Avers started forward. Stopped. The distance was too great. If he rushed out now Dartois would have time to react and there was no telling what he might do. He needed to wait until they were about to walk down the quay and would pass by him. Avers felt for the loaded pistol nestled in his pocket. Not for the first time in the last two days, he thanked God that the graze he’d sustained in Paris was on his left arm. He pulled back the trigger.

The couple had made it ten steps when Emilie pulled back again, turning and trying to run. Dartois pulled the same move and this time whatever he said to Emilie worked. Shock transposed itself onto her face. She stopped pulling away from him and schooled her countenance back to impassivity. Her shoulders drawn back and her chin raised, she walked obediently beside her captor towards the boat.

This was Avers’ chance. He glanced towards the ship and saw no sign of the captain or sailors who must be below deck. Three more steps and Dartois and Emilie would be beside the boxes. Avers’ grip on the pistol tightened, his index finger curling around the trigger, drawing the weapon silently from his pocket.

Three.

Two.

One.

Avers stepped out from behind the boxes and shouted, “Unhand Mademoiselle Cadeaux!”

For now, he kept the pistol hidden in the folds of his coat, but his shoulders were thrown back and he was drawn up to his not inconsiderable height.

Dartois halted mid-stride, yanking Emilie to a stop beside him, causing her to stumble, and a flash of pain crossed her face.

“Tremaine,” Dartois hissed.

Down the quay, Avers saw the sailors come back on deck followed by their captain. They stopped to watch and he saw one of them pick up a nasty looking cudgel.

“How unwelcome,” Dartois continued. “Your wish, I’m afraid, is not one I’m willing to fulfil. Mademoiselle Cadeaux is coming with me.”

Avers attempted reason. “The game is up, Dartois. Your leader, the Comte, is under arrest. It’s only a matter of time before my colleagues uncover his free trade from this port and then it will be over—you have no hand left to play.”

“His business?” One of Dartois’ fine brows rose and a smug smile curled across his lips. “You’re more ignorant than I imagined. This enterprise—” The Marquis gestured at the ship and Avers noted the sailors were now walking along the quayside, edging closer to where they were standing.

He took a step back, creating an arc in which his gun might be fired, that encompassed the men and the Marquis.

“—it was never the Comte de Vergelles’. Do you really think such a man could control all this—not only free trade that might bring in considerable wealth, but the economic and diplomatic conditions to feed it? Why do you think you have found nothing at the Comte’s residence?” Dartois’ smile grew gleeful, and he was laughing now, the sound high and uneven. “Genius, is it not? Set up the Comte as the figurehead while I pull all the strings undetected. He was always fond of being feared—small men like him are all the same.

“But then you came sniffing around. Your game was obvious from the start and while the Comte disliked it, I saw the opportunity. It was so very easy to get you to do what I needed. With a Commissioner dead, the war between your King and the colonialists will ignite further and then—”

Avers played for time. “You haven’t heard?”

The sailors were still moving closer and he felt his exposure acutely. He should have waited for Wakeford’s men, but by the time they arrived, Dartois and Emilie would have left with the tide.

“The Commissioner lives.”

“Indeed?” The Marquis hid any disappointment at the news. “No matter. The attempt will be enough to stoke fear and mistrust. The colonists will fear British interference whatever you say, and my government will play on their anxieties to weaken the British hold over the colonies. It will work just as well to our advantage, for trade ties between England and France are bound to be cut as a result of the hostilities. And what is it you hoped to achieve by coming here alone?”

The hairs on the back of Avers’ neck rose. The Marquis knew him to be at a disadvantage. He gripped the pistol so tightly that his arm began to ache.

“Could you not bear the thought of this in my hands?” Dartois thrust Emilie forward like some prize of war. Then he yanked her back harshly against his side and breathed in her scent in a perverse manner. “I thought the Comte made it clear—she’s not available to you. This woman’s been bought and paid for many times over with my spoils.”

Avers seethed. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux can no more be bought than I.” He raised the pistol from the folds of his coat and levelled it at Dartois. They were less than ten yards apart. There would be no missing at this distance. “Release her—now.”

