The dim interior of the carriage in which Emilie travelled with Dartois was lit intermittently by torches or link boys that they passed. It was about nine o’clock in the evening when Dartois had requested her to accompany him out. Emilie had assumed they were attending a rout or card party.

When the maid laid out a day dress, stout leather walking boots and a cloak for her to wear, Emilie assumed differently. Now she was in the carriage she surmised they were travelling east. From the small, dark view outside the window, she could see they were passing through a less salubrious part of Town, the dirt and shabby buildings only weakly lit by the half-moon.

She didn’t ask their destination. The Marquis was in an odd humour. She could sense the tension rolling off him from the opposite carriage seat and she had no wish to provoke him. After more than half an hour, they finally drew to a halt and the steps were let down. As soon as the door opened, a briny smell assailed Emilie’s nostrils, and she realised they must be at the docks.

What was his purpose in bringing her here? Had Dartois grown tired of her lack of interest in him and his plan? Did she know too much and now she was a liability?

She withdrew her gaze from the opposite window, her eyes darting quickly to the open door, where she saw Dartois climbing down.

There had been several times in their journey here when her heart had raced at the possibility that she was travelling to her end. The Duke of Tremaine—or Avers as she knew him now—had not been in contact since Lord and Lady Peregrine’s ball. The blaze of hope that had lit her heart had flickered, dimmed, and almost extinguished.

Rising from her seat on seeing the Marquis beckon her, she allowed him to hand her down from the carriage to the grubby dockside. She stared around, taking in crates, lumber, nets and boats. A grimy, stinking melee of industry. She had assumed Dartois was giving instructions to the coachman and finding whoever they were meeting here, but on glancing back at him, she was startled to realise he was silently staring at her.

Without warning he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, pulled her towards him and covered her mouth with his. There was no tenderness in the kiss. It was hard, fast and spoke of his possession. She tried to pull back, the surprise making it automatic, but his fingers tightened on her arms, pinching the skin.

When he finally released her, he was breathing heavily, his hands still clamped around her arms.

“I grow impatient,” he gasped against her cheek.

The words made her blood run cold. Everything within her revolted at his touch, his closeness, his very presence. She wanted to jerk free from his hold, escape from his control, and keep running until she could not be found by him or anyone who knew her.

What would Lord Avers think of her now? None of this was her fault but she could not help feeling dirty. Perhaps he hadn’t come for her because of the Duchess of Gravesend. He had been struck by her appearance at the Peregrines’ ball, but Emilie could have sworn his Lordship had been eschewing any feelings for his old love before this. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe any perspective he had gained in France had been lost now he was back in London, in his own world, where his past feelings loomed large. What Emilie had believed was born between them in Paris, in the dangers of spy rings and stolen papers, may have been nothing at all. Like smoke—here one moment and blown away the next.

Emilie was as alone in the world now as she had always been.

“Come,” Dartois commanded, partially releasing her so they could walk together along the dockside.

She had a choice now. She knew she did. Either she gave in to her fate as Dartois’ coerced mistress, or she fought—she forged her own path and faced the risks such a choice would entail. Those risks were growing smaller in her mind as the bile rose in her throat at Dartois’ attentions. Soon the fear would be small enough for her to act.

Rolling her shoulders back, she tried to still her shaking, and blinked hard three times. She had to pull herself together. She had to. Focusing on putting one step in front of the other, her heels clipped along the flagstones, passing by piles of cargo and fishing nets hung out to dry. Several boats of different sizes were moored on the piers and even at this hour there were men working, carrying cargo on and off vessels, securing the loads on the decks of the ships.

Lanterns hung at intervals down the walkways and here and there they had companions shining on the ships’ decks, pushing back the approaching night, and fighting against the mist rising off the river.

Dartois’ fingers tightened around her elbow, and he picked up the pace. She pulled back. Was he taking her out of England?

He chuckled, letting her go and speaking as if to a child. “As you wish. I shouldn’t have thought a woman of your nature would grow nervous after a mere kiss.”

Curse him.

She bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue.

“But you must hurry—I have an appointment to keep, and those papers won’t sell themselves.”

Dartois took one of the lanterns lining the walkway and held it aloft to light their path.

“This way.”

He gestured down one of the piers and directed the warm glow of the lantern in the way he wished for them to go. She moved forwards reluctantly, with the Marquis following behind, his presence hemming her in.

After twenty yards Dartois bade her stop next to a ship. Emilie didn’t recognise it as the one which had brought her to England.

The Marquis let out a long, low whistle and two men appeared on the deck, swaggering down the gangway to the waiting couple.

Rapid greetings were exchanged in French.

“Any trouble?” Dartois asked, when the pleasantries were dealt with.

“Non,” said the first. “As soon as we received the keg, we set sail and made port in Guernsey. We waited a week as you instructed. They did not find the documents in the hollowed-out lid of the brandy keg. We arrived here without incident this afternoon.”

“That’s not true,” said the second man, much gruffer and unfriendlier in his tone than his companion. “The customs officer.”

“We took care of that,” snapped the first.

“As long as you have my cargo,” Dartois said smoothly, holding out his hand, “I really do not care what problems you had or what you did about them.”

The two men exchanged looks and the second huffed while the first withdrew a leather portfolio from inside his coat. Emilie watched as he held out the packet to Dartois.

The stolen papers. A small, seemingly inconsequential portfolio. A tiny thing that was causing so much havoc.

She resisted the urge to snatch it from the men and throw it into the water. Let the sea do its work on those lines of ink that had upset so many lives already.

But why resist? Why not just do it?

There was nothing to lose. Not anymore.

Her courage flared. She reached out and snatched the papers as Dartois was about to take hold of them.

Just before she could throw them into the water, accompanied by a chorus of expletives from her captor, a command rang out.

“Stand where you are!”

The two Frenchmen, Emilie and Dartois swung round. A group of officials were advancing towards them, lanterns and muskets raised.

“In the name of the King! Stand where you are! You are suspected of—”

A loud rapport sounded. Emilie screamed. The accompanying flash of fire was quickly followed by the tell-tale smell of sulphur, which emanated from the pistol in Dartois’ hand. Soldiers and officials scattered for cover, their mouthpiece slain where he stood.

The Marquis grabbed Emilie, dropped his spent pistol and pulled out a fresh one from his greatcoat.

Behind them the two Frenchmen had run aboard their boat and were already weighing anchor to escape on the tide. The gangway loosened, kicked off by the gruff sailor, and fell with a splash into the water below.

“Emilie!”

Her eyes flashed towards the officials who were approaching again and she saw Avers among them. She yanked against Dartois’ hold, clutching the papers to her chest. Her captor swore, his pull becoming stronger, and then she felt the cold muzzle of his pistol against her neck.

“Stay back, Avers.”

“Let her go, Dartois. Your game is up,” Avers said. He took a step closer, a calming hand raised.