“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!”
