For a fraction of a second, Dartois’ eyes flicked over the Comte’s shoulder and looked directly into Emilie’s own. She froze, the memory of Dartois’ offer all too vivid in her mind.

The Marquis turned away to throw his cloak on a waiting servant. “Off with our outer garments and let us eat before Monsieur Gardoin’s dinner is spoiled. I am sure our friend the Duke will appreciate some restoring victuals after his ordeal.”

A rumble of laughter ran around the men.

“I expect so. Your Grace.” The Comte offered him the merest incline of his head rather than the full bow his status deserved. “A pleasant journey, was it?”

For a moment, the usually talkative Duke appeared as though he would say nothing. He stared at the Comte, his hooded eyes hard as flint, with a look upon his face Emilie had not seen before. But after a few seconds, his expression shifted, the hardness cracking away, replaced with his usual ennui.

“It could have been a little more so—had I not met your welcome party at Buc.” Tremaine’s lips curled into a half-smile, but it was without sincerity and no matching joy appeared in his eyes.

Welcome party? What had the Comte and the Marquis done to the Duke?

“Come now,” Dartois said affably, turning and slapping a hand across Tremaine’s shoulders. “A bit of fun to determine your loyalties.”

“Necessary,” the Comte agreed, looking down and flicking an imaginary piece of dust from his sleeve.

“Let us not bore Mademoiselle Cadeaux with our talk,” said Dartois. “I can offer you brandy for your nerves, if you need it, Tremaine. I guarantee I stock an excellent cellar.”

“I have no doubt,” the Duke murmured, apparently seeing Emilie for the first time and bowing towards her.

Dartois laughed, slapping Tremaine on the back again, and the party moved towards the dining room.

“I shall take you up on your offer, though I do not need it for my nerves.”

“Bien,” Dartois said, making his way to the sideboard and pouring drinks for the party.

The Comte resumed his seat at the far head of the table, and Emilie made her way back to hers, only to find the Duke coming to hold her chair for her. She glanced up into his face as she sat and murmured her thanks.

What was that in his eyes?

Agitation? The warring of strong emotions? An almost imperceptible furrow appeared on his brow. His gaze did not linger upon her for long, however, turning back to the gentlemen and their impenetrable conversation.

Something had happened on the road out of Paris. It was clear Dartois and his men had met the Duke of Tremaine on his way and the Marquis was acting as if it were all a grand joke. But if Emilie had learned anything in the last month, it was that Dartois was unpredictable and whatever that test of loyalty had been, it did not appear the Duke had enjoyed the experience.

The men were soon served with the food the chef had kept warm. They all devoured it ravenously and soon Emilie left them to their pipes and port.

She waited in the drawing room for half an hour, but the men did not appear and the questions in her mind grew. What had happened to the Duke on the road? What were Dartois and the Comte up to? After another quarter of an hour, Emilie assumed she was dismissed, and that the gentlemen would continue their conversation in the dining room. She sent a message via one of the servants to let them know she had retired, and went up to her room.

One of the housemaids was sent up to attend her, and before long she was dressed in her nightgown, her hair brushed out and plaited down her back. She dismissed the girl and followed her to the door, closing it behind and turning the key in the lock. Emilie might be in for a disturbed night’s sleep thanks to the questions whirring round in her head, but she was determined not to be disturbed by the Comte.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Avers did not spend a restful night. His usually steady mood was feeling altogether frayed the next morning. The shock from being held at gunpoint had not abated until the small hours and any sleep he had gained had been fitful at best.

He needed to clear his head. Once he was up, he decided to venture out into the grounds of the lodge. Fresh air was what he needed to overcome the feeling of being trapped at the Comte’s mercy. Descending the stairs and not knowing his way, he opted to go out the front door.

The day outside was uncertain, the sky covered in white-grey clouds and the air, which had started true to early autumn, had turned cool and damp. Rain threatened. Skirting the front of the building, the gravel of the drive crunching under his boots, he followed the shrub line around to the rear where the formal gardens were laid out. To his right was the entrance to the stableyard, an archway leading through to where the Tremaine greys must be resting. Directly behind the lodge the gardens were simple lawns divided into quarters by gravel paths for promenading.

It was likely he could be seen from the house, so to gain time away from prying eyes, Avers turned left towards the rest of the gardens. He passed a line of manicured trees, his pace now a brisk stride and his mind fully occupied—despite his best efforts—with replaying the events of yesterday. He turned off the main path, heading towards one of the garden’s stone walls, and was just going around a set of rose bushes to come parallel with it when his booted foot connected with something soft.

“Ouch!”

Avers tried to pull back, off-balance from his forward momentum. He failed, lurched sideways and plunged several steps further before coming to a stop and jerking round.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux knelt on the path, rubbing her ankle beneath the hem of her skirts.

“I beg your pardon.” The tension running through Avers’ body, which had already been at an all-time high, was pushed over the edge by surprise and his apology came out more like an angry question.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux glared at him, then bent down to examine her ankle again, muttering something in French. He took in the soil on her hands and the nearby basket of cut roses.

“It is nothing.”

“I’ve hurt you,” he said, failing to curb the anger in his voice. First yesterday’s incident and now he’d inadvertently hurt Mademoiselle Cadeaux. “What were you doing crouching on the path in such a fashion?”

“I was weeding—before I was interrupted.”

She rose, batting down her skirts and smearing yet more mud on them, before placing her hands on her hips and throwing him a challenging stare.

He felt her dark-eyed gaze keenly. There was a gentle flush to her cheeks from the morning air and her hair escaped in floating tendrils framing her face. His eyes dropped down, taking in the gown she wore that had clearly seen better days, the floral material a little faded, the cuffs frayed. It wasn’t the glittering, pleated and bowed gowns he had seen her in before. Her appearance was so altered, he supposed some might see her as dowdy in such a garb, but they would be wrong. He had never seen her look more beautiful.

Avers had been staring for too long.

“Do you mean to chastise me with your stare, Your Grace? I realise weeding is not the work which women of your rank undertake, but I am not a lady, remember?”

She had misunderstood his look. It was anything but critical. Her sudden appearance set off a whole different range of emotions to the ones he had been feeling. Unfortunately, it left him even more discomposed and before he had the sense to stop himself he snapped back at her.

“I apologise. Being held at gunpoint has a way of disconcerting a man.”

Shock fractured her expression. “Gunpoint?”

She took a step forward and then jerked to a stop.

“You weren’t privy to your Comte’s little game? His test of loyalty?”

His tone made it sound like an accusation and he saw the flash of anger in her eyes. He didn’t care. What was wrong with this woman? She stayed with a madman, putting herself in harm’s way, getting burnt for speaking to him. If Vergelles had been willing to order a Duke to be held at gunpoint to test his loyalty, there was no telling what he would do to a mistress of no name or rank.

“I’m amazed at your foolishness in choosing to continue in such harmful company,” he said.

“You kick me and now call me a fool?”

Her knuckles turned white as she dug her fingertips into her hips. “And what are you, if you paid no heed to my warning? Now you have put us both in danger.”

Guilt lanced his chest.

“But you are determined to think the worst of me,” she said, bending to pick up the basket of flowers, “so I should not be surprised. I shall do you the favour of sparing you my company.”