“Oh, yes. Title ground into the dirt and not a penny to the family name. You see, I, like you, have pulled myself up from the muck heap to make a way for myself.”
Emilie said nothing, nodding to show she was listening and to avoid censure, but all the while thinking how wrong Dartois was.
He was not like her.
Money he may not have had, but title, connections, and the ease of being born a man were all cards he had to play. What had made the Comte’s threat to send her back to the gutter so utterly terrifying was that his words were true.
Emilie Cadeaux was nothing.
She had been born in a Parisian tavern to a sad mother and an uncaring father. As she’d grown older she’d blamed her mother less for her lack of affection. The woman had been one to whom life had been unkind and a broken thing found it so much harder to love others. At least, that was what Emilie told herself, to ease the pain. When Emilie’s father had died, ten years ago now, her mother had left her, unable to care for a child she saw more as a burden than a blessing. She was probably still out there somewhere, eking out an existence as Emilie had done—until Monsieur Claude had found her singing in the tavern one night.
It kept the men from harassing her—singing to them—so she’d done it once several tankards had been sunk to keep them happy and stop them fighting. Monsieur Claude had been visiting and later Emilie learned it was to listen to her. He’d heard of an adolescent girl with a fine voice and a pretty figure. In Emilie, he had recognised an opportunity, and in Monsieur Claude, Emilie had seen a way out.
It was thanks to him she had found her way onto the stage. Initially it had been small parts, but soon her beguiling voice and her beauty had propelled her onto the centre of the boards.
“You, I think,” said Dartois, breaking into her memories like an unwelcome visitor, “are like me. You will not allow yourself to be a victim of life. I have watched you, Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and I have admired you.”
The hairs on the back of Emilie’s neck prickled. First his unnerving gaze and that kiss of the air outside the Comte’s study, and now he spoke of admiring her.
“Tell me,” Dartois said, “Will you be happy as Vergelles’ prize—always to sit quietly and observe—or do you desire something more for yourself?”
“More?” Emilie repeated, wary of answering his question.
Trying to keep the Comte sweet had only pulled her further into his clutches and now it felt as though Dartois was playing his own game.
“Come now, I have already told you I know you have far more wit and far more intelligence than you display. I know your kind—we are kindred spirits—never satisfied with what life has dealt. I can offer you more.”
Emilie already had one offer she was desperately trying to get out of—she did not need another.
“And will you tell me, without your riddles, exactly what you are offering? I am sure the Comte would be most interested.”
She would not give in either to Vergelles or Dartois.
Emilie would not allow life to dictate her circumstances, she would not be a victim of fate as her mother had been. She must keep on the right side of the Comte until she could find a way out of this coil, and she must keep Dartois at arm’s length.
The Marquis did not immediately answer, chewing his last piece of bread meditatively, and leaning back in his chair, eyes still fast upon her. Emilie did her best to appear calm, slowly sipping her cold soup, and smiling at various persons around the table as she caught their eyes.
“You are not ready yet—I see that now. Disappointing,” he said at length, before leaning in to her again. “You need time to consider your options. I will wait. When you are ready, you may come to me and I shall offer you a new opportunity far more interesting, far more lucrative, than the Comte de Vergelles’.”
“And what does loyalty to a friend say to the matter? Your relationship with the Comte bears no weight with you?”
“You mean to ask, am I afraid of him?” Dartois smiled, but there was something menacing about the way his lips pulled thin and tight over his teeth, and his eyes narrowed. “No, Mademoiselle Cadeaux, I am not afraid of the Comte. Nor am I friends with him.” The cold words were offered in a strangely jovial voice. “He is useful.”
“Useful?”
“I have uses for many people. Like the Duke of Tremaine—you heard me speak of it when you stood outside the Comte’s study?”
Emilie knew she was standing on a fine line and must navigate it with poise and care, for the Marquis had just allowed her an opportunity to ask the question which had been begging in her mind since that day. “And if I said I did, would you tell me for what use you are entertaining the English Duke?”
