Lysette kicked snow off her boots before rushing through the front door of her home and racing up the stairs.

Once again, Lynette had grabbed her lighter muff, only to discover that it was cold enough to warrant using the fur-lined one. As often as she complained about how cold the Polish winter was, one would think she would never leave the house without being properly attired.

But that was Lynette, and Lysette loved her. Lynette was so vibrant and carefree, so daring. Men flocked around her and admired her beauty. Although they were twins, men did not do the same to her. And her sister was not one to complain about her lack of forethought. Lynette had acted as if nothing was wrong, but Lysette had noted her shivering and commented on it.

Today, they had gone on an outing with their mother to admire the beauty of the Countess Fedosz’s winter garden. It was a small party, made up of local families bored by entrapment caused by the lengthy snowfall. Presently everyone was strolling through the various paths, admiring how the ice and snow clung to bare branches shaped especially to look better in winter than they did with leaves.

Running down the gallery, she entered Lynette’s boudoir and retrieved her sister’s muff, then she hurried back down the hall.

She was passing her mother’s room when she tripped, and a quick glance down confirmed that the laces on one of her boots had come undone, despite being wet.

Lysette kneeled on the runner, setting the muff down on the floor while she retied her boot. In the silence created by her lack of movement, voices were heard—masculine and feminine—coming from her mother’s room, the door of which stood slightly ajar.

Who was talking? And why were they talking in the vicomtess’s bedchamber?

Pushing to her feet with the muff in hand, Lysette stepped closer. She peeked through the slender crack between the doorjamb and the door, stilling with shock when her eyes found the couple inside.

His hand was at her throat, his mouth speaking harshly in her ear, his buttocks visibly clenching and releasing through his breeches as he thrust himself into her against the wall.

Celie’s eyes were wide beneath her servant’s cap, her nostrils flared with fear, her gasps punctuated with pleas for forgiveness.

“I need to see every missive that leaves this house,” he growled. “You know this.”

“I am sorry,” she whimpered. “I have not failed you before now.”

“One failure is too much.”

The slick sounds of sexual congress blended with panting breaths and Celie’s sobbing. The scene so horrified Lysette she thought she might faint. Instead she covered her mouth and backed up slowly, fighting a feeling of nausea so intense she thought she might cast up her accounts in the hallway.

Her back hit something solid. She jumped and cried out behind her hand.

“You should not have seen that,” growled a masculine voice in her ear.

Pain—sharp and biting—split her skull. The hallway spun, then tumbled into darkness.

Lysette woke with a cry, her body shuddering with remembered fear and horror.

“Lysette.” Edward rose from his seat before the fire, his jacket gone, his reddened eyes telling her he had fallen asleep as well. “Another nightmare?”

“Mon Dieu . . .” she breathed, lifting a hand to her racing heart. She had never been gladder to see anyone than she was to see Edward. “Bless you for being here.”

“I will always be here,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and pouring her a glass of water. “I stayed tonight because I thought you might sleep restlessly after telling me your story.”

“It seems I have more to tell,” she whispered, accepting the glass with gratitude.

He nodded grimly. “I am listening.”

Simon was awake before dawn. Although he had slept only a handful of hours, he did not suffer from fatigue. He was alert and primed, so much so that he went to his study and began to plan in depth, knowing he needed a lure and a worthy trap. He was so occupied by the task that the hours passed swiftly, a circumstance he noted only when his butler announced a caller and presented the visitor’s card to Simon.

His brows rose and he glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven. “Show him in.”

Setting his quill aside, Simon waited. When a tall, dark form filled his doorway, he stood and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. James.”

“Mr. Quinn.” Edward James’s returning grip was strong and steady, as Simon supposed the man himself was.

“An unexpected visit, although not unwelcome.” Simon gestured to the seat across from him, eyeing Edward James carefully. “To what or whom do I owe this honor?”

His visitor was dressed somberly in dark brown, his garments well kept, his cravat neat, his heels polished. Unremarkable, really, aside from the obvious fastidiousness.

“First,” James said curtly, “you should know that you will never hear a word about Franklin’s business from me. Ever. Neither will Desjardins, so both of you will have to find another woman to torment and bully.”

