“What are you about—manhandling me in such a way? It’s not the done thing, not at all.” Avers was trying to make out their features, but the one who held the lamp must have seen him squinting for he raised it higher, dazzling him.
“You will tell us what you know about the Comte de Vergelles and his dealings.”
“The Comte de what?” Avers now sat cross-legged like a naughty schoolboy looking up at them.
“Don’t play games.” The third man came forward and levelled a pistol at Avers’ forehead. “Tell us what you know.”
For a moment, Avers’ words failed him. His breath came quick and shallow. The barrel of the gun looked as dark and ominous as the passageway of the stable had done.
“About this Comte fellow?”
Who were these men? And how on earth was Avers going to get out of this mess? Whatever the Comte was involved in was not over as Wakeford’s superiors might hope. It was very much still happening and very much still dangerous.
“You’re trying my patience,” said the man with the gun, his accent definitely provincial. “I suggest you stop doing that. We know you have dealings with the Comte. You will answer our questions in the name of the King.”
That brought Avers up short. The King?
“You’re working for Louis?”
“Oui—we work for His Majesty against all enemies, including those from within. Tell us what you know.”
What on earth? Avers’ mind sped back and forth over the last few weeks trying to work out how the French government might be involved in the Comte’s spy ring. More importantly, why had they targeted the faux Duke of Tremaine? And how had they known he’d be here?
“A dead English Duke means nothing to us,” hissed the man with the gun, pressing its cold barrel against Avers’ forehead.
“Are you sure? I imagine it’d be the devil of a thing to explain away if my body should show up in a backwards inn at Buc.”
“Perhaps the silly English lord stopped at the inn and got set upon by ruffians.”
The coldness of that barrel against his head brought a great deal of perspective. Suddenly the melancholy he’d felt since Miss Curshaw had thrown him over seemed like a colossal waste of time. Not only that, but what of those he’d leave behind—his dear Cousin Sophy and Aunt Goring? What about Wakeford and his papers? What about… Mademoiselle Cadeaux?
Mademoiselle Cadeaux… It had only been her, the Comte’s circle and Wakeford who knew of his departure from Paris. And would French agents really be willing to kill an English Duke?
Avers had an idea. A wild one. What if this wasn’t the French government at all, but rather the Comte’s men? No. Surely not. And yet…
What had Avers got to lose by testing his theory? He already had a gun to his head.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do your worst—for I have no idea what it is you think I should know—but I do know that I don’t know it.”
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.”
