Page 24 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

The hunting around Dartois’ lodge offered excellent shooting and, had Avers not been completely preoccupied with a theft, he might have enjoyed himself. It was not until half the afternoon had gone and they had bagged a good number of game birds, that he conjured up an adequate reason to slip away.

Inspiration struck when he caught his boot on a firm tuft of grass in the uneven clearing where they had set up their base camp. He’d picked himself up just in time so as not to plunge headlong onto the ground, but the realisation of this opportunity struck him.

“I say, this ground is treacherous terrain—” He broke off as he faked another trip, making out he couldn’t catch his balance and landing in an unimpressive pile on the floor. “Dash it all—my ankle!”

The false claim of injury drew polite sympathy from his comrades, the Comte clearly more concerned that his sport was interrupted. After Avers pretended that putting weight upon that leg was impossibly painful, Dartois sent him back to the lodge to be attended to by the butler. The cart upon which the caught game had been strung up by one of the gamekeepers was requisitioned as a makeshift stretcher to carry the Duke.

Avers arrived back at the lodge near three o’clock in the afternoon, and with the majority of the party out, the menace of the place dissipated and he had to concede it was a handsome and well-appointed residence. On his exaggerated hobble into the hall, he learned that Mademoiselle Cadeaux was in the gardens. He ordered a cold compress and a tankard of ale to the drawing room, and upon the servant delivering it and retreating, he was left alone.

Avers cocked his head to the side, listening until the servant’s steps echoed into nothingness. After a short time, he dropped his ‘injured’ foot from the footstool that had been placed out for him and stood up. Leaving his discarded boot and stocking where it was on the floor, he put the cold compress back on the silver tray resting on the side table, and took one of the linen strips from the medicinal wrap to wind around his ankle.

He then made his way over to the door. Should he need to, he could return to the room in a hurry and replace the compress as if he had been sitting there all along. In the meantime, the linen around his ankle would hide the lack of swelling from any servants he should meet.

Avers placed his ear to the door and listened. Movement appeared to be limited to below stairs and nothing stirred in the polite chambers of the lodge. The servants were no doubt using their master’s absence to rest from their toils and even the return of the injured Duke was not disrupting their plans.

Now was the time.

Resting a hand upon the door handle, he waited a moment more before pressing it slowly down and inching the door open. The hallway beyond was deserted. Avers slipped silently from the room, closed the door behind him and made quick work of the space between the drawing room and the Marquis’ study. Heartbeat quickening, he tried the door and mercifully found it open.

Entering the room and realising how close he was to seeing his ambition through, his mind moved onto the following step. Escape. He would have to leave the lodge immediately after getting the papers. What of Mademoiselle Cadeaux? Could he warn her to leave as well? Would she listen?

He didn’t pause long over such thoughts. If he was caught in here, all pretence would dissolve, and the threat he’d been given at the inn at Buc would likely be renewed and carried out. Driving thoughts of Dartois’ pistol from his mind, Avers strode over to the desk, circling round to the side with the chair, and tried the drawer into which he’d seen the Marquis place the papers.

It didn’t budge.

Avers hadn’t expected it to. He scanned the desk for the letter opener he’d seen the Marquis use and found it lying with the pens in the carved-out tray of the ink stand. Snatching it up quickly, he slid the tip between the desktop and the drawer and eased it along until he hit the lock.

First he just tried to push it against the lock hoping the mechanism wasn’t fully home.

No good.

Then he began working the blade, twisting it and manipulating it to try and gain some sort of purchase on the lock and force it to withdraw.

Still no good.

His final option was to force it open. It would damage the desk, but his hope was to be long gone by the time his handiwork was discovered, and the papers were found stolen… again.

He risked a rattle of the desk, putting more pressure on the knife, hoping it wouldn’t snap.

“What are you doing?”

The plainly spoken question made Avers jump so much he hit his left knee against the desk, sending a cracking pain through his joint.

“Blast it!” he swore, swinging around to look at his questioner.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux stood by the door which she had already shut behind her.

He froze. One hand was on the knife jammed in the locked drawer, the other clutching his throbbing knee. His mind raced to find a suitable excuse for being found in such a compromising position.

“You are stealing from Dartois—and I had it from the servants you had twisted your ankle on the hunting trip. A ruse to get into the Marquis’ study secretly, I see.”

There was no getting out of this. He stared back into those frank brown eyes and knew his only choice was running or taking Mademoiselle Cadeaux into his confidence. He could not lose this opportunity to acquire the papers. He was still hesitating when she spoke again.

