Despite not knowing Mademoiselle Cadeaux from Eve, she had provoked such visceral emotions in him, that his usual finesse had been overridden. That made him cross, and when he had lost his temper, he had also lost his subtlety and discretion. He had wanted to call her out for what she was choosing to do—to use another for her own gain.
Avers pushed back once more at the bitter feelings and the strong emotions which came again and again like waves crashing over him. He needed to get a hold of himself. But Mademoiselle Cadeaux was like Miss Curshaw. She no doubt schemed for her position, spun falsehoods and promises until she caught the Comte in her web, discarding all lesser prizes.
And that’s what Avers was—a lesser prize.
The third son of the Duke of Mountefield, with no hopes of succeeding to the Dukedom or the vast, if beleaguered, estates attached to the title. No, that would all go to William, the eldest son by the Duke’s first marriage. Avers enjoyed only a modest income from a small property inherited from his mother—the Duke’s second wife—along with the barony he laid claim to from his maternal line.
Yet, all those months ago Avers had been fool enough to believe material things were of no consequence where love was concerned. That love which was earnest and true would weather any difficulty in life and lack of fortune, even the onset of age and the loss of beauty. Wasn’t that the hope? The desire?
Drawing himself out of these maudlin reveries he headed after Mademoiselle Cadeaux and towards the Café Procope.
Avers had come to Paris for a distraction—for something to do while his heart healed— and he intended to fulfil his mission.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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.
