The confusing sentence hung in the air. Two of the men exchanged glances, but the third, who held the gun, kept staring at Avers.
Then something unexpected happened. The man with the pistol began to… laugh. Avers blinked, thinking he misheard the sound from beneath the man’s muffler, but sure enough, the man was actually laughing. It started as a bark of laughter, rolling into a chuckle, and quickly deteriorating into something akin to a crazed cackle.
Avers watched the gun bobbing up and down in the man’s hand. He clutched at the straw beneath him, holding his breath, unblinking—as though each of those actions might have some control over staying the lead bullet from travelling down the barrel of the gun.
At any moment his unhinged captor might pull the trigger by accident.
“Well, well, well, Your Grace. Très bien. We never thought you would pass my test—the Comte was convinced you would fail—but here we are.” The provincial accent fell completely away and in its place the smooth and precise accent of the upper ranks.
Avers recognised that voice.
Realisation that he had been right brought with it not relief, but horror. The man with the gun pulled down his muffler to reveal a charming smile.
“Dartois!” Avers finally let out the breath he had been subconsciously holding.
The Marquis threw back his cloak, a suit of aquamarine shown in the lantern light, and swept a low bow before Avers. The pistol still dangled from one hand.
“Oui! It is I. And a fine joke I have made of this.” The Marquis waved the loaded gun around to take in the other two men and the dank domain of the stable. “Did you really think I might shoot you?”
“I hardly thought you’d hold me at gun point,” said Avers, the shock quickly giving away to abject fury, “so who’s to say?”
Dartois burst into laughter again. The sound still held that edginess which suggested someone not quite in control of their faculties.
“The courage in this one—” Dartois gestured towards Avers with his pistol as he looked around at his men. “Impressionnant, non?”
The fear for his life now in full retreat, Avers pressed his lips firmly together to prevent himself from saying something he’d later regret. He chose instead to focus on standing and brushing the straw from his person. That and smothering the desire to throttle Dartois.
He tugged his cuffs down one at a time before saying, “Pray tell me, what have you done with my poor coachman?”
“Ha!” Dartois exclaimed, his gleaming eyes quickly seeking out Avers’ own once again. “As cool as a winter lake.” The Marquis smiled, the lamplight catching his teeth and giving the impression he was bearing them at Avers. “You need not worry. Your little coachman has been paid handsomely for stopping here and has been enjoying the landlord’s ale while we’ve been having our little chat.”
“As long as he is rested—”
Dartois broke into a laugh, and it was just as well he did before Avers spoke his mind about the duplicitous Tremaine coachman. Hendricks had used the rain as a ruse to bring him here and known exactly what Avers was about to face. The Tremaine servants were proving overly susceptible to the Comte’s bribes.
“And this little play act—” Avers continued, now focusing on brushing the stable dust off his sleeves. “I presume it was to test my ability to keep a secret.”
“Oui. But don’t be angry, my English Duke,” Dartois said jovially. “We thought it the ideal place to have a private tête-à-tête.”
“Paid off the owner, did you?”
“A waste of money—no, Sebastien knocked him out cold and locked him up in the inn.”
Dartois had not put the pistol away. From the feverish excitement in the Marquis’ eyes, Avers had the uneasy feeling that—had he not passed the so-called test—he would have witnessed the weapon going off.
For the first time since this whole adventure began, Avers could no longer feel the ground. He was out of his depth. And that was not a pleasant feeling at all.
“Are we to stay here all night?” he asked, raising a single brow and doing his best to hide his anger.
“Non,” Dartois replied, looking even more amused. “That would never do. Let no one call me a poor host. Come, we can still make my hunting lodge by nightfall and my chef will have a feast ready for us when we arrive.”
Avers followed Dartois out of the stable, the other men coming behind like jailors, and the Marquis chattering all the way about what his chef would have prepared for dinner. A mere five minutes ago Dartois had held a loaded pistol at Avers’ head—now he discussed favourite jellies. It was enough to leave Avers questioning the Marquis’ sanity.
The entourage made its way out of the courtyard and around to the other side of the inn where the Tremaine coach was located. Hendricks would not look Avers in the eye when his master approached and the latter chose not to address his disloyalty in the present moment.
Installed back in the carriage, Hendricks atop, and the Marquis and his men in their own chaise, the party set forward together. Avers was thankful for the mercy of an empty carriage for the remainder of his journey. He needed the time to regain his composure and process the ordeal he had just been through.
He should perhaps have felt relieved at knowing he had passed the Comte’s test. Instead, as his mind ran over what had happened, a sense of foreboding grew within him. With every mile they gained, Avers felt closer and closer to being thrown into the lion’s den.
A den in which Mademoiselle Cadeaux already dwelt. Avers wondered what tests the Comte’s mistress might have been subjected to. More than that, he wondered exactly what Vergelles’ business dealings were that they required levelling a pistol to test loyalty. And at an English Duke no less. It took a brazen man to risk such a thing and Dartois had done it with a smile.
This dramatic episode in Buc did not bode well. No, it did not bode well at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Comte had been looking furtively at the clock on the mantelpiece throughout dinner. Emilie and Vergelles sat alone in the dining room of Dartois’ hunting lodge and no explanation had been given as to the whereabouts of the rest of the party.
Emilie had not queried it. The burn on the back of her hand still stung and she knew better than to tempt the Comte’s anger.
Dartois’ chef was excellent. They were served several small plates of game and soup before the main course of duck à l'orange with vegetables and crisped potatoes. Emilie did not have much appetite. It had yet to return since her altercation with the Comte and whenever she was in his presence, she found all desire for food abated.
“An excellent bird,” said the Comte, attempting to engage her in conversation.
“Oui,” she replied. “Very tasty indeed.” To substantiate the statement she cut a slice from the leg on her plate and popped the succulent meat in her mouth.
“You are settled in your room? It is close to mine—should you need anything. Only one door across.”
Emilie nodded, saying nothing. It was the second time Vergelles had mentioned the proximity of their rooms. She had the distinct impression he had arranged the locations with Dartois and expected something to come from it. The thought conjured a nauseous sensation in the pit of Emilie’s stomach.
She had played her hand well, but soon she would be out of cards.
“With such an arrangement in our rooms, perhaps now is the time to—” The Comte’s speech was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall. “Ah! I believe our guest has finally arrived.”
He rose and went to open the dining room door. The moment his back was turned Emilie breathed out in relief, trying not to guess what his next words would have been. Thankfully she was saved from her imagination by the thought of the new arrival—the Duke of Tremaine. The man of contradictions.
Emilie rose, placing her napkin on the table and smoothing her hand over her stomach, willing it to be calm. She slipped into the hallway without being noticed by the gathering of men. There were Dartois, Sebastien and two others of the Comte’s circle, all dressed as though it were the middle of winter with their cloaks and mufflers. Behind them came the Duke of Tremaine.
“Bonsoir, Vergelles,” said Dartois jovially, taking the Comte’s hand and shaking it in the way Emilie knew he disliked. “Has my chef been looking after you?”
“I’m fit to expire!” said Sebastien. “Tell me you will not make us change for dinner, Dartois?”
“I have no aversion to the suggestion. Though I expect the Comte will want us to discard our cloaks at the very least.”
“I would,” Lucien said, glancing at the others with a hint of disdain. “But this is your house, Dartois. Whatever you desire.”
“Whatever I desire?”
