“You’re searching the Comte’s house?” asked Avers.
“Yes—but so far we’ve found no sign of the papers. We’ve found no proof at all. The shooter is all we have, and he’s refusing to speak. The Comte and Dartois left as soon as you were dropped off. We have Vergelles at his house, but we’ve found nothing incriminating, and the Marquis has managed to give us the slip.”
Avers looked again at the pamphlets in his hand. It was like some grand joke had been played on him. He had thought himself carrying precious secret papers, meeting for a financial exchange, and instead he had been the bait and the one to be framed. The dark humour of it, the joke of the pamphlets—it all felt too similar to the incident in Buc. Avers had thought he was playing the game, but what had really been played?
As he looked back at the portfolio in his friend’s hand, the pamphlets slipped, and a flash of script caught his eye among the printed words.
“Wakeford—pass that here.” He reached out with his good arm, retrieving the hand-written note from amongst the propaganda.
To our English friend,
We hope you enjoy the little pictures of the King and Queen. We realised we could not trust you with our precious items when we found them in Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s keeping and she informed us, after some persuasion, that she intended to give them to you.
It appears your loyalty has been somewhat divided and so has hers…
We are sorry that you have not proved a faithful friend and we regret to inform you that as such, we will not be able to continue our business relationship with you. Please do not be too disheartened, you have been a most useful asset to us.
—
“Where is Mademoiselle Cadeaux?” Avers asked in a strangled voice.
“The Comte’s mistress?” Wakeford asked. “She wasn’t at the house. We assume she’s at her lodgings.”
Cold, suffocating fear rose in Avers’ chest, forcing the air out of him and making it difficult to breathe it back in.
“Has anyone confirmed it?”
“No, but why—what does the note say?”
Avers handed it over, his expression now one of horror, his mind racing.
What had he done? What had he done?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Avers did not know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s apartments, making the Comte de Vergelles’ Hôtel the only starting point for finding her. Despite Wakeford telling him to go home and rest—and assuring him he’d send word if the Comte shed any light on his mistress’ whereabouts—Avers could not obey. As soon as his gunshot graze was properly dressed, he took his leave of Wakeford and headed, not for the Hôtel du Tremaine, but for the Comte’s residence in Faubourg Saint-Germain.
He could not allow anything to happen to Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The possibility of the dangers she could be facing at that moment was unbearable. The very idea doubled his suffering—the physical pain in his arm matched with a sharp ache in his chest.
He should never have left her in Vergelles’ company. Or allowed her to consider helping him by stealing the papers herself. He’d been a fool to do so, believing he had control of the situation and his ruse as the Duke of Tremaine had been effective.
But how could Mademoiselle Cadeaux risk her safety in such a fashion? What had she been thinking, taking the papers? Knowing what kind of man the Comte was, and doing it anyway to aid Avers? He was torn between admiration and exasperation. Once again, she had shown her character to be one of worth and proved Avers’ initial judgements to be superficial and flawed.
Whatever frustration he felt towards Mademoiselle Cadeaux, with every jolt of the carriage and fresh stab of pain in his arm, it was dissolving before a very real anger towards the Comte. The emotion was hot and volatile, and by the time he reached the Comte’s Hôtel, he was ready to unleash it.
Bounding up the steps two at a time, he rapped upon the door with a fury that might have loosed the knocker from its nails.
It was finally opened with interminable slowness and Avers recognised the man behind it as one of Wakeford’s.
“Percy.” Avers jerked his head and strode past the man into the antechamber before he was invited. Spinning on his heel to face the fair-haired man, he asked bluntly, “Where is the Comte?”
“My Lord?” Percy closed the door and turned a measuring look upon Avers.
“Out with it.”
“We’re holding him for Lord Wakeford,” Percy said, clearly displeased at being interrogated by someone who wasn’t his superior.
“I’m aware,” Avers said with equal ice in his tone. “But I asked you his whereabouts.” He levelled the man with an exacting stare, his eyes unrelenting beneath his heavy lids.
“Does Wakeford know you’re here?” Percy’s gaze took in the torn sleeve of Avers’ jacket and the bandage tied around his arm.
“No.”
“Do you need to sit down?” Percy gestured at the wound.
“I need to speak to the Comte.” The pain in his arm was reaching new heights and it took Avers’ best efforts to maintain a hold on his temper. He had to remind himself, it wasn’t Percy he was angry at. “The Comte’s mistress, Mademoiselle Cadeaux, is in danger after helping our cause. I’ve come to discover her whereabouts.”
Percy said nothing, his measuring stare steady on Avers’ face.
“Please.”
For a brief moment Avers thought he might need to continue his persuasions, but all of a sudden, Percy relented.
“He’s in the drawing room with Terry and Brown.”
Giving a curt nod of thanks, Avers strode off in the direction Percy indicated.
