Don't Tempt Me (Georgian #4)

Marguerite rose from her seat, expending great effort to ignore how the knot in her stomach tightened upon seeing him. “My lord.”

“I came as swiftly as possible,” he said, striding up to her and collecting her hands in his.

“I am grateful.”

“I went to Desjardins first, to see what he knew.”

She gestured for him to sit and he did, choosing to share the small settee with her.

“Was he forthcoming?” she asked.

“He was startled by my involvement, then wary. I believe it was only desperation that led him to speak openly.”

Her fingers tangled together in her lap and her breath caught. “Desperation?”

De Grenier exhaled and the sound conveyed such finality, she felt ill. “I have always thought of Desjardins as immovable as a mountain, despite his youth. There are very few people who I would believe above any form of coercion and he is one of them.”

“Coercion?” she repeated, the word sticking to the roof of her dry mouth.

“Yes.” He paused. “Marguerite . . .”

“Just tell me, damn you!”

“There is some speculation that a cache of missing and important documents is being held by Saint-Martin in this house.”

“Where?”

“I do not know. Desjardins is not even certain the tale is true. He only knows that he has been receiving threats the last three months, all promising harm to Saint-Martin and you, if what the fiend desires is not returned.”

Confused, her gaze moved around the room as if she could find the needed papers. “We have been so wrong.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Saint-Martin believed that I was distracting him from his duties to the secret du roi and that is what the grievance was. Neither of us understood how a mistress could signify, but we were unable to conceive of what else it could be.”

“You were unable to conceive of it,” the vicomte said gently. “Saint-Martin was aware that he had possession of something valuable; he simply did not share the information with you.”

Marguerite heard the note of smugness in de Grenier’s words and knew he hoped to incite a rift. Such machinations were wasted on her, however. She was a practical woman. She did not find it odd or secretive for Philippe to withhold information about his covert activities from her. There was nothing she could do with such knowledge besides worry unduly about things she had no power over.

“So what can I do?” she asked. “Who is this person who needs these documents and what hold does he have over Desjardins?”

“I do not know.” The vicomte leaned forward. “I only know that you cannot remain here, Marguerite.”

“Of course not. If they want something in this house, they must have it. We cannot risk Saint-Martin’s life.”

“They also want you.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Whoever this individual is, they carry great enmity toward Saint-Martin. They want him to lose everything he holds dear, including you. Desjardins is deeply disturbed by the brutality of the attack today. He fears that the next step will be the loss of Saint-Martin’s life, despite having been told that death would be too merciful an end.”

Pushing to her feet, Marguerite wept openly. “Did he share any of this information with Philippe? Or did Desjardins allow him to remain ignorant of these threats?”

De Grenier rose. “I do not know, nor do I care. My concern is only for you. You are innocent in this, yet your life has been compromised by association.”

“My life is with Philippe.”

“And when he is dead?” the vicomte spat out, his large frame tense with frustration. “What then?”

“Are you suggesting that my removal from Philippe’s life will spare him?”

“It might. Desjardins believes that he can use your departure to soothe this man he called L’Esprit. It will give him an opportunity to locate the papers and perhaps end this.”

“L’Esprit . . .” Turning, Marguerite rushed from the parlor and crossed to the dining room, where the note from earlier waited. She reread the cryptic words and felt ill. Her hand fell to her side, the paper crinkling within her tense grip.

Large hands settled atop her shoulders and squeezed gently. “Allow me to help you.”

“You already have and I thank you.” She faced him. “I cannot afford to be any further in your debt.”

His handsome features softened and he cupped her cheek. “You do not have the means to extricate yourself on your own.”

“I have some jewelry . . .”

“Mon Dieu!” he scoffed. “You cannot survive indefinitely on so little.”

“No,” she agreed, “but there is enough to sustain me until Saint-Martin is well and the documents are dealt with.”

“If he survives the night, it will be only because of the grace of God.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her dizzy and weary. She clung to the back of the chair, but de Grenier caught her arm and forced her to sit.

“You are not well,” he said.

“I must rest. Certainly you can imagine how taxing this afternoon has been.”

The vicomte appeared prepared to argue, then he bowed. “My previous offer still stands.”

He moved to take a seat beside her. He caught up her hand, which lay motionless on the table surface. She looked into his eyes and saw compassion.

