Page 20 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)
The Comte had been looking furtively at the clock on the mantelpiece throughout dinner. Emilie and Vergelles sat alone in the dining room of Dartois’ hunting lodge and no explanation had been given as to the whereabouts of the rest of the party.
Emilie had not queried it. The burn on the back of her hand still stung and she knew better than to tempt the Comte’s anger.
Dartois’ chef was excellent. They were served several small plates of game and soup before the main course of duck à l'orange with vegetables and crisped potatoes. Emilie did not have much appetite. It had yet to return since her altercation with the Comte and whenever she was in his presence, she found all desire for food abated.
“An excellent bird,” said the Comte, attempting to engage her in conversation.
“Oui,” she replied. “Very tasty indeed.” To substantiate the statement she cut a slice from the leg on her plate and popped the succulent meat in her mouth.
“You are settled in your room? It is close to mine—should you need anything. Only one door across.”
Emilie nodded, saying nothing. It was the second time Vergelles had mentioned the proximity of their rooms. She had the distinct impression he had arranged the locations with Dartois and expected something to come from it. The thought conjured a nauseous sensation in the pit of Emilie’s stomach.
She had played her hand well, but soon she would be out of cards.
“With such an arrangement in our rooms, perhaps now is the time to—” The Comte’s speech was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall. “Ah! I believe our guest has finally arrived.”
He rose and went to open the dining room door. The moment his back was turned Emilie breathed out in relief, trying not to guess what his next words would have been. Thankfully she was saved from her imagination by the thought of the new arrival—the Duke of Tremaine. The man of contradictions.
Emilie rose, placing her napkin on the table and smoothing her hand over her stomach, willing it to be calm. She slipped into the hallway without being noticed by the gathering of men. There were Dartois, Sebastien and two others of the Comte’s circle, all dressed as though it were the middle of winter with their cloaks and mufflers. Behind them came the Duke of Tremaine.
“Bonsoir, Vergelles,” said Dartois jovially, taking the Comte’s hand and shaking it in the way Emilie knew he disliked. “Has my chef been looking after you?”
“I’m fit to expire!” said Sebastien. “Tell me you will not make us change for dinner, Dartois?”
“I have no aversion to the suggestion. Though I expect the Comte will want us to discard our cloaks at the very least.”
“I would,” Lucien said, glancing at the others with a hint of disdain. “But this is your house, Dartois. Whatever you desire.”
“Whatever I desire?”
For a fraction of a second, Dartois’ eyes flicked over the Comte’s shoulder and looked directly into Emilie’s own. She froze, the memory of Dartois’ offer all too vivid in her mind.
The Marquis turned away to throw his cloak on a waiting servant. “Off with our outer garments and let us eat before Monsieur Gardoin’s dinner is spoiled. I am sure our friend the Duke will appreciate some restoring victuals after his ordeal.”
A rumble of laughter ran around the men.
“I expect so. Your Grace.” The Comte offered him the merest incline of his head rather than the full bow his status deserved. “A pleasant journey, was it?”
For a moment, the usually talkative Duke appeared as though he would say nothing. He stared at the Comte, his hooded eyes hard as flint, with a look upon his face Emilie had not seen before. But after a few seconds, his expression shifted, the hardness cracking away, replaced with his usual ennui.
“It could have been a little more so—had I not met your welcome party at Buc.” Tremaine’s lips curled into a half-smile, but it was without sincerity and no matching joy appeared in his eyes.
Welcome party? What had the Comte and the Marquis done to the Duke?
“Come now,” Dartois said affably, turning and slapping a hand across Tremaine’s shoulders. “A bit of fun to determine your loyalties.”
“Necessary,” the Comte agreed, looking down and flicking an imaginary piece of dust from his sleeve.
“Let us not bore Mademoiselle Cadeaux with our talk,” said Dartois. “I can offer you brandy for your nerves, if you need it, Tremaine. I guarantee I stock an excellent cellar.”
“I have no doubt,” the Duke murmured, apparently seeing Emilie for the first time and bowing towards her.
Dartois laughed, slapping Tremaine on the back again, and the party moved towards the dining room.
“I shall take you up on your offer, though I do not need it for my nerves.”
“Bien,” Dartois said, making his way to the sideboard and pouring drinks for the party.
The Comte resumed his seat at the far head of the table, and Emilie made her way back to hers, only to find the Duke coming to hold her chair for her. She glanced up into his face as she sat and murmured her thanks.
What was that in his eyes?
Agitation? The warring of strong emotions? An almost imperceptible furrow appeared on his brow. His gaze did not linger upon her for long, however, turning back to the gentlemen and their impenetrable conversation.
Something had happened on the road out of Paris. It was clear Dartois and his men had met the Duke of Tremaine on his way and the Marquis was acting as if it were all a grand joke. But if Emilie had learned anything in the last month, it was that Dartois was unpredictable and whatever that test of loyalty had been, it did not appear the Duke had enjoyed the experience.
The men were soon served with the food the chef had kept warm. They all devoured it ravenously and soon Emilie left them to their pipes and port.
She waited in the drawing room for half an hour, but the men did not appear and the questions in her mind grew. What had happened to the Duke on the road? What were Dartois and the Comte up to? After another quarter of an hour, Emilie assumed she was dismissed, and that the gentlemen would continue their conversation in the dining room. She sent a message via one of the servants to let them know she had retired, and went up to her room.
One of the housemaids was sent up to attend her, and before long she was dressed in her nightgown, her hair brushed out and plaited down her back. She dismissed the girl and followed her to the door, closing it behind and turning the key in the lock. Emilie might be in for a disturbed night’s sleep thanks to the questions whirring round in her head, but she was determined not to be disturbed by the Comte.