“As we all are,” Emilie said softly, laying a card and not looking up from her hand. Madame Pertuis had always treated Emilie as any other guest in spite of her low birth. She would not allow some upstart Englishman to deride her.

“I believe my name had much to do with it,” the Englishman carried on, either feeling no barb in Emilie’s carefully spoken words or choosing to ignore them. “It’s good to know it still works.”

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” the Frenchman replied. “The old Duke of Tremaine was a regular in Paris Society in his youth, I understand.”

Emilie’s heart twinged and she looked across at the Englishman to see any outward shows of grief.

She saw none. The gentleman in question, of medium height and broad shouldered, laying claim to heavily hooded brown eyes and a firm jaw, was dressed in the first stare of fashion. A little less flamboyant than the true dandies of Paris, but the cut of his jacket could not be described as anything less than exceptional, even if the wine colour was more muted than his sartorially daring French counterparts.

“Thank you for your condolences,” the Englishman said, “though we were never close. And now I’ve alienated my uncle as well. I’m afraid I ran through a great deal of money on inheriting, and he’s been forced to take the helm to right the ship. Or so he told me in his letter, and bid me, rather forcefully, come to Paris and desist from my wild activities. I’m afraid I’m quite out of sorts with my family.”

Emilie managed a few more surreptitious glances at the English Duke without drawing Lucien’s attention. He appeared to her completely unaffected by his father’s recent death or his family troubles. In fact, she was fairly sure she observed the light of amusement in his eyes.

“I am told I’m ruining the family name. But now I shall be able to write to my uncle and tell him all is not lost.” His expression amused—his audience rapt. “For I was invited to Madame Pertuis’ salon in under a sennight of my arrival in Paris.”

“Yes, but of course,” said the Frenchman in complete sincerity.

Clearly Emilie’s fellow countryman had not encountered English humour before.

“Your uncle will be pleased to hear it, no doubt?” the Frenchman added politely.

“One cannot expect a paternal figure to be pleased when gaming debts are hanging over them.”

The Frenchman halted halfway through laying a card and directed a sharp-eyed gaze at the Duke of Tremaine.

“Oh, nothing to worry about, mon ami. The debts were paid and I’ve a tolerably deep pocket for now. No. It was the attempted elopement with an Italian beauty that really caused uncle the apoplexy. That and the fighting cocks.”

“Fighting… cocks?” The Frenchman’s attention on the game was all but lost. His mouth hung a little slack as he eyed the Englishman in bewilderment.

“It is not really the conversation to have in polite company,” the Englishman said, not looking at Emilie, but rather gesturing at the other room where the group of ladies he’d been sitting with earlier still sat chattering away.

“Do not stop on my account,” Emilie said, one brow raised in challenge at the Duke of Tremaine, before dropping her gaze quickly to her cards again. He may think of her what he wished, but she would challenge him when she could at the very least.

“I have not yet met a woman with a taste for blood sports, but if you insist,” said the Duke, warming to his theme, and turning back to his audience of one. “There was a gaming set in Greece which I joined. Established a neat little cock pit just down from the Acropolis and had a good game going. Not the behaviour of a gentleman, according to my uncle, and less than helpful for the fortunes of the Tremaine estate when I had a losing streak.” He sighed heavily. “I had to sell off all my birds.”

“I am sure they were thankful for their escape,” said Emilie, gaze flicking up at the Duke.

He held it a moment, a measuring look in his eyes, and then the lids dropped low again in that lazy way of his and he chuckled.

“I expect they were. Though,” he mused, turning back to his cards, Emilie non-existent to him once again, “there was one cock, named Agamemnon—I swear he positively wanted to die.”

Emilie drew breath to reply when the Comte cut in.

“Perhaps he too had experienced this dull play?”

The Duke of Tremaine’s languid eyes drifted over to Vergelles. He licked his lips, as though he were tasting the acerbic tone of the Comte’s words, and smiled affably.

“That could have been it.”

Emilie felt the Comte tense beside her. It was unusual for others not to be cowed by his manner. The Englishman appeared to be totally unaffected.

“But the real question,” said the Duke, his tone changing, its edge hardening, and a provoking look in his brown eyes, “is whether I have been dull enough to throw off your concentration from the game.” He laid his final cards. “My win, I believe.”

Emilie’s fine brows rose. She glanced quickly over at the hand lately played. Yes, the Duke of Tremaine had indeed won.

He had hoodwinked them all. The right-hand side of her mouth quirked upwards, and she felt a brief flash of admiration for the gentleman. Then, remembering the man beside her, she risked a glance at the Comte.

The French noble had not moved a muscle. His dark gaze on the Duke was unflinching. Coldness crept out from Emilie’s chest and down her limbs. She recognised that look. Vergelles was angry and this self-confident Englishman had no idea who he was provoking.

“A clever plan,” Emilie asserted in her most pacifying voice. “You must tell us how you managed to be so charming and play so well.”

The Comte threw down his cards and rested a hand on her chairback, his fingers hanging down and brushing the top of her shoulder before resting there, the pressure increasing.

“So well,” Vergelles echoed. He slid his hand down Emilie’s arm, pressing her wrist in a command for her to be silent.

She shut her mouth obediently and leaned back from the table, removing herself from the conversation, and dropping her gaze to her lap.

“Too well for my companion and I—” the Comte began.

“You’re not a sore loser, are you?” the Englishman drawled.

Emilie’s breathing grew shallow. Her chest tightened. She had seen the Comte lose his temper over less in the past few months.

To her surprise, however, he let out a mirthless laugh.

“A word of advice, my little English lord,” he said, his voice so cool, the air seemed to freeze around him. “We French are the creators of Polite Society, and it is your little island that has mimicked us. I suggest you practise some of our famed etiquette if you wish to enjoy your time here in Paris.”

“Of course,” the Duke said affably, completely unfazed by the Comte’s coldness or his harsh set-down. “Until next time?” He held out a casual hand, a lazy smile on his handsome face.

Vergelles hesitated before placing a pale white hand, adorned with jewelled rings, in the Englishman’s own.

“Bonsoir,” he said, not answering the question and rising from his chair as he did so.

Knowing what was required of her, Emilie rose without bidding and echoed the Comte’s farewell.

When they were a little way from the table, she heard Vergelles curse under his breath.

“Imbecile!”

All the tension returned, and Emilie did not breathe easily again until they took their leave of Madame Pertuis’ salon and made their way to one of the Comte’s regular gambling haunts on the other side of Paris.

Whoever that Englishman was, he was a fool, and he certainly had no idea who he was dealing with. She hoped, for his sake, they did not meet again.

CHAPTER THREE

“You made him mad at you?” asked Wakeford in the breakfast room of the Hôtel du Tremaine the next morning. “Not exactly what I asked you to do.”