He wasted no more time, unfolding the letter and quickly scanning its contents.
‘Your Grace,
I have been instructed by my benefactor to make ready to leave. I was discovered with the stolen papers—for I tried to retrieve them for you, but like a fool I was caught—’
She was not a fool. Avers had been the fool to allow her to put herself in danger.
‘I thought my life forfeit, but Dartois ordered the Comte to give me over to him.
He will not tell me where we are going, but I paid one of the men who came to collect my trunks, and he says we head for the coast.
I don’t know if you will find this, and you owe me nothing, but I ask that you take care of Lutin, for I’m unable to do so, and that you—’
The letter was cut off. Avers could see splotches on the paper where the ink had not dried before she’d folded it closed. She’d been interrupted.
Dropping the hand that held the letter, Avers stared at the wispy-haired dog waiting at his feet.
The coast.
That could only mean one thing. Dartois was fleeing across the Channel. With their smuggling operations it would be easy enough.
But what was the reason? No evidence had been found at the Comte’s residence of their spying. They couldn’t be linked to the assassination attempt. Whatever Dartois’ plan was, it wasn’t clear, but Avers couldn’t stand here trying to figure it out any longer.
The Marquis already had half a day’s head start on him, and while Mademoiselle Cadeaux was alive for now, there was no telling what his plans were for her. Avers scooped up Lutin in his arms and left the apartments.
He would chase them down. The faux Duke of Tremaine was leaving Paris.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Emilie sat in the private parlour of an inn on the road to Cherbourg staring at the uneaten food she had been served. The nausea which she’d felt ever since leaving the French capital had not abated.
Dartois had already finished his pigeon pie and downed a glass of claret and was now staring at her. He had been doing that since leaving Paris, his eyes gleaming in that disconcerting way of his, making Emilie feel like a bird and Dartois the cat.
“I’ve thought for some time that Lucien hasn’t appreciated you.”
She said nothing. The statement was no doubt meant as a compliment, but the implications added to Emilie’s discomfort. She could see it in the Marquis’ face—he coveted her, and not as a person, but as an object to be owned and possessed. Hadn’t those been his words to Vergelles when she had been found with the papers in her possession. Give her to me.
“Lucien was surprised by your betrayal, but I was not. You are neither stupid nor weak. You are a survivor—like me.”
Emilie had no wish to provoke him, so she swallowed the retort on the tip of her tongue.
“The bastard child of a lesser noble with no place in Society, like you—an unwanted tavern brat—and yet we have carved out a place for ourselves on this muck heap of life and we will be cursed if we’ll give it up to any lesser mortals. Lucien could not see your potential. I can.”
Emilie looked up from her plate and, holding his penetrating stare with some effort, she finally spoke. “And what do you intend to do with me and my potential?”
That gleam in his eyes which she had always taken for funning, appeared differently in these circumstances. Suddenly there was an uncontrollability to it, a darkness, a sensation of Dartois being somewhat maniacal. She had the strongest feeling she needed to choose her words carefully or this man might turn on her without a second thought.
She took a steadying breath and continued to return his stare, waiting for his reply.
“What do you think I intend?” Dartois leant back, one hand dangling from the chair arm, the other clasping a freshly poured glass of wine.
“I wouldn’t presume to guess.”
Dartois broke out into amused laughter. “Aha! Very good—the survivor in you will not allow you to risk a wrong guess.” He raised his wine glass to her in salute and took a sip.
“I know we are making for the coast,” she said, playing some of her hand in an attempt to both appeal to his view of her and to show her intelligence. “We left the city by the north road.” She would not mention the servant she had bribed. Why throw another poor soul into this man’s clutches?
“Very good, my little bird.”
The hairs prickled on the back of Emilie’s neck. He desired her.
“Will Lucien be following us to where we’re going.”
“You heard me ask him for you. He has delivered you into my care now. I will take responsibility for your… needs. So, to answer your question, no, he will not be joining us in England.” Dartois’ gaze grew more intense as he revealed their destination. “At least not yet. He has work to do for me here.”
“England,” Emilie repeated, keeping her expression neutral and nodding her head in acknowledgement.
“I may require him, after a time, but I have business in London, and Lucien is caught up with your English Duke at the moment.” He spoke of the Comte as if he was merely a lackey. Had appearances really been that deceptive? Was Dartois the one pulling the strings?
“I am sure”—Dartois took a draught of wine, the deep red liquid glistening on his lips as he replaced his glass on the table—“I can do something to remove that man from your mind. Whatever he promised you—money, security—I will not be outdone.”
Emilie let out an involuntary laugh.
“I have amused you?” Dartois fingered the stem of the wine glass, tapping it with his fingernail, a challenging look in his eyes.
But despite the hint of displeasure from the Marquis, Emilie refused to become any more intimidated. She was already furious with herself for not making more fuss when Dartois marched her from her lodgings with a pistol at her back. Then there was the carriage ride through Paris—that would have been the perfect opportunity to jump out and escape, but she had failed to take the chance.