“What is it an English Duke needs so badly he must steal it from a French noble?”

Curse it! He still hadn’t said anything. He always had something to say.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux muttered in rapid French. Avers didn’t catch it all. Something about knowing this nosy English Duke wasn’t what he appeared.

“Tell me the truth—what are you doing here?”

He finally relinquished the knife, leaving it jammed in the desk, and straightened. “I am—”

He broke off, coming around the desk towards her. She backed away, a wary look in her eyes, and he responded by raising his hands in a show of peace.

“Your benefactor has stolen papers from the British government. I am tasked with retrieving them.”

Her gaze was hard upon his, interrogating, measuring. Her expression was focused, emphasising the largeness of her eyes, the fine point of her nose and the arch of her shapely brows. She was achingly beautiful and Avers found himself willing her to believe his words. To believe he was not a bad man.

“A spy?”

Avers nodded, disliking the moniker but acknowledging its aptness.

With a suddenness that made him step back, she came to life, striding forward. For a moment he thought she meant to strike him, but instead she passed him quickly and came to the desk.

Removing the lid from the left-hand ink pot, she poked her slender fingers inside and began to root around.

The action was so odd, and the explanation so totally lacking, that Avers could do nothing but stare.

After a few moments of wiggling her fingers she withdrew them and to Avers’ surprise they were bare of ink. There appeared to be no reason for her action until he saw the fine chain she had pinched between her first and second finger. She drew it out and upon its end dangled a key.

“Dartois’ hiding place. The gentlemen—they do not notice when I am still in a room,” she said by way of explanation.

She did not pause, making her way around to the side of the desk housing the drawers, and positioned herself in front of the one Avers had been trying to open. Taking hold of the knife, muttering something in French that Avers believed was not entirely ladylike, she gave it a yank.

By the second yank, Avers realised what was transpiring. She was helping him. He came to her aid, standing beside her and leaning over to lend her his strength, when it suddenly came loose. Mademoiselle Cadeaux was sent careening backwards into him.

His hand connected with her waist, her body fell against his arm, and he instinctively pulled her against him so she didn’t hit her head on the wall sconce beside her. By the time she had lost momentum, she was fully in his arms, and turning surprised eyes up at him.

She felt good against him.

He stared down into those dark eyes of hers and got a waft of lavender water. Then he glanced inadvertently at her lips.

Now was not the time.

He shook his head and then looked back into her eyes and realised she was looking at his lips. Was that a tentative desire in her expression? A rush of the same feeling ran over Avers and he instinctively dropped his head lower so that his lips brushed hers. She was soft, warm. He gently pressed his lips against hers and she responded. Pleasure flooded his senses and awareness of their circumstances very nearly deserted him.

Very nearly.

Avers raised his head from the pool of sensation he had been submerged within, and saw a similar look of realisation on her face. Releasing her, he stepped back. With a shake of her head she drew her shoulders back, and focused on the task at hand.

As if they hadn’t just shared a kiss, Mademoiselle Cadeaux stepped forward, placed the key in the lock, and turned it. The well-oiled mechanism slid back easily, and she pulled the drawer open.

After a few seconds staring at its contents, she stepped back, looking over to Avers. He identified the stolen papers quickly enough, taking them from the drawer and searching through the remaining contents to make sure there was nothing else from Wakeford’s office that had found its way there.

The drawer thoroughly searched, he turned back to the woman who had aided him, who now stood by watching.

“Why are you helping me? I have already caused you trouble before.” He gestured to her burnt hand.

“Perhaps—perhaps I wish to make the right choice, not the easy one.” Before Avers could respond, or even take in the profound statement, she spoke again. “What do you intend to do now? Fly?”

“Yes, if I can—I must go before they return.” On a sudden impulse, he blurted out, “Come with me. If they even suspect you’ve helped me it will be more than a burnt hand you’ll need to contend with.”

“I—”

But whatever reply had been coming died on her lips at the sound of voices in the hall outside. Both their heads snapped round to the door, eyes wide, breath held.

Avers made out Dartois’ voice, then the lower timbre of the Comte’s. This was not good.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux came to life first. Snatching the papers from his hands, she thrust them back in the drawer, and shut and locked it before he could react.

“I will get the papers to you, but you cannot take them now. There’s no way you could escape. We must not get caught.” She dropped the key back in the empty inkpot and replaced the lid.

How cool and collected Mademoiselle Cadeaux appeared. Avers felt overwhelmed with admiration for her.

The Comte’s voice sounded again in the hall.

