Page 27 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Avers did not know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s apartments, making the Comte de Vergelles’ H?tel the only starting point for finding her. Despite Wakeford telling him to go home and rest—and assuring him he’d send word if the Comte shed any light on his mistress’ whereabouts—Avers could not obey. As soon as his gunshot graze was properly dressed, he took his leave of Wakeford and headed, not for the H?tel du Tremaine, but for the Comte’s residence in Faubourg Saint-Germain.

He could not allow anything to happen to Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The possibility of the dangers she could be facing at that moment was unbearable. The very idea doubled his suffering—the physical pain in his arm matched with a sharp ache in his chest.

He should never have left her in Vergelles’ company. Or allowed her to consider helping him by stealing the papers herself. He’d been a fool to do so, believing he had control of the situation and his ruse as the Duke of Tremaine had been effective.

But how could Mademoiselle Cadeaux risk her safety in such a fashion? What had she been thinking, taking the papers? Knowing what kind of man the Comte was, and doing it anyway to aid Avers? He was torn between admiration and exasperation. Once again, she had shown her character to be one of worth and proved Avers’ initial judgements to be superficial and flawed.

Whatever frustration he felt towards Mademoiselle Cadeaux, with every jolt of the carriage and fresh stab of pain in his arm, it was dissolving before a very real anger towards the Comte. The emotion was hot and volatile, and by the time he reached the Comte’s H?tel, he was ready to unleash it.

Bounding up the steps two at a time, he rapped upon the door with a fury that might have loosed the knocker from its nails.

It was finally opened with interminable slowness and Avers recognised the man behind it as one of Wakeford’s.

“Percy.” Avers jerked his head and strode past the man into the antechamber before he was invited. Spinning on his heel to face the fair-haired man, he asked bluntly, “Where is the Comte?”

“My Lord?” Percy closed the door and turned a measuring look upon Avers.

“Out with it.”

“We’re holding him for Lord Wakeford,” Percy said, clearly displeased at being interrogated by someone who wasn’t his superior.

“I’m aware,” Avers said with equal ice in his tone. “But I asked you his whereabouts.” He levelled the man with an exacting stare, his eyes unrelenting beneath his heavy lids.

“Does Wakeford know you’re here?” Percy’s gaze took in the torn sleeve of Avers’ jacket and the bandage tied around his arm.

“No.”

“Do you need to sit down?” Percy gestured at the wound.

“I need to speak to the Comte.” The pain in his arm was reaching new heights and it took Avers’ best efforts to maintain a hold on his temper. He had to remind himself, it wasn’t Percy he was angry at. “The Comte’s mistress, Mademoiselle Cadeaux, is in danger after helping our cause. I’ve come to discover her whereabouts.”

Percy said nothing, his measuring stare steady on Avers’ face.

“Please.”

For a brief moment Avers thought he might need to continue his persuasions, but all of a sudden, Percy relented.

“He’s in the drawing room with Terry and Brown.”

Giving a curt nod of thanks, Avers strode off in the direction Percy indicated.

Taking a hold of the drawing room door handle, he turned it, throwing it open with more force than he realised. The wood flew back on its hinges and smacked against a table behind. The room’s occupants turned as one towards the newcomer.

“It’s His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine,” the Comte said from a wing-backed chair on one side of the unlit fireplace. “Do not be alarmed,” he said, addressing his guards, who stood either side of him. “He’s had a petite shock this afternoon.”

“Vergelles.” Avers practically spat the name, striding into the room, shoulders back, chest out and hands clenched ready to strike whoever got in the way of his purpose.

The Comte did not flinch at the rapid movement. He sat irritatingly calm in his chair, observing Avers over steepled fingers, his expression cool and collected.

“I believe all of this”—the Comte broke his fingers apart and swept his hands out towards the strangers in his house—“is your doing?” An almost imperceptible curve spread across Vergelles’ thin lips. “I can’t think what they are hoping to find here—can you?”

The calmer the Comte presented himself, the more heightened Avers’ emotions became. How dare he taunt and provoke him when Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s safety was in question.

“A pity to have such a misunderstanding. Dartois was right about you—a useful man, but one who would turn out not to be a… loyal friend.”

“Friend?” Avers spat back, the hold he had on his anger growing taut.

This was all a game to these men. Unbeknownst to Avers, they had been playing with him, and without knowing the rules, his ignorance might have cost a good woman her safety.

“Apparently not,” the Comte replied in mock-surprise. He drew his fingertips back together and observed Avers’ growing agitation with a dark glee. “According to these men you think us… spies?” The Comte arched one elegant brow, laughing faintly.

“I know exactly what you are.”

“What a tale you spin. Your imagination is to be applauded. And you—Tremaine—what are you? From my vantage point it seems you have been playing a part all along.”

Avers ignored the Comte’s question. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux—where is she?”

“How should I know?” Vergelles separated his fingers and flicked both hands away from him as though disassociating himself from the woman they were talking about.

“She was under your protection,” Avers said from between clenched teeth.

“She was—but I tired of waiting for her to make up her mind. Such elevated ideas of her own virtue.”

Avers was about to launch a repeat of his interrogation when what Vergelles had just said hit him. Virtue—did that mean? The flames of Avers’ anger were doused for a moment. He strode away from the fireplace to do a circuit of the drawing room and give himself time to think.

All this time he had judged Mademoiselle Cadeaux for being mistress to the Comte and yet she had never given in to the man. Avers was left in more admiration of the woman, for despite his disagreement with the practice, he had come to understand her position in life was one of little choice or security. And yet, after all his assumptions, she had not given in to the Comte’s advances.

