Page 16 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Avers had felt guilty on leaving Madame Pertuis’ musical salon. The Comte had clearly been displeased with the Englishman speaking with his mistress. Yet again, he’d become distracted by the intriguing Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and his focus on Wakeford’s mission had wavered.

Thankfully, the incident did not affect the invitation Dartois had issued on the Champs-élysées. Avers received a missive reminding him of the appointment and its location shortly before it was due to take place and thus, ten days after the Austrian master’s performance at the salon, he was journeying to the Café Procope.

The establishment was just as he had left it over a week since, filled with pipe smoke, humming with conversation and warm with the candlelight that supplemented the daylight in the areas towards the back. The mirrors which lined the walls reflected the patrons, giving a false sense of the crowds, creating an atmosphere teeming with energy.

Avers walked through the melee towards where he could see the Comte, Dartois and two men he recognised from last time, sitting at the same table they had occupied before. Snippets of conversation found him on his way. One table discussed taxes, another the price of bread, another the King’s latest rulings, and yet another the Queen’s latest whim of living like a peasant.

It was a political and philosophical melting pot. One argued this way and the other opposed. It was the atmosphere Avers had expected to find at Madame Pertuis’ salon on his first attendance. True, there had been discussions, but none like the zealous debate currently taking place at the Procope where untitled voices engaged with the nobility at equal volume and authority.Rolling his shoulders back as he approached the Comte’s table, Avers took a deep breath, wrapping the facade of the Duke of Tremaine around himself.

“Bonjour mes amis.” Avers made a leg and bowed low to the gentlemen. As he rose, he observed there was no spare chair for him.

No man at the table made a move to rectify the matter.

“Bonjour,” said the Comte without deigning to look at the newcomer.

The others in the party followed suit and as they greeted Avers, Dartois signalled the waiter, murmuring something in the server’s ear.

The man soon returned with a pewter platter bearing a tankard brimming with liquid.

Dartois grinned. “I thought you would be happier with your country’s drink—warm beer for Your Grace.”

Something in the Marquis’ eyes made Avers suspect the gesture was mocking. He looked at the table, scattered with open bottles of wine and half-drunk glasses, and back at the lack of chair.

“I think, today, I am in the mood for your country’s brandy.” He turned to the waiter and ordered the said drink along with a pot of coffee. He also requested a chair be brought and implied a fair tip should this be done with all speed.

The server nodded vigorously and hurried off. In less than a minute Avers was presented with a chair which he took in exchange for a silver coin.

“It seems nonsensical,” he said, taking his chair, “to sit in a coffee house without the title drink.”

“As you say.” The Comte’s countenance was as implacable as ever and still he would not do Avers the courtesy of looking at him. Instead he was now examining his nails.

“Our English friend is determined to appear the rebel,” Dartois said, smiling in that disarming way of his, a gleam in his eye. The Marquis was as warm as the Comte appeared cold. “Very sensible, and that is just the sort of man we should wish to do business with, is it not Vergelles?”

The Comte neither answered nor nodded.

“Speaking of which, would you be so kind as to expand on the opportunity of which you spoke?” Avers spread his arm wide, still attempting to catch the Comte’s eye.

How was he to find out the truth about the man’s leadership in this spy ring if he continued to evade him? No wonder Wakeford’s men had struggled to find the evidence they needed.

“Our English friend is keen, n’est pas?” Dartois chuckled. “Did I not tell you Vergelles?”

“He certainly seemed so when speaking to Mademoiselle Cadeaux at the salon last week,” said the Comte, apparently fascinated by the embroidery on his right cuff.

Ah, so that was it. The Comte was peeved at Avers’ attention to Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He would have to smooth things over.

The Comte’s pale eyes flicked up to lock their gaze with Avers. “She said you asked about me.”

Cold fear rose up and began to wrap its fingers around his chest. All thoughts of Wakeford’s mission disappeared as he realised with dread the position he had put Mademoiselle Cadeaux in. There was no way she had offered that information to the Comte willingly.

He shrugged, the action less casual than he had meant it to be, the tension failing to leave his body. He was just constructing a suitable answer to the Comte which might alleviate the pressure of the situation when the server returned with Avers’ glass of brandy and pot of coffee.

The wiry man placed them before him and then began to clear some of the empty bottles from the table. As he leant across for the second such bottle, the servant inadvertently caught the Comte’s shoulder, nudging the man forward.

“Pardon.”

