“Dash it, but they’re brazen fellows to hold up an English peer in such a fashion! I can only be sorry I let you go alone without support. I had no notion they would be so dangerous. And such an enclosed space for sale of the papers. They must have no fear of being caught.”

“Brazen appears to be their modus operandi,” Avers said, thinking of the ambush in Buc, “but we can be thankful for it in the case of the meeting with the Commissioners. It should mean they’re unlikely to get away if you send people with me to arrest them.”

“With you?” Wakeford dropped his hand from where he’d been rubbing his chin. “Gracious no, man! You won’t be going anywhere near that meeting. No sense in it! If they’re not afraid to hold an English Duke at gunpoint on the road, there’s no telling what they might do when they’re backed into a corner. Far better to keep you out of it entirely.

“I’ll send a note to Lord Stormont and Viscount Weymouth directly to apprise them of the situation and request a retinue of men to be positioned in the gardens ready for the meeting—discreetly of course—and as soon as the Comte and his men show their hand we’ll bring them in.”

“You’re sure I won’t be needed? I have no problem seeing this through if it should result in their apprehension.” Avers wasn’t sure he wished to leave the work so wholly out of his control, not when it would indirectly affect Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The Comte needed to be taken into custody without issue if she was to be kept safe.

“I’m positive. You’ve put yourself in harm’s way enough for me already.” He reached over and put a hand on Avers’ shoulder, patting him soundly. “For that I’m immeasurably grateful. Mind you, if I had known there was still something afoot, I wouldn’t have let you go to the hunting lodge at all.”

“I knew the situation wasn’t done yet.”

“I should have listened to your gut,” Wakeford replied ruefully. “You have more of a knack for this sort of work than I would have thought—espionage that is.”

“I’m not sure what that says of my character,” Avers replied, with a mock-frown. “Not a gentlemanly pursuit with its falsehoods and trickery. But seriously—you are absolutely sure I am not needed for the exchange? I’m happy to continue playing my part if it will aid their arrest. It could be our only chance to get them.”

“I’m well aware of that, and yes, I’m certain. You’ve done your part and I’m confident that now we have a solid meeting arranged, we’ll be able to bring them to justice. My reputation and my neck will be forever grateful to you.” He rubbed at the skin between his chin and his cravat.

Avers refrained from saying what was in his mind. It was not only Wakeford’s safety he was concerned about.

“It’s the Comte you want,” said Avers unnecessarily. “He’s the ringleader, so you must make sure you pick him up at the earliest opportunity.”

Once Vergelles was under arrest there would be no further danger to Mademoiselle Cadeaux.

“I know. Thank you.”

Wakeford rose and Avers reluctantly followed suit, realising his friend’s mind was made up—he wouldn’t let him take part in the meeting on the Île de la Cité.

“You’ve saved my skin.” Wakeford threw his arms around Avers to embrace him. “I shan’t ever be able to repay you.”

“Just get the Comte.” Avers broke his friend’s hold, nodding, the business settled.

But his feelings were no easier than they had been all night when they parted. The prospect of remaining at the Tremaine’s Hôtel while the Comte and his accomplices were apprehended was intolerable.

It was not just their fates which hung in the balance. Nor was it only Wakeford’s. It was the fate of Mademoiselle Cadeaux—the woman who had aided Avers at the expense of her safety. The woman who had proved herself a lady of character despite his judgements. The woman who was increasingly consuming his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

The idea of that woman being in danger, and Avers being unable to aid her, was almost too much to bear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The fine weather Paris had been enjoying since Avers’ return to the city broke on Tuesday afternoon. Grey clouds crowded in above, obscuring the sun, but they failed to release the rain they threatened. A mist came up the Seine, creeping out into the streets, clinging to the buildings like some ominous being. It provoked an odd closeness in the air, one of cold and damp. Everything about the atmosphere of the city became heavy and depressive.

It was the perfect backdrop for an exchange of stolen British documents. Avers couldn’t have written it better himself—though, perhaps, he might have chosen a different hero. For despite Wakeford’s best efforts to keep his friend out of any further dealings with the Comte and his circle, Avers was entering the Place Dauphine on the Île de la Cité in person for the exchange.

Both Wakeford and Avers had naively assumed that the Comte and his men would meet the faux Duke of Tremaine with the papers at the rendezvous point. It had been the lynchpin of Wakeford’s plan to keep Avers out of the situation. However, shortly before the meeting, a note appeared on the Tremaine hall table, reading as follows:

Our friend,

We hope your ankle has sufficiently healed from your unfortunate fall to undertake our agreed business on Tuesday at 2 o’clock.

You’re invited to attend us at our known address before the meeting. We will journey together to rendezvous with our mutual friends and offer them our gift.

