Emilie folded and refolded the freshly pressed handkerchief in her lap until it was little more than a soft rag. The Comte’s carriage turned down a new street, hitting a pothole in the road, and she was jolted sideways against the cushioned wall. It did nothing to calm her frayed nerves.

Since her last interview with Vergelles she had been anxiously awaiting his next summons. She’d considered refusing, but fearing what he might do in retaliation had forced her to accept. So, here she was travelling to meet him at the Café Procope.

Another bump in the road made her look down and see the wilted mess of handkerchief. She sniffed, took a deep breath, and folded the linen square before putting it away. The Comte may have exposed her nerves on their last encounter, but that did not mean she had to leave herself open for him to see them again today.

It wasn’t just a matter of protecting herself from the man she now knew was as cruel as she had feared. It was playing the game until she could find a way to deal herself out. After all, the Comte had made her lack of power clear.

The carriage drew to a halt across the road from the café and Emilie dropped her window to signal the servant at the door of the establishment. A few moments later a server crossed the road to her.

“A pot of coffee, s’il vous plait, and a message for the Comte de Vergelles— Mademoiselle Cadeaux awaits his pleasure.”

The servant bobbed, turning to dart between passing traffic, and disappeared inside the café.

Emilie flexed the hand she had used to open the window. She’d done so without thinking, and the movement had caused burning sensations to break out across the back of it again.

It was a souvenir from her last interview with the Comte. To illustrate his point that he paid for Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s apartments, that he bought her fine dresses and jewellery, and that he had enabled her to enter Polite Society on his arm, he had dashed the contents of his smouldering pipe across her hand. Before allowing her to fetch water to bathe the wound or clean linen to dress it, he had explained at length that his patronage of her, and her insistence on taking time to decide whether she would be his mistress, was becoming untenable.

Then he’d brought up the Duke of Tremaine.

She’d known such an interrogation was coming ever since Madame Pertuis’ musical night, but the height of the Comte’s anger she had not expected. He’d raged at her for speaking to the Duke and questioned her on what she had found to say to the Englishman for so long at the recital.

Emilie had denied any wrongdoing, carefully skirting the issue of what they had discussed. With much placating and gentle words she had smoothed the Comte’s ruffled feathers enough that he had allowed her to attend to her wound.

And he had given her an ultimatum. She had one week to decide on his offer.

He had not reiterated his threats of what would happen if she refused him, but they were clear. She would be ruined. Her friend Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette would suffer the same fate, and Emilie would come to physical harm.

The invisible snare around her neck tightened. She had to get out of this mess. But until a plan presented itself in her mind she was trapped, and she must play her part as the Comte’s companion.

The door of the Café Procope opened across the road. Emilie slowed her breathing, pressing her hands together to control their trembling, and forcing down the sudden panic rising within her.

She watched several men exit the establishment. First Dartois, then the Comte, and finally the Duke of Tremaine whose eyes immediately caught hers. They did not move on, his gaze locking with hers, his look so penetrating she wondered how many of her thoughts he could read from this distance.

Dartois pointed out the Comte’s carriage across the way, and the gentlemen looked to cross the road when the traffic permitted. The whole time Tremaine’s eyes did not leave Emilie’s. She pressed her legs together beneath her skirts, willing herself to calm down as her breath came faster.

She must act indifferent. She could show no emotion if she wished to protect herself against the Comte’s wrath. Yet the Duke’s gaze would not leave her. They came to the other side of the carriage, out of the road, and she dropped the window to greet them.

“Good day, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois called in a jovial voice.

When Emilie met the Marquis’ eyes, she remembered his conversation with her two weeks since. It was not just the Comte she had to tread carefully with.

“Bonjour,” she murmured.

The Comte merely inclined his head. His failing to greet her, despite summoning her here, did not bode well.

“You remember His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine—our English friend.” Dartois’ manner was so pleasant Emilie could almost believe she’d imagined his ominous offer.

“Bonjour, Your Grace.” Emilie inclined her head.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux, your obedient servant.” The Duke bowed a little lower and longer than he needed to. “I trust I find you in good health?”

In spite of her best efforts, he managed to catch her eyes again as he rose, and she saw in them a real earnestness.

“Quite well,” she murmured, breaking her gaze and finding something in the middle distance to focus on. She could still feel him looking at her, and as she’d turned away she’d seen a slight furrow in his brow.

“We all get along so well,” Dartois said, ever-immune to the tension rolling off the Comte. “We shall make a très joyeuse party at my hunting lodge, n’est pas?”

“We shall?” Emilie asked, eyes flicking between the Comte, the Duke and Dartois.

“Oui—next weekend,” the Comte replied. “We will attend.”

Her fear took a brief hiatus in the face of a sudden flash of irritation. She had borne the Comte’s wrath for nothing. The Duke was ignoring her warnings.

Only those who were trusted were invited to Dartois’ hunting lodge. It was where matters of business were discussed to which Emilie was not privy. She had only been there twice during her relationship with the Comte and both times she had spent the majority of her days there alone, occupying herself in the gardens when she was turned out of the gatherings of Vergelles and his men.

Emilie had intended to visit her friends in the Île de la Cité on Friday. Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette had sent her a note to tell her another collection of the actresses’ tips was ready to be dispensed to the poor. Those plans would have to wait.

“You shall be the belle of the party,” Dartois said, leaning in at the carriage window, his hand inches from where hers rested.

The action was harmless enough to those who had not experienced the Marquis’ conversation with Emilie. She could not help removing her hand to her lap to avoid an involuntary touch. Just as she did this, Lutin—who had been very content curled up under her skirts, acting in lieu of a warming brick between her feet—woke up.

The canine’s ears had not failed him. He took one look at Dartois—his sworn enemy—and erupted into a series of angry barks.

“Urgh!” Dartois lept back as the dog jumped up at the window. “Maudit ce chien infernal!” He began checking his hand and arm for bite marks.

“You brought that infernal dog of yours?” snapped the Comte.

“Ah, the petit diable,” the Duke of Tremaine murmured, smiling over at Lutin’s fierce little face.

The Comte shot the Englishman a venomous look.

“I have tried to be his friend,” said Dartois testily, “but he will have none of me. I cannot like him.”

“Animals have a sixth sense when it comes to humans. His penchant for snapping at you is no doubt driven by it.”

Was the Duke saying Lutin sensed something he didn’t like in the Marquis? Emilie’s eyes darted to the English noble as she simultaneously grabbed Lutin’s collar to stay his jumping. Tremaine’s comment was as if he could read Emilie’s recent fears about the Marquis right out of her own mind. But when she saw the Duke smiling in that languid way of his, a gleam in his eye, she realised he was simply funning at Dartois’ expense.

The tension which was still very much present in her body intensified. If the Comte saw the Duke exchanging meaningful glances with her, even if only in humour and nothing else, she was sure he would exact a payment.

“Pardon.”

A servant from the Café Procope had crossed the street and was now attempting to gain access to the carriage window. He carried a pewter tray bearing a pot of coffee and a single cup.

“Merci,” Emilie said as the server threaded his way skilfully between the nobles and held out the tray for her to serve herself.

Lutin made no demur as she released his collar and began pouring the hot drink, tendrils of steam rising and twisting in the air.

“Are we to wait for you to finish?” Vergelles asked.