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 were due to board the ship, another of Quinn’s men—an Englishman named Cartland—murdered a man closely connected to Agent-General Talleyrand-Périgord. 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?”
“I’ve no notion, ma petite.” His smile faded and his eyes hardened. “But you have been in the company of Mr. Quinn for some time now. A man rather infamous for his appeal to women. Perhaps you have succumbed to his charm.”
Lysette stood in an angry swirl of floral skirts. “And now I seek to betray you?”
“Do you? You told him your real name. Why?”
“Because that was to be my last favor for you.”
“A curious way to exert your independence.”
“Kill me, then,” she challenged with a jerk of her chin. “There is no way to prove any denial of your claims.”
Desjardins rose with maddening leisure and set his tea on the table. “As you killed François Depardue? A man working to serve the interests of the agent-general?”
Lysette felt the familiar knot of ice form in her stomach. “He deserved it. You know he did.”
“Yes, he was an animal. A vicious, rutting beast who associated with others of his ilk.” The comte came to her and wrapped her in his skeletal embrace. She shuddered with revulsion, but did not pull away. He had taken her from Depardue, clothed and fed her, trained her to survive.
“I will help you,” he crooned, stroking his hands down her back as a loving father would. “No one will ever learn of your involvement in his death. In return, you will help me. One last time.”
The nightmare of her life was never ending. “What do you want?” she asked wearily, her shoulders drooping.
“I have an introduction to make.”
“Whom do you want dead now?”
He pulled back and gifted her with a soft smile. “I need a different sort of femme fatale for this.”
That statement frightened her more than an order to kill.
“I am dreadfully worried about her, Solange,” Marguerite said sadly, her fingers pushing needle through cloth by habit more than actual thought. “She has changed so drastically since Lysette passed.”
“I noticed.”
Marguerite glanced up at her dearest friend, a courtesan she had met years ago during an afternoon of shopping. Solange Tremblay was a lovely brunette, blessed with a girlish laugh and smile that kept her in demand. On the surface, they had little in common. Solange had pulled herself up from the serving class, while Marguerite had fallen from the heights of nobility. Solange was dark, Marguerite was fair. And yet they shared a deep affinity. They had both borne the censure of the world to live their lives as they saw fit.