We hope it will be less eventful than our meeting in Buc—

The sardonic tone and the mention of the meeting at Buc had all the strokes of Dartois’ hand. When the Tremaine servants had been questioned as to who had delivered the note, none could confirm having received it. According to the retainers it had simply appeared in the hall. The idea that the Comte’s circle was not only able to communicate amongst themselves without being caught, but could enter the very home of another, without any sign, was disturbing.

As there was no signature on the note it could not be used as evidence, and Avers had no way to respond to Dartois and the Comte to counter with an alternative plan that might keep him out of harm’s way. Truth be told, the alteration to Wakeford’s plans was a welcome one to Avers.

So it was that he was journeying with the Comte and Dartois to the Île de la Cité a little before two o’clock through the dim mist of the Parisian streets. The Comte remained largely silent while Dartois’ casual attitude and speech set Avers’ teeth on edge. There was no mention of Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and Avers chose not to bring her up, despite wanting to know of her well-being with every irritating word that came out of Dartois’ mouth. Soon enough she would be free of the Comte and Avers could check on her himself. For now, he must focus on the business at hand.

Shortly before the carriage reached its destination, Dartois handed him a leather portfolio containing the papers. Avers resisted the urge to check the contents. His persona of uncaring Duke would hardly bother with the particulars, and even if he’d wanted to, the next moment they arrived.

Disembarking from the carriage, the portfolio beneath his arm, he entered the Place Dauphine. The grounds before him were set out in formal sections with gravel paths intersecting them. While the blooms that were out might have looked vibrant in the sun, they appeared now like a mockery of the season among the green leaves and branches.

To Avers’ left and right, he could just make out the low boundary walls behind which the Seine flowed, and every here and there a creeping tendril of the mist snaked its way over the stones to dissipate across the gardens.

Up ahead the boundaries narrowed to a meeting point at the end of the Île. From that vantage point, with no one behind him, he would be able to observe everyone who arrived in the gardens. That would be the best place to wait.

Once in position, he glanced over the wall, as though he expected some ghoul to rise up from the murky Seine. There was nothing there—just dark, fast flowing waters and swirling mist. No place for the Comte’s men to lie in wait. Avers turned back to begin his vigil.

The wait was interminable.

He had wrongly assumed the weather would turn walkers away. A steady stream flowed into and around the gardens, indistinguishable at first in the gloom, each one causing Avers’ heartbeat to quicken and his body to tense in anticipation. At least ten individuals came and went, none appearing to be promenading for leisure. Most had purposeful strides and were deep in conversation with companions. It was obvious from the staid clothes and old-fashioned wigs that several of them were taking air between sittings of the judicial courts which were housed on the island.

These men of the law and the middling sort were nothing like those with whom Avers had been mixing since coming to the French capital. These weren’t men of leisure who idled away their hours at play and amusement, appearing at Versailles when summoned to court by the King, and enjoying a tax-free existence. No, these were the Frenchmen who made up the machinery of government, whose existence was driven by more than the desire for pleasure. The individual Avers was due to meet was not likely to be among their number.

Sat on a bench about fifty yards from him, Avers saw a gentleman who did not appear to be of the judicial bent. Neither did the man seem totally at ease, his eyes working their way around the garden and back again. Avers recognised him as one of Wakeford’s men he’d met before. He’d been told there would be men planted throughout the Place Dauphine. He hoped they would not appear obvious to the Comte and his men.

The clouds above shifted a little and Avers glanced up to see watery sunlight, pale and harsh to his eyes. The bright daytime star was up there, trying to break through, but failing to burn off its adversaries in the atmosphere.

Avers ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It was sticky, yet he felt cold. Was it the humidity or the tension causing him such discomfort? The cravat his valet had so studiously starched wouldn’t stand a chance against these elements. No doubt it was wilting already.

Another gentleman appeared on the left path. He was dressed differently. He wore his hair unpowdered, and a wool suit far more at home in a pastoral setting than the city—its cut not in the current style, and too full in the skirts and heavy in the cuffs to be considered à la mode. The man paused every now and then, scanning the park, looking for someone. Then his eyes settled on Avers and he struck out directly for the English Lord.

Avers’ breath quickened. He clasped the leather portfolio a little tighter. That was the agreed sign—the portfolio—and even from this distance, he had seen the approaching gentleman’s gaze drop to what was beneath his arm.

The man was closer now.

Twenty yards.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Avers’ mouth went dry. He suddenly had an absurd desire to walk in the opposite direction as quickly as he could. Then straight after, an overwhelming feeling of idiocy. What was he to say to this man? The thought hadn’t occurred to him before now. He’d been so intent on considering the impending arrest of the Comte that he hadn’t considered he might actually have to speak to one of the Commissioners.