“Cursed dog!” Vergelles snarled, ignoring the apology and slamming the glass of wine he had nearly spilled onto the table. Drops of blood-red liquid sloshed over its rim, trickling down the stem and leaching into the linens.

The Comte ignored the mess, turning quickly and clipping the unfortunate servant around the ears. He swore again, and the poor server visibly shrunk before him, one hand clutching an empty bottle, the other reaching up to his forelock to tug it and bow away from the table in abject apology.

Avers said nothing, masking the distaste that was begging to be shown on his face, and relieved when the servant scurried away before further mistreatment. He had always believed you could tell a lot about a man from the way he treated his servants. What the Comte had just shown him was revealing indeed, and Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s warnings came loudly to the front of Avers’ mind.

He focused on pouring out his coffee. While he might drink alongside these men so as not to arouse suspicion, he would temper it with coffee to stay as clear-headed as possible.

“You teased me with an investment opportunity,” said Avers, breaking the awkward silence that had descended on the table. The one good thing about that interruption was that it had taken the Comte’s attention away from Mademoiselle Cadeaux. Avers intended to keep it that way.

“I would be very much obliged if you would satisfy my curiosity on the subject. Or are we to keep sharing superficial conversation? If you have nothing for me, I have an opportunity to game this afternoon which I may still take up if I leave now. This political hotbed is not exactly my scene.”

He motioned at the animated debates surrounding them, and as if on cue, an argument broke out at an adjacent table and a pot of coffee was knocked over when the opponents began gesturing angrily at one another.

The Comte, who had pulled out a lace handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the non-existent spilled wine from his hands, finished dabbing his long white fingers and carefully polished nails. He then looked up at his guest and raised a single brow.

“You do not care for politics—even after your recent appointment?”

Avers felt the coolness of that gaze. “Hardly.”

“Bien.” The Comte reached for his glass, taking a sip and maintaining the impassive expression on his chiselled face. “The cunning man makes money from politics—he does not get involved in them.”

“Spoken like a man who knows his business,” said Avers. “I have not been lured here for no account then?”

“Lured?” Dartois shot him a penetrating look, a half-smile on his face. “You make us sound positively… criminal.”

Avers took refuge in a long sip of hot coffee, unsure of the best response, finally settling on one as he replaced the cup on the table. “That’s hardly my business, is it?”

Dartois chuckled. “Touché.”

“Are we to bandy words or do business?” Avers pressed his fingernails into the palm of his right hand in an effort to keep his nerve.

“Patience,” the Comte snapped. “We do not go into business with just anyone.” Then he fell silent, and it appeared as though he didn’t intend to say anything further.

Another awkward silence descended upon the table, the antithesis to the room around them, until finally the Comte spoke again.

“However, Dartois believes our business may suit you.”

“Oh yes? And what business is that?”

He was already halfway through his coffee and soon only the brandy would be left to drink. He eyed the bulbous glass.

Dartois gestured to the undrunk beverage. “It’s good.”

Avers glanced up to see the fair-haired gentleman watching him, and realised just how sharp Dartois was.

“Marcel stocks an excellent cellar. Ever since we bade him to—isn’t that right, Lucien?”

The Comte inclined his head, a small sneer curving his lips, allowing just the tips of his teeth to show.

Dartois leaned in towards Avers and smiled as if sharing a joke. “We were most persuasive.” The Marquis’ eyes caught the light of the candles behind Avers’ shoulder and glittered disconcertingly. There was something unreadable in them— calculating—and it made Avers feel as though he were some deer wandering into a snare. Perhaps Mademoiselle Cadeaux was right.

Despite his misgivings, Avers pressed on for Wakeford’s sake. “The business?”

The Comte made a signal and the majority of the table rose. Avers cocked his head, raising a single brow in enquiry as the rest of the party reseated themselves at a distance, leaving Vergelles, Dartois and him with an empty table between them and the rest of the bustling café.

“Before we go on,” the Comte said, leaning forward just a little, his face a tightly schooled mask of impassivity, “I must state one thing categorically. Mademoiselle Cadeaux is mine.” His voice was hard as flint. “I have seen you singling her out, and I will give you a courtesy that few receive—I will warn you this once not to touch her.”

Avers was fairly certain that the Comte was not speaking aloud the rest of his thoughts which were definitely along the lines of ‘or I will…’ and ending in something violent. His mind once again ran over all the possibilities of what had happened after Madame Pertuis’ last salon. How long had it been since he’d seen Mademoiselle Cadeaux last—ten days? The apprehension grew in his stomach.

