“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-Française 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.”