CHAPTER SIX
Perhaps he had been too forceful, Avers mused as he watched Mademoiselle Cadeaux walking away. Her purposeful glide brought her petite figure swiftly to a set of shallow steps. With her little white dog trotting faithfully at her side, she descended them onto one of the paths that led to the main thoroughfare, and before long she was lost in the promenaders.
Avers stayed where he was. Unfortunately, he was heading to the same destination as Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He considered whether it was wise to go to the café given that it would appear very much like he was following her, but Wakeford was counting on him, and he needed to get there on time.
He would wait five minutes and then follow. While he waited, he might gather his thoughts, for although his mind was focused on the mission, the unplanned meeting with Mademoiselle Cadeaux had thrown up unexpectedly strong feelings.
She had not been what he had supposed. She had walked with poise, her chin high and her face ever forward, and she had spoken with confidence. Not like the mistresses Avers had come across before. No coquettishness towards him, no pining for her lover, no play-acting the courtesan.
Mademoiselle Cadeaux had even appeared offended when he had acknowledged her position as the Comte’s mistress. What an irony—to be offended by the truth—for that is what she was: a mistress. A woman who traded her beauty and company for money and position.
The very idea of it made his stomach clench. She was just like Miss Curshaw— when she had broken his heart. A woman who used her wiles to benefit from a man’s fortune. That was the fate of all who married. To be at the mercy of someone who cared nothing for the most valuable object they possessed—their heart.
No.
No, that was not always true. There were exceptions, such as Lord and Lady Worth who had recently married. Theirs had been a meeting of the minds. But that was the exception not the rule in Avers’ experience.
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.
