Don't Tempt Me

by Sylvia Day

  “Would it plague your conscience if it did?”

  The glare he shot her made her laugh.

  She knew he regarded her with wary confusion. He sensed the division in her caused by her lack of memory, but he had yet to learn the reason for it. Lysette viewed her missing past as a vulnerability, and she had learned—in the most heinous fashion—that she could not afford any further liabilities beyond her gender.

  “You do not even attempt to be likable,” he complained.

  “No,” she agreed, moving to occupy the only chair in the room, a walnut spindle-back with a contoured seat. They shared a fairly comfortable cabin and yet the first days had been some of the tensest in her short recollection. She was not accustomed to keeping such close quarters with men, especially over a length of time. “You will be free of me tomorrow.”

  “Ha!” Simon sat on the edge of her bed to remove his boots. A hammock slung across the far corner served as his sleeping place. It swung gently as the ship rolled, a sight that often lulled her into daydreams of a brighter future. “I would have been free of you in England, if you had not been lying, deceiving, and making mischief the entire length of our association.”

  “That is my livelihood, mon amour.”

  “Soon to be inflicted on some other unfortunate soul.”

  “Your hypocrisy is impressive.”

  He glared. “I resigned my commission before leaving England. I am returning you to France only because of my men. If not for them, I would be elsewhere. Far from you.”

  “Ah.”

  While she wore a mocking smile on the outside, on the inside she admired his loyalty and sense of responsibility. His underlings—a dozen men who had worked covertly on his behalf—were now being held against their will as insurance for her return. His resignation freed him from any obligation for their safety, yet he pressed on, regardless.

  “As to whether or not I will be free of you tomorrow, I doubt it. This will not be a swift exchange,” he said, surprising her. “I will see all of my men first. Should one of them be injured, we will wait for his full recovery before proceeding. In addition, we must negotiate the terms for Jacques and Cartland. Much will depend on how cooperative Comte Desjardins is.”

  “And if you do not regain all of them?”

  Simon glanced at her. “Then, your people will not regain you.”

  “Perhaps you will never be rid of me.”

  He growled. “That would not be pleasant for you.”

  “Oh, I might beg to disagree. You are pleasing to the eye and you maintain a surly sort of charm.”

  When other men would have made her life a misery, Simon had seen to her comfort and care, albeit grudgingly. His tarnished honor fascinated her. Lysette had spent their time together attempting to discern what fueled him. If she could discover that, the knowledge would be to her advantage.

  “Witch,” Simon muttered in response to her taunting.

  She placed her slippered feet atop a roughly hewn wooden footstool with a silent sigh. Did she have a family or anyone to care for her and miss her? Did someone pine for her and wonder at her disappearance from their lives? She had no notion of what motivated a man like Simon, what roads in life had led him to hire himself out for money, but she knew what motivated her—the desire to regain the knowledge of her identity. She required funds and resources for such an undertaking, and the skill to kill anyone who impeded her quest.

  When she had set out for England with Simon, she’d planned to return under far different circumstances. The Comte Desjardins had promised her freedom in return for the identity of the mastermind behind Simon’s spying in France. Instead, she returned a prisoner.

  “Eat,” Simon ordered, gesturing to the table.

  Lysette considered demurring again, then decided she did not want to spend her last night arguing with the only person in the world she liked at all.

  So she obeyed, pushing thoughts of the morrow far from her mind.

  Chapter 3

  The knock came to the door of Simon Quinn’s Parisian home at exactly eleven o’clock in the evening.

  The longcase clock chimed the hour and hid a secret door from view, one of many escape routes Simon had commissioned when he purchased the residence three years ago.

  He listened to the exchange between his expected visitor and his butler, then rose as the voices approached the study, where he waited. Since disembarking from the ship that morning, he had spent the day making arrangements for this assignation, eager to conclude this last mission and begin his life anew. He’d sent a missive to Desjardins immediately upon arrival and requested a visit with his men to ascertain their condition. If they were well, he would schedule the exchange for the morrow.

  He was dressed for riding and his greatcoat was slung over a leather wingback near the door. A dagger was strapped to his thigh and a small sword hung comfortably around his hips, not with any expectation of use but for appearances and to act as a distraction. Simon’s greatest weapons were his fists, the only defense an impoverished lad could depend upon.

  He was prepared in all ways and confident. He’d left the ship and returned to his home with a cloak-shrouded figure beside him. An hour later, a disguised Lysette was taken to another location to ensure the failure of any attempt to wrest her away without a fair exchange.

  “Mr. Quinn.”

  Simon studied the person who filled his doorway. Lean and sinewy, the man bore the coarse appearance of one who lived by his teeth every day. Few would believe that so blunt an individual would associate with the suave and lauded Comte Desjardins, but it was true. The lackey would not be here if he did not.

