“At least you are honest,” he said.

“I try to be,” she replied unguardedly, and then quickly turned the conversation from her. “Are you used to women lying to you?”

The Duke did not immediately answer, his eyes switching between the Austrian master and Madame Pertuis who were discussing something about the next part of the performance.

“Yes.”

There it was again—honesty. This man was a bewildering mix of irritating fool and earnest gentleman. It placed another stone in the opinion of him she was building. She had been around enough actors to discern the real from the false. This Duke was disguising who he really was behind the facade of a pleasure-seeking fool.

“I find you—déroutant.”

“Confusing? Yes,” the Duke murmured, lounging back in his chair, gazing down at their hands lying in parallel but no longer touching. “I have been told that before. I am not easily read.”

That she could whole-heartedly agree with.

“But, I might add, neither are you.” He exhaled heavily, his expression relaxing. “I shall desist from my interrogation.”

Emilie breathed a little easier and the two sat in comfortable silence until they were disturbed by the Comte de Vergelles.

His cool clipped voice came across the room. “There you are Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

An involuntary shiver ran down Emilie’s spine. There was displeasure in his tone and he hardly ever drew attention to himself in public as he had just done by speaking so loudly. She turned towards him and saw him lock eyes with her companion.

The Comte took his time walking across the room, all occupants pausing or slowing their conversation to watch his progress, until he stood before Emilie and the Duke. He leant back on one leg, displaying his clocked stocking to advantage, and was drawn up to his full height, looking down his nose at them both.

“You have been keeping my companion company?” the Comte asked, cold eyes on the Duke and one dark brow raised.

“I have,” Tremaine answered, unruffled.

Either he could not read the Comte’s obvious displeasure or he was wilfully ignoring it.

“And how were the tables? Did fortune smile her radiant face upon you, my Lord?”

“She did—and now I am well-satisfied, and desiring Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s company.”

He had come to stand beside her and Emilie felt his cold hand descend upon her bare shoulder. The touch was light at first, but soon his fingers closed around her, the tips pressing into her skin.

“I have been missing your company,” he murmured.

The Duke continued to lounge in his chair, smiling up at the Comte. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux and I have been enjoying an excellent conversation.”

The English noble’s affable tone seemed to irritate the Comte further.

“And what have you found to talk about?”

Emilie’s blood ran cold. The Comte’s fingertips began to pinch at her pale skin. The weight of his hand grew suffocating. Her stomach dropped. The way Vergelles was behaving—it was as if he had heard everything they had said.

Had he?

No, surely not. How could he have done so? She was imagining it. At least that was what she hoped, because once again she remembered the bruises on her arm and exactly what angering the Comte de Vergelles could lead to…

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Avers had felt guilty on leaving Madame Pertuis’ musical salon. The Comte had clearly been displeased with the Englishman speaking with his mistress. Yet again, he’d become distracted by the intriguing Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and his focus on Wakeford’s mission had wavered.

Thankfully, the incident did not affect the invitation Dartois had issued on the Champs-Élysées. Avers received a missive reminding him of the appointment and its location shortly before it was due to take place and thus, ten days after the Austrian master’s performance at the salon, he was journeying to the Café Procope.

The establishment was just as he had left it over a week since, filled with pipe smoke, humming with conversation and warm with the candlelight that supplemented the daylight in the areas towards the back. The mirrors which lined the walls reflected the patrons, giving a false sense of the crowds, creating an atmosphere teeming with energy.

Avers walked through the melee towards where he could see the Comte, Dartois and two men he recognised from last time, sitting at the same table they had occupied before. Snippets of conversation found him on his way. One table discussed taxes, another the price of bread, another the King’s latest rulings, and yet another the Queen’s latest whim of living like a peasant.

It was a political and philosophical melting pot. One argued this way and the other opposed. It was the atmosphere Avers had expected to find at Madame Pertuis’ salon on his first attendance. True, there had been discussions, but none like the zealous debate currently taking place at the Procope where untitled voices engaged with the nobility at equal volume and authority.Rolling his shoulders back as he approached the Comte’s table, Avers took a deep breath, wrapping the facade of the Duke of Tremaine around himself.

“Bonjour mes amis.” Avers made a leg and bowed low to the gentlemen. As he rose, he observed there was no spare chair for him.

No man at the table made a move to rectify the matter.

“Bonjour,” said the Comte without deigning to look at the newcomer.

The others in the party followed suit and as they greeted Avers, Dartois signalled the waiter, murmuring something in the server’s ear.

The man soon returned with a pewter platter bearing a tankard brimming with liquid.

Dartois grinned. “I thought you would be happier with your country’s drink—warm beer for Your Grace.”

Something in the Marquis’ eyes made Avers suspect the gesture was mocking. He looked at the table, scattered with open bottles of wine and half-drunk glasses, and back at the lack of chair.

“I think, today, I am in the mood for your country’s brandy.” He turned to the waiter and ordered the said drink along with a pot of coffee. He also requested a chair be brought and implied a fair tip should this be done with all speed.

The server nodded vigorously and hurried off. In less than a minute Avers was presented with a chair which he took in exchange for a silver coin.

“It seems nonsensical,” he said, taking his chair, “to sit in a coffee house without the title drink.”

“As you say.” The Comte’s countenance was as implacable as ever and still he would not do Avers the courtesy of looking at him. Instead he was now examining his nails.

“Our English friend is determined to appear the rebel,” Dartois said, smiling in that disarming way of his, a gleam in his eye. The Marquis was as warm as the Comte appeared cold. “Very sensible, and that is just the sort of man we should wish to do business with, is it not Vergelles?”

The Comte neither answered nor nodded.

“Speaking of which, would you be so kind as to expand on the opportunity of which you spoke?” Avers spread his arm wide, still attempting to catch the Comte’s eye.

How was he to find out the truth about the man’s leadership in this spy ring if he continued to evade him? No wonder Wakeford’s men had struggled to find the evidence they needed.

“Our English friend is keen, n’est pas?” Dartois chuckled. “Did I not tell you Vergelles?”

“He certainly seemed so when speaking to Mademoiselle Cadeaux at the salon last week,” said the Comte, apparently fascinated by the embroidery on his right cuff.