“He is not a devil,” Mademoiselle Cadeaux snapped. “He did not draw blood. He only wished to play and the owner was entirely too sensitive. His monkey threw a piece of fruit at Lutin. How else would he react but to try and catch it in his mouth?”

“Le petit diable,” Avers murmured, crouching down and reaching towards the canine in question.

Dartois chuckled and gave a wry smile. “You risk your limbs.”

“No, don’t—” Mademoiselle Cadeaux protested.

Avers ignored both, and Lutin, in response to the human offering him succour, trotted merrily forwards and presented his ears to be scratched.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux cursed under her breath. When Avers looked up in response, she pursed her lips, and abruptly turned to face Dartois.

“You see, my Lord,” she said. “I told you before, my Lutin is a good Lutin, not a bad one.”

“A bad one?” Avers said, ceasing the ear-scratches, to the chagrin of Lutin, and rising to join the humans again. “Surely not—merely spirited.”

“Yes, that’s—” Mademoiselle Cadeaux broke off when she realised she was agreeing with him, then carried on a little less forcefully. “That’s what I keep trying to explain to Dartois, but he will not listen.”

“The evil imp can sense that there is room for only one devil in charge and when I am around, it is me,” Dartois said, bowing mockingly and then sniffing at the little dog in question.

“A devil, eh?” said Avers.

Dartois shrugged. “So some have said.”

He grinned in that disarming way of his and Avers believed him the last man who could ever be compared to such a creature.

“Now, to answer your question, I am instructed to entertain Mademoiselle Cadeaux until the Comte is finished with his business.”

“The Comte de Vergelles is a busy man.”

“When opportunity arises. And there are opportunities aplenty at present.”

Avers was just wondering whether to push his luck and offer an obvious overture, when Dartois spoke again.

“You’ve mentioned your interest in business opportunities—perhaps the Comte’s interests may align with yours. Why don’t you come to the Café Procope a week Thursday? I know he’ll be meeting with several of his associates then and may have something to tempt you.”

“Dartois,” Mademoiselle Cadeaux interjected, “I am sure His Grace would rather find a gaming table than a business opportunity while he is here in Paris.”

Interesting. Had she really bought into Avers’ persona of a wastrel aristocrat, or was she trying to keep him away from her master?

“I’m interested in both,” he said, hedging his bets. “Amusement is a necessity, but so is lining one’s pockets, and if business is the means, then so be it.”

“There, you see? His Grace is interested, and he will come a week on Thursday.” Dartois took Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s hand onto his arm again and began to move off. “Adieu, Your Grace. Until next time.”

Avers tipped his hat to the couple. A most productive morning. He had ruled out any connection between Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s late night visits to the Île de la Cité and the stolen papers, and been offered a way into the Comte’s circle by Dartois.

He was just about to move off when a commotion broke out to his left and he turned to see the wispy-haired Lutin trotting towards him, his red leather lead trailing on the floor behind.

“Lutin, no! You little devil!” Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s cry sounded above the crowds that separated her from her pet.

Making a rapid decision, Avers stepped to the right as Lutin ran past him, his foot descending squarely on the trailing lead, and the dog jerked to an unceremonious stop. His quarry caught, Avers bent down in a leisurely fashion to take up the lead firmly in his hand.

As he did so, the dog made use of the sudden slack, and darted towards his target—a biscuit lying on the floor to the left of Avers’ feet where Mademoiselle Cadeaux had lately been standing.

His mistress caught up with him just as Lutin crunched the biscuit and swallowed it nearly whole. “Pardon, Your Grace. I must have dropped the treat by accident. The little terror took his first opportunity to escape.”

“Not at all.” Avers inclined his head and handed the lead over to her. “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

“It is not the first time you have aided me with my petit diable, and for that I am thankful.”

Avers was taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. Was this the same woman who had rebuffed him more than once?

“He does not see, like I do, the dangers all around him,” she continued. “It would be the same if you did not realise the world is much bigger and nastier than you first thought. That you might be taken… taken advantage of…”

Mademoiselle Cadeaux trailed off and it was obvious to Avers she was not talking about the mischievous Lutin at all.

She held his gaze rather than avoided it, and Avers realised just how dark and deep those eyes of hers were. A man could get lost in them. He wasn’t sure he understood the woman who stood before him at all. He had thought he did—that she was a hard-nosed mistress—but she had travelled alone through dangerous streets to give to the poor and now she was… warning him.

Dartois was approaching behind her and when she saw Avers’ gaze flick over her shoulder, she gathered up Lutin’s lead and made to leave.

“Bonjour,” she said, turning on her heel, and meeting her escort while he was still a way off.

Avers stared after her, only breaking his reverie to return Dartois’ wave before the couple went on their way. Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s words echoed in his mind,

The world is much bigger and nastier than you first thought. That you might be taken advantage of…

As he dwelt on her words, Avers deduced two things. One was that Mademoiselle Cadeaux had not dropped that biscuit by accident. The other, that she had been warning him.

But of what? And why would she do such a thing?

Her attempt to deter him was in vain. All she had done was confirm that Avers was pursuing the right lead with the Comte. She truly believed he was some gullible nobleman of whom the Comte and his allies might take advantage. And so he would be.

Avers would allow the snare to close in around him until it looked as though they had caught themselves a plump bit of game, and then he and Wakeford would turn the tables, and the Comte would become the prey. The game was afoot.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emilie was watching Lucien polish the engraved silver barrel of a duelling pistol. She had been sat on the other side of his desk for nearly an hour with hardly a word from the Comte. But she was not here for conversation.

She was required to be here in payment for her walking Lutin that morning. It did not matter that the Comte had been otherwise engaged, only that she had not been ready and waiting for his summons when he sent for her. Her plans, her needs, her desires—they did not figure in Vergelles’ mind, let alone his schemes.

As far as he was concerned, he paid for her undivided attention, and she had not given it. Therefore, she would pay the time back now, sitting here with him, responding when spoken to, and aside from that, maintaining silence, watching him attend to his deadly instruments.

She wondered, briefly, if he was doing this activity in front of her on purpose. The guns had looked freshly cleaned and oiled when he’d taken them out of their case. But the way he caressed those pistols, and the heavy stares he threw her way between polishes, were as good as telling her that within his hand resided the power—not hers.

Her mind flitted to Lutin who she’d left at her residence. The Comte did not allow the stray into his Hôtel, and she felt the loss of her petite companion acutely.

“Am I boring you?”