Leaning back, Simon crossed his arms and bit back a smile. “I see.”

“No, you do not,” James muttered, scowling. “But you will.”

“Good God!” Simon grinned. “Another threat. I must be doing something correctly.”

“You may find this amusing, Mr. Quinn, however—”

“I have to find some humor in this,” Simon interjected, his smile fading. “I have a great deal at risk, more than I believe I could bear to lose.”

James’s gaze narrowed considerably.

“I hope you are circumspect in your association with Madame Marchant,” Simon said.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” James corrected, “or whatever in hell her surname truly is. And I am always circumspect, Mr. Quinn. I know everything about her, as little as she can share. Every sordid, heartbreaking detail. I cannot condone the many wrongs she has done, but I can collect the necessity of some of it and the feelings of helplessness and melancholy that inspired the rest.”

James lifted his chin. “But do not mistake my sympathy for weakness. I am not the sort of man who loses his head over a woman. Regardless of my affection for her, you will not find my emotions altering my ability to react to jeopardy and subterfuge.”

“Admirable.”

“She claims you hope to extricate her from this morass.”

Simon nodded. “I do.”

“I am here to assist you.”

There was a slight rapping on the open door. Simon glanced up and saw Eddington eyeing James with an assessing glance.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the earl greeted, entering with a decided flourish.

James stood. Simon remained seated, although he did make the necessary introductions.

“Forgive my intrusion. I am off to the tailor’s this morn,” his lordship drawled, fluffing his jabot with a careless, bejeweled hand. “I saw a waistcoat yesterday that was nothing short of divine and knew I must have it immediately. Would either of you care to join me?”

“No, my lord,” Simon said, biting back a smile.

“No, thank you, my lord,” James said, scowling.

“Pity that,” Eddington said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye and studying James from head to toe. “Ah well. Good day, gentlemen.”

There was a brief silence after his lordship had departed, then James muttered, “I imagine that foppish guise fools most.”

“Most, yes.” Simon stared out the empty doorway, thinking.

“Why do you have that look on your face?”

Simon’s gaze moved back to James. “What look?”

“As if you have discovered something new.”

“I was simply thinking that appearances can be deceiving. It is something we could use to our advantage, considering we have two women who are identical to one another.”

“Mademoiselle Rousseau is too ill.”

“I know.” Simon’s fingers drummed atop the papers on his desk. “But very few of us know that. You, me, Desjardins . . . That is all.”

“You did not inform her family?”

“No. Someone wanted her dead and has yet to learn that she is alive due to Desjardins’s hiding of her. Perhaps it is time to relieve L’Esprit of his misconception.”

“She had a dream. Last night.” James crossed his arms. “We’ve no notion of whether it is simply a figment of her mind or an actual recollection that is incomplete.”

“Anything at all, at this point, would be an improvement over what we have.”

“I agree. She witnessed a man abusing a maid for failing to intercept all of the vicomtess’s outgoing posts.”

“Did she recognize him?”

“No. Unfortunately, she saw him only from behind. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered . . . Could be anyone.”

“But there is one man we know of who enjoys wounding women,” Simon pointed out.

“Depardue.” The sharp edge to James’s voice betrayed a wealth of ill-will.

“Exactly. And I have suspected that—”

Another rap to the door silenced Simon and he met his butler’s gaze.

“Another caller, sir,” the servant said.

Simon accepted the card handed to him on a silver salver and read it, then glanced at James. “Prepare yourself, James,” he said.

James nodded, his posture altering to one more rigid.

“Inform his lordship that I have a visitor,” Simon said, standing, “but he is welcome to join us.”

A few moments later, a tall and comely man entered the room. Dressed modestly but elegantly in rich green velvet, the dark-haired man who approached Simon’s desk unwittingly confirmed a few of Simon’s suspicions. Curious as to whether the astute James would also latch on, Simon looked forward to the coming introductions.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Simon said.

“Mr. Quinn.”

“My lord, may I present Mr. Edward James to you? He is acquainted with your daughter, Lysette. Mr. James, this is the Vicomte de Grenier.”