“Not for Mademoiselle Cadeaux.” The Comte raised a hand to stop Dartois pouring a third glass. “She will excuse us while we discuss business.”
Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, Emilie rose at the summary dismissal. “Of course.”
“Always a shame to be deprived of your company, fair Mademoiselle. Did you tell Monsieur le Comte of our encounter with our new English friend on the Champs-Élysées?”
Her tension grew unbearable. She had no doubt Vergelles’ possessiveness earlier would be exacerbated by news of her encounter with the English Duke.
“I’ve invited him to the Café Procope on Thursday week, Lucien. I trust you’ll be amenable to our enlarged party?”
The Comte ignored Dartois’ question, hard eyes darting to Emilie. “He takes an interest in you?”
“Her little scoundrel of a dog does,” Dartois answered, seemingly oblivious to the tension rolling off his friend and directed at her. “He has no loyalty, running off to make friends with an Englishman while he tries to maim me—ought I to be offended, Mademoiselle?”
Emilie shrugged, looking as nonchalantly as she could into Dartois’ eyes, which gleamed back at her.
“He would be better returning to his own country,” hissed the Comte.
And leaving Emilie well alone—that was what he meant.
If the arrogant Duke paid attention to her warnings, she expected the Comte would receive his desire.
“I will leave you gentlemen to your discussions.”
“Bien.” The Comte’s eyes were back on the pistols in his hand and the polishing cloth working across the barrel again.
She curtseyed to Dartois, who dropped a kiss on the back of her hand, and left the room.
As soon as she was in the hall she leant against the wall beside the door, finally feeling able to breathe again. After a moment, she looked around for a footman to fetch her cloak and hat and was about to move to the bell rope when a snatch of conversation caught her attention from the door she’d failed to properly close.
“Tremaine has agreed to attend the Café next week…”
She pressed back tightly against the wall, cocking her head to listen.
“Is his access worth the risk?”
“It isn’t just access,” Dartois said, his accents far more languid and playful than his counterpart. “His need for capital is a little… too easy—but that does not preclude the errant Duke from being useful to us.”
“Useful? The man’s a fool.”
“Fools have their uses.” Dartois yawned loudly, and Emilie wondered exactly what affect this action had on the Comte. She could imagine the look of displeasure.
“Very well.”
That was surprising. She hadn’t heard the Comte give up so easily before… or ever.
“We can always do with more friends, don’t you think?” Dartois asked. “Though, even friends must be tested to find if they are worthy of our trust.”
At that moment a door down the hall opened and Emilie almost yelped in surprise. She flattened her back to the wall, narrowly missing a sconce. The servant was carrying a basket of coal, preparing the fires for the evening, and headed across the hall to the drawing room.
Emilie didn’t move a muscle.
The servant entered the drawing room and shut the door behind them, unaware that they had been observed.
She thanked God.
Glancing at the study door beside her, she considered her options. Should she quit the Comte’s residence now or risk a little longer?
She had warned the Duke of Tremaine off the Comte’s acquaintance. She didn’t owe him anything more. She hadn’t even owed him that. But she had seen the Comte’s temper and had heard the rumours that his wealth stemmed from illicit sources. It was not her business. The Comte had made that clear. A woman, for him, was for pleasure. Not brain, nor sense, nor companionship.
So Emilie never asked Lucien about the origin of his wealth. But his fortune was vast enough for him to have risen from the middling ranks of society upwards until he could purchase a title and establish himself in the French ton.
Outwardly he appeared to have taken advantage of the trade between his home country and England, playing the levies of the English government for his gain, but he’d seen far more success than others. It so far exceeded them that questions had been asked and continued to swirl around the Comte de Vergelles.
The last man who’d been foolish enough to mention his lack of breeding had been faced with one of those duelling pistols the Comte had been polishing this afternoon.
The English Duke had no idea who he was dealing with—but Emilie did. She was already tangled in the Comte’s web and she did not wish for anyone else to be ensnared. She remained where she was.
“Tell me how you intend to test our new friend,” said the Comte, “but first, shut that cursed door, will you? The chit left it open and there’s a draft about my ankles.”
Cold dread flooded Emilie’s chest. She darted across the hall, padding on the balls of her feet, hoping to make it to the drawing room door before she was seen. She could hide in there under the pretence of fetching the servant to get her cloak and hat.
Just before she made it, a prickling sensation ran down her spine, from her hairline to her lower back.
With icy dread, she halted, and turning silently, she saw Dartois standing in the half-open door. His body blocked her from the Comte’s sight, and he was watching her with a half-smile on his full mouth and a gleam in his eyes.
“Has she gone home?” asked Dartois, keeping his eyes on hers.
She could swear her heartbeat was audible. Breath came fast and shallow and she wondered if she might faint.