“Singled her out?” Avers played for time as he constructed the most placating answer he could think of. “That was not my intention. I must offer my sincerest apologies if that is how it appeared. I, of course, recognise her… relationship to you. Truth be told I was in love with a female in Italy recently and it did not end well. I have no intention of foraying into those waters again any time soon.”

But neither had he intended any ill-consequences to befall Mademoiselle Cadeaux as a result of his actions.

“I heard you were lately in Greece,” said the Comte, a query in his tone.

Dartois grinned, as if this were all some game and there wasn’t a seriousness to what was going on. “And yet our English Duke speaks of Italy, a cock pit and now tales of this Italian woman of his. You get around, Your Grace.”

Avers winced inwardly at the wound Dartois had pressed. Miss Curshaw was certainly not Avers’ woman and not in Italy. She had not been his woman when he’d left London and she was even less so now. When he thought about it, he no longer felt the acute pain of her betrayal—but rather a general sadness about what had occurred.

No. Miss Curshaw was not Avers’ woman. And this was the first time he could say with absolute certainty, he no longer wished her to be.

“That is true.” Avers pulled his thoughts back to the Marquis’ words. They appeared to know a lot about him. “I had been in the Mediterranean for some years before my recent return.”

“And why did you return? I heard you were a fully fledged scholar living out your dreams among the ruins of the ancients.”

“You seem well-versed in my history.”

“You are interested in the Greeks. I am interested in my potential business partners,” replied the Comte without emotion.

“My father died.”

“And the prodigal son returned even though Society expected him to live out the rest of his days overseas. The servants in your household hadn’t seen you for five years at least.”

“I see I have a spy in my servants’ hall. If you would be so good as to tell me which one you paid off, I will have them out on their ears without a reference this afternoon.”

“A little compassion.” Dartois chuckled. “They could hardly turn down five sous.”

Even the Comte was smiling now, as though they were both winning the unspoken game they were all playing.

“Well, it’s hardly a secret,” Avers said with a shrug, making a mental note to be even more discreet while in the Tremaine residence. “I had a penchant for the classic civilisations, but it waned, and upon hearing of my father’s death I came home to take up my inheritance. My uncle, however, after hearing of my lifestyle on the Continent and seeing the damage I’ve done to the family coffers, decided he needed to protect what remains of the estate from me until I can be trusted with the responsibility. He packed me off to Paris under the beady eyes of my dull cousin. Now here I am.”

Avers expounded his fake history in pragmatic tones, making no effort to substantiate the facts. If he wanted to be believed he should not try to justify himself.

“I take exception to your rooting around for information on me in such a fashion.”

“I only repay you in kind. Mademoiselle Cadeaux told me you did the—how did you say it?—rooting around—on me.”

Avers’ stomach tightened.

The Comte drew his mother-of-pearl snuffbox from his pocket and flicked open the lid with a well-practised finger.

“She assures me she said nothing.” He took a pinch up each nostril. “But women—they do run on…” There was an underlying menace in the Comte’s voice that triggered a sick feeling in Avers’ stomach.

Why had Mademoiselle Cadeaux had to assure the Comte? And what had the Comte done to gain those assurances? If Vergelles’ temper was short enough that he would hit a servant in public for merely nudging his shoulder, what would he do to a mistress who betrayed his confidence behind closed doors?

“I grow weary of this cat and mouse game,” Avers said, emitting a theatrical huff as he decided to change tack. “Either you have business for me or you don’t.”

The Comte sat very still. His pale eyes were hard upon Avers as he snapped his snuffbox shut.

“Come, Vergelles. I think it is time we let our English friend in on our little enterprise,” Dartois drawled, taking a long draught of wine immediately afterwards.

“Very well,” said the Comte. “Our business is a lucrative one. There is much money to be made when demand is high and our governments bicker just as much as the men in here.”

‘“Demand?” Avers asked, sipping slowly at the brandy.

The Comte gestured with the snuffbox still in his hand at Avers’ glass. “You drink one of the items.”

Avers leant back to stare at his half-drunk glass. Brandy? What had that to do with stolen papers?

