Emilie halted halfway through pouring, glancing at the Comte and then back at the pot in her hands.

“I’m sure the lady may finish her drink before we set off,” Dartois said smoothly.

Emilie found herself grateful for the Marquis’ intervention, once again confused over his seeming split personalities.

“Very well, but I will not travel with that beast.” Vergelles pointed his ebony cane at Lutin’s head, just visible over the carriage door, as he still stood on his hind legs. “Must you go everywhere with that thing?”

“On this point I must concur, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois said. “Your canine companion is less than affable.”

A sudden wave of irrational fear crashed over Emilie as she thought of being parted from Lutin. The little dog made her feel marginally safer. She could hardly reply to the Comte and Marquis with that as her reasoning.

Before she could think of a suitably placating response, Vergelles commanded her to get out of the carriage so they might walk to Sebastien’s.

“My driver will take that dog of yours back to your lodgings where he belongs.”

Without waiting for her consent, the Comte signalled for the driver to let down the steps, and then turned to the Marquis de Dartois to discuss the particulars of their meeting with Sebastien.

Emilie, having not taken a single sip of coffee, replaced it on the server’s tray and paid him for his vain service. She picked up her gloves from the seat beside her, having previously removed them to warm her hands with her coffee. The movement caused the wound on the back of her right hand to sting afresh.

It was a raw reminder of the Comte’s anger and her current inability to escape it. Emilie tried to school her breathing into a steady pace. It had grown fast and shallow with the Comte’s foul mood and the memories the pain in her hand conjured.

As the door of the carriage opened she took a steadying breath, stroking Lutin’s head rhythmically, telling herself that the ringing in her ears would abate. The idea of leaving the safety of the carriage and her little white shadow behind… Breathe, Emilie… Breathe.

As she placed an unsteady foot on the first step a strong, steady hand took her elbow. It took her weight, guiding her down from the steps as she focused on a single cobble below. As she reached solid ground, she looked up to find it was neither the Comte nor Dartois who aided her.

It was the Duke of Tremaine.

“Mademoiselle.” He bowed towards her, his gloved hand slipped down her arm to hold her hand lightly.

His continued support caused her breathing to slow and the ringing in her ears to abate.

Emilie glanced towards the Comte, but Vergelles’ back was still turned as he was now in deep discussion with Dartois, speaking forcefully in rapid French. She couldn’t risk them suddenly turning and seeing Tremaine holding her hand. She tried to pull back from the Duke’s grasp, but his grip tightened on her fingers in response.

Emilie gazed up into his eyes and was startled to see concern there.

“You have injured yourself?” he murmured, too low for their companions to hear, and looking meaningfully down at the bandage on her hand.

She tried to pull her hand away again, mild panic rising within, and this time Tremaine released it. A thread in the bandage caught on his sleeve, tugging it loose as she dropped her hand.

“I do not wish to alarm you.”

The Duke had misread her gasp of pain as one of shock.

“You seem… anxious.”

Her eyes darted again to the Comte and she scolded herself inwardly for allowing her feelings to be interpreted so easily. Then she looked down to the bandage that had unravelled from her hand. She turned her back to Vergelles and Dartois, reaching for the loose strip of fabric and raising her hand to unfurl it and rebandage the injury.

For a brief moment the red, ugly, blistering skin was revealed.

“That’s a nasty wound.”

She tried to hide it from the Duke, the pain fraying her temper. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing. You would do well to cover it with a poultice to prevent infection and encourage healing. I can send my old housekeeper’s best recipe to your address. Tell me how you came by the burn?”

Emilie sighed, the pain overcoming her resolve. “I told you, there are consequences when one gets involved with dangerous men. But please,” she pleaded, loathing the fearful tone in her own voice, “we must not be overheard.”

“Of course.” The Duke’s eyes—as they looked upon her—were the softest she had ever seen them. When he glanced over at the Comte, the change was swift and remarkable. Fury transformed his features and brought a blazing light to his eyes.

“You warned me. I have been careless. I ignorantly believed your warning only applied to me. Why did he hurt you?”

Emilie shrugged impatiently. “The Comte is jealous of his privacy. He wished to know exactly what I had said to you. What secrets I had divulged. I told him none. He wished to be sure.”

He bowed his head in apology. “Please forgive me.”

She struggled to concentrate fully on the Duke’s apology for fear that the Comte might overhear their conversation. She glanced over at her benefactor whose back was still turned to them. Vergelles’ foot tapped on the floor, and Emilie could see the conversation between him and Dartois was petering off. No doubt he was waiting for Emilie to come to his side. His anger at her bringing Lutin meant he would not deign to turn and take her onto his arm.

“It is not you who burned me. Will you now desist whatever obsession you have with doing business with the Comte?”

She looked imploringly up at the Duke and saw his troubled brow furrow, his eyes more apologetic than ever.

“I cannot explain to you why I am unable to do as you advise. Please trust me that it is important I engage the Comte in friendship.”

Emilie’s lips parted a little as she stared at him in bewilderment. He had inadvertently seen the damage the Comte had done just because she spoke to Tremaine and yet the Duke would still pursue this relationship?

“Then I will beg of you to stay away from me. I do not wish to be burned twice by whatever foolishness you pursue. And there are others whose wellbeing relies on me.” She stepped forward and the Duke immediately bowed and moved away to allow her passage. She did not look at him again or loiter any longer. Coming alongside the Comte, she curtseyed to him and apologised for upsetting his morning by bringing Lutin.

“I await your pleasure, my Lord.”

The French noble looked down at her from the corner of his eyes and gave the smallest jerk of his head in acceptance of her submission. He then raised the silver head of his ebony cane, signalling the coachman to leave, and there emitted a new stream of indignant barks from the Comte’s carriage as Lutin was taken—unwillingly—away.

Emilie felt her heart squeeze at her poor pet’s confusion.

“I can walk you as far as the Hôtel des Invalides,” said the Duke of Tremaine from behind her. Emilie refused to turn and catch his eye again. “And then I must return to my cousin’s offices.”

The party struck out, Dartois explaining the location of his hunting lodge to Tremaine, and the Comte maintaining his characteristic silence. Emilie did the same, not wanting to rouse any more ire from her benefactor.

When they reached the spot where their paths were destined to diverge, the group stopped to say farewell.

“And if you should have news of the investment before next weekend,” asked Tremaine, “how can I expect to hear from you?”

Feeling safe to look at him once more, Emilie noticed that the bored facade was back in place upon the Duke’s face, and his characteristic drawl had overcome the earnestness in his voice from when he spoke to her earlier.

“I cannot vouch for my cousin not intercepting my post. He’s my uncle’s spy at present, I have no doubt.”

The Comte’s arm stiffened beneath Emilie’s hand.

“We will contact you, should we need to,” the Comte replied coolly.