  Desjardins’s man was conspicuous within the studied sophistication of Simon’s residence. Although Simon had grown into manhood on the mean streets of Dublin and London, fighting for every meal and a place to sleep, his comeliness had eventually led to him spending a handful of years as the kept paramour of the beautiful and wealthy Lady Winter. Maria had taught him many things, including the value of appearances. Because of her, he dressed with understated elegance, knowing that a man of his breeding could not carry flamboyance. He conveyed this sensibility to everything he owned, from horseflesh and carriages to his homes. His wealth could not be questioned, neither could his taste.

  “Shall we?” the lackey asked in a nasally rendition of a gentleman’s discourse.

  “I am ready,” Simon said, striding forward and collecting his coat along the way.

  They exited Simon’s townhouse and mounted their horses. There were two more lackeys nearby, but Simon was confident in his ability to dispatch the lot of them, if necessary. Besides, if Lysette’s value was such that she was worth a dozen men, he had little to fear alone.

  Which created an entirely new dilemma.

  The comte was willing to release all twelve men immediately for only Lysette, which would leave the Illuminés—the group of individuals with whom Desjardins worked—with no leverage to demand the return of Jacques and Cartland, the two men still imprisoned by Lord Eddington—Simon’s former superior—in England. Something was amiss.

  However, it was no longer Simon’s purview to find out what that might be, and while his natural curiosity prodded at him, he ignored it. He was eager to leave this covert life behind. His recent visit to England and a brief, nonromantic reunion with the now-married Maria reminded him of times when he had been content with his lot. It contrasted sharply with the last few years of restlessness and told him it was time for drastic change. Good or ill, he needed his life to be altered. Continuing his employment was not an option.

  The horses’ hooves clopped along the road in an easy canter and the night breeze blew in gentle caressing gusts across Simon’s cheek. Around them, an infrequent carriage passed and pedestrians walked along the street edge at a brisk pace. He noted everything and everyone around him by habit, his existence so dependant on his awareness of his surroundings that it was second nature.

  For years he had believed his li
velihood took no toll, but now he contemplated a future lacking the ever-present concern that he would be ambushed at any moment, and he smiled.

  “Here we are.”

  Following the example of the riders with him, Simon urged his mount down an alley and drew to a halt beside a hitching post. Once all the horses were secure, he was directed through an iron gateway and found himself in a cemetery.

  “I’ll have to cover your eyes,” a lackey said.

  “No.” Simon withdrew his blade.

  “Just ’til we go under,” the man assured him, smiling in a way that chilled.

  “I have a terrible memory,” Simon drawled. “You needn’t worry that I will join the dead in haunting you.”

  “You either wear it, or we’ll have to turn about,” the man insisted.

  Simon hesitated, trying to gauge their intent. He even feigned departure and headed back to where his horse waited. They followed alongside him, which reinforced their claim that they would not relent.

  Shoving his blade back into its sheath, he conceded. “A few moments, no more. And my hands remain unbound.”

  “Mais oui.”

  He was blindfolded and pulled forward by two men, one at each elbow. They crossed damp grass, then descended stone steps. The air grew musty and Simon stumbled over uneven ground. He cursed and was laughed at.

  “Arrête,” one of them said a moment later.

  Simon stopped and pushed the blindfold off. He blinked and found his suspicions confirmed—he was in a catacomb beneath the city. Torches lined the walls at regular intervals, telling him this pathway was frequently traveled. He grabbed one, both for illumination and as a weapon. When his companions stared at him warily, he arched a brow in challenge. The leader shrugged and led the way without protest.

  They walked some distance, venturing deeper via the many twisting pathways. Eventually they arrived, entering a cavernous room that had been modified into a dungeon of sorts. Simon found his men restrained in three cages, four in each, with some lying on the floor and others sitting with their backs against the bars. Several guards watched over them, though all were presently engaged in a card game.

  “How fare you?” he asked, addressing the group with a sweeping glance. They were filthy and malodorous, their appearances haggard and unkempt, but they stood in a concentrated rush and seemed to be uninjured. They grabbed the bars with fisted hands and stared at him with hope-filled eyes.

  “In need of a bath,” one replied.

  “And ale,” said another.

  “A woman?” Simon queried with a smile.

  “Aye!”

  “You will be freed tomorrow,” he explained, stepping closer. “I wish it could be now, but I wanted to be certain you all were in good health before I relinquish what I have that they desire.”

  A man named Richard Becking extended a grimy hand through the cage and Simon took it without hesitation.

