The gentleman was upon him, halting and executing a neat bow.

“Your Grace, Tremaine?”

“Good afternoon.” Avers’ voice cracked a little after being silent for so long. “At your service,” he added smoothly, bowing and making a leg as he did so.

As he rose he took the opportunity to observe the man before him. The Commissioner was middle-aged, not handsome, with shoulder length untied hair and a weathered face out of which looked steady grey eyes. There was a humorous lilt to his wide mouth and Avers understood it with the man’s next words.

“And what service is that?”

The blunt question did Avers some good. It jolted him out of his overwhelmed state, and he became the Duke of Tremaine once again. Perhaps for the last time.

“Information that may aid your cause.” He raised the hand that clasped the portfolio and widened his eyes in a meaningful manner.

“And what business does a subject of the Crown have in disclosing such information? Or false information, as the case may be.”

The Commissioner might have been unassuming in appearance, but he had a way of speaking that assumed authority. The situation was one of danger and treason and yet this man appeared unruffled by either consideration.

“Our cause goes beyond petty rivalries and individual interests,” the Commissioner said, all the while those steady grey eyes on the faux Duke. “We will not be knocked off course.”

Avers shifted uncomfortably. It felt like the man was settling in to give a speech in this very public garden. He glanced over the Commissioner’s shoulder. Where the devil were Wakeford and his men? The meet had happened. They needed no more proof to arrest the spies.

“I wouldn’t dream of knocking your cause off course,” Avers said, playing for time. “I owe little allegiance to—”

A shot cracked through the air. Avers jolted, instinctively ducking. Where had it come from? Before he could look around, the Commissioner—who had also jumped at the shot—fell forward. Avers was overcome by the gentleman, dropping the leather portfolio to the floor and catching the Commissioner up in his arms to stop him hitting the ground.

“Good gracious man—are you hurt?” cried Avers, trying to pull him up enough that he might examine him.

The Commissioner scrambled to regain his footing.

“I’m unhurt,” the man panted in shock. “But you aren’t—your arm!”

Looking down, Avers saw it, bright crimson blood, all up the sleeve of his jacket. He flexed his muscles automatically, feeling for injury, and immediately the shock wore off and a burning sensation laced around his arm.

“Blast it!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket Avers pressed it to his left arm, groaning against the pain, which now lashed at him.

“Is it bad?”

“I don’t think so.” Avers breathed out through his mouth and in through his nose, telling himself to be calm, determined not to pass out as he felt the warmth of blood on his hands. “But I will sit.” He lowered himself onto the path, almost crumpling at the end.

Leaning back against a low stone wall, the ringing in his ears abated a little and he looked across the gardens.

There was a man on the floor, struggling in vain against a heavy-set fellow who Avers recognised from the bench, kneeling on his back. Thrown a little distance away lay a pistol, still smoking. Across the way, two other men were manhandling a third into submission.

“You there!” shouted the Commissioner. He, too, had been taking in the scenes across the garden. “Release my man at once! He had nothing to do with the shooting.”

The Commissioner started away from him toward where the three men struggled. Unable to focus on anything but breathing through the pain, Avers closed his eyes, a faint whiff of sulphurous gunpowder entering his nostrils.

“John!”

His eyes sprang open and there was Wakeford bounding towards him. His friend came to his side, kneeling before him, worry etched into his pale face.

“You’ve been shot.”

“So it appears,” said Avers on a groan.

“I must see if the bullet has exited.” Wakeford began teasing Avers’ fingers and bloody handkerchief away from his arm. “A knife!” he barked at one of his men who had followed closely behind and was now standing over them.

The man ran off immediately to procure the object.

“Well,” murmured Wakeford, turning back to his friend and replacing the handkerchief over the wound causing Avers to grunt in pain. “That did not go according to plan.”

“A plan to kill me?” asked the Commissioner who had come up behind Wakeford, his now freed man standing a little in front of him in a protective manner. “Your man is a poor shot. Perhaps now you’ll do me the service—after trying to assassinate me—of ordering your men to allow me to leave the Île.”

“Not our man,” Avers said, eyes rolling back as Wakeford tied the handkerchief around his arm to staunch the flow of blood. “Or our assassination attempt.” He managed a crooked half-smile.

“And for your protection,” said Wakeford testily, “we will not allow you to leave the gardens until my men have ensured the shooter and all his accomplices are in our custody.”

At that point, the man who Wakeford had sent in search of a knife returned and handed over the requested instrument.

“You mean to tell me that I have not been lured here under false pretences for you to kill me?” snapped the Commissioner. “I recognise you, Lord Wakeford. You are a King’s man.”

Wakeford did not answer immediately. He had removed the handkerchief from Avers’ arm again and was taking hold of the sleeve, pulling the fabric taut.

“I’m sorry to ruin such a beautiful suit,” he said, and then ran the knife as high up the sleeve as he was able, parting the fabric and revealing the bloodied limb below. After wiping as much of the blood away as he was able, he examined the wound, pulling and prodding, causing Avers to flinch. “Thank the Lord, it’s a graze. Just caught the edge of your arm. Probably hurts like the devil and bleeding no end, but not a direct hit.”

“I shall have a scar, I hope?” Avers asked, that crooked smile still upon his lips.

“Yes, you’ll have a scar,” Wakeford replied ruefully. “Here.” He undid his cravat and used the length of linen to bind up Avers’ arm. He doubled it over with the cravat of the man who had fetched the knife and nodded, satisfied, when he had finished.

“We should get the doctor to see you.”

Finally feeling as though the pain was no longer increasing, and being told the wound was not serious, Avers began to think more clearly. The only people who had known about this meeting were the Comte’s men, Avers and Wakeford. It followed that it was one of them who orchestrated the attempted assassination.

“I demand you allow me safe passage off this island,” said the Commissioner, making both Wakeford and Avers realise he was still standing there.

Wakeford rose. “As I said, not until we know there is no further danger to your person.”

“You English—ordering us about as though we are still your subjects when we have declared independence from you. And now you expect me to believe you did not attempt to assassinate me? It would benefit your King and his government very well if me and my colleagues did not succeed in securing King Louis’ backing.”

“Benefit?” Avers murmured.

Who benefited from the Commissioner’s death? Perhaps Britain in the short-term, but ultimately it would only promote more anger in the Colonies and a determination to fight their cause. It would also undermine Britain’s relationship with France if they were seen to be interfering with the colonialists on French soil. And that is exactly how it would appear, because it was an English noble who had arranged a meeting with one of the Commissioners to share supposed secrets. An English noble who had lured him somewhere to be assassinated… The animosity between the age-old enemies Britain and France would be stoked and the repercussions would start with trade embargoes and…

Trade.

War with France would mean the boom of free trade and the Comte and his cronies were perfectly positioned, with their operations already in place, to make a fortune. All the parts of this nefarious plan began to fall into place in Avers’ mind. He had been their pawn all along. They had never really trusted him. That test of loyalty in Buc was nothing but show. They had wanted him as a scapegoat for their assassination. How could he not have seen it? He had thought he had played the game well, but instead he had been played a fool.

“At least we have the Comte in custody now,” Avers murmured, head leant back against the wall and eyes closed.