Emilie felt an overwhelming desire to run to him. To the safety of those arms. But Dartois’ grip on her was now vicelike. She was his last bargaining chip.

“The game is up?” Dartois laughed harshly. “It has barely begun.”

“Let her go,” Avers repeated.

“I thought you loved that Duchess of yours.”

Avers stepped forward again and Dartois mirrored the movement, moving back, keeping them just out of reach.

“But perhaps, like me, you are tempted by something you have yet to taste.”

Dartois turned his face in towards her cheek and she felt his breath against her. He inhaled. The action made her shiver in revulsion.

“The Comte was the same. There’s something about a conquest, is there not?” Dartois asked, his voice taunting, yanking Emilie further back with him. “And this woman has eluded us all.”

She glanced down, feeling the press of the gun muzzle against her, and seeing how close they were to the edge of the dock. Her wooden boot slipped on the wet stone and she jerked, losing purchase, and scrambling to get away from the edge as Dartois’ grip tightened.

“Please, Dartois,” she pleaded.

“Please, please,” he mimicked. “You would rather this pathetic Englishman than your fellow countryman?”

“She would rather be free,” said Avers.

Emilie’s eyes found his. They were earnest, filled with so much concern for her that her heart squeezed.

“Free!” Dartois sneered. “We are never any of us free! She will always be a common tavern brat. You will always be the one who failed to save her.”

Dartois pressed the muzzle into Emilie’s neck with fresh fervour causing her to cough and choke. His finger tightened around the trigger.

“No!” Avers shouted, reaching out to stop him.

This was it.

This was the end.

Emilie closed her eyes against the fear. Breath ragged. Heart racing. Waiting for the sound of the gun…

Instead, she heard a high, indignant bark break through the night air. Then another. And another. She knew that bark. Avers lurched forward, something barrelling into his legs, and then Emilie saw her Lutin, yanking the servant who held him forward until they dropped the lead completely.

Bark. Bark. Bark. Lutin shot around Avers’ legs, lead trailing, hurtling towards his mistress at lightning speed.

“Infernal vermin!” Dartois cursed, removing his pistol from Emilie’s neck and levelling it at the incoming dog.

“No!” Emilie cried, dropping the leather portfolio and grabbing Dartois’ gun with both hands. She thrust upwards with all her might, pointing the muzzle skywards just as he pulled the trigger, and another ear-splitting rapport rang out. This time it was so close to Emilie’s ear that she was half-deafened. She staggered backwards.

Lutin, after a brief startle, was undeterred. He continued his charge towards the couple and, upon reaching them, fastened his jaws around one of Dartois’ legs.

The Marquis yelped, yanking his leg away, and releasing Emilie as he stumbled backwards. The empty gun fell from his shocked hands, clipping the side of the dock and dropping into the water. Two stumbling steps later, the Marquis de Dartois followed suit, Lutin only releasing his leg moments before the Frenchman crashed into the dark, dirty waters of the Thames.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“Emilie!” Avers cried, reaching her seconds after the Marquis fell over the side of the dock.

Lutin, who had been half-buried in his mistress’ skirts, turned on the approaching English Lord and gave him a cursory growl.

“Now, now, you little devil,” Avers said gently. “I am just come to make sure your mistress is safe.”

Apparently the canine understood him, for Lutin stood down from his guard dog duties, and resumed bundling himself into his mistress in joyful reunion.

Avers, confident the dog would not now bite him, took Emilie by the elbows and found her shaking uncontrollably.

“It’s all right, Emilie. You’re safe.”

She nodded, her eyes darting to the waters, as if she expected her captor to rise out of the grimy depths and take her hostage again. An overwhelming desire flooded through Avers and this time he did not fight it. Drawing her into his arms, he wrapped himself around her, pressing her tightly to himself until her shaking slowly ebbed away.

Splashing sounded.

Emilie flinched.

“It’s all right,” Avers murmured in her ear. “It’s only Wakeford’s men. They’re pulling Dartois from the water and placing him under arrest.”

Emilie buried her head into his chest in response, drawing a ragged breath.

“You’re safe now.”

He felt her shudder against him, her body tense, and then finally begin to relax. How he had longed for this moment. To feel her secure against him. To know she was no longer in the Comte or Dartois’ clutches. Over the last few days he had feared this might never happen. Now here she was, guarded in his arms, and all he had to do was resist the urge to cover her forehead, her cheeks, her lips with kisses.

“Excellent work, John.” Wakeford came up beside them just as Dartois was heaved out of the river by two of his men. They dumped the Frenchman, a great sodden mess of clothes and limbs, on the side of the quay.

“He’s hit his head on something,” said one of the men, examining Dartois’ scalp and then placing an ear above the unconscious man’s mouth. “But he’s breathing.”

As if on cue, Dartois wrenched upwards, coughing up water and rolling over onto his side.

“Lord Dartois, you’re under arrest by order of the King for acts against the Crown,” Wakeford said, coming to stand over the man who shot him a venomous look.

Suddenly, Dartois, who had appeared such an ominous and unknowable figure, was now merely a man. Soaking wet and caught out on St Saviour’s dock.

Avers felt Emilie move within his arms and immediately loosened his grip. Her head came up from where it had been resting against his chest and she pulled herself free so she was standing beside him. But Avers did not wholly relinquish his grip from around her waist—not when Dartois was conscious and so nearby.

“Here, Wakeford,” Avers said, spying the leather portfolio on the ground and bending to pick it up. “I believe this is what Mademoiselle Cadeaux was retrieving for you when she was kidnapped against her will.” He handed the packet to his friend.

Wakeford looked between Avers and Emilie, his stare hard upon them both, as he took the portfolio. He examined the papers and then, satisfied they were those that had been stolen, he looked up again, with a relieved smile on his face.

“A nice tidy story we have then, John. Take him away,” he commanded the men standing over Dartois. They hauled the man to his feet and dragged him off down the quay to a waiting carriage.

Wakeford turned back to shake Avers warmly by the hand. “I owe you my reputation and my career after all you have risked on my behalf. And you, Mademoiselle—” He turned to bow towards Emilie. “I thank you for the service you have done for my country. I see now that my friend Avers was not remiss in putting his faith in you. A lady who would risk her life for others is a woman worthy of his affection.”