He glanced to the door, half-expecting the nobleman to walk through it at any moment, but it remained closed—for now. On looking back to Mademoiselle Cadeaux he saw that, in spite of her quick wit, there was fear etched across her pale face.

“The window,” he whispered urgently. “We cannot be found alone in here.”

He strode over to it, thankful the latch and hinges had been recently oiled, and swung it open easily enough. Turning back to Mademoiselle Cadeaux he held out his hand.

She looked uncertainly at it, then back to the door, the voices in the hall growing louder. Looking once again at his outstretched hand, she gave the slightest nod, and, as if deciding the situation in her mind, she started forward.

“You will have to—”

But she was already scooping up her skirts with her free hand, exposing her stockinged legs, and lifting one over the window ledge before he could finish his instructions. The wooden heel of her silk mule clicked against the stone on the other side.

“Lift me,” she commanded, bearing her weight on Avers’ arm so she could gain enough purchase to sit astride the ledge. She let go of his hand and swung her other leg over, dropping down silently to the ground below the window outside, her skirts snaking after her.

Giving one last cursory glance around the room to make sure nothing appeared out of place, Avers followed the resourceful woman out the window. Upon reaching the ground he drew the glass window closed—knowing he couldn’t fasten it, hoping it wouldn’t be noticeable.

Their tracks covered, he turned to find Mademoiselle Cadeaux looking perfectly composed, waiting for him. His mouth curved in appreciation. What a remarkable woman.

“It is an odd time to be smiling, n’est pas?” she asked, her fine brows rising.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a half-chuckle. “I’ve just never met a woman who would do what you have just done and appear moments later as if nothing untoward had happened.”

To his surprise, a flush appeared in her milky cheeks. “I would not normally, but the circumstances demanded it. I realise it was very improper—”

“No, no!” Avers immediately raised his hands in supplication. “That is not at all what I meant. It is just that most women I have met would have had an attack of the vapours. Here you are, all calm collectedness. I admire it.”

To his surprise, the flush deepened, and he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Perhaps,” she said, a challenge appearing in her tone, “you have not met any women of substance before.”

It was a bold statement and now she would not hold his gaze, instead focusing on smoothing her already smoothed skirts and looking down the path that ran outside the study window. But though she avoided his gaze, he continued to look at her and saw tiny dimples appearing either side of her irresistible mouth. Was she… flirting with him?

“Perhaps not,” he concurred, coming quickly beside her and offering her his arm. “We had best not be found here.”

She did look at him then, and there was the lightest and most beautiful smile on her face. It transformed her expression, eradicating all the hiddenness it usually contained. She appeared open and free and… yes… very, very beautiful.

Taking his arm, they both focused on the path ahead, winding around the rear of the hunting lodge towards the formal gardens.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “I left my boot and the compress from the housekeeper in the drawing room.”

It would not do to be found wandering around the gardens with Mademoiselle Cadeaux after bemoaning a twisted ankle, the treatment discarded in the house.

“I had them sent up to your room,” she replied.

Avers’ jaw dropped.

“I wasn’t sure where you were and Dartois is particular about mess. After your encounter with him on your way here, I thought it best you didn’t anger him.”

“I thank you, my resourceful lady, for your care over my person.”

“Once I found you in the study I realised the cold compress was likely a ruse to leave the hunting party.”

“Resourceful and intelligent.” He smiled and then added, his tone far softer, “And kind.”

She remained silent.

They came to a bench and Avers invited her to sit. “Please.”

He sat down beside her, but before she could settle, he pressed a hand to hers.

“I owe you an apology. I sorely misjudged your character. First you show yourself to be charitable to those less fortunate, and then you try and warn me of danger at your own expense. Yesterday you cared for my feelings, and now you aid me. I don’t deserve such treatment from someone I so wrongly judged. Thank you.”

Her pink lips parted in surprise.

“I should tell you—”

“Ah! There you are.” Dartois’ voice broke across Avers’ words as it sailed across the shrubbery.

Avers removed his hand from Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s and they both looked over to where their host approached down one of the formal paths. The Frenchman greeted them both, eyeing Avers’ bandaged foot which he had propped up on the bench in a show of his fake injury. The Marquis invited them both in for refreshments. The couple rose, Dartois giving aid to Avers’ faux hobble, and the party headed inside.

As they met with the Comte for tea and sweetmeats, Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s actions replayed through Avers’ mind. Even when she left his presence to change for dinner, those deep eyes of hers followed him through his thoughts. He had spoken the truth. He had never met any woman like her before, and he was beginning to think, he never would again.