“I cannot discuss this now.” It made her sick to think of it. Life without Philippe? Life spent with another man? The thought was inconceivable to her.

And then her day, already unbearably agonizing, worsened.

An urgent knocking came to the open door. Marguerite turned in her chair to see Celie ringing her hands in her apron. “Mademoiselle, a word, please.”

Marguerite stepped out to the hallway and found the servants scrambling. Fear froze the blood in her veins, making her shiver. “What is it? What has happened?”

Celie’s pale eyes were reddened, as was her upturned nose. “Cook made stew for the servants from the scraps. I was late—”

With her nerves stretched to the limit, Marguerite had no patience for nonsense. She grabbed Celie by the arms and shook her. “What happened? Has he passed?”

“They all passed!” the maid screamed. “Cook . . . the footmen. . . They’re all dead! All of them . . .”

De Grenier burst from the dining room in a full run, skidding momentarily across the marble floor before finding purchase and heading toward the rear of the house. Marguerite followed despite Celie’s pleas, her heart racing so violently she feared it might burst. The vicomte entered the kitchen a few strides ahead of her. He cursed, then spun around quickly, catching her in his arms and dragging her back.

“Poison,” he said grimly with his lips to her ear.

The ground fell away beneath her feet and she was swallowed by the inky darkness of unconsciousness.

Chapter 1

Paris, France—1780

He was the sort of man who could enslave a woman with a single glance.

A glance such as the one he was presently giving to her.

Lynette Baillon watched the notorious Simon Quinn with similar shamelessness, admiring the raven blackness of his hair and the brilliant blue of his eyes.

Quinn lounged against a fluted column in the Baroness Orlinda’s ballroom, his arms crossing his broad chest and one ankle hooked carelessly over the other. He looked both leisurely and alert, a dichotomy she had noted the first time she saw him riding through the moonlit Parisian streets. Tonight he was dressed in somber shades of dark blue and gray, a combination that created an understated elegance she found extremely appealing. Amid the flagrantly sensual theme of the intimate gathering—candles scented of exotic spices, chaises cleverly hidden by a faux forest, and servants dressed in revealing costume—he was austerely attractive. His quiet intensity was far more alluring than the deportment of those who cavorted in blatant rut.

For her part, she was dressed in white for effect, her skirts accented with rich cream-colored bows and silver thread. Combined with her pale skin and hair and the dark ruby red of her half-mask, the ensemble drew all eyes toward her.

Drew his eyes toward her.

They had never been introduced. She’d learned his name by eavesdropping on surrounding conversations, listening with avid interest to whispered tales of his wickedness and common origins. He stood on the fringes, alone. Coveted by the women and shunned by the men for the exact same reasons—he had only his reputed expertise as a lover to recommend him and no title, property, or moral compass to redeem him. The widowed baroness enjoyed shocking Society, which explained his presence. He was a novelty and appeared to be comfortable in that role, but Lynette felt a strong pull to join him, to stand beside him, to enter the solitary enclosure he occupied.

Quinn was a tall man, and a big one. His jaw was strong, his nose a blade. Boldly winged brows gave him a hint of arrogance, while long, thick lashes added a touch of softness. To her mind, however, the most alluring part of his rugged handsomeness was his mouth. The lips were perfect, neither too full nor too thin, and when they curved in a smile—as they were doing now—they were irresistible. She wanted to lick them, nibble on them, feel them move across her bare skin.

“Between you and your sister,” her mother had once said, “you are most like me. Your passions run high, your blood hot. Pray you do not succumb to it.”

Her blood felt hot now. Her chest rose and fell rapidly in response to his stare. Her heart raced. That a stranger could incite such a response in her despite the crowd that surrounded them and the distance separating them only exacerbated her reaction.

Then he straightened abruptly and approached with a predator’s easy, yet determined gait. His long legs ate up the space between them, his pathway direct and unconcerned with those who were forced to move out of his way. She inhaled sharply, her palms dampening within her gloves.

When he reached her, her head tilted back to allow her to gaze upon his face and fully appreciate its savage beauty. She breathed him in, becoming intoxicated by the combination of tobacco and musk. The primitive scent was delicious and she fought the insane urge to rise to her tiptoes and press her nose into his throat.