Page 26 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

The fine weather Paris had been enjoying since Avers’ return to the city broke on Tuesday afternoon. Grey clouds crowded in above, obscuring the sun, but they failed to release the rain they threatened. A mist came up the Seine, creeping out into the streets, clinging to the buildings like some ominous being. It provoked an odd closeness in the air, one of cold and damp. Everything about the atmosphere of the city became heavy and depressive.

It was the perfect backdrop for an exchange of stolen British documents. Avers couldn’t have written it better himself—though, perhaps, he might have chosen a different hero. For despite Wakeford’s best efforts to keep his friend out of any further dealings with the Comte and his circle, Avers was entering the Place Dauphine on the ?le de la Cité in person for the exchange.

Both Wakeford and Avers had naively assumed that the Comte and his men would meet the faux Duke of Tremaine with the papers at the rendezvous point. It had been the lynchpin of Wakeford’s plan to keep Avers out of the situation. However, shortly before the meeting, a note appeared on the Tremaine hall table, reading as follows:

Our friend,

We hope your ankle has sufficiently healed from your unfortunate fall to undertake our agreed business on Tuesday at 2 o’clock.

You’re invited to attend us at our known address before the meeting. We will journey together to rendezvous with our mutual friends and offer them our gift.

We hope it will be less eventful than our meeting in Buc—

The sardonic tone and the mention of the meeting at Buc had all the strokes of Dartois’ hand. When the Tremaine servants had been questioned as to who had delivered the note, none could confirm having received it. According to the retainers it had simply appeared in the hall. The idea that the Comte’s circle was not only able to communicate amongst themselves without being caught, but could enter the very home of another, without any sign, was disturbing.

As there was no signature on the note it could not be used as evidence, and Avers had no way to respond to Dartois and the Comte to counter with an alternative plan that might keep him out of harm’s way. Truth be told, the alteration to Wakeford’s plans was a welcome one to Avers.

So it was that he was journeying with the Comte and Dartois to the ?le de la Cité a little before two o’clock through the dim mist of the Parisian streets. The Comte remained largely silent while Dartois’ casual attitude and speech set Avers’ teeth on edge. There was no mention of Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and Avers chose not to bring her up, despite wanting to know of her well-being with every irritating word that came out of Dartois’ mouth. Soon enough she would be free of the Comte and Avers could check on her himself. For now, he must focus on the business at hand.

Shortly before the carriage reached its destination, Dartois handed him a leather portfolio containing the papers. Avers resisted the urge to check the contents. His persona of uncaring Duke would hardly bother with the particulars, and even if he’d wanted to, the next moment they arrived.

Disembarking from the carriage, the portfolio beneath his arm, he entered the Place Dauphine. The grounds before him were set out in formal sections with gravel paths intersecting them. While the blooms that were out might have looked vibrant in the sun, they appeared now like a mockery of the season among the green leaves and branches.

To Avers’ left and right, he could just make out the low boundary walls behind which the Seine flowed, and every here and there a creeping tendril of the mist snaked its way over the stones to dissipate across the gardens.

Up ahead the boundaries narrowed to a meeting point at the end of the ?le. From that vantage point, with no one behind him, he would be able to observe everyone who arrived in the gardens. That would be the best place to wait.

Once in position, he glanced over the wall, as though he expected some ghoul to rise up from the murky Seine. There was nothing there—just dark, fast flowing waters and swirling mist. No place for the Comte’s men to lie in wait. Avers turned back to begin his vigil.

The wait was interminable.

He had wrongly assumed the weather would turn walkers away. A steady stream flowed into and around the gardens, indistinguishable at first in the gloom, each one causing Avers’ heartbeat to quicken and his body to tense in anticipation. At least ten individuals came and went, none appearing to be promenading for leisure. Most had purposeful strides and were deep in conversation with companions. It was obvious from the staid clothes and old-fashioned wigs that several of them were taking air between sittings of the judicial courts which were housed on the island.

