“Paid off the owner, did you?”
“A waste of money—no, Sebastien knocked him out cold and locked him up in the inn.”
Dartois had not put the pistol away. From the feverish excitement in the Marquis’ eyes, Avers had the uneasy feeling that—had he not passed the so-called test—he would have witnessed the weapon going off.
For the first time since this whole adventure began, Avers could no longer feel the ground. He was out of his depth. And that was not a pleasant feeling at all.
“Are we to stay here all night?” he asked, raising a single brow and doing his best to hide his anger.
“Non,” Dartois replied, looking even more amused. “That would never do. Let no one call me a poor host. Come, we can still make my hunting lodge by nightfall and my chef will have a feast ready for us when we arrive.”
Avers followed Dartois out of the stable, the other men coming behind like jailors, and the Marquis chattering all the way about what his chef would have prepared for dinner. A mere five minutes ago Dartois had held a loaded pistol at Avers’ head—now he discussed favourite jellies. It was enough to leave Avers questioning the Marquis’ sanity.
The entourage made its way out of the courtyard and around to the other side of the inn where the Tremaine coach was located. Hendricks would not look Avers in the eye when his master approached and the latter chose not to address his disloyalty in the present moment.
Installed back in the carriage, Hendricks atop, and the Marquis and his men in their own chaise, the party set forward together. Avers was thankful for the mercy of an empty carriage for the remainder of his journey. He needed the time to regain his composure and process the ordeal he had just been through.
He should perhaps have felt relieved at knowing he had passed the Comte’s test. Instead, as his mind ran over what had happened, a sense of foreboding grew within him. With every mile they gained, Avers felt closer and closer to being thrown into the lion’s den.
A den in which Mademoiselle Cadeaux already dwelt. Avers wondered what tests the Comte’s mistress might have been subjected to. More than that, he wondered exactly what Vergelles’ business dealings were that they required levelling a pistol to test loyalty. And at an English Duke no less. It took a brazen man to risk such a thing and Dartois had done it with a smile.
This dramatic episode in Buc did not bode well. No, it did not bode well at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Comte had been looking furtively at the clock on the mantelpiece throughout dinner. Emilie and Vergelles sat alone in the dining room of Dartois’ hunting lodge and no explanation had been given as to the whereabouts of the rest of the party.
Emilie had not queried it. The burn on the back of her hand still stung and she knew better than to tempt the Comte’s anger.
Dartois’ chef was excellent. They were served several small plates of game and soup before the main course of duck à l'orange with vegetables and crisped potatoes. Emilie did not have much appetite. It had yet to return since her altercation with the Comte and whenever she was in his presence, she found all desire for food abated.
“An excellent bird,” said the Comte, attempting to engage her in conversation.
“Oui,” she replied. “Very tasty indeed.” To substantiate the statement she cut a slice from the leg on her plate and popped the succulent meat in her mouth.
“You are settled in your room? It is close to mine—should you need anything. Only one door across.”
Emilie nodded, saying nothing. It was the second time Vergelles had mentioned the proximity of their rooms. She had the distinct impression he had arranged the locations with Dartois and expected something to come from it. The thought conjured a nauseous sensation in the pit of Emilie’s stomach.
She had played her hand well, but soon she would be out of cards.
“With such an arrangement in our rooms, perhaps now is the time to—” The Comte’s speech was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall. “Ah! I believe our guest has finally arrived.”
He rose and went to open the dining room door. The moment his back was turned Emilie breathed out in relief, trying not to guess what his next words would have been. Thankfully she was saved from her imagination by the thought of the new arrival—the Duke of Tremaine. The man of contradictions.
Emilie rose, placing her napkin on the table and smoothing her hand over her stomach, willing it to be calm. She slipped into the hallway without being noticed by the gathering of men. There were Dartois, Sebastien and two others of the Comte’s circle, all dressed as though it were the middle of winter with their cloaks and mufflers. Behind them came the Duke of Tremaine.
“Bonsoir, Vergelles,” said Dartois jovially, taking the Comte’s hand and shaking it in the way Emilie knew he disliked. “Has my chef been looking after you?”
“I’m fit to expire!” said Sebastien. “Tell me you will not make us change for dinner, Dartois?”
“I have no aversion to the suggestion. Though I expect the Comte will want us to discard our cloaks at the very least.”
“I would,” Lucien said, glancing at the others with a hint of disdain. “But this is your house, Dartois. Whatever you desire.”
“Whatever I desire?”
For a fraction of a second, Dartois’ eyes flicked over the Comte’s shoulder and looked directly into Emilie’s own. She froze, the memory of Dartois’ offer all too vivid in her mind.
The Marquis turned away to throw his cloak on a waiting servant. “Off with our outer garments and let us eat before Monsieur Gardoin’s dinner is spoiled. I am sure our friend the Duke will appreciate some restoring victuals after his ordeal.”
A rumble of laughter ran around the men.
“I expect so. Your Grace.” The Comte offered him the merest incline of his head rather than the full bow his status deserved. “A pleasant journey, was it?”
For a moment, the usually talkative Duke appeared as though he would say nothing. He stared at the Comte, his hooded eyes hard as flint, with a look upon his face Emilie had not seen before. But after a few seconds, his expression shifted, the hardness cracking away, replaced with his usual ennui.
“It could have been a little more so—had I not met your welcome party at Buc.” Tremaine’s lips curled into a half-smile, but it was without sincerity and no matching joy appeared in his eyes.
Welcome party? What had the Comte and the Marquis done to the Duke?
“Come now,” Dartois said affably, turning and slapping a hand across Tremaine’s shoulders. “A bit of fun to determine your loyalties.”
“Necessary,” the Comte agreed, looking down and flicking an imaginary piece of dust from his sleeve.
“Let us not bore Mademoiselle Cadeaux with our talk,” said Dartois. “I can offer you brandy for your nerves, if you need it, Tremaine. I guarantee I stock an excellent cellar.”
