He took a hackney from his apartments to Lady Goring’s residence and strode into her dining room without ceremony.

“Aunt,” he said, observing his stout relative sat down to a rather generous and varied repast for a single individual.

“John!” she exclaimed, pulling her silk open robe closed and touching a hand to the matching turban on her head.

Clearly she had no engagements this evening and had been expecting to spend a rich dinner alone in a state of casual dress. She was even naked of the customary powder and rouge which she so often overdid. For once, she looked human and Avers was shocked to find he felt a little comforted by the sight of his relative.

“I have just sat down to eat,” she said in irritated tones. “If you were not my nephew recently returned from France, I would send you away to come back tomorrow at the correct hour for visiting.”

“Then I am indebted to you.” Avers bowed low.

“Oh, do stop being horrid! Your sardonic words do you no favours. It’s exactly why you are not yet married, mark my words, dear boy.”

“Thank you for your sharp insight, madam. I shall endeavour to take note.” He straightened, grimacing a little as the tightness of his jacket sleeves pressed on his wound. “I am only just back from the Continent and wished to pay my respects to you first and foremost, my Lady Aunt.”

Lady Goring huffed at his insincerity. “First you interrupt my repast and now you mock me. I am more and more inclined to cast you out.”

Avers did not respond to this last comment. He knew for a fact—attested to by her bright, beady eyes—that she would no more turn him away than she would a stranger if she thought them in possession of a Societal secret she had yet to hear. And a nephew lately arrived from the Continent, one who had not apprised her of what he had intended to do in Paris and from which she had received no letters while he was gone, was a veritable vein of potential information for her to bleed.

“Though,” she said at length, placing a miniscule piece of pheasant in her mouth and chewing it thoughtfully before swallowing and carrying on as though she’d come to a large-scale epiphany, “I confess, it has been quiet without my dear Sophia to keep me company.” His aunt was referring to Avers’ cousin who had lately married a Mr Malvon. “And I am a little touched you came to call so soon after your return—which was when exactly?” She motioned for another place to be set for her nephew.

The questioning had already begun.

“This morning, aunt. I have barely stopped at home to change before running to your side.”

She huffed again and frowned. “Do stop being sycophantic, John. I know very well you say those sweet words in jest at my expense.”

“Never.”

He meant it in humour, but she took it as earnestness and her expression transformed to one of gratification. “Well, now that your mood is settled,” she said smugly, “how was Paris?”

“Interesting,” was all he offered. He knew it would vex Lady Goring, but he needed to find news of Mademoiselle Cadeaux as soon as possible. He refused to be drawn into long explanations of a trip he could not in all honesty discuss with her and gave no space in which she might complain. “But I hear some of my new acquaintances have lately arrived in London.”

“Bah!” Lady Goring exclaimed, throwing her cutlery down with a horrid clatter and casting her gaze away from him. “So, that is why you have returned. Not for your poor lonely aunt, but to chase your friends. I should have known you were gallivanting on the Continent with no thought to familial responsibility.” She paused, looking back at him with narrowing eyes. “Friends? Or perhaps… a female friend? Am I to think you have finally banished the Curshaw girl from your head?”

Avers masked a grimace, the only sign of it the tell-tale muscle jerking at the corner of his jaw. His aunt could be so dreadfully blunt at times.

“It’s just as well,” Lady Goring continued, not bothering to wait for his response. “For she’s taken London by storm since returning from her honeymoon as the Duchess of Gravesend. She’s hosted no less than three balls and two routs already. The routs were nothing special, I would say, but the balls—even I have to admit the girl has flare—no expense spared. Do you know she even had an array of exotic birds in the gardens of Gravesend House?

“She would have made an excellent wife for you, John, but I doubt you would have had pockets deep enough to keep her satisfied. The girl has ambition.”

And Avers did not. His lack of desire for social mobility, the antithesis of both the new Duchess and his aunt, continued to frustrate and bewilder the Dowager Countess.

He might have cracked a sardonic smile at his aunt’s unknowing astuteness had he not been surprised by the sudden onset of painful emotions. It had been some time since he’d considered his heartbreak at the hands of the beautiful Duchess of Gravesend, and while the pain had dulled, he still felt it twinge at his aunt’s sharp words. The same repulsion at the weakness such pain engendered reared its head. How he loathed to be subject to it.