These men of the law and the middling sort were nothing like those with whom Avers had been mixing since coming to the French capital. These weren’t men of leisure who idled away their hours at play and amusement, appearing at Versailles when summoned to court by the King, and enjoying a tax-free existence. No, these were the Frenchmen who made up the machinery of government, whose existence was driven by more than the desire for pleasure. The individual Avers was due to meet was not likely to be among their number.

Sat on a bench about fifty yards from him, Avers saw a gentleman who did not appear to be of the judicial bent. Neither did the man seem totally at ease, his eyes working their way around the garden and back again. Avers recognised him as one of Wakeford’s men he’d met before. He’d been told there would be men planted throughout the Place Dauphine. He hoped they would not appear obvious to the Comte and his men.

The clouds above shifted a little and Avers glanced up to see watery sunlight, pale and harsh to his eyes. The bright daytime star was up there, trying to break through, but failing to burn off its adversaries in the atmosphere.

Avers ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It was sticky, yet he felt cold. Was it the humidity or the tension causing him such discomfort? The cravat his valet had so studiously starched wouldn’t stand a chance against these elements. No doubt it was wilting already.

Another gentleman appeared on the left path. He was dressed differently. He wore his hair unpowdered, and a wool suit far more at home in a pastoral setting than the city—its cut not in the current style, and too full in the skirts and heavy in the cuffs to be considered à la mode. The man paused every now and then, scanning the park, looking for someone. Then his eyes settled on Avers and he struck out directly for the English Lord.

Avers’ breath quickened. He clasped the leather portfolio a little tighter. That was the agreed sign—the portfolio—and even from this distance, he had seen the approaching gentleman’s gaze drop to what was beneath his arm.

The man was closer now.

Twenty yards.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Avers’ mouth went dry. He suddenly had an absurd desire to walk in the opposite direction as quickly as he could. Then straight after, an overwhelming feeling of idiocy. What was he to say to this man? The thought hadn’t occurred to him before now. He’d been so intent on considering the impending arrest of the Comte that he hadn’t considered he might actually have to speak to one of the Commissioners.

The gentleman was upon him, halting and executing a neat bow.

“Your Grace, Tremaine?”

“Good afternoon.” Avers’ voice cracked a little after being silent for so long. “At your service,” he added smoothly, bowing and making a leg as he did so.

As he rose he took the opportunity to observe the man before him. The Commissioner was middle-aged, not handsome, with shoulder length untied hair and a weathered face out of which looked steady grey eyes. There was a humorous lilt to his wide mouth and Avers understood it with the man’s next words.

“And what service is that?”

The blunt question did Avers some good. It jolted him out of his overwhelmed state, and he became the Duke of Tremaine once again. Perhaps for the last time.

“Information that may aid your cause.” He raised the hand that clasped the portfolio and widened his eyes in a meaningful manner.

“And what business does a subject of the Crown have in disclosing such information? Or false information, as the case may be.”

The Commissioner might have been unassuming in appearance, but he had a way of speaking that assumed authority. The situation was one of danger and treason and yet this man appeared unruffled by either consideration.

“Our cause goes beyond petty rivalries and individual interests,” the Commissioner said, all the while those steady grey eyes on the faux Duke. “We will not be knocked off course.”

Avers shifted uncomfortably. It felt like the man was settling in to give a speech in this very public garden. He glanced over the Commissioner’s shoulder. Where the devil were Wakeford and his men? The meet had happened. They needed no more proof to arrest the spies.

“I wouldn’t dream of knocking your cause off course,” Avers said, playing for time. “I owe little allegiance to—”

A shot cracked through the air. Avers jolted, instinctively ducking. Where had it come from? Before he could look around, the Commissioner—who had also jumped at the shot—fell forward. Avers was overcome by the gentleman, dropping the leather portfolio to the floor and catching the Commissioner up in his arms to stop him hitting the ground.

“Good gracious man—are you hurt?” cried Avers, trying to pull him up enough that he might examine him.

The Commissioner scrambled to regain his footing.

