She did look at him then, and there was the lightest and most beautiful smile on her face. It transformed her expression, eradicating all the hiddenness it usually contained. She appeared open and free and… yes… very, very beautiful.

Taking his arm, they both focused on the path ahead, winding around the rear of the hunting lodge towards the formal gardens.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “I left my boot and the compress from the housekeeper in the drawing room.”

It would not do to be found wandering around the gardens with Mademoiselle Cadeaux after bemoaning a twisted ankle, the treatment discarded in the house.

“I had them sent up to your room,” she replied.

Avers’ jaw dropped.

“I wasn’t sure where you were and Dartois is particular about mess. After your encounter with him on your way here, I thought it best you didn’t anger him.”

“I thank you, my resourceful lady, for your care over my person.”

“Once I found you in the study I realised the cold compress was likely a ruse to leave the hunting party.”

“Resourceful and intelligent.” He smiled and then added, his tone far softer, “And kind.”

She remained silent.

They came to a bench and Avers invited her to sit. “Please.”

He sat down beside her, but before she could settle, he pressed a hand to hers.

“I owe you an apology. I sorely misjudged your character. First you show yourself to be charitable to those less fortunate, and then you try and warn me of danger at your own expense. Yesterday you cared for my feelings, and now you aid me. I don’t deserve such treatment from someone I so wrongly judged. Thank you.”

Her pink lips parted in surprise.

“I should tell you—”

“Ah! There you are.” Dartois’ voice broke across Avers’ words as it sailed across the shrubbery.

Avers removed his hand from Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s and they both looked over to where their host approached down one of the formal paths. The Frenchman greeted them both, eyeing Avers’ bandaged foot which he had propped up on the bench in a show of his fake injury. The Marquis invited them both in for refreshments. The couple rose, Dartois giving aid to Avers’ faux hobble, and the party headed inside.

As they met with the Comte for tea and sweetmeats, Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s actions replayed through Avers’ mind. Even when she left his presence to change for dinner, those deep eyes of hers followed him through his thoughts. He had spoken the truth. He had never met any woman like her before, and he was beginning to think, he never would again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Over the next two days, Avers ran over the details of how he and Mademoiselle Cadeaux had covered their tracks. They had been careful. The Comte did not appear suspicious. But Avers was realising how unpredictable Dartois was. He made a point of remarking on Avers’ swift recovery from his ankle injury several times. The affability that emanated from the Marquis and the feeling of ease in his speech cloaked a sharpness that caused Avers discomfort.

As a result, he was relieved to find out that the hunting party would be breaking up on Monday and returning to Paris. Clearly, there had been no need to prolong it, now that the Comte and Dartois has finally revealed their business proposition. The party’s only other purpose had been to test his loyalty at the ambush in Buc.

Avers was told the Commissioners would soon receive an invitation, via the Comte and Dartois’ communications network, and the meeting would be set. He should have been satisfied at the success of his mission, but the idea of leaving Mademoiselle Cadeaux the following morning filled him with disquiet.

No opportunity presented itself to speak alone with her and attempting to manufacture one could put her in further danger. As a result, sleep that night evaded him, only descending in fitful bursts, and when he took his leave the following morning, he felt as though he left her, a lamb, among wolves.

He was back in Paris less than a day when he met with Wakeford. The information he had learned weighed as heavily on his mind as Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He could not escape the memory of that kiss as he travelled through early morning Paris.

When he arrived at the boxing club, the lad who had served him last time opened the door, bleary eyed. It was barely seven o’clock. Avers had paid the owner of the club to open early, and the lad showed him to the same private sparring room where he had met Wakeford less than a week before.

His friend was already there, back to the window, where he had likely been watching for Avers’ arrival. He had a beaver hat pulled low on his brow and collar turned up to obscure his face.

The door clicked shut behind the serving boy.

Avers greeted him, grasping his friend’s hand warmly. “Thank you for meeting me so swiftly.”

“Of course—your note said urgent?”

Neither gentleman made to sit. Avers couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to. He felt incapable of sitting still. Instead he threw his hat and gloves upon the table, resting his cane against a chair, and then he ran his hands through his loose hair.

“My excursion to the hunting lodge has proved fruitful. You know already that the papers the Comte de Vergelles’ circle stole from your offices contained information helpful to the colonists’ cause in the Americas and that they have sold the intelligence to Louis’ government. Well, it appears they plan to sell it twice over before the French have a chance to pass on the information. They’re intending to sell the papers to the Continental Commissioners who are currently here in Paris.”

Wakeford inhaled sharply. “Devils!” He reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck, not taking into account his hat, and knocked the beaver-skin creation off his head. Its stiff brim made an odd thud on the floorboards of the largely bare room.

“It’s serious, yes—” Avers began after a few moments, but Wakeford cut him off.

“Gracious!” he exclaimed, half-stumbling towards the table and falling heavily into one of the chairs. He stared disconsolately ahead of himself. “I’m ruined.”

Avers followed him over to the table calmly, tapping the top lightly with his fingers to capture his friend’s attention before speaking.

“The situation appears dire.” He ignored a groan of unhappiness from Wakeford. “However, bringing me into it has finally paid off, my friend. They’ve offered me a handsome payment in return for being their go-between with the Commissioners.”

Wakeford’s ears pricked up at this, his eyes refocused intently upon him. “Yes? Go on.”

“It appears my connection to your offices will legitimise the information in the colonists’ eyes. I have the details of the meeting, where and when it is to happen, and that means we will have the chance not only to catch the Comte red-handed, but to recover the papers as well.”

“You’ve arranged all this in the last few days?” asked Wakeford, astonished.

“I’d have the papers for you as well,” Avers said ruefully, “if it wasn’t for an untimely interruption by the Comte and Dartois. “It’s only thanks to Mademoiselle Cadeaux that I was not caught in the act of stealing them.”

“What?” Wakeford demanded in astounded accents. “The mistress?”

The title hit Avers’ chest uncomfortably.

“The woman is not party to their dealings. I had to tell her what I was doing when she caught me in Dartois’ study trying to retrieve the papers. She helped me evade capture. When we arrest the others she must go free.”

If Wakeford had been less dazed he might have noted the warmth, almost fierceness, in his friend’s voice.

“I suppose if you vouch for her, and she’s not at this meeting that’s been arranged, then there’s no point bringing her into it.”

“She isn’t a part of it,” Avers reiterated.

But Wakeford was already onto his next thought. “Where is the meeting?”

Avers spent the next several minutes explaining exactly what had transpired at Dartois’ hunting lodge, including the test of his loyalty and the plans for the meeting with the Commissioners.