Page 7 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

The Café Procope was on the rue Mazarin south of the Seine. Its dark blue door was propped open, the air not cold enough to ensure it was kept closed, and a sign announcing the establishment swinging above.

Avers nodded to one of the staff upon entering and was immediately enveloped in the smoke of a dozen pipes. The air hung blue and thick with it, the dark richly coloured interiors making it seem hazier. Out of this atmosphere appeared men sat at tables, drinks in hand, conversation flowing freely and animatedly, the place simmering with energy.

Moving to the side as a servant carrying a tray of delicious smelling food came past, Avers scanned the café dwellers to find his quarry. There were young wits speaking out loudly, setting themselves up as the arbiters of their group’s discussions, those who railed against the self-appointed originals, and others who sat back to absorb all that was said. Among the youths were those approaching middle age, and the solemn elderly patron. There was the thinker, the politician and the artisan, shoulder-to-shoulder partaking of victuals and philosophy in equal measure.

Avers spied the Comte de Vergelles and the Marquis de Dartois sat at the far end of the establishment with two gentlemen he did not recognise. Several glasses in various states of consumption and a scattering of empty dishes were strewn across the covers as well as a large plate of sweetmeats in the centre.

The incongruity of this scene of grown men—in solemn conversation—eating candied nuts like a group of schoolroom misses, was somewhat amusing. Avers’ lips twitched, but he did not let them curve into more than what constituted a haughty smile as he observed the café’s patrons.

Striking out towards an empty table only two down from the Comte’s party, Avers meandered purposefully close to where they sat, noting that there was no sign of Mademoiselle Cadeaux.

In all fairness, this was a male domain, though mistresses often transgressed those unspoken boundaries. Avers wondered if she’d lied to escape his company. It was just as well. Mademoiselle Cadeaux would have proved a distraction, and he could afford none. He had only just made it to the café in time for their plan.

Just as Avers thought he may have to be the one who hailed the Comte’s party, Dartois saluted him with a wine glass and called out, “The victor at the tables!”

Avers did not immediately turn towards the exclamation. He allowed a few seconds, then swivelled slowly, one brow raised in query and that haughty smile still on his lips.

“Good morning to you,” Avers drawled, detouring from his route and coming to stand by their table, ebony cane planted as he made them a pretty bow.

Dartois returned the haughty smile of the faux Duke with a self-satisfied one of his own. The Marquis had a relaxed confidence that sat in opposition to the cold frostiness of his companion the Comte.

“And a fair morning at that—I have just spent a delightful time in the Jardin des Tuileries.”

If the Comte knew where his mistress had been this morning, and connected that with Avers’ words, he did not show it.

“You are in fine spirits—the French air, it agrees with you,” said Dartois.

“That, and my newly deepened pockets.” Avers risked a wink at the Comte, whose blazing eyes could have struck the strongest man down.

Dartois laughed. “He is a fine one, this English Duke.” The Marquis rose and slapped a hand on Avers’ shoulder. “I like him.”

“More than your friend,” Avers said, eyes rolling slowly over to the Comte, and fixing him with a languid stare, a half-smile playing on his lips. “But I must thank you—sincerely—Vergelles, for I stood in great need of blunt. Losing to an English upstart like me is not easy. I am the most uncharitable winner.”

“Your self-awareness is at least one virtue,” replied the Comte acerbically.

Avers inclined his head in thanks. Silence fell for a few moments, and he wondered if he’d need to force an invitation to join them.

“But not so virtuous in your relations with your family, I hear,” said Dartois, a fair brow rising in question, that confident smile ever-present. “First your uncle in England, and now I gather you’re warring with your cousin here.”

Excellent. The rumour-mill had done its work.

“Family!” Avers sighed, as if that exclamation, along with the hands and eyes he cast up at the ceiling, explained the whole. “Alas, I’m not the Duke they wanted. According to my uncle, I’ve damaged my estate to the point of ruin, and I’ve had to leave all my affairs to him to sort out. First it was the travel and then the gambling. I’m on pin money until my uncle says otherwise. I’m looking to be empty pocketed before the month’s end.”

