Taking a hold of the drawing room door handle, he turned it, throwing it open with more force than he realised. The wood flew back on its hinges and smacked against a table behind. The room’s occupants turned as one towards the newcomer.
“It’s His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine,” the Comte said from a wing-backed chair on one side of the unlit fireplace. “Do not be alarmed,” he said, addressing his guards, who stood either side of him. “He’s had a petite shock this afternoon.”
“Vergelles.” Avers practically spat the name, striding into the room, shoulders back, chest out and hands clenched ready to strike whoever got in the way of his purpose.
The Comte did not flinch at the rapid movement. He sat irritatingly calm in his chair, observing Avers over steepled fingers, his expression cool and collected.
“I believe all of this”—the Comte broke his fingers apart and swept his hands out towards the strangers in his house—“is your doing?” An almost imperceptible curve spread across Vergelles’ thin lips. “I can’t think what they are hoping to find here—can you?”
The calmer the Comte presented himself, the more heightened Avers’ emotions became. How dare he taunt and provoke him when Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s safety was in question.
“A pity to have such a misunderstanding. Dartois was right about you—a useful man, but one who would turn out not to be a… loyal friend.”
“Friend?” Avers spat back, the hold he had on his anger growing taut.
This was all a game to these men. Unbeknownst to Avers, they had been playing with him, and without knowing the rules, his ignorance might have cost a good woman her safety.
“Apparently not,” the Comte replied in mock-surprise. He drew his fingertips back together and observed Avers’ growing agitation with a dark glee. “According to these men you think us… spies?” The Comte arched one elegant brow, laughing faintly.
“I know exactly what you are.”
“What a tale you spin. Your imagination is to be applauded. And you—Tremaine—what are you? From my vantage point it seems you have been playing a part all along.”
Avers ignored the Comte’s question. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux—where is she?”
“How should I know?” Vergelles separated his fingers and flicked both hands away from him as though disassociating himself from the woman they were talking about.
“She was under your protection,” Avers said from between clenched teeth.
“She was—but I tired of waiting for her to make up her mind. Such elevated ideas of her own virtue.”
Avers was about to launch a repeat of his interrogation when what Vergelles had just said hit him. Virtue—did that mean? The flames of Avers’ anger were doused for a moment. He strode away from the fireplace to do a circuit of the drawing room and give himself time to think.
All this time he had judged Mademoiselle Cadeaux for being mistress to the Comte and yet she had never given in to the man. Avers was left in more admiration of the woman, for despite his disagreement with the practice, he had come to understand her position in life was one of little choice or security. And yet, after all his assumptions, she had not given in to the Comte’s advances.
“She was nought but a tavern brat,” Vergelles called out across the room, a taunting tone to every word. “I should have known. You cannot wash the common off from one such as her.”
Avers came back to face the Comte. “You have no concept of her worthiness.”
“Mon dieu! You have it bad, do you not? To be so defensive of nothing but a low born harlot.”
Avers snatched up a book from a nearby table and slammed it down just as quickly. The crack it made caused Terry and Brown to jump and even the Comte jerked in his chair.
The force of the impact sped through his body, jolting his injured arm and causing a wave of pain, but Avers was too angry to pay it any heed. “I’m warning you, Vergelles. Watch your words.”
The Comte laughed viciously. “My words? My, she has you firmly in her talons. But I warn you, Tremaine, she is a slippery one, Mademoiselle Cadeaux. She will not give up her charms as easily as you might think.”
“You realise your attempts at denigrating her are actually elevating her in my eyes?” Avers retorted, his inner thoughts coming out before he could stop himself. He immediately threw up a hand to stop the Comte from replying. “Where is she?”
“Not here—you’re welcome to look. Your men have already been scouring the place.” The Comte leant forward so he might stare at Terry and Brown. “And just what is it you’ve found, eh?”
A flash of uncertainty passed over the faces of the two men. Leaving the Comte for a moment, Avers walked over to them and asked in a low voice what Vergelles meant by his words.
Terry spoke first. “We haven’t found anything, my Lord. Percy’s already sent word to Wakeford.”
“The papers?”
“No, my Lord, not a thing that incriminates him.”
“We have the shooter,” said Avers, more to reassure himself than the others. “And the note that Dartois sent to me—” He broke off, remembering with a sick feeling that the taunting note had not been signed.
The case against Vergelles and Dartois, which Avers had thought so solidly built, block by block, now showed itself to be made of ice. Each fact was slowly melting away before his eyes and soon there would be nothing at all to hold them.
Swinging round suddenly, he demanded, “Vergelles, tell me where she is, and do not test my temper any further.”
The Comte smiled, an infuriating, sly, smug smile. It crept across his face slowly as he took in Avers’ agitation until he was grinning wickedly up at the man. “I’ve thrown her out. A woman like that is only good for one thing and as she was not willing to—”
Rage overcame Avers. Leaping over the low table that separated them, he took the Comte by his cravat, twisting the lace and linen around in his hand, tightening it like a noose. Fiery pain shot down Avers’ injured arm. The Comte’s breath hissed out, his neck growing dark, and his veins bulging out from the skin.
“I know how you treated Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Avers whispered, inches from the Comte’s face, the rage within punctuating every word. As he tightened the cravat and his eyes imparted all the fury within, he was satisfied to see a hint of fear in the Frenchman’s eyes. “I saw the burns you gave her.”
The man in his hands was nothing. A pathetic being, who preyed on the weak. One whose false sense of his own power enabled him to take advantage of others. He needed to be taught a lesson.
“A low-born woman she may be, but you,” Avers hissed between his teeth, “are no better than a filthy cur. She transcended her place in life. You have sullied yours. You’ve no idea the treasure you had in her. You’re an ignorant fool and if it weren’t against God’s holy law, I’d kill you.”
In spite of his final words, Avers turned his hand again, tightening the noose. The Comte’s breath came in rasps. Just a little more and Vergelles would be…
Avers half released him. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux—tell me where she is.”