“I’m unhurt,” the man panted in shock. “But you aren’t—your arm!”

Looking down, Avers saw it, bright crimson blood, all up the sleeve of his jacket. He flexed his muscles automatically, feeling for injury, and immediately the shock wore off and a burning sensation laced around his arm.

“Blast it!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket Avers pressed it to his left arm, groaning against the pain, which now lashed at him.

“Is it bad?”

“I don’t think so.” Avers breathed out through his mouth and in through his nose, telling himself to be calm, determined not to pass out as he felt the warmth of blood on his hands. “But I will sit.” He lowered himself onto the path, almost crumpling at the end.

Leaning back against a low stone wall, the ringing in his ears abated a little and he looked across the gardens.

There was a man on the floor, struggling in vain against a heavy-set fellow who Avers recognised from the bench, kneeling on his back. Thrown a little distance away lay a pistol, still smoking. Across the way, two other men were manhandling a third into submission.

“You there!” shouted the Commissioner. He, too, had been taking in the scenes across the garden. “Release my man at once! He had nothing to do with the shooting.”

The Commissioner started away from him toward where the three men struggled. Unable to focus on anything but breathing through the pain, Avers closed his eyes, a faint whiff of sulphurous gunpowder entering his nostrils.

“John!”

His eyes sprang open and there was Wakeford bounding towards him. His friend came to his side, kneeling before him, worry etched into his pale face.

“You’ve been shot.”

“So it appears,” said Avers on a groan.

“I must see if the bullet has exited.” Wakeford began teasing Avers’ fingers and bloody handkerchief away from his arm. “A knife!” he barked at one of his men who had followed closely behind and was now standing over them.

The man ran off immediately to procure the object.

“Well,” murmured Wakeford, turning back to his friend and replacing the handkerchief over the wound causing Avers to grunt in pain. “That did not go according to plan.”

“A plan to kill me?” asked the Commissioner who had come up behind Wakeford, his now freed man standing a little in front of him in a protective manner. “Your man is a poor shot. Perhaps now you’ll do me the service—after trying to assassinate me—of ordering your men to allow me to leave the ?le.”

“Not our man,” Avers said, eyes rolling back as Wakeford tied the handkerchief around his arm to staunch the flow of blood. “Or our assassination attempt.” He managed a crooked half-smile.

“And for your protection,” said Wakeford testily, “we will not allow you to leave the gardens until my men have ensured the shooter and all his accomplices are in our custody.”

At that point, the man who Wakeford had sent in search of a knife returned and handed over the requested instrument.

“You mean to tell me that I have not been lured here under false pretences for you to kill me?” snapped the Commissioner. “I recognise you, Lord Wakeford. You are a King’s man.”

Wakeford did not answer immediately. He had removed the handkerchief from Avers’ arm again and was taking hold of the sleeve, pulling the fabric taut.

“I’m sorry to ruin such a beautiful suit,” he said, and then ran the knife as high up the sleeve as he was able, parting the fabric and revealing the bloodied limb below. After wiping as much of the blood away as he was able, he examined the wound, pulling and prodding, causing Avers to flinch. “Thank the Lord, it’s a graze. Just caught the edge of your arm. Probably hurts like the devil and bleeding no end, but not a direct hit.”

“I shall have a scar, I hope?” Avers asked, that crooked smile still upon his lips.

“Yes, you’ll have a scar,” Wakeford replied ruefully. “Here.” He undid his cravat and used the length of linen to bind up Avers’ arm. He doubled it over with the cravat of the man who had fetched the knife and nodded, satisfied, when he had finished.

“We should get the doctor to see you.”

Finally feeling as though the pain was no longer increasing, and being told the wound was not serious, Avers began to think more clearly. The only people who had known about this meeting were the Comte’s men, Avers and Wakeford. It followed that it was one of them who orchestrated the attempted assassination.

“I demand you allow me safe passage off this island,” said the Commissioner, making both Wakeford and Avers realise he was still standing there.

