“We have our ways.” Dartois expanded on his friend’s answer. “Have no fear.”

The Duke looked as if he might say something but thought better of it. Instead he tapped his cane to the brim of his hat and bowed low to Emilie.

“I shall bit you all adieu. Take care, Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

He rose without catching her eyes again and turned on his heel to saunter away.

“And what do you think of the English Duke attending our little house party?” the Comte asked Emilie as soon as they were on their way again.

This was a trap.

“I am surprised,” Emilie said with a shrug. “I find him très ennuyeux, and I thought you did too, my Lord.”

Dartois laughed. “Très bien, Mademoiselle. He is a bore with his constant crass chatter about money. Do not worry your pretty head about it. We shall keep him from boring you, shall we not, Vergelles?”

“Oui—though I could have been fooled into thinking you thought him engaging by the way you spoke to him previously.”

“Politeness,” Emilie said quickly. “Not interested in his conversation.”

Dartois erupted into laughter again. “Your Mademoiselle Cadeaux is so very sharp-witted, Lucien, I would not be surprised if she were cleverer than us all.”

“Not clever enough to understand the Duke of Tremaine’s usefulness,” the Comte snarled. “And I thought you were quite taken with the Duke of Tremaine, Mademoiselle.”

Emilie would not be baited. “No, my Lord. But if it pleases you to have him at the hunting lodge, I shall bear the tedium.”

“Tedious people have their uses,” Lucien said.

“Indeed they do,” Dartois said. “And this tedious Duke might prove very useful indeed.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Avers landed another blow on the defenceless dummy. The silent figure jolted backwards. Shaking off the dull ache in his striking hand, he bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, sizing up his mute opponent. He delivered another blow, then another and another.

With each strike, the overwhelming fury he felt towards the Comte de Vergelles poured out and abated… for a moment… until the next strike, and the next.

Beads of perspiration ran from Avers’ hairline, down his temples, and onto his neck. He wiped a bandaged hand across his brow. The boxing club on the rue de Grenelle, opposite the Fontaine des Quatre-Saisons—the monumental fountain in Faubourg Saint-Germaine—was neutral ground on which to meet Wakeford.

Avers had decided to make the most of his time while waiting for his friend and it also happened to be easing his temper. Stripped of his jacket and waistcoat, his linen shirt hung open at his neck, and his stockinged feet were bare of shoes. He padded silently back and forth on the wooden floor.

The vision of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s blistered hand came back into Avers’ mind and he struck out at the dummy in the next moment with more force than he intended. Pain ricocheted up his arm. He inhaled sharply, snatching his hand away from the padded figure, and turned to walk it off.

Stupid! That was what he had been in hitting the dummy so hard. And stupid is what he’d been, in putting Mademoiselle Cadeaux in harm’s way. The anger Avers felt at the Comte was only matched by the anger he felt towards himself. He had initially believed Mademoiselle Cadeaux was complicit in the Comte’s business dealings. Then he’d seen her real character come to the fore. But he’d never appreciated the position she was in. Hadn’t she said that to him—that he could have no concept of her position in Society?

Now, thanks to Avers, her position with her malevolent master was precarious. The sooner they could stop the Comte and his associates, the better.

“Avers?”

He turned and saw Wakeford entering the deserted sparring hall. His friend’s face was unusually pale.

“Cousin,” Avers said, reminding his friend of their pretend relationship.

It was clear from Wakeford’s verbal slip that something was wrong. Along with a lack of colour in his face, his wig was mussed, his clothes crumpled and the lace cravat at his throat badly tied.

“Dash it!” Wakeford exclaimed, slapping a palm to his forehead. “Cousin.” With the correction from Avers, he appeared to come to himself and took in his friend’s appearance. “Who’ve you been fighting?”

He removed his hat and made to place it on a nearby table, missing the surface, and dropping it on the floor. He bent to pick it up and put it next to the half-drunk pot of coffee already on the table.

Avers rang for a fresh pot. When the server arrived he ordered a large one. Wakeford clearly needed it.

Once the young lad had disappeared again, Avers began unbinding his hands, the knuckles hot and swollen. He’d gone at it too hard.

Wakeford looked fit to fall down. Avers gestured to the chair, not offering, but commanding his friend to sit.

Dropping the fabric that had been bound around his hands on the seat which also held his discarded clothes, he came over to the table and sat in the chair opposite the one Wakeford had just collapsed into. They were next to a tall window on the first floor of the club which afforded a view of the public fountain opposite.

“Trouble?” Avers asked.

The door opened and Wakeford glanced anxiously over as the server reappeared with a tray, two new cups and a steaming pot of coffee. Both men remained silent while the young man cleared the old items and placed the new ones on the table. Avers murmured his appreciation and the lad bobbed a quick bow before retreating, tray in hand, and clicking the door shut behind him.

“This morning I got word from Stormont that his spies at the French court have found Versailles is teeming with information about our troop numbers in the colonies.”

Avers poured the coffee silently, as his friend’s words sunk in. “The information from the stolen papers?”

“That’s right. It’s been sold or given to the French.”

“But as we said before, surely it’s no great secret. The men on the ground must have more up-to-date information than us anyway. It takes a full month for word to reach the Americas.”

“That’s not the problem—the French have also received information on our munition stockpiles. They know the powder supplies are low and which forts are most at risk. It could help them determine where to strike next.”

The import of Wakeford’s words dawned on Avers, and for the first time that morning, Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s face faded from the forefront of his mind.

“This was in the papers that were stolen?”

“Yes.” Wakeford rubbed a hand over his miserable face, a sigh of defeat escaping him. “It’s exactly what we feared. Now the French will channel their finances through Caron de Beaumarchais’ company to outfit rebels who can attack our weak points. Even if we send word now—which we have—as you said, it’ll take a month at best to get there and likely arrive at the same time as the French intelligence.”

“I don’t understand.”

Wakeford looked at Avers between his fingers and said in exasperation, “It’s not that difficult. We’ve failed.”

“No,” Avers replied calmly, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of coffee. His gaze drifted out of the window as he mulled over something in his mind.

Outside water bearers from the local area were lining up in front of the fountain to fill up their buckets.

“What I mean is—if this was the key information they had to sell from the stolen papers—then what deal are they intending to involve me in? What are they planning to discuss with me at the hunting lodge this weekend?”

“You said yourself in your last missive that they are profiting from smuggling. Perhaps they’re just looking for capital.”