“Ah, we cannot have that,” Dartois said, pulling out a chair and gesturing for him to sit.

Vergelles shifted, staring hard at the newcomer, and not echoing his companion’s invitation.

“I fear you may find our conversation boring,” the Comte said coldly, “after the exploits you enjoyed in Italy.”

“I am sure I can tolerate it.” Avers rested his cane against his chair and gestured for the server’s attention. “What do you suggest to drink?”

“It depends on your English palate—do you appreciate wine?”

He knew the Comte was goading him, but instead of giving the French noble the response he wanted, Avers smiled lazily at him. “I’ve been known to drink it.”

“He is English, Simeon,” the Comte said to the waiter, as if explaining that Avers was some kind of leper. “Something easy for him to drink, n’est pas?”

“Oui, my Lord,” the servant replied, bowing twice before scurrying away.

Lucien tapped a finger on a mother-of-pearl snuff box he had placed on the table before him. “We were discussing the state of Paris’ water supply,” he said after a few moments. “They are building new fountains all over the city to cater for the populace.”

“Not the easiest way to water an entire city,” Avers said.

His valet had complained about it when drawing his master a bath two nights ago. The water bearers couldn’t keep up with demand despite coming and going from the residence most of the day.

But was this really the subject of their conversation?

“I hear London has wooden pipes serving the city now,” Dartois said. “Right into the houses.”

Apparently this dull topic was what they were discussing. Avers was doomed to have a conversation about water supplies… and the Marquis had a light in his eyes which implied he was actually interested.

“An ongoing endeavour from my understanding,” Avers said.

Perhaps this was the Comte’s way of driving him off. Bore him until he gave in and left in pursuit of more interesting company.

“You complain of inefficiency and yet in England you cannot choose the water you drink if it’s being sent to you through pipes,” said the Comte. “Here in Paris we can instruct water bearers to procure water from the sweetest wells of the city.”

Dartois chuckled. “I think we have bored His Grace long enough with the water supplies of Paris.”

Surprisingly the Comte heeded his friend and fell silent once again.

“What will Your Grace do while you are here in Paris—are you for the gaming tables or do you plan to embroil yourself in cock fighting again?”

This was the perfect opportunity. “Neither,” Avers replied.

At that moment the server arrived with his drink and he paused to take a sip before continuing. “My uncle has arranged a post with my cousin’s office that forms a branch of the Southern Department here in Paris.”

The Comte was still tapping on his snuff box and the other two men, who had not been introduced, maintained silent observance. This was the moment. The trap was baited, and it was time to see if Avers’ prey would take it.

“The Southern Department?” Dartois said, his tone implying only moderate interest. “Your Crown enjoys their little outposts in our city. We’re teeming with ambassadors and dignitaries from England. You’ll be one more to add to the throng.”

After seeing the Comte playing with his unopened snuff box, Avers drew his own from his pocket and proceeded to take a pinch. “How very disappointing. I rather like to think of myself as an original.”

Vergelles stopped tapping and when Avers had finished taking the tobacco, he found himself under a hard stare, almost as if the Comte were annoyed to be copied.

“A cock fighting English Duke in the Southern Department—is that not original enough for you?” the Comte asked, his tone just the wrong side of sharp.

“Lucien is right. It does not seem the kind of work that would suit you at all, Your Grace. Are you expecting to stay long at the Southern Department?” asked Dartois.

Avers shrugged. “Lord knows! I think it shall be exceedingly dull, but it is a condition of my stay in Paris. My uncle believes I need to be occupied—to be shown by my dullard of a cousin how to settle, to take on responsibility, before I can be trusted with the control of my estates. Never had much of a mind to be responsible, you know. It’s always seemed much more the thing for other people to do. I’m made for amusement.”