“I couldn’t agree more, aunt,” he said, regaining some of the power he’d lost. “We were not well-suited. I am pleased to hear she is doing so well as Her Grace, the Duchess of Gravesend.”

That was odd.

Avers really meant those words.

Since Emilie had thrown out that challenge of forgiveness to him at Dartois’ hunting lodge, Avers had chosen to take it up. He had realised it was a choice. He could choose to continue to be a slave to the hurt of the past or to forgive and look to the future.

It did not mean Miss Curshaw had not hurt him, nor did it mean his feelings would change immediately and he would no longer carry the wound of that previous heartbreak. But the seed of bitterness which had taken root in his heart had been pulled out and now the hurt he carried was healing. Instead of an open injury, it was a scar that when poked—as his aunt had just done—might provoke discomfort.

“I am sure you are,” Lady Goring replied in less than convinced tones. “As for your new French friends, I’ve had it from one of my footmen who went out on an errand for me yesterday, that the French consul’s residence has some new arrivals. A man named the Marquis de Dartois—I have not heard of him before, so I doubt he is of much consequence—and a woman. An unmarried woman. That has caused quite a stir.” She raised her brows, or at least what she had of eyebrows without her usual use of khol pencil to fill them in. “Is that your friend—the gentleman named Dartois?”

“Your connections and sources never cease to amaze me,” Avers replied, ignoring her question and playing for time as his mind raced. He could not believe his fortune in finding out so easily where Dartois and Emilie resided in London and yet how was he to get to her when she was in the French consul’s residence? Dartois truly did have connections in high places.

His aunt fanned herself absently, no doubt overheated as the fire was lit and the window shut in spite of the mildness of the day. She had always been scared of catching cold. “There you go, mocking me again, but I have expended a lot of effort curating a network of informants and there really is no substitute for a well-placed servant.”

Something fell in the back of Avers’ mind. He tried to grasp it.

A well-placed servant.

“Well, will you not answer me?”

Avers’ gaze dropped from the far wall where it had migrated onto an equestrian painting by Boultbee from his late uncle’s collection.

“Forgive me, aunt. Would you be so good as to repeat your question?”

Lady Goring huffed loudly. “Honestly, John! You attend me no better than Sophia when she has that excuse for a new husband of hers in tow.” She smacked her fan down in her lap.

“Then count your blessings, madam, that I am without a wife—can you imagine what poor company I would be then?”

“I have no fear of such an occurrence. You are a confirmed bachelor, John. There will be no wedding for you.”

Avers made no retort. When his aunt’s feathers were ruffled, one had to wait until they laid back down of their own accord. After several minutes, in which Lady Goring cleared two plates of the various dishes on offer, she finally relented.

“I said”—both words were delivered with extra vigour—“that Lady Peregrine is due to host a masquerade ball at which the French consul is supposed to make an appearance. Something about fostering good relations in an informal manner—and I would not at all be surprised if your new friend will be there. I was due to attend with Sophia, but that minx has declined on account of going out of Town to her husband’s house in the country again.”

Avers’ heart leapt at the opportunity. “I should be delighted, aunt.”

“First you ignore me and now you interrupt me. You haven’t even heard the question yet.”

“But what if I promise to be a far better companion when I escort you to Lady Peregrine’s ball than I have been this evening? What if I promise to be all that is charming?”

“You would be delighted to escort me?” she asked, picking up on his previous words, scepticism in her voice.

Avers had never before expressed delight at accompanying his aunt anywhere. It had always been an obligation accompanied by sarcastic protestations.

“Immensely so.” Avers rose. “Name the time and place.”

Still looking incredibly suspicious, Lady Goring gave her nephew the details, and before she could question his intent as she so clearly desired to do, he swept an overly gallant bow and took his leave.

Avers left behind him a most dissatisfied relation. Yet before him there was hope. He had discovered Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s whereabouts and secured an invitation to a place she may very well be.

The faintest flicker of hope lit the darkness that had engulfed him since he had last seen her.