Dartois’ eyes gleamed and he smiled at her appreciatively. “There, you see. I knew my measure of you was correct. You smell the opportunity, do you not? You seek far more than a mistress’ position. But”—he held up a pale hand—“I cannot give away all my secrets at once, Mademoiselle Cadeaux. If you will not give me an answer to my offer, I shall not tell you what I intend for your friend the Duke.”
Her friend. He’d enunciated those words, and his eyes were intent upon her face. Something about Dartois’ stare, and the way he was speaking, made the hairs rise on the back of Emilie’s neck. She sensed danger, even if she could not define it, and it was not clear to her where she could tread safely with her words.
“Very well.” She sighed, toying with a fork on the table and looking about as if for better entertainment. “It was only a passing interest. I shall be quite content not knowing.”
Emilie wondered if he would argue, but she refused to look at him. She wished to evade this sudden and intense interest of his.
To her relief, Dartois did not battle her. Instead he dropped the matter entirely and transformed back into his normal self—laughing, joking and flirting. The speed with which he did so and the skill with which he closed the doors on those hidden depths of his was disconcerting. As quickly as he had changed from the Comte’s loyal and pleasure-seeking friend to a dark and ominous figure, he reversed the transformation.
Emilie did not question it. Taking his lead, she fell back into her role as the young and beautiful retired actress, potential companion to the Comte, Dartois’ friend. Except… he wasn’t the Comte’s friend. Neither was he acting as Emilie’s chaperone on behalf of Vergelles. Dartois was an unknown.
Emilie had thought she had the measure of him months ago. As such she had let her guard down around him—far friendlier towards her than the Comte had ever been—but now it turned out she had been growing close to a snake. One who was venomous and whom she had a feeling could inflict a nasty bite.
Yet Dartois posed her no immediate threat. He was offering her… she hardly knew what… but she was certain it was illicit. It had to be if it was connected to the Comte’s business dealings. But while Emilie was at present safe from the Marquis, the same could not be said for the Duke of Tremaine. Dartois and the Comte clearly had designs on the English noble, and after this conversation with the Marquis, she was sure those plans weren’t good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Avers watched Vergelles leave his mistress for the lure of chance in the adjacent room. Dartois also disappeared, either to the tables or cornered by Madame Pertuis and forced to listen to her latest philanthropic endeavours. This left Avers free to approach Mademoiselle Cadeaux.
“We are thrown together once again.” He bowed to the lady in question.
This salon was focusing on music, and they were currently enjoying a break between violin pieces played by an Austrian master staying in the Pertuis’ household.
“The Comte is at the tables if you wish to find him.”
“Thank you for your directions—but do you wish to get rid of me as quickly as I have arrived at your side?”
“I assumed,” she said without pause, “that you wished for the Comte’s company as you regularly do—and not that of his mistress.”
Avers frowned, and made a faux pained expression, sucking in air as though he’d been dealt a blow. “I am impaled upon your wit, Mademoiselle. Yet,” he lowered his voice, “I could have sworn the last time we met, you were warning me away from acquaintance with your… benefactor.”
This was not why he was here this evening. He knew he should go in search of the Comte and continue his mission for Wakeford, but this woman, with her contrariness, attracted him. He could not figure out the puzzle she presented.
“Nonsense,” she said, smoothing her skirts with one hand and gently fanning herself against the heat of the room. It was increasing as conversation broke out across the gathering. “Why should I do such a thing?”
Avers realised from her eyes flicking back and forth that she was taking note of who sat near enough to overhear their conversation. That was the action of someone in fear.
Avers lowered his voice further. “Exactly my thoughts. Why would the mistress of the Comte de Vergelles be sending me secret messages.”
“What an imagination Your Grace has,” she whispered back at him, wafting her fan in his direction as if he were a pesky fly she wished to shoo off.
Her words were firmly spoken, but belied the unease in her dark eyes.
“True—very true—but in this case, I think not.”
She glanced at the other guests in the room, across to the walls on all sides with their gilt and paintings, and finally to the door that led through to the gaming rooms. Was she checking on the whereabouts of the Comte? Or was she viewing the walls of her prison?
