Even the Comte was smiling now, as though they were both winning the unspoken game they were all playing.

“Well, it’s hardly a secret,” Avers said with a shrug, making a mental note to be even more discreet while in the Tremaine residence. “I had a penchant for the classic civilisations, but it waned, and upon hearing of my father’s death I came home to take up my inheritance. My uncle, however, after hearing of my lifestyle on the Continent and seeing the damage I’ve done to the family coffers, decided he needed to protect what remains of the estate from me until I can be trusted with the responsibility. He packed me off to Paris under the beady eyes of my dull cousin. Now here I am.”

Avers expounded his fake history in pragmatic tones, making no effort to substantiate the facts. If he wanted to be believed he should not try to justify himself.

“I take exception to your rooting around for information on me in such a fashion.”

“I only repay you in kind. Mademoiselle Cadeaux told me you did the—how did you say it?—rooting around—on me.”

Avers’ stomach tightened.

The Comte drew his mother-of-pearl snuffbox from his pocket and flicked open the lid with a well-practised finger.

“She assures me she said nothing.” He took a pinch up each nostril. “But women—they do run on…” There was an underlying menace in the Comte’s voice that triggered a sick feeling in Avers’ stomach.

Why had Mademoiselle Cadeaux had to assure the Comte? And what had the Comte done to gain those assurances? If Vergelles’ temper was short enough that he would hit a servant in public for merely nudging his shoulder, what would he do to a mistress who betrayed his confidence behind closed doors?

“I grow weary of this cat and mouse game,” Avers said, emitting a theatrical huff as he decided to change tack. “Either you have business for me or you don’t.”

The Comte sat very still. His pale eyes were hard upon Avers as he snapped his snuffbox shut.

“Come, Vergelles. I think it is time we let our English friend in on our little enterprise,” Dartois drawled, taking a long draught of wine immediately afterwards.

“Very well,” said the Comte. “Our business is a lucrative one. There is much money to be made when demand is high and our governments bicker just as much as the men in here.”

‘“Demand?” Avers asked, sipping slowly at the brandy.

The Comte gestured with the snuffbox still in his hand at Avers’ glass. “You drink one of the items.”

Avers leant back to stare at his half-drunk glass. Brandy? What had that to do with stolen papers?

“Ever since the French government started financing your colonial rebels in the Americas through Caron de Beaumarchais’ business, your English ministers have been raising taxes on French goods in retaliation. I hardly think it makes a difference to either side.” The Comte waved one pale hand in the air to indicate how beneath him all this political manoeuvring was. “But to the men in the middle—there is money to be made.”

Smuggling. That is what the Comte meant. The smuggling of French goods to England and selling them illegally. It avoided taxes and made a tidy profit.

Even the most respectable English households were not immune to a bargain on tea, lace, or brandy. What did it matter to them if the Crown got their cut or not? And it was far lighter a rebellion than the people of Boston throwing their tea in the harbour in protest against the Crown—there was no sense in that—it was a waste of good tea.

If a man held no scruples about upholding the law, then the Comte’s investment in smuggling activities was indeed a good one. But that did not explain the missing papers.

Avers expressed no shock at the revelations. “It sounds like a profitable venture. “What is it you want from me?” He looked down at the nails on his left hand and flicked an imaginary piece of dust from one finger. “Capital for one of these ventures?”

“There are other commodities, in a time of international feuding, that increase in value.”

The Comte was being elusive again and Avers was becoming impatient. Either the man trusted him—or he didn’t. To move back and forth on the subject of Avers’ veracity was not only fatiguing, but a waste of time.

“Cloth? Silk?”

The Comte chuckled, looking to Dartois who joined in with a smile, and then back at Avers as though he were some foolish child.

“It is not just the physical that holds value at times like these.”

Now they were getting to it. Avers fought the urge to lean forward in his chair. He furrowed his brows as if trying to work out what the Comte was implying. He tossed off the last of his brandy in an effort to appear reckless. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me now.”

Just then, a gentleman came to the table, moving to Dartois’ side and bending to murmur something in his ear.

Avers could only make out a few words. “... Sebastien… our friends…”

While he listened to the message from the newcomer, the Marquis’ gaze did not falter from Avers’ own. He stared at him, eyes sharp and gleaming, making the hairs on the back of Avers’ neck rise.

“Pardon,” said Dartois to the table, rising and walking to the back of the café with the gentleman to continue their conversation out of earshot.

Without the Marquis, it appeared as though the Comte was unwilling to continue. He sat in silence, not attempting small talk, only every now and then sipping from his glass between sweeps of the rest of the café with his hard eyes.

“Pardon,” said Dartois, finally coming back to the table as the man he was speaking to left the establishment. “Good news, Vergelles. Our friends have arrived in Paris.”

“Bien.”

Neither gentleman explained of what they spoke and Avers chose to let the incident pass by without comment.

Dartois slipped back into his seat, taking up his glass again and smiling as though this were any social engagement.

“Well, have you asked him, Vergelles?”

“Not yet. I thought it best to wait for you. As I was saying, there are non-physical commodities which have value in times such as these. There are a great number of ways for money to be made. There is opportunity if only we look at the positions we are in and what may be taken advantage of.”

Avers bit back his frustration that the conversation was growing vague again and the Comte was resuming his condescending tone. “So, is it an investment you’re looking for? If so, I can send you a draft on my bank and be done with it.”

“He is eager, non?” Dartois asked the Comte, as though Avers were not present. “Patience, Your Grace. Vergelles is just being careful. We must be wise when it comes to our business and those whom we choose to befriend.”

“Naturally,” replied Avers.

“You are, of course, welcome to invest in our little enterprise, but we have another business you may be interested in—one that is best discussed outside of Paris. Lucien, I think we may invite our new friend to the hunting lodge.”

“As you wish,” Vergelles replied, looking as displeased as Dartois was jovial.

The Marquis leant across the table, a generous smile upon his fair face, and no hint of concern at the recent chatter about illegal trade. “You are invited to spend next weekend at my hunting lodge near Versailles. We’ll be comfortable there and may discuss our little business opportunity more freely.”

Avers’ heartbeat quickened. An invitation to the inner sanctum. This was too good an offer to pass up and yet Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s warning came to the forefront of his mind. He’d felt uneasy the moment he had sat at this table alone with the Comte and Dartois. Yet, if this was the opportunity to find proof of the group’s stealing of Wakeford’s papers, he had to take it.

“I’d be delighted.”

The party broke up soon after. Dartois bade Avers a friendly farewell, assuring him of how much he looked forward to the following weekend, but the Comte was as cold as ever. The French noble offered the barest of farewells before leaving the café abruptly.

As Avers stepped out of the establishment, he felt one step closer to uncovering the truth… and one step closer to danger.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN