Safe and alone.
The two gentlemen remained silent for the rest of the play—Avers lost in his thoughts and Wakeford, he supposed, absorbed by his fears.
Though Avers paid scant attention to what was transpiring on the stage, he could see that Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette’s fame was justly deserved. She played a tragedienne with so much raw emotion that even he felt moved by her melancholy speeches. He followed it well enough, despite a wandering mind, as he knew the Greek tragedy from school.
As the final scene played out, he caught sight of Mademoiselle Cadeaux rising and leaving the Comte’s box.
Avers rose, mind back on the task in hand, and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I will bid you adieu, Wakeford. My quarry has taken flight.”
Before the final lines were uttered on the stage, he disappeared silently out the back of the box, gone to hunt his prey.
CHAPTER NINE
When Avers descended the stairs into the foyer of the theatre, Mademoiselle Cadeaux was nowhere to be found.
It was the only public entrance to the building, and he’d made his way quickly there on leaving Wakeford, yet there was no sign of her. He waited a few minutes, expecting her to appear at any moment, but when she did not, fear rose in his chest. Had he missed her?
Frustration and guilt at failing his friend once again mingled with the fear. He couldn’t feign a slow exit any longer without appearing odd. Avoiding the stares of several curious servants, he left the theatre, exiting at the same time as a few older patrons who were leaving early to avoid the crush.
The cool night air hit Avers’ cheeks sharply. Whatever clouds had hung over Paris in the day had rolled back to reveal a chorus of bright shining stars and a waning moon.
Lining the streets were various carriages awaiting their owners, and several chairman leaning against their conveyances hoping for patronage when the play let out. Flambeaux lined the road directly outside the theatre doors. By the light of them, the Tremaine driver must have seen him appear, for he whipped up his horses from standing some fifty yards down the road and approached.
Avers walked a little way towards the advancing carriage, leaving the entrance to the theatre behind, the walls of the Tuileries Palace rising up beside him.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” the driver said, drawing the horses to a halt and tipping his hat. “I hope the play was enjoyable?”
“Indeed, Hendricks, though I confess—” Avers was intending to offer a falsehood to explain his early departure from the play when movement in the corner of his eye arrested his attention.
The groom, who had leapt down from the back of the Tremaine carriage, was letting down the steps. But rather than ascending them, Avers turned to observe a small door in the impressive facade of the Palace open, and a small figure slip out.
No doubt some stagehand, or perhaps a bit player, was leaving for the night. Avers was just about to turn back to his driver when he recognised the individual leaving the theatre.
Mademoiselle Cadeaux.
Avers froze, praying she would not look his way, and God answered. The Frenchwoman turned in the opposite direction, pulling the hood of her cloak up, and walking with quick steps away from the well-lit theatre.
“I confess,” Avers continued, keeping his eyes fixed on the retreating figure of Mademoiselle Cadeaux while he finished addressing his driver, “I feel the need for fresh air and stretching my legs. It’s such a clear night, I’ll walk back to the Hôtel.”
“Are you sure, Your Grace? ’Tis three miles at least and these Parisians are—”
“I’m sure,” Avers said before his servant could scaremonger him. “Off home with you.”
Wherever Mademoiselle Cadeaux ventured alone, surely Avers would be safe to follow?
Stepping back to allow the groom to fold back up the steps, he nodded briefly to the driver in farewell. “If I’m not home by dawn you may send out a search party.”
The driver did not find his master’s dry words amusing, muttering something under his breath and shaking his head, but Avers was already turning on his heel and striking out after Mademoiselle Cadeaux.
Though Avers’ legs were long and his stride fast, catching up with the woman was surprisingly difficult. For someone so petite, she moved exceedingly quick, and made swift work of the rue de Rivoli.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Avers saw no one else walking in this direction. So she was indeed alone—no companion, no protection.
For a woman to be walking the streets alone at night was unheard of. Where could she be going?
Perhaps she was walking to her own lodgings. But wouldn’t she have left the theatre in the Comte’s company if so? Or at least called a chair?
Or was her purpose something more sinister? Was Vergelles using her to meet his contact? With so much at stake for Wakeford, Avers had to find out.
At first Mademoiselle Cadeaux followed the main thoroughfare, passing carriages and carts, the life of the city not having ceased with sunset. Not once did she glance sideways. Was she purposefully avoiding attention or were these familiar sights to her?
Avers kept his distance. Fortunately, her rapid steps meant he had no fear of overtaking her. But still, without the distraction of crowds if she looked back she might recognise him.
Thankfully his valet had pressed the heavy roquelaure cloak upon him this evening, expressing his fear that the drop in temperature might otherwise trouble his master. It would do much to obscure Avers’ fine clothes and figure should Mademoiselle Cadeaux turn around. And his valet had been right—he usually was about the weather—for the clear night had brought with it a biting breeze and it nipped at Avers’ cheeks and gloved hands.
After a quarter of an hour on the same path, his quarry turned south towards the river. Before long the centre of the city revealed itself. The Seine’s wide waters stretched out ahead, reflecting the stars above and the lantern lights along its banks. Barges of cargo to feed, clothe and entertain the city dwellers flowed incessantly back and forth along the river even at this time of night, struggling to keep up with the burgeoning metropolis.
Up ahead the small figure of Mademoiselle Cadeaux wove in and out of the few other individuals still on the streets, cloaked head down, avoiding comment or contact.
Avers still had no idea where she was going. Wakeford had told him that the Comte, along with the majority of Polite Society, resided in Faubourg Saint-Germain. That was south of the river—which had appeared to be the direction they were taking—but now she had turned east. She was not going to the Comte’s residence, nor her own which Avers supposed would be near her benefactor.
The Pont Neuf rose out of the landscape ahead with its wide arches springing across the waters of the Seine. As they approached, Avers heard the street sellers who had set up shop on either side of the wide bridge’s road, trying to get their last few sales of the night before packing up.
Pulling his hat down as low as he could on his brow, and his collar up high above his chin, he hid his face and fine clothes from others. While the diamond in his lace cravat was safely hidden, his shoe buckles were exposed—he only hoped they did not draw attention by catching the light of the lanterns dotted here and there along the path.
The sight of his own kind was now a dim memory. They had disappeared almost as soon as he’d left the theatre and now those that were out were of the middling and lower sort. Avers walked as far from the sellers’ booths as he could without entering the middle of the road and risking collision with a carriage.
