Until now, Wakeford and Avers had only met briefly since the latter’s arrival in France, with Wakeford welcoming the faux Duke of Tremaine to the family Hôtel as any relation would have been obliged to do. Aside from the show they had put on for the servants, there had been little talk of the scheme they were participating in.

“He will not easily forget me,” replied Avers, sipping his black coffee and eyeing the unappealing cold beef on his plate.

The chef, an old retainer of the Duke’s family, was not what one could call a ‘fashionable’ French chef currently the rage in London and Paris. In fact, the nomenclature ‘chef’ was rather a generous one when applied to the Tremaines’ servant.

“Because he dislikes you? Hardly the way to persuade him to confide in you.”

“And you suppose a friendly Englishman he doesn’t know, asking him about his involvement in stealing British government papers, would fare better?”

Wakeford blew his cheeks out and collapsed into one of the Chippendale chairs.

“Curse it man! I have to report to Viscount Stormont in Versailles and write to the Secretary of the Southern Department, Viscount Weymouth, in two days and what am I to say—you won against the man at loo?”

“And angered him—don’t forget that part.” Avers finished his coffee and placed his empty cup on the table, licking his lips and considering whether to pour another.

“Be serious, man!”

“I am, Robert.” Avers’ brows lowered, the funning tone in his voice disappeared. “I cannot form a relationship with the man in one evening. I need time.”

“Time I do not have. Stormont is furious and my superiors in London are breathing down my neck. Ever since those letters went missing, I’ve been beside myself. It’s not a good look for an envoy of the British ambassador to Paris to have papers stolen from under his nose.” He rubbed the back of his neck, lines of worry etched into his forehead. “I swear I’m under surveillance just as much as my offices.”

“You are not guilty,” Avers said firmly.

“You might believe that—having known me since before I was breeched—but those in London have no reason to trust me apart from my word until we capture the perpetrators. Stormont is giving me time to discover who’s responsible, but even he can’t protect me forever. If I can’t prove the leak is coming from elsewhere, I’ll be recalled to England. I have a worrying suspicion that if that happens, whether I’m guilty or not, my neck will fit the noose.”

Avers watched his friend, the rubbing of his neck now frenzied, and he suddenly understood the unconscious movement.

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” he said with more gentleness. “I am here now, at your request, and I am at your disposal. Let us start at the beginning. What led you to the Comte de Vergelles as the potential thief in the first place?”

“A man called Mescaux.”

The redirection of Wakeford’s sober thoughts did the trick. He emerged from his doom-laden imaginings and began firing off the facts.

“He was in the Comte’s employ as a footman at the time of his arrest. My men caught him in Montmartre trying to sell copies of papers from my offices. We already knew of the leak when we found some of our information in the hands of the Spanish several weeks before, so we had an ear to the ground, and heard of the meeting through our contacts. Fortunately for us, we were able to have one of our men masquerade as a potential buyer, and Mescaux attempted to sell our own information back to us.”

“But shouldn’t that be enough?”

“Hardly,” Wakeford replied, mouth drawn down in frustration. “The footman cannot be the brains of the operation. That was clear from his questioning. Wouldn’t say a word at first. No explanation as to how he got hold of government secrets and why he was trying to sell them. He wouldn’t even admit to understanding the particulars of the information, though he must have known their value to try and sell them.

“When we mentioned Vergelles he outright denied any current connection with the Comte. Mescaux said he’d been sacked weeks ago and that the papers had fallen out of a passing carriage when he’d been walking through the city.

“There were more holes in his story than a fine lace handkerchief. Even if he had pointed the finger at the Comte, I would have had trouble convincing my superiors to pursue him on the word of a lackey. Vergelles has powerful friends on both sides of the Channel. His shipping concerns make money for his investors and whether or not they’re legitimate, the wealth is enough to keep eyes away from him.”

At that moment, a servant appeared to clear Avers’ plate. The two men fell silent, each considering his own thoughts. Once the servant was safely out of the room, Avers spoke again.

“But you are certain that it’s him?”

“Without a doubt. Vergelles is at the centre. I can feel it in my gut, but I’ve been having a tough time gathering hard evidence. The normal ways of catching him aren’t working. The French say they are finding nothing in their Cabinet Noir—but I suspect the Comte is too well connected for an honest answer from them, even if he is a traitor. It suits them if he is a fly irritating the body of England.

