“I do not wish to alarm you.”
The Duke had misread her gasp of pain as one of shock.
“You seem… anxious.”
Her eyes darted again to the Comte and she scolded herself inwardly for allowing her feelings to be interpreted so easily. Then she looked down to the bandage that had unravelled from her hand. She turned her back to Vergelles and Dartois, reaching for the loose strip of fabric and raising her hand to unfurl it and rebandage the injury.
For a brief moment the red, ugly, blistering skin was revealed.
“That’s a nasty wound.”
She tried to hide it from the Duke, the pain fraying her temper. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. You would do well to cover it with a poultice to prevent infection and encourage healing. I can send my old housekeeper’s best recipe to your address. Tell me how you came by the burn?”
Emilie sighed, the pain overcoming her resolve. “I told you, there are consequences when one gets involved with dangerous men. But please,” she pleaded, loathing the fearful tone in her own voice, “we must not be overheard.”
“Of course.” The Duke’s eyes—as they looked upon her—were the softest she had ever seen them. When he glanced over at the Comte, the change was swift and remarkable. Fury transformed his features and brought a blazing light to his eyes.
“You warned me. I have been careless. I ignorantly believed your warning only applied to me. Why did he hurt you?”
Emilie shrugged impatiently. “The Comte is jealous of his privacy. He wished to know exactly what I had said to you. What secrets I had divulged. I told him none. He wished to be sure.”
He bowed his head in apology. “Please forgive me.”
She struggled to concentrate fully on the Duke’s apology for fear that the Comte might overhear their conversation. She glanced over at her benefactor whose back was still turned to them. Vergelles’ foot tapped on the floor, and Emilie could see the conversation between him and Dartois was petering off. No doubt he was waiting for Emilie to come to his side. His anger at her bringing Lutin meant he would not deign to turn and take her onto his arm.
“It is not you who burned me. Will you now desist whatever obsession you have with doing business with the Comte?”
She looked imploringly up at the Duke and saw his troubled brow furrow, his eyes more apologetic than ever.
“I cannot explain to you why I am unable to do as you advise. Please trust me that it is important I engage the Comte in friendship.”
Emilie’s lips parted a little as she stared at him in bewilderment. He had inadvertently seen the damage the Comte had done just because she spoke to Tremaine and yet the Duke would still pursue this relationship?
“Then I will beg of you to stay away from me. I do not wish to be burned twice by whatever foolishness you pursue. And there are others whose wellbeing relies on me.” She stepped forward and the Duke immediately bowed and moved away to allow her passage. She did not look at him again or loiter any longer. Coming alongside the Comte, she curtseyed to him and apologised for upsetting his morning by bringing Lutin.
“I await your pleasure, my Lord.”
The French noble looked down at her from the corner of his eyes and gave the smallest jerk of his head in acceptance of her submission. He then raised the silver head of his ebony cane, signalling the coachman to leave, and there emitted a new stream of indignant barks from the Comte’s carriage as Lutin was taken—unwillingly—away.
Emilie felt her heart squeeze at her poor pet’s confusion.
“I can walk you as far as the Hôtel des Invalides,” said the Duke of Tremaine from behind her. Emilie refused to turn and catch his eye again. “And then I must return to my cousin’s offices.”
The party struck out, Dartois explaining the location of his hunting lodge to Tremaine, and the Comte maintaining his characteristic silence. Emilie did the same, not wanting to rouse any more ire from her benefactor.
When they reached the spot where their paths were destined to diverge, the group stopped to say farewell.
“And if you should have news of the investment before next weekend,” asked Tremaine, “how can I expect to hear from you?”
Feeling safe to look at him once more, Emilie noticed that the bored facade was back in place upon the Duke’s face, and his characteristic drawl had overcome the earnestness in his voice from when he spoke to her earlier.
“I cannot vouch for my cousin not intercepting my post. He’s my uncle’s spy at present, I have no doubt.”
The Comte’s arm stiffened beneath Emilie’s hand.
“We will contact you, should we need to,” the Comte replied coolly.
“We have our ways.” Dartois expanded on his friend’s answer. “Have no fear.”
The Duke looked as if he might say something but thought better of it. Instead he tapped his cane to the brim of his hat and bowed low to Emilie.
“I shall bit you all adieu. Take care, Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”
He rose without catching her eyes again and turned on his heel to saunter away.
“And what do you think of the English Duke attending our little house party?” the Comte asked Emilie as soon as they were on their way again.
This was a trap.
“I am surprised,” Emilie said with a shrug. “I find him très ennuyeux, and I thought you did too, my Lord.”
Dartois laughed. “Très bien, Mademoiselle. He is a bore with his constant crass chatter about money. Do not worry your pretty head about it. We shall keep him from boring you, shall we not, Vergelles?”
“Oui—though I could have been fooled into thinking you thought him engaging by the way you spoke to him previously.”
“Politeness,” Emilie said quickly. “Not interested in his conversation.”
