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.

After the tragic end of her affair with Philippe, Marguerite had wed the steadfast de Grenier and traveled with him to Poland, never to return to France . . . until now. It was only through correspondence that her friendship with Solange had grown and strengthened, and now that they were together again in the flesh, it felt as if no time had passed.

“You described her as so vivacious,” Solange murmured, sipping delicately from a half-full goblet of brandy. She was curled atop a ruby red velvet chaise in her decadent boudoir, her long legs bared by the slit in her ivory satin negligee. “All the stories you used to share about your daughters. How different they were, despite the fact they were twins—the elder one so outrageous and wild, the younger one so contemplative and studious. If I did not know better, I would think it was Lysette who came with you, not Lynette.”

“That is it exactly,” Marguerite said, discarding her needlepoint on the seat beside her. “At times it feels as if she is trying to be Lysette.”

“Perhaps she does not want to burden you. Perhaps this is her way of giving you comfort.”

Closing her eyes, Marguerite leaned her head back and fought the weight of depression and weariness that had grown more and more oppressive since the night she left Paris with de Grenier twenty-three years ago. “It is no comfort to me to see her so wan and unhappy,” she whispered. “It is as if all the life in her died with Lysette. She should have been a wife by now. A mother. Yet she shows so little enthusiasm when courted, the gentlemen soon set their sights elsewhere.”

“She used to be quite flirtatious, oui?”

“Very much so, but no longer. She is altered. I used to worry about her future; she seemed unable to be serious about anything. Now she is far too solemn about everything.”

“I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose the person with whom you have spent the entirety of your life. A person who is identical to you. Perhaps, in truth, a piece of her is forever lost.”

Hot tears leaked out from beneath Marguerite’s closed lids. “I cannot lose both of my children. I can’t bear it.”

“Mon amie . . .”

Marguerite heard the goblet come to rest on a table, then the rustle of satin as her friend crossed the space between them to join her. She sank gratefully into the offered embrace, finding comfort in the physical closeness. She had been lonely for so long. The birth of her daughters had damaged her womb and prevented future conception. Her barren state had created a rift in her marriage that grew wider with every passing year.

“You are still deeply grieving. Is it any wonder that Lynette is also restrained by mourning?” Solange’s delicate hand smoothed over Marguerite’s unbound hair. “One of you must return to the land of the living, so that the other may follow.”

“How can it be me?” Marguerite asked, wiping at her tears. “I ceased living long ago.”

“You’ve returned to Paris. It is a start.”

But it was not an easy one. Marguerite had been content in Poland, despite the gulf between her and de Grenier. There were no specters there, no temptations, no regrets. There were many things to haunt her here.

Straightening to a seated position, she reached for her friend’s abandoned glass and downed the expensive contents in one desperate swallow. She inhaled deeply, relishing the sudden warmth brought by the burn of alcohol in her gut, then she glanced over her shoulder. “Tell me how.”

“A party.” Solange’s pretty features transformed with a mischievous smile. The combination of a French mother and Italian father had given her an exotic attractiveness that made her much sought after. “It is no tame affair, I must tell you. Baroness Orlinda revels in bawdy, scandalous parties.”

“I cannot take my daughter to an orgy!” Marguerite protested with wide eyes.

“Mon Dieu.” Solange laughed her girlish giggle. “It is not so bawdy as that!”

“I do not believe you. Regardless, we cannot allow our presence in Paris to become known. It is too hazardous.”

“After all these years, you are still afraid?”

“If you had seen the horror of that day, you would never forget.”

“Do you love him still?”

“Everything I have done from that day to this one has been because of my love for Philippe.”

Marguerite rose, her gaze roaming along the length of the room’s red damask-covered walls. It was a space designed to startle and titillate with its gilded accents and exotic candle scents. Oddly, it relaxed Marguerite to occupy it. There was no artifice here. The purpose and appeal were clear, just as it was with Solange.

Marguerite collected the empty glass and moved over to the console, where several decanters waited.

“I think he still pines for you,” Solange said.

Pausing midpour, Marguerite watched her hand shake violently, an outward sign of the inward jolt the news brought her. “What kind of woman would that make me,” she asked quietly, “if I wished that were true?”

“An honest one.”

Marguerite exhaled audibly, then continued to refill the glass. “I am a married woman. I respect my vows and my husband. It is why de Grenier must not learn of our visit. He has sacrificed a great deal for me. I will not have him concerned that I cuckold him with a former lover.”

“I understand. That is why I suggested the baroness’s gathering, which, I assure you, is no more shocking than this boudoir. I doubt there will be many of your former acquaintances in attendance. You can assume another name and wear a mask as added protection.”

“That still does not address the impropriety of taking my innocent daughter to a gathering of licentious revelry!” Marguerite returned Solange’s goblet to her, then set her hands on her hips.

“She is numb with grief and has been for two years. Do you imagine jaunts to museums will wake her?” Solange held up a jewel-encrusted hand to halt any further protest. “Why don’t you ask her if she would like to attend?”