Ah, so that was it. The Comte was peeved at Avers’ attention to Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He would have to smooth things over.

The Comte’s pale eyes flicked up to lock their gaze with Avers. “She said you asked about me.”

Cold fear rose up and began to wrap its fingers around his chest. All thoughts of Wakeford’s mission disappeared as he realised with dread the position he had put Mademoiselle Cadeaux in. There was no way she had offered that information to the Comte willingly.

He shrugged, the action less casual than he had meant it to be, the tension failing to leave his body. He was just constructing a suitable answer to the Comte which might alleviate the pressure of the situation when the server returned with Avers’ glass of brandy and pot of coffee.

The wiry man placed them before him and then began to clear some of the empty bottles from the table. As he leant across for the second such bottle, the servant inadvertently caught the Comte’s shoulder, nudging the man forward.

“Pardon.”

“Cursed dog!” Vergelles snarled, ignoring the apology and slamming the glass of wine he had nearly spilled onto the table. Drops of blood-red liquid sloshed over its rim, trickling down the stem and leaching into the linens.

The Comte ignored the mess, turning quickly and clipping the unfortunate servant around the ears. He swore again, and the poor server visibly shrunk before him, one hand clutching an empty bottle, the other reaching up to his forelock to tug it and bow away from the table in abject apology.

Avers said nothing, masking the distaste that was begging to be shown on his face, and relieved when the servant scurried away before further mistreatment. He had always believed you could tell a lot about a man from the way he treated his servants. What the Comte had just shown him was revealing indeed, and Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s warnings came loudly to the front of Avers’ mind.

He focused on pouring out his coffee. While he might drink alongside these men so as not to arouse suspicion, he would temper it with coffee to stay as clear-headed as possible.

“You teased me with an investment opportunity,” said Avers, breaking the awkward silence that had descended on the table. The one good thing about that interruption was that it had taken the Comte’s attention away from Mademoiselle Cadeaux. Avers intended to keep it that way.

“I would be very much obliged if you would satisfy my curiosity on the subject. Or are we to keep sharing superficial conversation? If you have nothing for me, I have an opportunity to game this afternoon which I may still take up if I leave now. This political hotbed is not exactly my scene.”

He motioned at the animated debates surrounding them, and as if on cue, an argument broke out at an adjacent table and a pot of coffee was knocked over when the opponents began gesturing angrily at one another.

The Comte, who had pulled out a lace handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the non-existent spilled wine from his hands, finished dabbing his long white fingers and carefully polished nails. He then looked up at his guest and raised a single brow.

“You do not care for politics—even after your recent appointment?”

Avers felt the coolness of that gaze. “Hardly.”

“Bien.” The Comte reached for his glass, taking a sip and maintaining the impassive expression on his chiselled face. “The cunning man makes money from politics—he does not get involved in them.”

“Spoken like a man who knows his business,” said Avers. “I have not been lured here for no account then?”

“Lured?” Dartois shot him a penetrating look, a half-smile on his face. “You make us sound positively… criminal.”

Avers took refuge in a long sip of hot coffee, unsure of the best response, finally settling on one as he replaced the cup on the table. “That’s hardly my business, is it?”

Dartois chuckled. “Touché.”

“Are we to bandy words or do business?” Avers pressed his fingernails into the palm of his right hand in an effort to keep his nerve.

“Patience,” the Comte snapped. “We do not go into business with just anyone.” Then he fell silent, and it appeared as though he didn’t intend to say anything further.

Another awkward silence descended upon the table, the antithesis to the room around them, until finally the Comte spoke again.

“However, Dartois believes our business may suit you.”

“Oh yes? And what business is that?”

He was already halfway through his coffee and soon only the brandy would be left to drink. He eyed the bulbous glass.

Dartois gestured to the undrunk beverage. “It’s good.”

Avers glanced up to see the fair-haired gentleman watching him, and realised just how sharp Dartois was.

“Marcel stocks an excellent cellar. Ever since we bade him to—isn’t that right, Lucien?”

The Comte inclined his head, a small sneer curving his lips, allowing just the tips of his teeth to show.

Dartois leaned in towards Avers and smiled as if sharing a joke. “We were most persuasive.” The Marquis’ eyes caught the light of the candles behind Avers’ shoulder and glittered disconcertingly. There was something unreadable in them— calculating—and it made Avers feel as though he were some deer wandering into a snare. Perhaps Mademoiselle Cadeaux was right.

Despite his misgivings, Avers pressed on for Wakeford’s sake. “The business?”

The Comte made a signal and the majority of the table rose. Avers cocked his head, raising a single brow in enquiry as the rest of the party reseated themselves at a distance, leaving Vergelles, Dartois and him with an empty table between them and the rest of the bustling café.

“Before we go on,” the Comte said, leaning forward just a little, his face a tightly schooled mask of impassivity, “I must state one thing categorically. Mademoiselle Cadeaux is mine.” His voice was hard as flint. “I have seen you singling her out, and I will give you a courtesy that few receive—I will warn you this once not to touch her.”

Avers was fairly certain that the Comte was not speaking aloud the rest of his thoughts which were definitely along the lines of ‘or I will…’ and ending in something violent. His mind once again ran over all the possibilities of what had happened after Madame Pertuis’ last salon. How long had it been since he’d seen Mademoiselle Cadeaux last—ten days? The apprehension grew in his stomach.

“Singled her out?” Avers played for time as he constructed the most placating answer he could think of. “That was not my intention. I must offer my sincerest apologies if that is how it appeared. I, of course, recognise her… relationship to you. Truth be told I was in love with a female in Italy recently and it did not end well. I have no intention of foraying into those waters again any time soon.”

But neither had he intended any ill-consequences to befall Mademoiselle Cadeaux as a result of his actions.

“I heard you were lately in Greece,” said the Comte, a query in his tone.

Dartois grinned, as if this were all some game and there wasn’t a seriousness to what was going on. “And yet our English Duke speaks of Italy, a cock pit and now tales of this Italian woman of his. You get around, Your Grace.”

Avers winced inwardly at the wound Dartois had pressed. Miss Curshaw was certainly not Avers’ woman and not in Italy. She had not been his woman when he’d left London and she was even less so now. When he thought about it, he no longer felt the acute pain of her betrayal—but rather a general sadness about what had occurred.

No. Miss Curshaw was not Avers’ woman. And this was the first time he could say with absolute certainty, he no longer wished her to be.

“That is true.” Avers pulled his thoughts back to the Marquis’ words. They appeared to know a lot about him. “I had been in the Mediterranean for some years before my recent return.”

“And why did you return? I heard you were a fully fledged scholar living out your dreams among the ruins of the ancients.”

“You seem well-versed in my history.”

“You are interested in the Greeks. I am interested in my potential business partners,” replied the Comte without emotion.

“My father died.”

“And the prodigal son returned even though Society expected him to live out the rest of his days overseas. The servants in your household hadn’t seen you for five years at least.”

“I see I have a spy in my servants’ hall. If you would be so good as to tell me which one you paid off, I will have them out on their ears without a reference this afternoon.”

“A little compassion.” Dartois chuckled. “They could hardly turn down five sous.”