Page 31 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Avers hastily scrawled a note to Wakeford on the Tremaine crested paper of their Parisian H?tel. With the ink barely dried he attached a wafer and rang the bell for a servant. Exiting the study, so he might hand over the missive all the faster, he met the butler in the hall, and thrust the letter into his hand with rapid-fire instructions for its immediate delivery to Lord Wakeford. Before the servant disappeared to carry out His Grace’s commands, Avers also requested his horse be made ready, a valise packed and gave suitable instructions for Lutin’s care while he was gone.

It was the closest Avers had ever come to treating the Tremaine staff as his own. Once the butler had been sent on his way, and hurried footsteps and calls sounded out below stairs, Avers ran up the main staircase two at a time, making it to his bedroom before his valet.

Before half an hour was up, with the valise strapped to the back of his saddle, he cantered through the streets of Paris causing outraged street sellers to cry out at the reckless rider.

Avers knew where Mademoiselle Cadeaux was. Returning to the Comte’s residence, he demanded the location of his shipping concerns through which he conducted smuggling operations. While Vergelles was less than helpful, a scan of his business papers had revealed their whereabouts easily enough.

Now Avers was heading for Cherbourg. There was no time to waste. Nothing would delay him. Not even the devil himself.

He had to get to her before she disappeared.

The journey out of the French capital was painful. Every street seemed three times as busy as it had during Avers’ entire stay. Twice he was stuck behind an overturned cart and the third time saw him urge his horse to jump a series of crates that had been unloaded outside a shop. The shopkeeper’s wife, upon coming out of the building to the sight of a fine hunter clearing her orders with a foot to spare, stumbled backwards and swooned into her husband’s arms.

Once Avers had left the capital, the journey was significantly quicker. Without the distractions of physical barriers to negotiate, he found his mind wandering. What was Dartois’ purpose in taking Mademoiselle Cadeaux? Why was he making his way to England? How would the papers serve him there?

Avers had little idea about the latter. With the spy ring’s connection to England, he wondered if they had fostered connections in London and information flowed both ways. Perhaps their plan was to sell the papers there while Paris proved too dangerous.

Yet, Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s kidnapping formed no logical part of this plan. The only reason he could think of was her being taken for revenge. Dartois’ disconcerting laugh when he’d pointed a pistol at Avers’ head in Buc came back to mind. The sick feeling, which had been birthed on reading Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s urgently written note, grew in Avers’ stomach. How far would this man go to enact his revenge for Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s betrayal?

After two days travelling through the night with only a few hours rest at the roadside, his arm aching from his injury, Avers entered Cherbourg as dawn broke. The dock town was cast in a demoralising grey, mirroring his thoughts as he contemplated what may have happened to Mademoiselle Cadeaux while he travelled.

Avers approached two men smoking pipes, on a break from loading their ship. The first refused to admit he spoke English despite appearing to understand Avers’ question. After asking again in French, the man still feigned incomprehension, but his companion responded well to money.

He led Avers through the waking docks and pointed out a ship at the quayside with a couple of sailors tramping kegs and boxes aboard looking as happy to be up as the miserable morning was to greet them.

Avers took cover at the start of the quay behind a pile of boxes almost head height, dismissing his guide with another payment, and turning back to analyse the situation. A few minutes revealed that there appeared to be only two men loading the boat. Either Dartois and Emilie were already below deck waiting for the tide, or Avers had arrived before them. The latter was likely if they travelled by chaise. Avers hadn’t stopped for more than a few hours overnight, thanks to a full moon, and he’d managed to change horses twice, leaving the Tremaine’s fine hunter in an inn west of Breteuil.

As if corroborating his theory, he heard a carriage approaching. Skirting to the far side of the boxes to keep them between himself and the newcomers, he peeked out to see a finely painted chaise approaching the grubby dockside. The horses appeared fresh, without a sheen of sweat on them, indicating that Avers had been right—they must have stopped overnight.

The coachman pulled up on the other side of the quay and a groom jumped down from the back of the carriage to let the steps down. The door flung open, almost hitting the servant in the face, and Dartois appeared, springing down from the carriage and turning back to hand down the other inhabitant.

Avers felt both relief at catching up with Dartois and an overwhelming fury at the sight of him. He drew his shoulders back instinctively, clenching his fists and becoming taut with the expectation of a fight.

But if he’d been on the verge of making a rash decision, he was stilled by the sight of Emilie being handed down from the carriage. She looked so small and fragile, standing over there next to a man who was both deranged and unpredictable.

Avers couldn’t see her expression properly from where he stood, but he could see enough to know she wasn’t smiling. The Marquis gave instructions to the coachman and soon the trunks strapped onto the back of the carriage were unlashed and placed in a neat pile on the dockside.

The two sailors who had been on the deck of the ship came down the quay to fetch the luggage on board and Avers ducked down quickly behind the boxes in case they saw him.

At that moment, a man came out of a nearby tavern to his right. Avers quickly looked down, pretending to be occupied with something in his left pocket in case the man from the inn should glance across.

If the salty fellow did see Avers it held no weight with him. He passed by, a worn leather tricorn on his head, and an oiled greatcoat flaring out behind him. Shaking hands with Dartois, he began speaking to him in low French and Avers realised this was likely the captain of the ship.

Emilie waited silently while the men spoke and after a few minutes, Dartois and the captain nodded to each other, and the latter set out down the quay to the ship where his men were busy making ready for sail on the top deck.

The Marquis made to follow, taking Emilie by the elbow, and bringing her towards the waiting boat. In an instant she burst out of her placid state. After taking one step forward she pulled back, trying to free her arm from Dartois’ grip. The French noble was not so easy to shake off, yanking her backwards so she crashed into him, and hissing something in her ear.

