Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Author’s Note

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CHAPTER ONE

Paris, France 1776

Avers moved through the candlelight of Madame Pertuis’ salon, the warm glow catching on the silver of his suit’s embroidery and the diamonds at his throat. Ostentatious rococo mouldings and gilt furniture, designed to awe visitors, did not attract a second glance from him. Conversation hummed throughout the rooms—snippets of French, Italian and English catching his ear.

The Hôtel du Champions and its famous hostess attracted everyone of consequence in Parisian Society. Avers had secured his invitation after barely a week in the French capital thanks to his friend Wakeford. Now he was here, mingling with those who wished to discuss the latest writings of Marie-Emilie Maryon de Montanclos, and of course those who did not come for philosophy at all, but rather to discover the latest on dit. For those who held a penchant for neither of these activities, several gaming tables were set up in an adjacent room, many already in use.

“Bonsoir, Your Grace. How fortunate we are to have you with us this evening.”

Avers paused before his hostess. She had used his assumed title. Good. His fake identity was working. Leaning back on one leg and allowing the other, with its beautifully clocked stocking, to be displayed to full advantage, he met the gaze of his salonnière.

“Madame Pertuis, I am the fortunate one. I can only beg forgiveness for missing the meal. I was at a game that could not be stopped.”

“Ah, the cards,” replied the handsome woman, chiding him as she would a child. “All men are the same.”

“Alas, so we are, and I thank you for your gracious mercy in allowing me to attend all the later. I had not expected such a warm reception here in Paris.” Avers examined the beautifully embroidered cuffs of his sapphire-blue suit. “Clearly news of my exploits in Italy have yet to reach your fine ears.”

They had an audience.

A coterie of ladies on a nearby collection of brocade sofas had ceased their discourse in favour of watching the new arrival speaking to their host. Avers could not have hoped for a better opportunity to lay out the part he was to play.

He bowed low over Madame Pertuis’ hand and, rather than kissing the air above, dared to lay a brief kiss upon the back of her glove, before rising and allowing the most provoking smile to curve his lips.

“I heard you were a lover, Your Grace,” Madame Pertuis said, an answering smile playing about her mouth.

Avers surveyed his hostess, her blue eyes making him realise the talk of Madame Pertuis’ beauty was not exaggerated. She had been the rage of Paris in her time.

But he was not here to admire beauty. Nor was he here to be a lover as his hostess termed it. His recent foray into that domain had left its mark and those wounds ran deep. When Wakeford had asked for his help urgently in France, it had been a blessing. Avers had left London and her behind.

“But I should warn you,” she carried on, the smile still present, “I have a jealous husband.”

The women behind them, who had been shamelessly listening in, began to titter at their hostess’ words. Avers inclined his head in submission.

“I should not, for a moment, wish to come between you.”

“You will join us? Or a drink perhaps?” Madame Pertuis asked, raising a hand to beckon a waiting footman. The golden thread in her dress sparkled as she moved, the brilliance of her dress adding to the radiant candlelight glowing from every surface and fixture in the room.

“A burgundy, please,” he answered, directing his gaze towards the footman who bowed and disappeared to procure the drink.

Avers’ hostess led him over to a vacant chair within the cluster of women who had been observing them. The few gentlemen present, standing behind the ladies, looked somewhat peeved by his being given primary position.

“May I present His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine—”

“Good evening,” Avers said, bowing to each lady in turn as Madame Pertuis spoke their names.

Introductions completed, his hostess inclined her head and told the gathering she must go and check on her other guests. Avers felt all eyes on him as he took his seat. There was a brief pause, and feeling some expectation upon him to lead a conversation, he was just taking a breath to begin when one of the ladies spoke.

“And what brings you to Paris?” The woman had been introduced as the wife of a much older gentleman standing behind them. She was fair, pretty, and the heart-shaped patch at the corner of her mouth quirked upwards as she smiled coquettishly at Avers.

He readied his well-rehearsed answer and engaged his audience with a sweeping look. And so the falsehoods began.

Emilie Cadeaux feigned interest in the Marquis de Dartois’ conversation. The gentleman—in his early thirties and a close friend of her main admirer—had been telling her about the latest salon at the Académie Royale.

In truth, she would rather be at home right now, not at Madame Pertuis’ fashionable gathering. The Comte de Vergelles had requested her presence here tonight, and a woman who relied on the admiration and gifts of others did not disobey their wishes. Even if the Comte had yet to appear this evening.

Vergelles had sent his friend on ahead to entertain Emilie, but the poor man did no such thing. Not that she would ever tell the Marquis that. He was always so attentive.

“It was very tall,” Dartois said, describing the sculpture he had seen earlier that day, “and wide.” He stretched out his arms and one limb came a little too close to the bundle of white wispy hair curled up on Emilie’s lap.