Page 18 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)
Avers landed another blow on the defenceless dummy. The silent figure jolted backwards. Shaking off the dull ache in his striking hand, he bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, sizing up his mute opponent. He delivered another blow, then another and another.
With each strike, the overwhelming fury he felt towards the Comte de Vergelles poured out and abated… for a moment… until the next strike, and the next.
Beads of perspiration ran from Avers’ hairline, down his temples, and onto his neck. He wiped a bandaged hand across his brow. The boxing club on the rue de Grenelle, opposite the Fontaine des Quatre-Saisons—the monumental fountain in Faubourg Saint-Germaine—was neutral ground on which to meet Wakeford.
Avers had decided to make the most of his time while waiting for his friend and it also happened to be easing his temper. Stripped of his jacket and waistcoat, his linen shirt hung open at his neck, and his stockinged feet were bare of shoes. He padded silently back and forth on the wooden floor.
The vision of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s blistered hand came back into Avers’ mind and he struck out at the dummy in the next moment with more force than he intended. Pain ricocheted up his arm. He inhaled sharply, snatching his hand away from the padded figure, and turned to walk it off.
Stupid! That was what he had been in hitting the dummy so hard. And stupid is what he’d been, in putting Mademoiselle Cadeaux in harm’s way. The anger Avers felt at the Comte was only matched by the anger he felt towards himself. He had initially believed Mademoiselle Cadeaux was complicit in the Comte’s business dealings. Then he’d seen her real character come to the fore. But he’d never appreciated the position she was in. Hadn’t she said that to him—that he could have no concept of her position in Society?
Now, thanks to Avers, her position with her malevolent master was precarious. The sooner they could stop the Comte and his associates, the better.
“Avers?”
He turned and saw Wakeford entering the deserted sparring hall. His friend’s face was unusually pale.
“Cousin,” Avers said, reminding his friend of their pretend relationship.
It was clear from Wakeford’s verbal slip that something was wrong. Along with a lack of colour in his face, his wig was mussed, his clothes crumpled and the lace cravat at his throat badly tied.
“Dash it!” Wakeford exclaimed, slapping a palm to his forehead. “Cousin.” With the correction from Avers, he appeared to come to himself and took in his friend’s appearance. “Who’ve you been fighting?”
He removed his hat and made to place it on a nearby table, missing the surface, and dropping it on the floor. He bent to pick it up and put it next to the half-drunk pot of coffee already on the table.
Avers rang for a fresh pot. When the server arrived he ordered a large one. Wakeford clearly needed it.
Once the young lad had disappeared again, Avers began unbinding his hands, the knuckles hot and swollen. He’d gone at it too hard.
Wakeford looked fit to fall down. Avers gestured to the chair, not offering, but commanding his friend to sit.
Dropping the fabric that had been bound around his hands on the seat which also held his discarded clothes, he came over to the table and sat in the chair opposite the one Wakeford had just collapsed into. They were next to a tall window on the first floor of the club which afforded a view of the public fountain opposite.
“Trouble?” Avers asked.
The door opened and Wakeford glanced anxiously over as the server reappeared with a tray, two new cups and a steaming pot of coffee. Both men remained silent while the young man cleared the old items and placed the new ones on the table. Avers murmured his appreciation and the lad bobbed a quick bow before retreating, tray in hand, and clicking the door shut behind him.
“This morning I got word from Stormont that his spies at the French court have found Versailles is teeming with information about our troop numbers in the colonies.”
Avers poured the coffee silently, as his friend’s words sunk in. “The information from the stolen papers?”
“That’s right. It’s been sold or given to the French.”
“But as we said before, surely it’s no great secret. The men on the ground must have more up-to-date information than us anyway. It takes a full month for word to reach the Americas.”
“That’s not the problem—the French have also received information on our munition stockpiles. They know the powder supplies are low and which forts are most at risk. It could help them determine where to strike next.”
The import of Wakeford’s words dawned on Avers, and for the first time that morning, Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s face faded from the forefront of his mind.
“This was in the papers that were stolen?”
“Yes.” Wakeford rubbed a hand over his miserable face, a sigh of defeat escaping him. “It’s exactly what we feared. Now the French will channel their finances through Caron de Beaumarchais’ company to outfit rebels who can attack our weak points. Even if we send word now—which we have—as you said, it’ll take a month at best to get there and likely arrive at the same time as the French intelligence.”
“I don’t understand.”
Wakeford looked at Avers between his fingers and said in exasperation, “It’s not that difficult. We’ve failed.”
“No,” Avers replied calmly, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of coffee. His gaze drifted out of the window as he mulled over something in his mind.
Outside water bearers from the local area were lining up in front of the fountain to fill up their buckets.
“What I mean is—if this was the key information they had to sell from the stolen papers—then what deal are they intending to involve me in? What are they planning to discuss with me at the hunting lodge this weekend?”
“You said yourself in your last missive that they are profiting from smuggling. Perhaps they’re just looking for capital.”
Something nagged at the back of Avers’ mind—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He rubbed his chin, then moved his hand to the back of his neck, working the muscles there. “What will we do now?”
“There is no more we, my friend. I will be recalled in dishonour. You—you may do as you please—stay on at the H?tel du Tremaine if you want. My family have no use for it at the moment.”
“You’re giving up?” Avers’ eyes flicked from the window to his friend, their gaze straight and piercing.
“Did you not hear me?” Wakeford said, an edge to his voice. “We’ve failed. It’s a miracle I wasn’t recalled when those papers went missing. I had hoped that if we… if we could have retrieved them… ”
Why did Avers feel as though this tale was not yet over? “There was more in them, wasn’t there? You said something about personnel and provisions as well?”
“They’ve sold the valuable information—the rest is collateral,” Wakeford replied, hanging his head.
“If there is one thing I have learned from my aunt—the most voracious gossip in London—it’s that all information is valuable. There is more afoot here. Why else would they invite me to Dartois’ hunting lodge?”
Wakeford didn’t answer. Avers had lost him in a sea of melancholy and his friend was now obscured by the waves. The poor man stared disconsolately at the coffee pot.
“How long do we have until London recalls you?” asked Avers.
“Hmm?” Wakeford still didn’t break eye contact with the coffee pot. “I’ve already reported to London. It will take three days to reach them, then another three for their reply. No more than a week.”
“Then a week it is.” Avers put down his empty coffee cup decisively. “That’s time enough to go to the hunting lodge and find out what the Comte and his cronies are really up to.”
“It’s no longer necessary. Don’t waste your time on this vain mission anymore.”
“I refuse to believe it’s vain yet,” Avers replied firmly.
“It is man!” Wakeford raised his voice in a flash of frustration, but it quickly died back down. “But do as you wish. There’s likely nothing more you will find out, but if it will amuse you to spend a weekend at the Marquis’ hunting lodge, I shan’t stop you.”
Avers recognised it was not the time to argue with his friend. In Wakeford’s current mood no amount of rationalising would help. But he wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t leave Wakeford to face dishonour— or worse, imprisonment—for something his friend had not done.
Three questions circled round and around in Avers’ mind. Firstly, what business opportunity were the Comte and Dartois offering Avers if the papers’ contents had already been sold? Secondly, what was so secret that it made it necessary for them to meet outside of Paris at Dartois’ hunting lodge? And thirdly, if there really was nothing more to discover, as Wakeford surmised, then why had the Comte burned his mistress’ hand for fear of her revealing information about their enterprise?
No, this business was not done. There was more afoot here and Avers needed to get to the bottom of it. He needed to do so for the sake of Wakeford’s innocence—and Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s safety.