Avers started forward. Stopped. The distance was too great. If he rushed out now Dartois would have time to react and there was no telling what he might do. He needed to wait until they were about to walk down the quay and would pass by him. Avers felt for the loaded pistol nestled in his pocket. Not for the first time in the last two days, he thanked God that the graze he’d sustained in Paris was on his left arm. He pulled back the trigger.

The couple had made it ten steps when Emilie pulled back again, turning and trying to run. Dartois pulled the same move and this time whatever he said to Emilie worked. Shock transposed itself onto her face. She stopped pulling away from him and schooled her countenance back to impassivity. Her shoulders drawn back and her chin raised, she walked obediently beside her captor towards the boat.

This was Avers’ chance. He glanced towards the ship and saw no sign of the captain or sailors who must be below deck. Three more steps and Dartois and Emilie would be beside the boxes. Avers’ grip on the pistol tightened, his index finger curling around the trigger, drawing the weapon silently from his pocket.

Three.

Two.

One.

Avers stepped out from behind the boxes and shouted, “Unhand Mademoiselle Cadeaux!”

For now, he kept the pistol hidden in the folds of his coat, but his shoulders were thrown back and he was drawn up to his not inconsiderable height.

Dartois halted mid-stride, yanking Emilie to a stop beside him, causing her to stumble, and a flash of pain crossed her face.

“Tremaine,” Dartois hissed.

Down the quay, Avers saw the sailors come back on deck followed by their captain. They stopped to watch and he saw one of them pick up a nasty looking cudgel.

“How unwelcome,” Dartois continued. “Your wish, I’m afraid, is not one I’m willing to fulfil. Mademoiselle Cadeaux is coming with me.”

Avers attempted reason. “The game is up, Dartois. Your leader, the Comte, is under arrest. It’s only a matter of time before my colleagues uncover his free trade from this port and then it will be over—you have no hand left to play.”

“His business?” One of Dartois’ fine brows rose and a smug smile curled across his lips. “You’re more ignorant than I imagined. This enterprise—” The Marquis gestured at the ship and Avers noted the sailors were now walking along the quayside, edging closer to where they were standing.

He took a step back, creating an arc in which his gun might be fired, that encompassed the men and the Marquis.

“—it was never the Comte de Vergelles’. Do you really think such a man could control all this—not only free trade that might bring in considerable wealth, but the economic and diplomatic conditions to feed it? Why do you think you have found nothing at the Comte’s residence?” Dartois’ smile grew gleeful, and he was laughing now, the sound high and uneven. “Genius, is it not? Set up the Comte as the figurehead while I pull all the strings undetected. He was always fond of being feared—small men like him are all the same.

“But then you came sniffing around. Your game was obvious from the start and while the Comte disliked it, I saw the opportunity. It was so very easy to get you to do what I needed. With a Commissioner dead, the war between your King and the colonialists will ignite further and then—”

Avers played for time. “You haven’t heard?”

The sailors were still moving closer and he felt his exposure acutely. He should have waited for Wakeford’s men, but by the time they arrived, Dartois and Emilie would have left with the tide.

“The Commissioner lives.”

“Indeed?” The Marquis hid any disappointment at the news. “No matter. The attempt will be enough to stoke fear and mistrust. The colonists will fear British interference whatever you say, and my government will play on their anxieties to weaken the British hold over the colonies. It will work just as well to our advantage, for trade ties between England and France are bound to be cut as a result of the hostilities. And what is it you hoped to achieve by coming here alone?”

The hairs on the back of Avers’ neck rose. The Marquis knew him to be at a disadvantage. He gripped the pistol so tightly that his arm began to ache.

“Could you not bear the thought of this in my hands?” Dartois thrust Emilie forward like some prize of war. Then he yanked her back harshly against his side and breathed in her scent in a perverse manner. “I thought the Comte made it clear—she’s not available to you. This woman’s been bought and paid for many times over with my spoils.”

Avers seethed. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux can no more be bought than I.” He raised the pistol from the folds of his coat and levelled it at Dartois. They were less than ten yards apart. There would be no missing at this distance. “Release her—now.”

“Ah, the path of true love never did run smooth,” the Marquis scoffed, pulling Emilie in front of him like a human shield and placing his cheek next to hers. “Tell me—how much do you value her pretty face?” The French noble pulled a knife from his boot and held it to her neck, starting to retreat slowly down the quayside towards the boat and pulling her with him.

“What have you still to gain from keeping her?” Avers called out, desperation setting in. “Hand her over and I will let you leave with the papers. We have no more need of them, thanks to your dealings.”

“Please.” Emilie finally spoke, her voice strangled, trying to crane her neck further from where the knife pressed against her skin. “Please, just leave.” She looked Avers directly in the eyes and he saw an earnestness there that almost broke him.

She was giving up.

“Thank you, Arnaud,” said Dartois taking the proffered pistol from his captain as they came alongside one another. The Marquis continued to hold the knife at Emilie’s throat with one hand and levelled the pistol at Avers with the other.

“How small your mind is, that you should think there is no more for me to gain from these papers. That’s the problem with you English—so stupid and blind—you cannot see the possibilities this world offers. You have no idea of the connections I have, of how far my operation extends. I see value in the papers and in the woman—I will not be giving up either.”

He thrust Emilie into the arms of the two waiting sailors who dragged her along the gangway into the boat. She struggled against them, skirts flying, arms beating at them.

“Unhand her!” Avers cried, leaping forward, trying to force his way past Dartois.

A shot sounded.

Searing hot pain lanced through his arm. Emilie screamed. Avers stumbled backwards, hit his head on a crate, and fell.

Everything went black.