As there was no signature on the note it could not be used as evidence, and Avers had no way to respond to Dartois and the Comte to counter with an alternative plan that might keep him out of harm’s way. Truth be told, the alteration to Wakeford’s plans was a welcome one to Avers.
So it was that he was journeying with the Comte and Dartois to the Île de la Cité a little before two o’clock through the dim mist of the Parisian streets. The Comte remained largely silent while Dartois’ casual attitude and speech set Avers’ teeth on edge. There was no mention of Mademoiselle Cadeaux, and Avers chose not to bring her up, despite wanting to know of her well-being with every irritating word that came out of Dartois’ mouth. Soon enough she would be free of the Comte and Avers could check on her himself. For now, he must focus on the business at hand.
Shortly before the carriage reached its destination, Dartois handed him a leather portfolio containing the papers. Avers resisted the urge to check the contents. His persona of uncaring Duke would hardly bother with the particulars, and even if he’d wanted to, the next moment they arrived.
Disembarking from the carriage, the portfolio beneath his arm, he entered the Place Dauphine. The grounds before him were set out in formal sections with gravel paths intersecting them. While the blooms that were out might have looked vibrant in the sun, they appeared now like a mockery of the season among the green leaves and branches.
To Avers’ left and right, he could just make out the low boundary walls behind which the Seine flowed, and every here and there a creeping tendril of the mist snaked its way over the stones to dissipate across the gardens.
Up ahead the boundaries narrowed to a meeting point at the end of the Île. From that vantage point, with no one behind him, he would be able to observe everyone who arrived in the gardens. That would be the best place to wait.
Once in position, he glanced over the wall, as though he expected some ghoul to rise up from the murky Seine. There was nothing there—just dark, fast flowing waters and swirling mist. No place for the Comte’s men to lie in wait. Avers turned back to begin his vigil.
The wait was interminable.
He had wrongly assumed the weather would turn walkers away. A steady stream flowed into and around the gardens, indistinguishable at first in the gloom, each one causing Avers’ heartbeat to quicken and his body to tense in anticipation. At least ten individuals came and went, none appearing to be promenading for leisure. Most had purposeful strides and were deep in conversation with companions. It was obvious from the staid clothes and old-fashioned wigs that several of them were taking air between sittings of the judicial courts which were housed on the island.
These men of the law and the middling sort were nothing like those with whom Avers had been mixing since coming to the French capital. These weren’t men of leisure who idled away their hours at play and amusement, appearing at Versailles when summoned to court by the King, and enjoying a tax-free existence. No, these were the Frenchmen who made up the machinery of government, whose existence was driven by more than the desire for pleasure. The individual Avers was due to meet was not likely to be among their number.
Sat on a bench about fifty yards from him, Avers saw a gentleman who did not appear to be of the judicial bent. Neither did the man seem totally at ease, his eyes working their way around the garden and back again. Avers recognised him as one of Wakeford’s men he’d met before. He’d been told there would be men planted throughout the Place Dauphine. He hoped they would not appear obvious to the Comte and his men.
The clouds above shifted a little and Avers glanced up to see watery sunlight, pale and harsh to his eyes. The bright daytime star was up there, trying to break through, but failing to burn off its adversaries in the atmosphere.
Avers ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It was sticky, yet he felt cold. Was it the humidity or the tension causing him such discomfort? The cravat his valet had so studiously starched wouldn’t stand a chance against these elements. No doubt it was wilting already.
Another gentleman appeared on the left path. He was dressed differently. He wore his hair unpowdered, and a wool suit far more at home in a pastoral setting than the city—its cut not in the current style, and too full in the skirts and heavy in the cuffs to be considered à la mode. The man paused every now and then, scanning the park, looking for someone. Then his eyes settled on Avers and he struck out directly for the English Lord.
Avers’ breath quickened. He clasped the leather portfolio a little tighter. That was the agreed sign—the portfolio—and even from this distance, he had seen the approaching gentleman’s gaze drop to what was beneath his arm.
The man was closer now.
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Avers’ mouth went dry. He suddenly had an absurd desire to walk in the opposite direction as quickly as he could. Then straight after, an overwhelming feeling of idiocy. What was he to say to this man? The thought hadn’t occurred to him before now. He’d been so intent on considering the impending arrest of the Comte that he hadn’t considered he might actually have to speak to one of the Commissioners.
The gentleman was upon him, halting and executing a neat bow.
“Your Grace, Tremaine?”
“Good afternoon.” Avers’ voice cracked a little after being silent for so long. “At your service,” he added smoothly, bowing and making a leg as he did so.
As he rose he took the opportunity to observe the man before him. The Commissioner was middle-aged, not handsome, with shoulder length untied hair and a weathered face out of which looked steady grey eyes. There was a humorous lilt to his wide mouth and Avers understood it with the man’s next words.
“And what service is that?”
The blunt question did Avers some good. It jolted him out of his overwhelmed state, and he became the Duke of Tremaine once again. Perhaps for the last time.
“Information that may aid your cause.” He raised the hand that clasped the portfolio and widened his eyes in a meaningful manner.
“And what business does a subject of the Crown have in disclosing such information? Or false information, as the case may be.”
The Commissioner might have been unassuming in appearance, but he had a way of speaking that assumed authority. The situation was one of danger and treason and yet this man appeared unruffled by either consideration.
“Our cause goes beyond petty rivalries and individual interests,” the Commissioner said, all the while those steady grey eyes on the faux Duke. “We will not be knocked off course.”
Avers shifted uncomfortably. It felt like the man was settling in to give a speech in this very public garden. He glanced over the Commissioner’s shoulder. Where the devil were Wakeford and his men? The meet had happened. They needed no more proof to arrest the spies.
“I wouldn’t dream of knocking your cause off course,” Avers said, playing for time. “I owe little allegiance to—”
A shot cracked through the air. Avers jolted, instinctively ducking. Where had it come from? Before he could look around, the Commissioner—who had also jumped at the shot—fell forward. Avers was overcome by the gentleman, dropping the leather portfolio to the floor and catching the Commissioner up in his arms to stop him hitting the ground.
“Good gracious man—are you hurt?” cried Avers, trying to pull him up enough that he might examine him.
The Commissioner scrambled to regain his footing.
“I’m unhurt,” the man panted in shock. “But you aren’t—your arm!”
Looking down, Avers saw it, bright crimson blood, all up the sleeve of his jacket. He flexed his muscles automatically, feeling for injury, and immediately the shock wore off and a burning sensation laced around his arm.
“Blast it!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket Avers pressed it to his left arm, groaning against the pain, which now lashed at him.
“Is it bad?”
“I don’t think so.” Avers breathed out through his mouth and in through his nose, telling himself to be calm, determined not to pass out as he felt the warmth of blood on his hands. “But I will sit.” He lowered himself onto the path, almost crumpling at the end.
