The Duke continued to lounge in his chair, smiling up at the Comte. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux and I have been enjoying an excellent conversation.”
The English noble’s affable tone seemed to irritate the Comte further.
“And what have you found to talk about?”
Emilie’s blood ran cold. The Comte’s fingertips began to pinch at her pale skin. The weight of his hand grew suffocating. Her stomach dropped. The way Vergelles was behaving—it was as if he had heard everything they had said.
Had he?
No, surely not. How could he have done so? She was imagining it. At least that was what she hoped, because once again she remembered the bruises on her arm and exactly what angering the Comte de Vergelles could lead to…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Avers had felt guilty on leaving Madame Pertuis’ musical salon. The Comte had clearly been displeased with the Englishman speaking with his mistress. Yet again, he’d become distracted by the intriguing Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and his focus on Wakeford’s mission had wavered.
Thankfully, the incident did not affect the invitation Dartois had issued on the Champs-Élysées. Avers received a missive reminding him of the appointment and its location shortly before it was due to take place and thus, ten days after the Austrian master’s performance at the salon, he was journeying to the Café Procope.
The establishment was just as he had left it over a week since, filled with pipe smoke, humming with conversation and warm with the candlelight that supplemented the daylight in the areas towards the back. The mirrors which lined the walls reflected the patrons, giving a false sense of the crowds, creating an atmosphere teeming with energy.
Avers walked through the melee towards where he could see the Comte, Dartois and two men he recognised from last time, sitting at the same table they had occupied before. Snippets of conversation found him on his way. One table discussed taxes, another the price of bread, another the King’s latest rulings, and yet another the Queen’s latest whim of living like a peasant.
It was a political and philosophical melting pot. One argued this way and the other opposed. It was the atmosphere Avers had expected to find at Madame Pertuis’ salon on his first attendance. True, there had been discussions, but none like the zealous debate currently taking place at the Procope where untitled voices engaged with the nobility at equal volume and authority.Rolling his shoulders back as he approached the Comte’s table, Avers took a deep breath, wrapping the facade of the Duke of Tremaine around himself.
“Bonjour mes amis.” Avers made a leg and bowed low to the gentlemen. As he rose, he observed there was no spare chair for him.
No man at the table made a move to rectify the matter.
“Bonjour,” said the Comte without deigning to look at the newcomer.
The others in the party followed suit and as they greeted Avers, Dartois signalled the waiter, murmuring something in the server’s ear.
The man soon returned with a pewter platter bearing a tankard brimming with liquid.
Dartois grinned. “I thought you would be happier with your country’s drink—warm beer for Your Grace.”
Something in the Marquis’ eyes made Avers suspect the gesture was mocking. He looked at the table, scattered with open bottles of wine and half-drunk glasses, and back at the lack of chair.
“I think, today, I am in the mood for your country’s brandy.” He turned to the waiter and ordered the said drink along with a pot of coffee. He also requested a chair be brought and implied a fair tip should this be done with all speed.
The server nodded vigorously and hurried off. In less than a minute Avers was presented with a chair which he took in exchange for a silver coin.
“It seems nonsensical,” he said, taking his chair, “to sit in a coffee house without the title drink.”
“As you say.” The Comte’s countenance was as implacable as ever and still he would not do Avers the courtesy of looking at him. Instead he was now examining his nails.
“Our English friend is determined to appear the rebel,” Dartois said, smiling in that disarming way of his, a gleam in his eye. The Marquis was as warm as the Comte appeared cold. “Very sensible, and that is just the sort of man we should wish to do business with, is it not Vergelles?”
The Comte neither answered nor nodded.
“Speaking of which, would you be so kind as to expand on the opportunity of which you spoke?” Avers spread his arm wide, still attempting to catch the Comte’s eye.
How was he to find out the truth about the man’s leadership in this spy ring if he continued to evade him? No wonder Wakeford’s men had struggled to find the evidence they needed.
“Our English friend is keen, n’est pas?” Dartois chuckled. “Did I not tell you Vergelles?”
“He certainly seemed so when speaking to Mademoiselle Cadeaux at the salon last week,” said the Comte, apparently fascinated by the embroidery on his right cuff.
Ah, so that was it. The Comte was peeved at Avers’ attention to Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He would have to smooth things over.
The Comte’s pale eyes flicked up to lock their gaze with Avers. “She said you asked about me.”
Cold fear rose up and began to wrap its fingers around his chest. All thoughts of Wakeford’s mission disappeared as he realised with dread the position he had put Mademoiselle Cadeaux in. There was no way she had offered that information to the Comte willingly.
He shrugged, the action less casual than he had meant it to be, the tension failing to leave his body. He was just constructing a suitable answer to the Comte which might alleviate the pressure of the situation when the server returned with Avers’ glass of brandy and pot of coffee.
The wiry man placed them before him and then began to clear some of the empty bottles from the table. As he leant across for the second such bottle, the servant inadvertently caught the Comte’s shoulder, nudging the man forward.
“Pardon.”
“Cursed dog!” Vergelles snarled, ignoring the apology and slamming the glass of wine he had nearly spilled onto the table. Drops of blood-red liquid sloshed over its rim, trickling down the stem and leaching into the linens.
The Comte ignored the mess, turning quickly and clipping the unfortunate servant around the ears. He swore again, and the poor server visibly shrunk before him, one hand clutching an empty bottle, the other reaching up to his forelock to tug it and bow away from the table in abject apology.
Avers said nothing, masking the distaste that was begging to be shown on his face, and relieved when the servant scurried away before further mistreatment. He had always believed you could tell a lot about a man from the way he treated his servants. What the Comte had just shown him was revealing indeed, and Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s warnings came loudly to the front of Avers’ mind.
He focused on pouring out his coffee. While he might drink alongside these men so as not to arouse suspicion, he would temper it with coffee to stay as clear-headed as possible.