“So your cousin is not pleased that you are joining him here?” asked Dartois.

The Marquis was certainly far easier to engage than the Comte, but it was not his trust Avers was here to gain.

“Robert has never been pleased with my presence. He’s the studious sort—always has been—can’t understand how I lost interest in my studies and fell into more pleasurable pursuits. He always wishes to be occupied in some correspondence, or figures or discussions. I imagine all I shall be to him here is a hindrance. I’m more like to get under his feet than be an aid.”

Dartois chuckled. “Yes, I know your cousin to be a serious man.”

Avers finished his drink. “I’m surprised you know of him at all—dull dog that he is. I took it he was little in Paris Society.”

“Ah.” Dartois waved a hand at nothing in particular. “Paris talks.”

Avers only wished the Comte would talk.

A moment later, Vergelles broke his silence. “Will your work at the Southern Department keep you in Paris for some time?”

“Devil take it—I hope not! Uncle’s allowance is dashed small. Barely enough for a man to live on, let alone game and entertain oneself.”

“Tremaine!”

The sharp salute came from the front of the establishment. Wakeford stood there, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Avers could almost believe his anger was real.

The newcomer strode over to their table, executed a punctilious bow to the rest of the group—begging their pardon—before turning blazing eyes on his faux cousin.

“Charles,” he hissed very much above a whisper. “You were supposed to meet me three hours ago.”

“Was I?” Avers drawled back, not attempting to lower his voice.

“You know very well you were. I had to hunt you down like some absconded servant.”

“How very dramatic of you,” Avers said, his voice even, unaffected by his fictional cousin’s mood. “You ought to speak to the Comédie-Fran?aise to see if they will engage you.”

Wakeford gave an angry scoff at the insulting suggestion.

“If you will be so melodramatic, you can hardly blame me for encouraging you to become an actor. Besides, what’s all the fuss about? I would have made it to your offices sooner or later.”

“You know very well,” said Wakeford through gritted teeth, “that we had arranged ten o’clock, to suit your sensibilities about mornings.”

“They are abominable.” Avers examined one of his polished fingernails, eyes flicking up provokingly at his faux cousin. “Was it really today we were to meet?”

“You’re insufferable!”

“So I’ve been told. Come now, cousin. Let’s talk over there, and leave my friends in peace.”

Wakeford kept muttering and hissing, but allowed Avers to guide him to the far side of the café. Ensuring they could still be seen by Vergelles and his companions, but far enough away to be out of earshot, Avers turned a grin upon his friend.

“Excellent timing—and that temper Wakeford—I half-believed you were serious.”

“I had only to recall our last tennis match and the dirty way you played.”

As Wakeford faced the Comte’s table, while Avers sat opposite him, he kept up his furrowed brow and cross expression.

Avers raised his hands in supplication. “There was nothing illegal about my play, except your propensity to move with criminal slowness across the court.”

“If I could hit the ball like you—”

“Ah, but therein lies the rub.”

Wakeford paused, looked up at the ceiling in faux exasperation and shook his head.

“Are we to be believed?” Avers asked, when his friend’s gaze was level with his own again.

“They watch with interest,” Wakeford said, looking about the room frustratedly as though he would rather be anywhere than having this conversation with the false Duke of Tremaine. “I think, perhaps, that is enough.”

“Good. Then it is time for this argument to end.” Avers straightened the cuffs of his jacket, throwing his shoulders back and his chest out.

“Will you come with me now then? Leave them guessing.”

“Not at all—I must show myself willing to reject authority. Grow exasperated with me and leave with aplomb.”

Wakeford sighed, and this gesture was real. He had never been one for causing a scene. At school, he had been a quiet, studious character, and though he had grown in social graces, he was by no means a lover of public attention.

“This had better work,” he muttered, hands now on his hips.

“If it doesn’t—though I am confident it shall—then I draw the line at fisticuffs. If it comes to violence against my friends, then I am afraid you will have to find another way into this spy ring.”

