the back.
He was so blatantly male and dominant in the overtly feminine surroundings of her rose-hued bedroom, making no effort to meld or be less incongruous. Simon contrasted so completely with Edward that she could not fail to note it. Edward was every inch a male and a strikingly intense one at that, yet he had tempered that for her this morning. Her chest grew tight and she pushed the memory away. She could not think of him now. It was simply too much for her beleaguered and weary soul to manage.
"Tell me about yourself, Lysette," he drawled, his gaze narrowed and examining.
"I should kill you for trespassing," she hissed, hiding her tumult under aggression, as she had learned to do to stay alive.
"I should like to see you make the attempt. You are as weak as a kitten."
"If I scream, help will come."
"The servants Desjardins provided?" Simon laughed.
Her jaw clenched. He was right, she was weak, something she had promised herself she would never be again.
"I am not here to injure you," he said softly, the levity leaving his features. "I simply want to know who you are."
"Why?"
"I believe I have met a relation of yours, and I want to see if I am correct."
Lysette paled, her palms dampening with distress.
"What did your parents do to make you resort to this elaborate ruse?" he asked quietly. "Threaten to marry you off? Cut your allowance?"
"What do you want?" she bit out.
His brow rose. "This does not have anything to do with me."
"My family is dead."
He made a chastising noise with his tongue. "Lying is a sin. Though I suppose it is probably the least of yours."
"You are so smug," Lysette snapped. "As if you know everything. As if you are so superior."
"At the moment, I feel as if I know nothing at all. I do hope you will enlighten me."
Having survived due in large part to her ability to accurately judge others, Lysette labored under the feeling that Simon was being sincere. Her mind told her it was a trick of some sort, her heart told her otherwise. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Your sister loves you a great deal and mourns deeply over your loss. Do you care nothing for her? Is your heart so cold that you can excise her from your life without a qualm?"
"My s-sister?" Lysette's hand went to her throat as the room began to spin. Her stomach roiled and she reached blindly for the basin on the nightstand.
Simon moved so quickly, he was at her side the same moment the chair he had occupied toppled to the floor. He held the basin beneath her mouth as she retched violently, her body so weakened it was unable to tolerate the stresses of the day.
When she had finished, and had fallen back listlessly into the pillows, he moved to the door and locked it. A moment later a knock came and then the knob was tried, rattling briefly in an attempt to turn it.
A feminine voice came muffled through the portal, "Madame Marchant? Are you well?"
Arching a brow, Simon dared her to reveal his presence.
Lysette gasped for a deep breath, then answered. "I knocked a chair over on the way to the chamberpot. There is nothing to worry yourself over."
"I will fetch the key and help you," Madame Fouche offered.
"No! Please. I want sleep, nothing more."
There was a long pause, then, "Very well. Ring the bell on the table if you need me."
Simon stood with his ear to the door. Eventually, he nodded and returned to her, righting the chair and sitting in it properly. He waited patiently for her to speak.