“Ah, the path of true love never did run smooth,” the Marquis scoffed, pulling Emilie in front of him like a human shield and placing his cheek next to hers. “Tell me—how much do you value her pretty face?” The French noble pulled a knife from his boot and held it to her neck, starting to retreat slowly down the quayside towards the boat and pulling her with him.

“What have you still to gain from keeping her?” Avers called out, desperation setting in. “Hand her over and I will let you leave with the papers. We have no more need of them, thanks to your dealings.”

“Please.” Emilie finally spoke, her voice strangled, trying to crane her neck further from where the knife pressed against her skin. “Please, just leave.” She looked Avers directly in the eyes and he saw an earnestness there that almost broke him.

She was giving up.

“Thank you, Arnaud,” said Dartois taking the proffered pistol from his captain as they came alongside one another. The Marquis continued to hold the knife at Emilie’s throat with one hand and levelled the pistol at Avers with the other.

“How small your mind is, that you should think there is no more for me to gain from these papers. That’s the problem with you English—so stupid and blind—you cannot see the possibilities this world offers. You have no idea of the connections I have, of how far my operation extends. I see value in the papers and in the woman—I will not be giving up either.”

He thrust Emilie into the arms of the two waiting sailors who dragged her along the gangway into the boat. She struggled against them, skirts flying, arms beating at them.

“Unhand her!” Avers cried, leaping forward, trying to force his way past Dartois.

A shot sounded.

Searing hot pain lanced through his arm. Emilie screamed. Avers stumbled backwards, hit his head on a crate, and fell.

Everything went black.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Avers awoke to the smell of fish.

The aroma came from a fisherwoman who was leaning over him, staunching the blood oozing from his wound, while she babbled away in rapid French about the poor Englishman who had been shot by the wicked monsieur.

She helped him back to her cottage and laid him on a rough cot bed where he promptly lost consciousness. Regaining it some time later, Avers sent word to Wakeford of his whereabouts, and recruited his strength while he waited for his friend to arrive with Tremaine’s physician in tow.

Upon arrival, the medical man ascertained the shot had passed straight through Avers’ upper arm. Miraculously it had missed the bone. If Avers hadn’t been lunging past Dartois to get to Emilie, he might have got the bullet straight in his chest.

Immediately after the wound was dressed, Avers announced his intention of leaving to follow Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He was argued back into bed by both the physician and his valet Simmonds who had arrived with Wakeford to help. The fact that Lutin then took up residence across Avers’ legs on his sick bed, went some way to keeping him stationary. Simmonds apologised about bringing the dog, explaining the Tremaine servants had refused to look after the lively animal without the valet’s supervision.

Proving one of the worst patients the physician had ever treated, Avers’ bed rest lasted only a day. The following morning insisted on setting off in pursuit of Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The physician cast his hands up in despair and then reluctantly gave Avers’ valet fresh dressings and laudanum to aid with his master’s recovery. Avers paid the fisherwoman handsomely for saving his life, and then quit Cherbourg for London with his servant and furry companion in tow.

The journey proved tedious and uncomfortable, and he arrived back at his London lodgings late the following afternoon to find them cold and the only greeting one of despair. His arm was painful and the lack of sleep getting to him.

Laying down for half an hour, he listened to the activity of the servants, who were all energy setting the apartments to rights after his Lordship’s unexpected return. After a fitful sleep, he left his room in search of some brandy only to find two of his footman whispering together at the end of the hall. They broke off on seeing their master and the latter asked if he might fetch his Lordship something to eat or drink.

Avers felt an unreasonable irritation at their tittle tattling, wondering what intrigue they spoke of, if it was about their injured master, his unexpected return to London and… he had a sudden epiphany.

Gossip.

Servants knew everything that happened in the noble houses of London. And his aunt had at least one from each residence on her payroll. Lady Goring—an insufferable busybody who prided herself on curating a plethora of the most infamous gossip—might just be his salvation.

Normally limiting his exposure to his relative, Avers decided—for the first time in his life—that there was no one he’d rather see. Her vices were the very thing which might bring Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s whereabouts in reach.

“No,” Avers said. “I am going out to pay a call on my aunt.”