Page 12 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Emilie was watching Lucien polish the engraved silver barrel of a duelling pistol. She had been sat on the other side of his desk for nearly an hour with hardly a word from the Comte. But she was not here for conversation.

She was required to be here in payment for her walking Lutin that morning. It did not matter that the Comte had been otherwise engaged, only that she had not been ready and waiting for his summons when he sent for her. Her plans, her needs, her desires—they did not figure in Vergelles’ mind, let alone his schemes.

As far as he was concerned, he paid for her undivided attention, and she had not given it. Therefore, she would pay the time back now, sitting here with him, responding when spoken to, and aside from that, maintaining silence, watching him attend to his deadly instruments.

She wondered, briefly, if he was doing this activity in front of her on purpose. The guns had looked freshly cleaned and oiled when he’d taken them out of their case. But the way he caressed those pistols, and the heavy stares he threw her way between polishes, were as good as telling her that within his hand resided the power—not hers.

Her mind flitted to Lutin who she’d left at her residence. The Comte did not allow the stray into his H?tel, and she felt the loss of her petite companion acutely.

“Am I boring you?”

Vergelles’ tone had a distinct edge to it and Emilie realised she’d glanced at the door during her ruminations on Lutin.

“Oh, non,” she said in her best soothing voice. “I was merely wondering when Dartois would arrive. You are expecting him, are you not?”

She thought she’d done well to cover her slip up, but when she threw Lucien a winning smile, she saw no return on his lips or in his eyes.

He merely stared back at her for half a minute before he resumed polishing his second pistol.

“They are a pretty pair—are they by Le Page?” Emilie asked in the hopes of distracting him.

The Comte ignored her words, continuing his own line of thought. “I have not become bored, though I have waited these last several weeks for your answer—not a trifling half-hour while you polished a pistol.”

The barbed words were aimed to draw blood, but Emilie did not flinch. She smiled again, her lips curving up more to the right and her best attempt at a twinkle in her eyes.

“Will you not allow the weaker sex their contrariness?” She reached forward to where his left hand rested on the desk, polishing cloth in his grasp, and traced a single finger over the back of it, pouting her lips. “I am not of strong mind like you, and I wish to be allowed to grow used to the idea of being… only yours.”

“You are no one else’s.”

“Of course not.”

Emilie was no one’s. No man’s. No family’s. There was no one in the world to whom she was a priority. Even to this Comte she was not a priority. She was a prize.

“You would do well to remember it. Your friend Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette would be the better for it as well.”

Emilie stiffened.

“I thought that would get your attention.”

She played for time. “What has the famed actress to do with me?”

“I have it on good authority from Monsieur Claude that she is a close friend of yours. Surely you do not wish for her career to be cut short—just as I ensured yours was?”

An icy wave of shock swept through Emilie’s body. She had known her days walking the boards were numbered, and when they had ended abruptly a short time ago, she had accepted her fate.

Now though, she realised the Comte’s hand had been in it.

“Perhaps you will consider my offer more seriously now.”

Emilie resisted the urge to lunge across the table and strike him.

The idea of becoming any man’s mistress repelled her. When the Comte de Vergelles had started showering her with gifts, she had never had any intention of acquiescing to his proposal.

But neither was she foolish enough to spurn the attentions of so powerful a man.

She had thought her delay in agreeing to his offer had gone unnoticed.

She was wrong.

In his impatience he’d engineered her dismissal, removing the stability of her theatre wages and forcing her to rely on his handouts to pay for her apartments and food. Now that he realised that coercion was not proving enough, he was threatening her friends.

What a fool she was.

“Ah, do I interrupt a lovers’ tête-à-tête?” Dartois said from the doorway, making a leg and bestowing a dazzling smile on the room’s two occupants.

“No,” the Comte replied, and Emilie realised how very accurate that answer was.

“Good.” Dartois entered the room and moved to the sideboard to pour drinks.

The tension in Emilie’s frame increased as the Comte’s revelations whirled in her mind.

“Not for Mademoiselle Cadeaux.” The Comte raised a hand to stop Dartois pouring a third glass. “She will excuse us while we discuss business.”

Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, Emilie rose at the summary dismissal. “Of course.”

“Always a shame to be deprived of your company, fair Mademoiselle. Did you tell Monsieur le Comte of our encounter with our new English friend on the Champs-élysées?”

Her tension grew unbearable. She had no doubt Vergelles’ possessiveness earlier would be exacerbated by news of her encounter with the English Duke.

