Dartois’ mouth curved and then he pouted his lips in a kissing motion at her.
“I neither know nor care,” the Comte hissed. “She tires me with her failure to accept my offer. Forget her—tell me your plan for Tremaine.”
The Marquis finally drew the door to a close, all the while watching Emilie, clicking it shut and leaving her frozen in her place.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
During her sedan chair journey home, fear crowded in on Emilie’s mind. Not only was she worrying about her friend Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette, but she could not shake the unnerving feeling of Dartois’ eyes upon her, nor the disquiet caused by his intimate gesture.
The Marquis had looked almost pleased to discover her eavesdropping. He’d stared at her with such intensity she had been unable to look away and his gaze had unsettled her. The blown kiss had not helped the matter. What was the man about? He knew she entertained an offer from the Comte to be his mistress. Didn’t Dartois fear Vergelles like everyone else did? Or was it just some meaningless flirtation?
Emilie could not determine the truth.
By the time she met the Marquis again—at a small dinner party held by a business associate of the Comte—the feeling of disquiet was not forgotten, but it had somewhat abated. This was aided by Dartois himself, who could not have told the Comte about her eavesdropping, for she had received no reprimand on her next seeing her benefactor.
Seated next to each other for supper, Emilie thought it best not to mention the incident, but the Marquis had other ideas. No sooner had the soup been served, and Emilie’s conversation with the man on her other side taken a brief respite, then Dartois leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“I knew you to be more inquisitive than the Comte supposes.”
“Inquisitive?” Emilie feigned confusion.
“You are like me—always attentive to the circumstances surrounding you, even if you do not participate. It is survival, non?”
Emilie didn’t like the direction of Dartois’ conversation, nor the way he spoke so closely to her ear. She could feel his breath upon her cheek, filling her nostrils with the rich scent of claret.
“I have been remiss. I should thank you for not mentioning my hesitation in the hallway at my Lord’s residence when last I saw you.”
Dartois chuckled, leaning back in his chair and taking a bite of bread, chewing slowly as he observed her.
“Even now, you keep your cards so close to your chest I should barely think you hold any at all. But I have spent time with you, Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and I know your mind to be as sharp as the Comte’s. Or mine for that matter. You know the value of wit, as I do, and have risen from the gutters of this pestilent city to sit here, in the drawing rooms of Polite Society.”
Dartois had never spoken to her like this. The familiarity implied an intimacy she had not sought—and it closed in around her.
“Why do you talk like this, my Lord?” She hoped that being direct might push whatever this was back past the boundaries she had enjoyed with Dartois before. “Have I upset the Comte with my behaviour? Did you tell him after all?”
“No,” he said, partaking of his soup slowly, savouring the liquid and licking his lips after each spoonful. “The Comte has no knowledge of your eavesdropping.”
Emilie sighed inwardly with relief but maintained a collected composure.
“He is too easily rattled,” Dartois continued. “Those of us who know who we are, and do not fight to be something else—we are the ones who stand firm.”
Emilie subconsciously reached for her right arm to where a bruise had once been. She had received it soon after the Comte had made his offer to her. It was when she had assumed behind his proposition was a basic level of affection for her. Feeling secure in that knowledge, and playing the flirt she knew he liked, Emilie had made a joke about the Comte’s purchased title.
Even now she could feel his vice-like fingers closing around her arm. The smell of his cologne. His ignoring her cry of pain. The cool way in which he spoke which meant every word was still imprinted on her mind.
“Do you know why I chose you out of all the beauties at my disposal? Not for your wit, nor your conversation, not even for your beauty. It is because you are nothing. You have no connections, no standing in this world except that which others give you. You are nothing without my offer—even the theatre is done with you—and I can send you back to the gutter in which you were born. If you displease me again, I will do it.”
Since then Emilie had never once spoken of his past. Neither had the Comte mentioned the punishment he had meted out, nor the threat. But perhaps most disturbingly of all, he had shown no remorse for his actions. He had shown no feeling at all. Now his warning hung over Emilie, an ever-present danger to the life she had built. She had found out exactly where she stood—on a tenuous piece of ground that might give way at any moment and send her plummeting back into nothing.
After that she had not wanted to be near the Comte. She had been playing for time, but that precious commodity was running dry, and her hope of a way out was becoming desperate.
“Have I ever told you, I grew up poor on the outskirts of Paris?”
Dartois’ words drew Emilie from her reverie. “No,” she replied, traces of surprise in her voice.
The Marquis was as refined as any other aristocrat she came across. There wasn’t a trace of accent, or action, that betrayed anything other than noble blood.
“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.
