Her only solace was her friend Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette would now be safe. But in hedging her bets, hoping for the perfect opportunity to run away, Emilie was now in the middle of nowhere, with an unpredictable man and no means of escape. Soon, there would be a choice. She could feel it in her gut—surrender or fight.
“Lucien offered me both,” she replied, choosing to wilfully misunderstand the Marquis. If she had answered according to the real object of his sentence—the Duke of Tremaine—she would have said the man had offered her nothing.
The Marquis would not be put off. His gaze grew more intense. “I do not speak of Lucien.”
“Not Lucien—oh! You mean His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine? What makes you think he offered me anything?” she said, a little too lightly.
“Not his name—that I am sure of. But perhaps an agreement. It is plain to all he holds a tendre for you.”
Dartois’ words both surprised and stung her. As a fallen woman it was beyond anyone’s comprehension that a gentleman might offer his name to her. Yet the acknowledgement so bluntly delivered still hurt and because he spoke of Tremaine, it seemed to deliver a sharper pain.
Her mind flashed back to that moment in the study of the hunting lodge, when they had been alone trying to get the papers from the locked drawer, and she had fallen back into his arms. When he had stared down at her, his gaze warm, falling onto her lips. When they had… kissed.
“You are unwilling to share what he offered?” An edge appeared in Dartois’ voice. “It is no matter—what I offer you is financial freedom, if you will be my companion and aid in my operations.”
“Aid?”
“All in good time.” He leant forward and traced a finger over the back of her gloved hand.
She shivered. The involuntary action was not one of pleasure.
“I shall allow you to consider my offer after we discuss it on the crossing. Whatever you may think of me, I am not a monster, and I will not take an unwilling woman.”
“And if I refuse?”
Dartois shrugged, his eyes wandering over to the window, the fingers of his right hand playing with the knife on this plate. “Eat. It is time we were on our way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Avers hastily scrawled a note to Wakeford on the Tremaine crested paper of their Parisian Hôtel. With the ink barely dried he attached a wafer and rang the bell for a servant. Exiting the study, so he might hand over the missive all the faster, he met the butler in the hall, and thrust the letter into his hand with rapid-fire instructions for its immediate delivery to Lord Wakeford. Before the servant disappeared to carry out His Grace’s commands, Avers also requested his horse be made ready, a valise packed and gave suitable instructions for Lutin’s care while he was gone.
It was the closest Avers had ever come to treating the Tremaine staff as his own. Once the butler had been sent on his way, and hurried footsteps and calls sounded out below stairs, Avers ran up the main staircase two at a time, making it to his bedroom before his valet.
Before half an hour was up, with the valise strapped to the back of his saddle, he cantered through the streets of Paris causing outraged street sellers to cry out at the reckless rider.
Avers knew where Mademoiselle Cadeaux was. Returning to the Comte’s residence, he demanded the location of his shipping concerns through which he conducted smuggling operations. While Vergelles was less than helpful, a scan of his business papers had revealed their whereabouts easily enough.
Now Avers was heading for Cherbourg. There was no time to waste. Nothing would delay him. Not even the devil himself.
He had to get to her before she disappeared.
The journey out of the French capital was painful. Every street seemed three times as busy as it had during Avers’ entire stay. Twice he was stuck behind an overturned cart and the third time saw him urge his horse to jump a series of crates that had been unloaded outside a shop. The shopkeeper’s wife, upon coming out of the building to the sight of a fine hunter clearing her orders with a foot to spare, stumbled backwards and swooned into her husband’s arms.
Once Avers had left the capital, the journey was significantly quicker. Without the distractions of physical barriers to negotiate, he found his mind wandering. What was Dartois’ purpose in taking Mademoiselle Cadeaux? Why was he making his way to England? How would the papers serve him there?
Avers had little idea about the latter. With the spy ring’s connection to England, he wondered if they had fostered connections in London and information flowed both ways. Perhaps their plan was to sell the papers there while Paris proved too dangerous.
Yet, Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s kidnapping formed no logical part of this plan. The only reason he could think of was her being taken for revenge. Dartois’ disconcerting laugh when he’d pointed a pistol at Avers’ head in Buc came back to mind. The sick feeling, which had been birthed on reading Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s urgently written note, grew in Avers’ stomach. How far would this man go to enact his revenge for Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s betrayal?
After two days travelling through the night with only a few hours rest at the roadside, his arm aching from his injury, Avers entered Cherbourg as dawn broke. The dock town was cast in a demoralising grey, mirroring his thoughts as he contemplated what may have happened to Mademoiselle Cadeaux while he travelled.
Avers approached two men smoking pipes, on a break from loading their ship. The first refused to admit he spoke English despite appearing to understand Avers’ question. After asking again in French, the man still feigned incomprehension, but his companion responded well to money.
He led Avers through the waking docks and pointed out a ship at the quayside with a couple of sailors tramping kegs and boxes aboard looking as happy to be up as the miserable morning was to greet them.
Avers took cover at the start of the quay behind a pile of boxes almost head height, dismissing his guide with another payment, and turning back to analyse the situation. A few minutes revealed that there appeared to be only two men loading the boat. Either Dartois and Emilie were already below deck waiting for the tide, or Avers had arrived before them. The latter was likely if they travelled by chaise. Avers hadn’t stopped for more than a few hours overnight, thanks to a full moon, and he’d managed to change horses twice, leaving the Tremaine’s fine hunter in an inn west of Breteuil.
As if corroborating his theory, he heard a carriage approaching. Skirting to the far side of the boxes to keep them between himself and the newcomers, he peeked out to see a finely painted chaise approaching the grubby dockside. The horses appeared fresh, without a sheen of sweat on them, indicating that Avers had been right—they must have stopped overnight.
The coachman pulled up on the other side of the quay and a groom jumped down from the back of the carriage to let the steps down. The door flung open, almost hitting the servant in the face, and Dartois appeared, springing down from the carriage and turning back to hand down the other inhabitant.
Avers felt both relief at catching up with Dartois and an overwhelming fury at the sight of him. He drew his shoulders back instinctively, clenching his fists and becoming taut with the expectation of a fight.
But if he’d been on the verge of making a rash decision, he was stilled by the sight of Emilie being handed down from the carriage. She looked so small and fragile, standing over there next to a man who was both deranged and unpredictable.
Avers couldn’t see her expression properly from where he stood, but he could see enough to know she wasn’t smiling. The Marquis gave instructions to the coachman and soon the trunks strapped onto the back of the carriage were unlashed and placed in a neat pile on the dockside.
The two sailors who had been on the deck of the ship came down the quay to fetch the luggage on board and Avers ducked down quickly behind the boxes in case they saw him.
At that moment, a man came out of a nearby tavern to his right. Avers quickly looked down, pretending to be occupied with something in his left pocket in case the man from the inn should glance across.
If the salty fellow did see Avers it held no weight with him. He passed by, a worn leather tricorn on his head, and an oiled greatcoat flaring out behind him. Shaking hands with Dartois, he began speaking to him in low French and Avers realised this was likely the captain of the ship.
Emilie waited silently while the men spoke and after a few minutes, Dartois and the captain nodded to each other, and the latter set out down the quay to the ship where his men were busy making ready for sail on the top deck.
The Marquis made to follow, taking Emilie by the elbow, and bringing her towards the waiting boat. In an instant she burst out of her placid state. After taking one step forward she pulled back, trying to free her arm from Dartois’ grip. The French noble was not so easy to shake off, yanking her backwards so she crashed into him, and hissing something in her ear.