“We have set up our own faux Cabinet Noir in my offices to intercept the Comte’s post and copy it out for later analysis before it is delivered to him. I doubt the letters have had less than two people read them before Vergelles sets eyes on them. Perhaps more. But they are filled with nothing of import. Hence my calling you out of desperation. I need someone to befriend the Comte and break into this circle of his.”

Avers nodded, his gaze moving from his friend into the middle distance as he considered all that had been said. It was some moments before he spoke again.

“I’m not asking for more time because of any lack of effort or urgency on my part, Robert. I understand the seriousness of your situation. But you have given me the role of your estranged cousin to play, and you must allow me time to play it well if we are to catch the Comte.”

Wakeford rubbed a hand over his brow and face, pulling his cheeks down in an unflattering way, and ended contemplatively rubbing his chin. He appeared to have aged a decade since Avers had seen him in London six months ago.

That had been before taking up this role of playing the new Duke of Tremaine, a useful ruse under which they might use the Duke’s familial connections in France to infiltrate the Comte’s spy ring.

At least, that was the hope.

Six months ago when they had last met in London, the fake Tremaine had been himself—Lord Avers, the third son of the Duke of Mountefield—with few political connections in France, and an obsession with a woman who had since proven herself false. With nothing keeping him in England, when Wakeford’s mysterious plea for help arrived, Avers had jumped at the chance to escape to France for a change of scene.

“Dash it all, Avers! I know you’re right. It’s just a deuced awkward situation when my office is the source of the leak. You’ve no idea what hot water I’m in.”

“I don’t doubt it. But if we’re to make this work, you’d better keep calling me by your cousin’s name. You’ve no notion how nosy servants can be. Listening at keyholes is a favourite pastime, and given the delicacy of this situation, we cannot be too careful, even in your family’s Hôtel. It’s exactly how my all-knowing aunt, Lady Goring, gets half of London’s gossip before it makes its way into the drawing rooms of Polite Society.”

Avers walked over to the sideboard and held a decanter of amber liquid aloft. “Drink? Feels odd raiding another man’s liquor—a breach of confidence,” he mused, mostly to himself.

“My cousin wouldn’t mind—more interested in his classical history books than a decent brandy,” Wakeford replied, a glumness now in his tone.

“Hence the extension of his Grand Tour?”

“Yes. It’s what drove the late Duke so mad. Couldn’t understand the scholar he’d sired. Barely spoke to each other by the end. I don’t think my cousin will ever return from those ancient places. He’d be happy living in a tent and dusting antiquities for the rest of his days.”

“Convenient for us then—and do we really bear so much of a resemblance to each other, even after all these years?”

All three gentlemen had been at Harrow together. During that time, Avers had frequently been mistaken for Tremaine. Both were of moderate height and well-built, with brown eyes and the aquiline nose so associated with the aristocracy. Moreover, the two men shared those same hooded eyes.

“Yes. Though last time I saw Tremaine he’d grown a beard in veneration of Sophocles.”

“I shall not be doing that.” Avers ran a hand over his smooth chin. “That’s where I draw the line.”

“I know it’s a madcap scheme,” Wakeford said, no longer taking in his friend’s words, but following his own worried line of thought. He took the proffered glass from Avers without pause and tossed it off with zeal. “I didn’t know what else to do. That’s why I sent my man to you with a letter. I knew you, of all my friends, would come quietly to Paris if I asked.”

“The offer couldn’t have come at a better time,” Avers said affably, his tone at odds with his friend’s mood.

“How can you be so dashed calm all the time?”

“Practice.” Avers retook his chair and took a meditative sip of brandy.

In truth, he hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to get out of London until Wakeford’s servant had arrived with the letter. The distraction of this scheme was exactly what he needed. With his cousin Sophie lately married, and the complications surrounding her nuptials resolved, all that had been left for Avers in London were unpleasant memories.

He wouldn’t have called coming to his friend Wakeford’s aid in Paris ‘running away’ exactly, but the offer of such a diversion had been gratefully received.

Besides, Wakeford was a good friend. They’d grown up together and the idea that he was at risk of being suspected a traitor would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so serious.

“You really do look like Charlie,” Wakeford said, eyes widening as they stared wonderingly over at his friend.