Something nagged at the back of Avers’ mind—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He rubbed his chin, then moved his hand to the back of his neck, working the muscles there. “What will we do now?”

“There is no more we, my friend. I will be recalled in dishonour. You—you may do as you please—stay on at the Hôtel du Tremaine if you want. My family have no use for it at the moment.”

“You’re giving up?” Avers’ eyes flicked from the window to his friend, their gaze straight and piercing.

“Did you not hear me?” Wakeford said, an edge to his voice. “We’ve failed. It’s a miracle I wasn’t recalled when those papers went missing. I had hoped that if we… if we could have retrieved them… ”

Why did Avers feel as though this tale was not yet over? “There was more in them, wasn’t there? You said something about personnel and provisions as well?”

“They’ve sold the valuable information—the rest is collateral,” Wakeford replied, hanging his head.

“If there is one thing I have learned from my aunt—the most voracious gossip in London—it’s that all information is valuable. There is more afoot here. Why else would they invite me to Dartois’ hunting lodge?”

Wakeford didn’t answer. Avers had lost him in a sea of melancholy and his friend was now obscured by the waves. The poor man stared disconsolately at the coffee pot.

“How long do we have until London recalls you?” asked Avers.

“Hmm?” Wakeford still didn’t break eye contact with the coffee pot. “I’ve already reported to London. It will take three days to reach them, then another three for their reply. No more than a week.”

“Then a week it is.” Avers put down his empty coffee cup decisively. “That’s time enough to go to the hunting lodge and find out what the Comte and his cronies are really up to.”

“It’s no longer necessary. Don’t waste your time on this vain mission anymore.”

“I refuse to believe it’s vain yet,” Avers replied firmly.

“It is man!” Wakeford raised his voice in a flash of frustration, but it quickly died back down. “But do as you wish. There’s likely nothing more you will find out, but if it will amuse you to spend a weekend at the Marquis’ hunting lodge, I shan’t stop you.”

Avers recognised it was not the time to argue with his friend. In Wakeford’s current mood no amount of rationalising would help. But he wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t leave Wakeford to face dishonour— or worse, imprisonment—for something his friend had not done.

Three questions circled round and around in Avers’ mind. Firstly, what business opportunity were the Comte and Dartois offering Avers if the papers’ contents had already been sold? Secondly, what was so secret that it made it necessary for them to meet outside of Paris at Dartois’ hunting lodge? And thirdly, if there really was nothing more to discover, as Wakeford surmised, then why had the Comte burned his mistress’ hand for fear of her revealing information about their enterprise?

No, this business was not done. There was more afoot here and Avers needed to get to the bottom of it. He needed to do so for the sake of Wakeford’s innocence—and Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s safety.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Over the following week Avers had to resist the temptation to send a message to Mademoiselle Cadeaux to ask after her welfare. Not trusting the servants of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s household, as they were likely in the Comte’s pay, he had no way of getting a note to her without fear of interception.

In lieu of direct contact, he visited both the Champs-Élysées and the Jardin des Tuileries every day in the hopes he would find her there walking Lutin. He did not.

On Friday afternoon, Avers bade his valet pack a small trunk, and set off for Dartois’ hunting lodge. He was fortunate that the Tremaines kept a stable in Paris in spite of the irregularity of their visits, so Avers was conveyed beyond the bounds of the city in a crested chaise and four, two pairs of smart, matching greys carrying him forward.

The first leg of the journey was easy enough. The roads were fair and the weather on their side. That was until they reached Chaville. At that point, a storm that had been threatening finally broke, and the less well-travelled roads became a quagmire. The pace was reduced to a crawl in order to prevent laming the horses, and Avers could not see more than ten yards away from the carriage window, thanks to the torrential rain.

After a time, they passed Versailles and beyond this point the traffic lessened considerably and the roads worsened at an equal pace. Three miles further along the road, they entered a settlement of less than ten houses.

Avers felt the coach come to a halt and the vehicle creak sideways as the driver climbed down off his box. Were they here? He could see no grand house, just a few cottages and a run-down inn.

When the driver knocked on the window, Avers dropped it down, the rain lashing inside before the coachman filled the gap.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but the horses may lame if we keep going in this weather. Begging your pardon, but I would as lief wait out the rain for half an hour in the hopes the ground will soak it up, rather than risk getting stuck on the open road. There’s a coaching inn just here we can stop at.” The coachman gestured to the questionable looking establishment.

Avers had no idea where they were. Neither did he like the idea of frequenting that inn. But there was sense in what his driver was saying and the sight of the sodden man helped make his decision.

“Very well, Hendricks—until the rain eases. But if it doesn’t let up in half an hour, we’ll have to try the rest of the journey at a crawl.” As soon as he saw the coachman nod, he threw the window back up to keep out the rain.

Hendricks was quick about climbing back onboard and in the next five minutes the carriage was pulling off the road into the swampy courtyard of the coaching inn.

It took Avers less than a minute after descending from the carriage to realise his decision to shelter in this place had been a mistake. The building before him was dreadfully run down, its roof patched, and cracked plaster across its facade no doubt letting in the rain. It was doubtful this was a hostelry well-frequented by Avers’ class. The lack of other carriages and horses in the courtyard gave it an unnerving feeling and he wondered whether this establishment made its money from catering to travellers or less legal means.

“Hendricks, come here if you please,” Avers commanded.

A youth, no doubt the landlord’s son, appeared from the stables and came to the horses’ heads. Despite this, Hendricks hesitated. He looked at the horses, the boy, and then back at his master.

There might at least be a stable boy to tend the horses, but Avers could not ignore his gut. There were plenty of inns in England who made their living from thieving off unwitting travellers.

The coachman came reluctantly over to where Avers stood. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I think we should carry on, even if it’s slowly.”

“But Your Grace—” Hendricks looked back at the boy who was staring at them. Then at the inn, then back at his master.

Avers was just about to give the man a tremendous scolding for failing to obey his orders when the heavens re-opened. Rain came down in heavy sheets, lashing across the courtyard, forcing Avers to run to shelter by the wall of the inn beneath the overhanging roof.

“Very well!” Avers shouted across the downpour. “Stable the horses and then come dry yourself off by the fire.”

If this place had a fire.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Hendricks said immediately, running off to tend the horses.

Following the wall to keep out of the worst of the rain Avers headed for the inn’s door. On trying it, he found it locked. Not a good sign. He rapped on the wood.

A middle-aged man, presumably the landlord, finally opened it to a rather vexed Avers.

“Good day to you,” said Avers in passable French. “A room, if you please, in which I might partake of a modest repast?”

Droplets dripped from the brim of his hat and despite wearing his roquelaure with its high collar up around his face, he felt moisture over his cheeks.

The landlord did not immediately greet him. Instead, the beady eyed individual peered around Avers at the coach in the courtyard. There was the flicker of a smile across his face and then he focused back on Avers and bobbed his head.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

That was an exceptionally good guess at Avers’ title from a brief glance at the crest on the Tremaine carriage.

“But there is no cook on the premises.”