  “Thank you, Quinn,” Richard said hoarsely.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Simon returned, tightening his grip and thereby hiding the passing of a tiny rolled note.

  Richard’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a silent assurance that he would keep the missive’s existence a secret. It detailed Simon’s plans for the exchange and the way he wished to be told of their safe release before turning over Lysette.

  With that, Simon bade them farewell and returned to the surface the same way he had left it: partly with sight and partly blindfolded. He parted ways with Desjardins’s men when they reached their mounts and directed his horse to return home.

  The streets were less populated now and only one carriage crossed his path on the journey home. He studied it in passing, noting the obviously female gloved hand curled over the window ledge and the noble coat of arms emblazoned on the door. Both attributes made the equipage and its occupants innocuous and easily forgotten.

  The man on horseback was so comely, he stole her wits.

  Lynette Baillon straightened from her reclined position on the carriage squab and leaned forward, twisting to watch the rider through the window until he was out of sight.

  He rode tall in the saddle, his grip on the reins one-handed and loose. His other hand rested casually atop the hilt of his small sword, but she was not fooled. He was aware of everything around him. His eyes followed her equipage as it passed, his breathtaking features revealed by his lack of a hat.

  “What is it?” her mother asked from her position opposite.

  “I was admiring a handsome man,” she explained, settling back into her seat.

  “Shameless,” the vicomtess admonished. “What if he had seen you craning your neck in that manner?”

  “It is too dark,” Lynette argued, “since you will not allow us to turn up the lamps.”

  “There is danger everywhere.” Her mother sighed and rubbed at her temples. “You do not understand.”

  “Because you refuse to tell me.”

  “Lynette . . .”

  The weariness in the beloved voice made Lynette abandon the subject, just as she had done for years. Now that her sister was gone, she felt compelled to be a comfort to her mother. It was a role that did not suit her well. Lysette had been the gentle one, the quiet one. Lynette was the outrageous one, the flamboyant one, the one forever concocting schemes that landed them in trouble.

  “Forgive me, Maman.”

  “No need. It has been a long journey.”

  The vicomtess had the appearance of a delicate beauty with her pale golden hair and finely wrought features, widely lauded attributes that she’d passed on to her children. Age had not diminished her appeal; she remained as ethereally lovely as always. Regardless, the impression of fragility was a false one. Marguerite Baillon, Vicomtess de Grenier, was a remarkably strong woman. When she set her mind to something, she could not be swayed.

  Unless it was a request from one of her daughters.

  She had never been able to deny them anything, and after the loss of one, she was even more likely to indulge the other. It was why they were in Paris now. Lynette had always wanted to visit the famed city, so when the vicomtess suggested a trip to Spain in an effort to cheer them both, Lynette had begged for a short detour. Although Marguerite disliked Paris and had rarely returned to France over the past two decades, she had conceded reluctantly to her daughter’s wish.

  The vicomtess yawned. “I wish for a hot bath and two days in bed.”

  “But you allow us only a sennight to visit!” Lynette protested. “You cannot sleep two of those seven days.”

  “I am jesting, ma petite. However, your father is due in town for business then,” her mother reminded her. “Neither of us wants a scolding for deviating from our stated plans.”

  Her father was as cautious as her mother. He insisted on knowing their whereabouts at all times. “No, of course not.”

  Lynette’s gaze moved back to the window and the view of the city beyond it. Her joy in the trip was tempered by the ever-present longing for Lysette to be with her. They had been inseparable from the moment of conception, and despite the two years since Lysette’s passing, Lynette still suffered the agony of loneliness that only a twin would know. It felt as if a part of her was missing and she was ever cognizant of that lack.

  I will enjoy this adventure for the both of us, Lysette, she thought, her hand rising to her aching heart. I will see all of the places we talked about, even the ones I said I had no desire to see. I will pretend that you are with me, showing me the world through your eyes.

  “I miss her,” Lynette whispered through a throat clenched tight with sorrow and guilt. “Dreadfully.”

  “We will live for her,” the vicomtess murmured. “Every day.”

  “Yes, Maman.” She slouched against the squab and closed her eyes.

  Oddly, the man on horseback entered her mind again. He had been so vital, so alive even from a distance. She would have spoken with Lysette about him, if she had been here.

  Have you ever seen a man more handsome
? Lynette would have asked.

  Men such as him are trouble, her sister would say. Better to find a quiet companion who shares similar interests and will be steadfast. Wild men do not marry. Hence the reason they are wild.

  Her impulsiveness had always been tempered by Lysette’s unshakable reason. Her sister had been her anchor, and without her, she felt adrift.

  Lynette would give everything and do anything to have her sister back. But death had stolen Lysette away. Now, she would have to learn how to go on alone.

  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 assest, 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.