Don't Tempt Me
Page 42

“Wait a moment,” she said to Lysette, frowning. “Perhaps she is in my room. I confess, I was equally anxious about seeing you again and made as large a mess.”
Nodding her acquiescence, Lysette stepped deeper into the space as Marguerite left and crossed the hall to her bedchamber. Her room was also still in disarray, with gowns and undergarments scattered across the bed and every chair.
“Celie?”
It was not in character for Celie to leave such a mess lying about. Marguerite began to worry, her steps quickening as she rushed toward the boudoir. She hurried through the open door and drew to a halt, lifting her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream of terror.
Celie stared sightlessly from the floor, her mouth foamed and lips blue. In one hand, she clutched a sheaf of papers. In the other, a wax seal.
“Celie!” Marguerite sobbed in grief and horror. A chill seeped through her skin to solidify as ice within her gut, prompting a violent shudder to wrack her frame.
Goaded by terror, she ran from the suite, racing across the hallway to Lysette. She shut the door behind her and turned the key, breathing so heavily she thought she might faint.
“Maman!” Lysette rushed forward. “What is it?”
“Celie . . .” she gasped. “Celie is dead.”
In the same manner the servants in her household had been killed years ago. Poison. She would know the signs anywhere now.
“No,” Lysette whispered, mouth quivering and eyes filling with tears.
Marguerite’s stomach knotted as the room tilted precariously. “Mon Dieu, what are we going to do?”
The lock turned. Marguerite spun about, shielding her daughter behind her back.
The door opened, and Saint-Martin walked in.
Seeking purchase in the rocking carriage, Simon held tight to the window ledge and stood, redressing as quickly as possible in Eddington’s breeches. The journey to Solange Tremblay’s home was not long, but a stone’s throw would be too far for him now.
He had never enjoyed gambling. With the stakes in this game being the safety of Lynette, he detested it. But if he should win, they would all be free. Yes, the risks were great, but the possible gain was greater.
With the blessing of her parents, he could court his precious Lynette. He could woo and win her, cherish her. Surely they would at least consider his suit, if he delivered them from the enemy who had tormented them for so long.
“Hurry!” he shouted to the driver, hating the necessary delay. He sat and tugged on his boots, his breathing labored by anxiety.
Dear God, keep her safe.
Grimly determined, he reached for his dagger and sheath.
“Are you L’Esprit?” Eddington asked, his gaze never leaving the mouth of the pistol pointed at his chest. The man who stood on the other side was tall and broad, about the same size as Quinn, but this man’s eyes were cold and dark.
Thierry growled. “Where in hell is Quinn?”
“Not here obviously.”
“Damn you.” He glared. “If I had known who she was before now, I could have been a rich man.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Eddington drawled, his senses alert despite the casualness of his pose. “Perhaps I can be of assistance in lieu of Quinn?”
“I need Quinn to kill her!” Thierry growled, gesturing over Eddington’s shoulder with a jerk of his gun.
“Hmm . . .” Eddington nodded. “I see. English spy kills French spy. Nothing too odd about that, is there?”
“It might not be wise to goad him,” Mademoiselle Baillon said. “He has a weapon.”
“I can see that. So what do we do now? If he is not L’Esprit, we’ve little use for him.”
“Who are you?” Thierry snapped.
“A friend of Quinn’s.”
Thierry’s frustration was palpable and dangerous. “Go to the bedroom.”
Eddington followed Mademoiselle Baillon as she led the way, thinking that perhaps utilizing Quinn in the future might not be so wise. The man had become embroiled in one morass after another over the last few months, making him less and less valuable. After all, what good was a spy whose covert activities were known to all and sundry? And . . . what good was a man who dragged his superiors into tangles such as these?
They had barely stepped into the room when a sickening thud, followed by a loud grunt, was heard behind him. Eddington pivoted and crouched, ready to defend both himself and Mademoiselle Baillon. Instead, he faced Mr. James, who was brandishing a weighty silver candlestick.
Thierry crumpled to the floor, his pistol dropping and misfiring, the report deafening in the enclosed space of the bedroom.
“Edward!” Mademoiselle Baillon rushed toward him and the man caught her close, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead.
“Forgive me,” he said huskily. “I came as soon as I could.”
Eddington frowned. “You are not Mademoiselle Baillon, are you?” he asked.
She smiled. “I am. But I am not Lynette.”
