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.”
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.
