Inspiration struck when he caught his boot on a firm tuft of grass in the uneven clearing where they had set up their base camp. He’d picked himself up just in time so as not to plunge headlong onto the ground, but the realisation of this opportunity struck him.
“I say, this ground is treacherous terrain—” He broke off as he faked another trip, making out he couldn’t catch his balance and landing in an unimpressive pile on the floor. “Dash it all—my ankle!”
The false claim of injury drew polite sympathy from his comrades, the Comte clearly more concerned that his sport was interrupted. After Avers pretended that putting weight upon that leg was impossibly painful, Dartois sent him back to the lodge to be attended to by the butler. The cart upon which the caught game had been strung up by one of the gamekeepers was requisitioned as a makeshift stretcher to carry the Duke.
Avers arrived back at the lodge near three o’clock in the afternoon, and with the majority of the party out, the menace of the place dissipated and he had to concede it was a handsome and well-appointed residence. On his exaggerated hobble into the hall, he learned that Mademoiselle Cadeaux was in the gardens. He ordered a cold compress and a tankard of ale to the drawing room, and upon the servant delivering it and retreating, he was left alone.
Avers cocked his head to the side, listening until the servant’s steps echoed into nothingness. After a short time, he dropped his ‘injured’ foot from the footstool that had been placed out for him and stood up. Leaving his discarded boot and stocking where it was on the floor, he put the cold compress back on the silver tray resting on the side table, and took one of the linen strips from the medicinal wrap to wind around his ankle.
He then made his way over to the door. Should he need to, he could return to the room in a hurry and replace the compress as if he had been sitting there all along. In the meantime, the linen around his ankle would hide the lack of swelling from any servants he should meet.
Avers placed his ear to the door and listened. Movement appeared to be limited to below stairs and nothing stirred in the polite chambers of the lodge. The servants were no doubt using their master’s absence to rest from their toils and even the return of the injured Duke was not disrupting their plans.
Now was the time.
Resting a hand upon the door handle, he waited a moment more before pressing it slowly down and inching the door open. The hallway beyond was deserted. Avers slipped silently from the room, closed the door behind him and made quick work of the space between the drawing room and the Marquis’ study. Heartbeat quickening, he tried the door and mercifully found it open.
Entering the room and realising how close he was to seeing his ambition through, his mind moved onto the following step. Escape. He would have to leave the lodge immediately after getting the papers. What of Mademoiselle Cadeaux? Could he warn her to leave as well? Would she listen?
He didn’t pause long over such thoughts. If he was caught in here, all pretence would dissolve, and the threat he’d been given at the inn at Buc would likely be renewed and carried out. Driving thoughts of Dartois’ pistol from his mind, Avers strode over to the desk, circling round to the side with the chair, and tried the drawer into which he’d seen the Marquis place the papers.
It didn’t budge.
Avers hadn’t expected it to. He scanned the desk for the letter opener he’d seen the Marquis use and found it lying with the pens in the carved-out tray of the ink stand. Snatching it up quickly, he slid the tip between the desktop and the drawer and eased it along until he hit the lock.
First he just tried to push it against the lock hoping the mechanism wasn’t fully home.
No good.
Then he began working the blade, twisting it and manipulating it to try and gain some sort of purchase on the lock and force it to withdraw.
Still no good.
His final option was to force it open. It would damage the desk, but his hope was to be long gone by the time his handiwork was discovered, and the papers were found stolen… again.
He risked a rattle of the desk, putting more pressure on the knife, hoping it wouldn’t snap.
“What are you doing?”
The plainly spoken question made Avers jump so much he hit his left knee against the desk, sending a cracking pain through his joint.
“Blast it!” he swore, swinging around to look at his questioner.
Mademoiselle Cadeaux stood by the door which she had already shut behind her.
He froze. One hand was on the knife jammed in the locked drawer, the other clutching his throbbing knee. His mind raced to find a suitable excuse for being found in such a compromising position.
“You are stealing from Dartois—and I had it from the servants you had twisted your ankle on the hunting trip. A ruse to get into the Marquis’ study secretly, I see.”
There was no getting out of this. He stared back into those frank brown eyes and knew his only choice was running or taking Mademoiselle Cadeaux into his confidence. He could not lose this opportunity to acquire the papers. He was still hesitating when she spoke again.
“What is it an English Duke needs so badly he must steal it from a French noble?”
Curse it! He still hadn’t said anything. He always had something to say.
Mademoiselle Cadeaux muttered in rapid French. Avers didn’t catch it all. Something about knowing this nosy English Duke wasn’t what he appeared.
“Tell me the truth—what are you doing here?”
He finally relinquished the knife, leaving it jammed in the desk, and straightened. “I am—”
He broke off, coming around the desk towards her. She backed away, a wary look in her eyes, and he responded by raising his hands in a show of peace.
“Your benefactor has stolen papers from the British government. I am tasked with retrieving them.”
Her gaze was hard upon his, interrogating, measuring. Her expression was focused, emphasising the largeness of her eyes, the fine point of her nose and the arch of her shapely brows. She was achingly beautiful and Avers found himself willing her to believe his words. To believe he was not a bad man.
“A spy?”
Avers nodded, disliking the moniker but acknowledging its aptness.
With a suddenness that made him step back, she came to life, striding forward. For a moment he thought she meant to strike him, but instead she passed him quickly and came to the desk.
Removing the lid from the left-hand ink pot, she poked her slender fingers inside and began to root around.
The action was so odd, and the explanation so totally lacking, that Avers could do nothing but stare.
After a few moments of wiggling her fingers she withdrew them and to Avers’ surprise they were bare of ink. There appeared to be no reason for her action until he saw the fine chain she had pinched between her first and second finger. She drew it out and upon its end dangled a key.
