CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s apartments were situated in a modest street in an unfashionable part of Paris. Avers found them easily enough and paid the unscrupulous landlord to let him in.

The moment he opened the door a barrage of barking sounded. Within seconds a white rocket of fur darted from what Avers took to be a bedchamber.

“There, there, you devilish sprite!” Avers cried out in a booming voice to slow the animal.

It only worked a little, the dog catapulting itself a moment later into Avers’ arms which he opened in anticipation. The dog, whose teeth had been bared just seconds ago, recognised the intruder and transformed into a licking, sniffing, quivering mess.

“Come now.” Avers deposited the dog back onto the floor and patted his little rump.

Lutin immediately trotted over to a couple of empty bowls and nosed one of them hopefully. Avers looked around, and seeing a ewer nearby he filled one bowl with water, and then discovered a biscuit barrel full of dog treats. He scooped a generous handful into a bowl and the poor little dog had his fill of both.

Avers straightened, finally taking in the room before him. “Right, let’s find your mistress, shall we?”

The apartments before him were small and modestly furnished with items that had been carefully selected to fit the petite space. All of it was fairly plain, with a more expensive piece here and there. There were a number of well-thumbed books on a side table next to a tattered green chaise longue, at the end of which a thick blanket lay in swathes. It looked as though the reader had just got up for a glass of wine between chapters.

Scanning the room he saw elements of life littering the surfaces. A vase of dried flowers, a framed miniature of some unknown woman, letters sealed waiting to be sent, a half-burnt candle in its holder. They were all elements of her life. A life he thought he knew, but standing here, he felt he was only aware of it in part.

Did she like to read? Did she stay up late devouring chapters? Where did she pick those dried flowers from? Who was the woman in the frame—a lady dear enough to Emilie that she wished to see her likeness every day?

A deep ache appeared in the depths of his chest. He desired to know all of her and yet at this very moment, she might be in mortal danger. Springing into action, he ignored the feeling that he was invading her private domain, and scoured the room for any clue as to her whereabouts.

That was when he noticed the hat and discarded ribbon on the floor behind the chaise longue. He followed the trail of clothing into the bedroom and on entering was confronted by a mess of clothes and cases and brushes.

On the freshly made bed were garments of all types, thrown and crumpled as though someone had been packing in a rush. Scattered on the floor was a brush, a handheld mirror, two more hats.

Lutin followed Avers, jumping onto the bed into what appeared to be a nest he’d made among the clothes, and gave a bark as if to agree with Avers’ unspoken thoughts. Yes, Mademoiselle Cadeaux had been packing in a hurry.

Avers exhaled heavily, not even realising he had been holding his breath, finally acknowledging the fear he had carried into this room. He had thought he might find Emilie dead in here. The thought, now clearly articulated in his mind, sent a shiver down his back.

He clenched his fists. This was not a scene of violence but of great haste. Turning on his heel, his small white shadow jumping from the bed and trotting behind him, Avers came back into the main room and scanned it again. His eyes stopped on the pile of letters.

Striding over to the table on which they lay, he scooped up the pile and began flipping through the directions written on them. One was to the actress Saint-Val Cadette, care of the Théâtre des Tuileries. Avers clenched his jaw. As he had suspected, the actress had known Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The next was to an unknown lady. He flipped through them faster, hope running dry, distracting him so he almost passed by his own alias. The Duke of Tremaine was scrawled across one letter.

He dropped the rest and turned it over. It wasn’t sealed and the address was missing. His breath quickened. She’d been writing it in a hurry and if it wasn’t sealed, but in the middle of the pile with the others ready to be posted… had she hidden it there for him?

He wasted no more time, unfolding the letter and quickly scanning its contents.

‘Your Grace,

I have been instructed by my benefactor to make ready to leave. I was discovered with the stolen papers—for I tried to retrieve them for you, but like a fool I was caught—’

She was not a fool. Avers had been the fool to allow her to put herself in danger.

‘I thought my life forfeit, but Dartois ordered the Comte to give me over to him.

He will not tell me where we are going, but I paid one of the men who came to collect my trunks, and he says we head for the coast.

I don’t know if you will find this, and you owe me nothing, but I ask that you take care of Lutin, for I’m unable to do so, and that you—’

The letter was cut off. Avers could see splotches on the paper where the ink had not dried before she’d folded it closed. She’d been interrupted.

Dropping the hand that held the letter, Avers stared at the wispy-haired dog waiting at his feet.

The coast.

That could only mean one thing. Dartois was fleeing across the Channel. With their smuggling operations it would be easy enough.

But what was the reason? No evidence had been found at the Comte’s residence of their spying. They couldn’t be linked to the assassination attempt. Whatever Dartois’ plan was, it wasn’t clear, but Avers couldn’t stand here trying to figure it out any longer.

The Marquis already had half a day’s head start on him, and while Mademoiselle Cadeaux was alive for now, there was no telling what his plans were for her. Avers scooped up Lutin in his arms and left the apartments.

He would chase them down. The faux Duke of Tremaine was leaving Paris.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Emilie sat in the private parlour of an inn on the road to Cherbourg staring at the uneaten food she had been served. The nausea which she’d felt ever since leaving the French capital had not abated.

Dartois had already finished his pigeon pie and downed a glass of claret and was now staring at her. He had been doing that since leaving Paris, his eyes gleaming in that disconcerting way of his, making Emilie feel like a bird and Dartois the cat.

“I’ve thought for some time that Lucien hasn’t appreciated you.”

She said nothing. The statement was no doubt meant as a compliment, but the implications added to Emilie’s discomfort. She could see it in the Marquis’ face—he coveted her, and not as a person, but as an object to be owned and possessed. Hadn’t those been his words to Vergelles when she had been found with the papers in her possession. Give her to me.

“Lucien was surprised by your betrayal, but I was not. You are neither stupid nor weak. You are a survivor—like me.”

Emilie had no wish to provoke him, so she swallowed the retort on the tip of her tongue.

“The bastard child of a lesser noble with no place in Society, like you—an unwanted tavern brat—and yet we have carved out a place for ourselves on this muck heap of life and we will be cursed if we’ll give it up to any lesser mortals. Lucien could not see your potential. I can.”

Emilie looked up from her plate and, holding his penetrating stare with some effort, she finally spoke. “And what do you intend to do with me and my potential?”

That gleam in his eyes which she had always taken for funning, appeared differently in these circumstances. Suddenly there was an uncontrollability to it, a darkness, a sensation of Dartois being somewhat maniacal. She had the strongest feeling she needed to choose her words carefully or this man might turn on her without a second thought.

She took a steadying breath and continued to return his stare, waiting for his reply.

“What do you think I intend?” Dartois leant back, one hand dangling from the chair arm, the other clasping a freshly poured glass of wine.

“I wouldn’t presume to guess.”

Dartois broke out into amused laughter. “Aha! Very good—the survivor in you will not allow you to risk a wrong guess.” He raised his wine glass to her in salute and took a sip.

“I know we are making for the coast,” she said, playing some of her hand in an attempt to both appeal to his view of her and to show her intelligence. “We left the city by the north road.” She would not mention the servant she had bribed. Why throw another poor soul into this man’s clutches?