“I might perform violence against you if you don’t stop talking,” Wakeford said peevishly. “You’re really in your element in this character, aren’t you?”

Once again, Avers examined his nails. “It is rather amusing.”

Wakeford grimaced, then suddenly throwing his hands up in the air, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the Café Procope.

Avers did not immediately scurry back to his table. Instead, he pulled his snuffbox from his pocket, flicked open the lid with one practised finger, and inhaled a pinch, staring after his vanished cousin, shaking his head. When he had made quite the show of this disconsolate attitude, he snapped the container shut, sighed, and meandered his way back to the Comte’s table, sitting down and placing the gold snuffbox before him.

“I’ve been admiring your box,” Avers said, pointing a long finger at Vergelles’ snuffbox, which still rested beneath his tapping finger. “Mother-of-pearl, is it?”

“Oui,” said the nobleman, his eyes examining and a faint pucker on his pale brow. “Merci for your compliment.”

“And do you blend your own? Can’t buy the ready-mixed stuff myself. They never get it right.”

“You are very calm considering that little fracas with your cousin,” said the Comte, raising a brow and looking meaningfully over at the door of the establishment.

“Oh Robert? He’s just in a pucker because it was supposed to be my first day at his offices and I absconded as he so crudely put it. But there is always tomorrow, and so I told him, but he did not take it well.”

“So we saw,” the Comte replied, his tone cold and his top lip curling scornfully.

“Give me an investment with high returns—or a rich noble to fleece at the tables—and I shall be there on time. But some dreary political office where I shuffle papers and have important conversations with important people? No, I thank you. I wish my cousin would keep his grandiose notions of public service to himself, and leave me to my debauchery.”

Dartois laughed.

“You will have to go at some point, though?” asked the Comte.

“Oh, yes—I suppose so,” Avers replied. “But not today.”

“Today we can drink.” Dartois raised his glass. “And if we hear of any lucrative investments or nobles to fleece, you shall be the first to know.”

A look passed between Vergelles and Dartois that was not lost on Avers, though he could not manage to decipher it.

Just at that moment, a server came to the table, bearing a pewter tray upon which rested a note. The servant tapped the Comte’s elbow nervously, almost moving out of the way, as if in anticipation of being struck, and offered the note as some kind of offering.

The Comte barely acknowledged the individual, taking the note without thanks, and flicked it open, quickly scanning the contents.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux awaits me outside.” He rose and the rest of the table followed suit. Inclining his head to his friends first, he then turned to Avers. “I wish you luck in your future endeavours,” he murmured and then, turning sharply, he was gone.

Avers felt an awful sinking feeling at the Comte’s words. There was no further invitation of engagement or acquaintance in them. He had a horrible feeling that his aim for today—to establish a rapport with the Comte, even if it was simply one of a transactional nature—had failed. There had been nothing short of asking the noble directly if he were involved in espionage that Avers could have done. The man was a cold fish and perhaps all his and Wakeford’s efforts were in vain.

“Don’t mind the Comte.” Dartois’ voice cut through Avers’ thoughts. The Frenchman stood beside him, watching after the Comte, and he slapped a hand on Avers’ shoulder. “He does not—how do you English say it? Warm to people.”

“You mean he don’t like me?” Avers put an affected hand to his chest and wore a look of mock affront. “There has never been any accounting for taste. Besides, it’s no skin off my nose, he may dislike me as much as he pleases.”

Dartois laughed, slapping Avers across the back again.

“I like you, Monsieur le Duc. You have the wit of a Parisian. I am sure we shall meet again.”

Avers bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.

“The Comte is a man of business. If I hear of any dealings that might profit you, I shall let you know.” Dartois put his hat on and touched the brim to Avers before bowing and taking his leave shortly after.

The two taciturn men followed and Avers watched them go with the faintest flicker of hope.

Perhaps his ruse would work after all.