Marguerite gasped as Saint-Martin entered the room, followed immediately by de Grenier . . . who held a pistol to his back.
Her lungs seized with unalloyed terror. “Philippe,” she whispered, her heart breaking at the pain and regret she saw in his eyes.
Behind her, Lysette gave a strangled cry, backing away and pulling Marguerite with her. Protecting her mother, when it should have been the reverse.
All of these years . . . she had allowed her children to reside with a monster.
“Look who I found lurking about the place,” de Grenier drawled. “Could not be more convenient, I must say. I was expecting a few hours at least before I could lure him here.”
“Why?” Lysette asked, her voice shaking.
“To kill you, ma petite,” he drawled, the words piercing deep.
“No!” Marguerite spread her arms wide, blocking Lysette from harm. “How could you? She is your daughter!”
De Grenier’s smile was icy. “No, she is not. You must think I am a fool. She could not look more like Saint-Martin if she wished to.”
Marguerite’s chin rose, and her gaze moved to Philippe. He stared at Lysette, a look of wonder and joy erasing the lines of sorrow their tragic past had placed upon his countenance. Tears filled her eyes, the long-dreamed-of moment finally here, but marred by tragedy.
She forced her gaze back to her husband, beseeching. “You raised her,” she argued. “Watched her grow. You have been the only father she has ever known.”
“And what a delight that has been.” His eyes shone bright with malice. “Knowing I had everything Saint-Martin coveted—the woman he loved and the daughters he sired. Fucking his wife and killing her were added pleasures, but fleeting. Having you daily was my true joy.”
A low growl rumbled up from Philippe’s chest, frightening Marguerite with its unadulterated menace.
“You are L’Esprit,” Lysette said, her hand tightening on Marguerite’s.
“Things would have remained perfect,” de Grenier said, “if you had remained dead. I will kill Desjardins when this is done. His machinations have ruined everything.”
“Simon was correct,” Lysette said softly. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am that he was right.”
Something about Lysette’s tone set the hairs on Marguerite’s nape to rising. Tumultuous undercurrents swirled about the room, buffeting her with confusion and uncertainty.
“What in hell are you talking about?” De Grenier kicked Philippe farther into the room.
Philippe stumbled but recovered quickly, pivoting to take a position before Marguerite, shielding her as she shielded Lysette. She was torn between gratitude that he was with her, and panic that something untoward would befall him.
“Simon suspected you were the culprit,” Lysette said.
“Oh? Clever fellow.”
“Yes, he is,” she agreed. “Hence the reason Lysette is far from you with her memories protected, while I am here.”
“You lie.” De Grenier’s eyes narrowed.
“Lynette?” Marguerite queried, dazed by the revelation that no one was who she had thought them to be.
“I am the healthier of the two of us at the moment,” Lynette said with an elegant shrug, “far more capable of dealing with you.”
De Grenier’s lip curled in a sneer, devastating Marguerite with the knowledge that she had given herself to a man who hated her and wished her nothing but harm. “Do not be so smug, ma chérie. Quinn is dead now, along with your sister. Soon you will be reunited for eternity. In hell.”
Marguerite whimpered, her free hand reaching for Philippe as her heart twisted with fear and grief. It was torment unparalleled to have her family reunited and intact, only to have it ripped asunder again.
“I have risen from the grave,” drawled an Irish-inflected voice.
De Grenier bellowed with something akin to agony. Marguerite watched in horror as the end of a small sword appeared straight through his right shoulder, protruding morbidly. As de Grenier dropped to his knees, Saint-Martin kicked, knocking the gun from his hand to clatter a few feet away. Quinn was revealed to be standing in the doorway, a crimson-covered blade in his hand.
Lynette grabbed Marguerite, pulling her out of the way.
Roaring, de Grenier lurched to his feet and tackled Saint-Martin to the floor.
Quinn leaped over the two writhing bodies, rushing toward Lynette and Marguerite.
But Marguerite would have none of it. Inhaling courage, she skirted Quinn and raced toward the discarded pistol. A hand grabbed her ankle, yanking her balance from her and causing her to land with bone-jarring force prone on the floor. Kicking at her attacker, she reached out for the pistol grip, her sweat-soaked fingertips slipping across the polished wood.
No one would harm her children again. Not while there was still breath left in her body.
And then it was there, the grip seated firmly in her palm. She rolled to her back, searching for de Grenier. He rose to his knees, a blade wielded high above a sprawled Saint-Martin.
“No!”