Wakeford rose. “As I said, not until we know there is no further danger to your person.”

“You English—ordering us about as though we are still your subjects when we have declared independence from you. And now you expect me to believe you did not attempt to assassinate me? It would benefit your King and his government very well if me and my colleagues did not succeed in securing King Louis’ backing.”

“Benefit?” Avers murmured.

Who benefited from the Commissioner’s death? Perhaps Britain in the short-term, but ultimately it would only promote more anger in the Colonies and a determination to fight their cause. It would also undermine Britain’s relationship with France if they were seen to be interfering with the colonialists on French soil. And that is exactly how it would appear, because it was an English noble who had arranged a meeting with one of the Commissioners to share supposed secrets. An English noble who had lured him somewhere to be assassinated… The animosity between the age-old enemies Britain and France would be stoked and the repercussions would start with trade embargoes and…

Trade.

War with France would mean the boom of free trade and the Comte and his cronies were perfectly positioned, with their operations already in place, to make a fortune. All the parts of this nefarious plan began to fall into place in Avers’ mind. He had been their pawn all along. They had never really trusted him. That test of loyalty in Buc was nothing but show. They had wanted him as a scapegoat for their assassination. How could he not have seen it? He had thought he had played the game well, but instead he had been played a fool.

“At least we have the Comte in custody now,” Avers murmured, head leant back against the wall and eyes closed.

“Avers, where are the papers?”

He cracked open his eyes and saw a flash of anxiety pass across Wakeford’s face.

“There.” Avers gestured with his good arm to where the portfolio lay on the path a little way away.

Wakeford stood and walked quickly to pick them up, untying the leather strap and allowing the soft covers to fall open in his hands.

“Curse it!”

Avers’ eyes were fully open now. Something was wrong. He struggled to his feet, light-headedness making him lurch sideways.

“What is it? You do have the Comte?”

Wakeford held the open portfolio out to him in silence and Avers saw what his friend had seen. It contained pamphlets, half a dozen of them, all displaying grotesque cartoons mocking King Louis and his Austrian wife.

“You lured me here with filthy pamphlets?” the Commissioner asked, peering over Wakeford’s shoulder.

Both Avers and Wakeford ignored the Commissioner.

“You’re searching the Comte’s house?” asked Avers.

“Yes—but so far we’ve found no sign of the papers. We’ve found no proof at all. The shooter is all we have, and he’s refusing to speak. The Comte and Dartois left as soon as you were dropped off. We have Vergelles at his house, but we’ve found nothing incriminating, and the Marquis has managed to give us the slip.”

Avers looked again at the pamphlets in his hand. It was like some grand joke had been played on him. He had thought himself carrying precious secret papers, meeting for a financial exchange, and instead he had been the bait and the one to be framed. The dark humour of it, the joke of the pamphlets—it all felt too similar to the incident in Buc. Avers had thought he was playing the game, but what had really been played?

As he looked back at the portfolio in his friend’s hand, the pamphlets slipped, and a flash of script caught his eye among the printed words.

“Wakeford—pass that here.” He reached out with his good arm, retrieving the hand-written note from amongst the propaganda.

To our English friend,

We hope you enjoy the little pictures of the King and Queen. We realised we could not trust you with our precious items when we found them in Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s keeping and she informed us, after some persuasion, that she intended to give them to you.

It appears your loyalty has been somewhat divided and so has hers…

We are sorry that you have not proved a faithful friend and we regret to inform you that as such, we will not be able to continue our business relationship with you. Please do not be too disheartened, you have been a most useful asset to us.

—

“Where is Mademoiselle Cadeaux?” Avers asked in a strangled voice.

“The Comte’s mistress?” Wakeford asked. “She wasn’t at the house. We assume she’s at her lodgings.”

Cold, suffocating fear rose in Avers’ chest, forcing the air out of him and making it difficult to breathe it back in.

“Has anyone confirmed it?”

“No, but why—what does the note say?”

Avers handed it over, his expression now one of horror, his mind racing.

What had he done? What had he done?