“I’ve invited him to the Café Procope on Thursday week, Lucien. I trust you’ll be amenable to our enlarged party?”

The Comte ignored Dartois’ question, hard eyes darting to Emilie. “He takes an interest in you?”

“Her little scoundrel of a dog does,” Dartois answered, seemingly oblivious to the tension rolling off his friend and directed at her. “He has no loyalty, running off to make friends with an Englishman while he tries to maim me—ought I to be offended, Mademoiselle?”

Emilie shrugged, looking as nonchalantly as she could into Dartois’ eyes, which gleamed back at her.

“He would be better returning to his own country,” hissed the Comte.

And leaving Emilie well alone—that was what he meant.

If the arrogant Duke paid attention to her warnings, she expected the Comte would receive his desire.

“I will leave you gentlemen to your discussions.”

“Bien.” The Comte’s eyes were back on the pistols in his hand and the polishing cloth working across the barrel again.

She curtseyed to Dartois, who dropped a kiss on the back of her hand, and left the room.

As soon as she was in the hall she leant against the wall beside the door, finally feeling able to breathe again. After a moment, she looked around for a footman to fetch her cloak and hat and was about to move to the bell rope when a snatch of conversation caught her attention from the door she’d failed to properly close.

“Tremaine has agreed to attend the Café next week…”

She pressed back tightly against the wall, cocking her head to listen.

“Is his access worth the risk?”

“It isn’t just access,” Dartois said, his accents far more languid and playful than his counterpart. “His need for capital is a little… too easy—but that does not preclude the errant Duke from being useful to us.”

“Useful? The man’s a fool.”

“Fools have their uses.” Dartois yawned loudly, and Emilie wondered exactly what affect this action had on the Comte. She could imagine the look of displeasure.

“Very well.”

That was surprising. She hadn’t heard the Comte give up so easily before… or ever.

“We can always do with more friends, don’t you think?” Dartois asked. “Though, even friends must be tested to find if they are worthy of our trust.”

At that moment a door down the hall opened and Emilie almost yelped in surprise. She flattened her back to the wall, narrowly missing a sconce. The servant was carrying a basket of coal, preparing the fires for the evening, and headed across the hall to the drawing room.

Emilie didn’t move a muscle.

The servant entered the drawing room and shut the door behind them, unaware that they had been observed.

She thanked God.

Glancing at the study door beside her, she considered her options. Should she quit the Comte’s residence now or risk a little longer?

She had warned the Duke of Tremaine off the Comte’s acquaintance. She didn’t owe him anything more. She hadn’t even owed him that. But she had seen the Comte’s temper and had heard the rumours that his wealth stemmed from illicit sources. It was not her business. The Comte had made that clear. A woman, for him, was for pleasure. Not brain, nor sense, nor companionship.

So Emilie never asked Lucien about the origin of his wealth. But his fortune was vast enough for him to have risen from the middling ranks of society upwards until he could purchase a title and establish himself in the French ton.

Outwardly he appeared to have taken advantage of the trade between his home country and England, playing the levies of the English government for his gain, but he’d seen far more success than others. It so far exceeded them that questions had been asked and continued to swirl around the Comte de Vergelles.

The last man who’d been foolish enough to mention his lack of breeding had been faced with one of those duelling pistols the Comte had been polishing this afternoon.

The English Duke had no idea who he was dealing with—but Emilie did. She was already tangled in the Comte’s web and she did not wish for anyone else to be ensnared. She remained where she was.

“Tell me how you intend to test our new friend,” said the Comte, “but first, shut that cursed door, will you? The chit left it open and there’s a draft about my ankles.”

Cold dread flooded Emilie’s chest. She darted across the hall, padding on the balls of her feet, hoping to make it to the drawing room door before she was seen. She could hide in there under the pretence of fetching the servant to get her cloak and hat.

Just before she made it, a prickling sensation ran down her spine, from her hairline to her lower back.

With icy dread, she halted, and turning silently, she saw Dartois standing in the half-open door. His body blocked her from the Comte’s sight, and he was watching her with a half-smile on his full mouth and a gleam in his eyes.

“Has she gone home?” asked Dartois, keeping his eyes on hers.

She could swear her heartbeat was audible. Breath came fast and shallow and she wondered if she might faint.

Dartois’ mouth curved and then he pouted his lips in a kissing motion at her.

“I neither know nor care,” the Comte hissed. “She tires me with her failure to accept my offer. Forget her—tell me your plan for Tremaine.”

The Marquis finally drew the door to a close, all the while watching Emilie, clicking it shut and leaving her frozen in her place.