“Oui—next weekend,” the Comte replied. “We will attend.”
Her fear took a brief hiatus in the face of a sudden flash of irritation. She had borne the Comte’s wrath for nothing. The Duke was ignoring her warnings.
Only those who were trusted were invited to Dartois’ hunting lodge. It was where matters of business were discussed to which Emilie was not privy. She had only been there twice during her relationship with the Comte and both times she had spent the majority of her days there alone, occupying herself in the gardens when she was turned out of the gatherings of Vergelles and his men.
Emilie had intended to visit her friends in the Île de la Cité on Friday. Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette had sent her a note to tell her another collection of the actresses’ tips was ready to be dispensed to the poor. Those plans would have to wait.
“You shall be the belle of the party,” Dartois said, leaning in at the carriage window, his hand inches from where hers rested.
The action was harmless enough to those who had not experienced the Marquis’ conversation with Emilie. She could not help removing her hand to her lap to avoid an involuntary touch. Just as she did this, Lutin—who had been very content curled up under her skirts, acting in lieu of a warming brick between her feet—woke up.
The canine’s ears had not failed him. He took one look at Dartois—his sworn enemy—and erupted into a series of angry barks.
“Urgh!” Dartois lept back as the dog jumped up at the window. “Maudit ce chien infernal!” He began checking his hand and arm for bite marks.
“You brought that infernal dog of yours?” snapped the Comte.
“Ah, the petit diable,” the Duke of Tremaine murmured, smiling over at Lutin’s fierce little face.
The Comte shot the Englishman a venomous look.
“I have tried to be his friend,” said Dartois testily, “but he will have none of me. I cannot like him.”
“Animals have a sixth sense when it comes to humans. His penchant for snapping at you is no doubt driven by it.”
Was the Duke saying Lutin sensed something he didn’t like in the Marquis? Emilie’s eyes darted to the English noble as she simultaneously grabbed Lutin’s collar to stay his jumping. Tremaine’s comment was as if he could read Emilie’s recent fears about the Marquis right out of her own mind. But when she saw the Duke smiling in that languid way of his, a gleam in his eye, she realised he was simply funning at Dartois’ expense.
The tension which was still very much present in her body intensified. If the Comte saw the Duke exchanging meaningful glances with her, even if only in humour and nothing else, she was sure he would exact a payment.
“Pardon.”
A servant from the Café Procope had crossed the street and was now attempting to gain access to the carriage window. He carried a pewter tray bearing a pot of coffee and a single cup.
“Merci,” Emilie said as the server threaded his way skilfully between the nobles and held out the tray for her to serve herself.
Lutin made no demur as she released his collar and began pouring the hot drink, tendrils of steam rising and twisting in the air.
“Are we to wait for you to finish?” Vergelles asked.
Emilie halted halfway through pouring, glancing at the Comte and then back at the pot in her hands.
“I’m sure the lady may finish her drink before we set off,” Dartois said smoothly.
Emilie found herself grateful for the Marquis’ intervention, once again confused over his seeming split personalities.
“Very well, but I will not travel with that beast.” Vergelles pointed his ebony cane at Lutin’s head, just visible over the carriage door, as he still stood on his hind legs. “Must you go everywhere with that thing?”
“On this point I must concur, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois said. “Your canine companion is less than affable.”
A sudden wave of irrational fear crashed over Emilie as she thought of being parted from Lutin. The little dog made her feel marginally safer. She could hardly reply to the Comte and Marquis with that as her reasoning.
Before she could think of a suitably placating response, Vergelles commanded her to get out of the carriage so they might walk to Sebastien’s.
“My driver will take that dog of yours back to your lodgings where he belongs.”
Without waiting for her consent, the Comte signalled for the driver to let down the steps, and then turned to the Marquis de Dartois to discuss the particulars of their meeting with Sebastien.
Emilie, having not taken a single sip of coffee, replaced it on the server’s tray and paid him for his vain service. She picked up her gloves from the seat beside her, having previously removed them to warm her hands with her coffee. The movement caused the wound on the back of her right hand to sting afresh.
It was a raw reminder of the Comte’s anger and her current inability to escape it. Emilie tried to school her breathing into a steady pace. It had grown fast and shallow with the Comte’s foul mood and the memories the pain in her hand conjured.
As the door of the carriage opened she took a steadying breath, stroking Lutin’s head rhythmically, telling herself that the ringing in her ears would abate. The idea of leaving the safety of the carriage and her little white shadow behind… Breathe, Emilie… Breathe.
As she placed an unsteady foot on the first step a strong, steady hand took her elbow. It took her weight, guiding her down from the steps as she focused on a single cobble below. As she reached solid ground, she looked up to find it was neither the Comte nor Dartois who aided her.
It was the Duke of Tremaine.
“Mademoiselle.” He bowed towards her, his gloved hand slipped down her arm to hold her hand lightly.
His continued support caused her breathing to slow and the ringing in her ears to abate.
Emilie glanced towards the Comte, but Vergelles’ back was still turned as he was now in deep discussion with Dartois, speaking forcefully in rapid French. She couldn’t risk them suddenly turning and seeing Tremaine holding her hand. She tried to pull back from the Duke’s grasp, but his grip tightened on her fingers in response.
Emilie gazed up into his eyes and was startled to see concern there.
“You have injured yourself?” he murmured, too low for their companions to hear, and looking meaningfully down at the bandage on her hand.
She tried to pull her hand away again, mild panic rising within, and this time Tremaine released it. A thread in the bandage caught on his sleeve, tugging it loose as she dropped her hand.