“She was nought but a tavern brat,” Vergelles called out across the room, a taunting tone to every word. “I should have known. You cannot wash the common off from one such as her.”

Avers came back to face the Comte. “You have no concept of her worthiness.”

“Mon dieu! You have it bad, do you not? To be so defensive of nothing but a low born harlot.”

Avers snatched up a book from a nearby table and slammed it down just as quickly. The crack it made caused Terry and Brown to jump and even the Comte jerked in his chair.

The force of the impact sped through his body, jolting his injured arm and causing a wave of pain, but Avers was too angry to pay it any heed. “I’m warning you, Vergelles. Watch your words.”

The Comte laughed viciously. “My words? My, she has you firmly in her talons. But I warn you, Tremaine, she is a slippery one, Mademoiselle Cadeaux. She will not give up her charms as easily as you might think.”

“You realise your attempts at denigrating her are actually elevating her in my eyes?” Avers retorted, his inner thoughts coming out before he could stop himself. He immediately threw up a hand to stop the Comte from replying. “Where is she?”

“Not here—you’re welcome to look. Your men have already been scouring the place.” The Comte leant forward so he might stare at Terry and Brown. “And just what is it you’ve found, eh?”

A flash of uncertainty passed over the faces of the two men. Leaving the Comte for a moment, Avers walked over to them and asked in a low voice what Vergelles meant by his words.

Terry spoke first. “We haven’t found anything, my Lord. Percy’s already sent word to Wakeford.”

“The papers?”

“No, my Lord, not a thing that incriminates him.”

“We have the shooter,” said Avers, more to reassure himself than the others. “And the note that Dartois sent to me—” He broke off, remembering with a sick feeling that the taunting note had not been signed.

The case against Vergelles and Dartois, which Avers had thought so solidly built, block by block, now showed itself to be made of ice. Each fact was slowly melting away before his eyes and soon there would be nothing at all to hold them.

Swinging round suddenly, he demanded, “Vergelles, tell me where she is, and do not test my temper any further.”

The Comte smiled, an infuriating, sly, smug smile. It crept across his face slowly as he took in Avers’ agitation until he was grinning wickedly up at the man. “I’ve thrown her out. A woman like that is only good for one thing and as she was not willing to—”

Rage overcame Avers. Leaping over the low table that separated them, he took the Comte by his cravat, twisting the lace and linen around in his hand, tightening it like a noose. Fiery pain shot down Avers’ injured arm. The Comte’s breath hissed out, his neck growing dark, and his veins bulging out from the skin.

“I know how you treated Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Avers whispered, inches from the Comte’s face, the rage within punctuating every word. As he tightened the cravat and his eyes imparted all the fury within, he was satisfied to see a hint of fear in the Frenchman’s eyes. “I saw the burns you gave her.”

The man in his hands was nothing. A pathetic being, who preyed on the weak. One whose false sense of his own power enabled him to take advantage of others. He needed to be taught a lesson.

“A low-born woman she may be, but you,” Avers hissed between his teeth, “are no better than a filthy cur. She transcended her place in life. You have sullied yours. You’ve no idea the treasure you had in her. You’re an ignorant fool and if it weren’t against God’s holy law, I’d kill you.”

In spite of his final words, Avers turned his hand again, tightening the noose. The Comte’s breath came in rasps. Just a little more and Vergelles would be…

Avers half released him. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux—tell me where she is.”

“I’ve given her to Dartois,” he wheezed, smiling perversely, the flush of his skin making him appear half-crazed. “He seemed happy to find her with our precious items. Says she has potential if she will only submit to him. He commanded me to hand her over and I was only too happy after being tired of waiting. He’s less patient a man than me though.” He attempted a gasping laugh and Avers finally released him, throwing the Comte back in his chair and striding away.

He took up pacing, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at the carpet he traversed. Silence descended for a few minutes until Wakeford’s voice came from the doorway.

“Av–Tremaine!”

Avers glanced up, taking in the surprise on his friend’s face.

“What are you doing here?”

“Come to find that harlot he’s taken with,” the Comte called out, still wheezing, his neck coming up in angry red welts.

Ignoring Vergelles’ provoking words, Wakeford came and took Avers to one side.

“What the devil are you doing here? I sent you home.”

“I told you,” Avers said impatiently, “we must find Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

Wakeford searched his face and then appeared to relent. “Anything?”

“No—except he says Dartois commanded him to give the woman over.” Commanded. Something about that didn’t sit right with Avers.

“Well, it’s the deuce of a mess out there,” Wakeford replied in an undertone. “The shooter’s refusing to admit any relationship with the Comte or his men. I’ve had it from Terry and Brown that they’ve been unable to find the papers here, so I’ve come as soon as I could to confirm it.”

“Curse it!” Avers hissed, the feeling of doom growing with every passing moment. “What does it all mean?”

“We have to find the papers here, otherwise we have no evidence, and there’s nothing to connect all of this together.”

A sick feeling entered Avers’ stomach. No papers. No connection with the Comte or Dartois. No Mademoiselle Cadeaux. What had started out with such promise had turned into an utter disaster.

“I’ll check in with my men.” Wakeford made to signal Terry and Brown.

“It’s no use,” Avers replied harshly. “They’ve found nothing.”

“But how can that be? I’ve had this place under watch night and day. The papers have to be here.”

“Well, they aren’t.” Avers raked a hand savagely through his hair, pulling it painfully, but enjoying feeling anything but the fear over Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s welfare. They’d played their hand and lost and there appeared no way to turn the game.

Game!

It wasn’t a game. It was her life. Hers. The woman Avers… he couldn’t stop his mind running to all the worst scenarios. What if they hurt her? What if they took her… life?