“Ever since the French government started financing your colonial rebels in the Americas through Caron de Beaumarchais’ business, your English ministers have been raising taxes on French goods in retaliation. I hardly think it makes a difference to either side.” The Comte waved one pale hand in the air to indicate how beneath him all this political manoeuvring was. “But to the men in the middle—there is money to be made.”

Smuggling. That is what the Comte meant. The smuggling of French goods to England and selling them illegally. It avoided taxes and made a tidy profit.

Even the most respectable English households were not immune to a bargain on tea, lace, or brandy. What did it matter to them if the Crown got their cut or not? And it was far lighter a rebellion than the people of Boston throwing their tea in the harbour in protest against the Crown—there was no sense in that—it was a waste of good tea.

If a man held no scruples about upholding the law, then the Comte’s investment in smuggling activities was indeed a good one. But that did not explain the missing papers.

Avers expressed no shock at the revelations. “It sounds like a profitable venture. “What is it you want from me?” He looked down at the nails on his left hand and flicked an imaginary piece of dust from one finger. “Capital for one of these ventures?”

“There are other commodities, in a time of international feuding, that increase in value.”

The Comte was being elusive again and Avers was becoming impatient. Either the man trusted him—or he didn’t. To move back and forth on the subject of Avers’ veracity was not only fatiguing, but a waste of time.

“Cloth? Silk?”

The Comte chuckled, looking to Dartois who joined in with a smile, and then back at Avers as though he were some foolish child.

“It is not just the physical that holds value at times like these.”

Now they were getting to it. Avers fought the urge to lean forward in his chair. He furrowed his brows as if trying to work out what the Comte was implying. He tossed off the last of his brandy in an effort to appear reckless. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me now.”

Just then, a gentleman came to the table, moving to Dartois’ side and bending to murmur something in his ear.

Avers could only make out a few words. “... Sebastien… our friends…”

While he listened to the message from the newcomer, the Marquis’ gaze did not falter from Avers’ own. He stared at him, eyes sharp and gleaming, making the hairs on the back of Avers’ neck rise.

“Pardon,” said Dartois to the table, rising and walking to the back of the café with the gentleman to continue their conversation out of earshot.

Without the Marquis, it appeared as though the Comte was unwilling to continue. He sat in silence, not attempting small talk, only every now and then sipping from his glass between sweeps of the rest of the café with his hard eyes.

“Pardon,” said Dartois, finally coming back to the table as the man he was speaking to left the establishment. “Good news, Vergelles. Our friends have arrived in Paris.”

“Bien.”

Neither gentleman explained of what they spoke and Avers chose to let the incident pass by without comment.

Dartois slipped back into his seat, taking up his glass again and smiling as though this were any social engagement.

“Well, have you asked him, Vergelles?”

“Not yet. I thought it best to wait for you. As I was saying, there are non-physical commodities which have value in times such as these. There are a great number of ways for money to be made. There is opportunity if only we look at the positions we are in and what may be taken advantage of.”

Avers bit back his frustration that the conversation was growing vague again and the Comte was resuming his condescending tone. “So, is it an investment you’re looking for? If so, I can send you a draft on my bank and be done with it.”

“He is eager, non?” Dartois asked the Comte, as though Avers were not present. “Patience, Your Grace. Vergelles is just being careful. We must be wise when it comes to our business and those whom we choose to befriend.”

“Naturally,” replied Avers.

“You are, of course, welcome to invest in our little enterprise, but we have another business you may be interested in—one that is best discussed outside of Paris. Lucien, I think we may invite our new friend to the hunting lodge.”

“As you wish,” Vergelles replied, looking as displeased as Dartois was jovial.

The Marquis leant across the table, a generous smile upon his fair face, and no hint of concern at the recent chatter about illegal trade. “You are invited to spend next weekend at my hunting lodge near Versailles. We’ll be comfortable there and may discuss our little business opportunity more freely.”

Avers’ heartbeat quickened. An invitation to the inner sanctum. This was too good an offer to pass up and yet Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s warning came to the forefront of his mind. He’d felt uneasy the moment he had sat at this table alone with the Comte and Dartois. Yet, if this was the opportunity to find proof of the group’s stealing of Wakeford’s papers, he had to take it.

“I’d be delighted.”

The party broke up soon after. Dartois bade Avers a friendly farewell, assuring him of how much he looked forward to the following weekend, but the Comte was as cold as ever. The French noble offered the barest of farewells before leaving the café abruptly.

As Avers stepped out of the establishment, he felt one step closer to uncovering the truth… and one step closer to danger.