His aunt fanned herself absently, no doubt overheated as the fire was lit and the window shut in spite of the mildness of the day. She had always been scared of catching cold. “There you go, mocking me again, but I have expended a lot of effort curating a network of informants and there really is no substitute for a well-placed servant.”
Something fell in the back of Avers’ mind. He tried to grasp it.
A well-placed servant.
“Well, will you not answer me?”
Avers’ gaze dropped from the far wall where it had migrated onto an equestrian painting by Boultbee from his late uncle’s collection.
“Forgive me, aunt. Would you be so good as to repeat your question?”
Lady Goring huffed loudly. “Honestly, John! You attend me no better than Sophia when she has that excuse for a new husband of hers in tow.” She smacked her fan down in her lap.
“Then count your blessings, madam, that I am without a wife—can you imagine what poor company I would be then?”
“I have no fear of such an occurrence. You are a confirmed bachelor, John. There will be no wedding for you.”
Avers made no retort. When his aunt’s feathers were ruffled, one had to wait until they laid back down of their own accord. After several minutes, in which Lady Goring cleared two plates of the various dishes on offer, she finally relented.
“I said”—both words were delivered with extra vigour—“that Lady Peregrine is due to host a masquerade ball at which the French consul is supposed to make an appearance. Something about fostering good relations in an informal manner—and I would not at all be surprised if your new friend will be there. I was due to attend with Sophia, but that minx has declined on account of going out of Town to her husband’s house in the country again.”
Avers’ heart leapt at the opportunity. “I should be delighted, aunt.”
“First you ignore me and now you interrupt me. You haven’t even heard the question yet.”
“But what if I promise to be a far better companion when I escort you to Lady Peregrine’s ball than I have been this evening? What if I promise to be all that is charming?”
“You would be delighted to escort me?” she asked, picking up on his previous words, scepticism in her voice.
Avers had never before expressed delight at accompanying his aunt anywhere. It had always been an obligation accompanied by sarcastic protestations.
“Immensely so.” Avers rose. “Name the time and place.”
Still looking incredibly suspicious, Lady Goring gave her nephew the details, and before she could question his intent as she so clearly desired to do, he swept an overly gallant bow and took his leave.
Avers left behind him a most dissatisfied relation. Yet before him there was hope. He had discovered Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s whereabouts and secured an invitation to a place she may very well be.
The faintest flicker of hope lit the darkness that had engulfed him since he had last seen her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Emilie shifted on the sofa in the morning room of the consul’s residence trying to get comfortable. She pressed the waistline of her dress for the fifth time. Her stays were laced too tight, and the maid had paid no heed when she’d asked for them to be loosened. Apparently Lord Dartois preferred tight lacing and as the maid was one procured for Emilie by the Marquis, the new servant took her instructions from him.
She threw a venomous look at the maid who sat nearby before reapplying herself to reading the book in her hand.
Her mind began wandering again almost instantly.
The middle-aged woman was not only her lady’s maid. She was her guard. She had not left Emilie’s side since arriving at the consul’s residence. Any hope Emilie had retained that she might find an opportunity to escape once in London was doomed to disappointment.
While Dartois had kept his distance since coming to London and was more often than not out attending so-called business meetings, she was left to wile away the hours under the eagle-eyed stare of her appointed guard. The Marquis had told Emilie she would be welcome to accompany him to his meetings when she was ready.
No matter where she went within the residence of the consul—a portly little man who was deep in Dartois’ pocket and of no help to Emilie—she was followed by her new shadow. The breakfast room, the library, the gardens—all of them felt suffocating because of the maid who followed. Not only did she follow, but she stuck to Emilie’s side like an unwelcome fly, watching her every mood, examining the books she picked up and the embroidery she started.
What was worse, when Dartois had instructed her to shop in London for new accessories, her guard in tow, Emilie had realised how ill-equipped she was to escape.
In France she had considered leaping from the carriage or running from the Marquis’ arms, and if she’d escaped, she might have been able to muddle her way through. But this was a different country, a different city. Emilie could speak English, yet the people here spoke so fast and with accents she did not recognise. Worse, the streets and buildings were as alien to her as the people. London contained strange signs she couldn’t decipher, odd road networks she struggled to navigate, and no friends she could call on. Even the direction of the docks, to where she might run and secure a passage home, was unknown to her.
Her only ally, the Duke of Tremaine, could help her no longer. He had tried, he had tried his utmost, but he had… She pushed from her mind those awful images of him falling, wounded on the dockside. The very idea he might have succumbed to his injuries was too much to bear.
But she had not lost hope.
Not yet.
She would focus on what was in her control. She would not succumb to the initial terror she had felt upon arriving here. Emilie Cadeaux had never allowed life to simply happen to her and she would not now.
On her second day in England she had counted out the money she had. Then she had taken stock of the belongings she had managed to bring with her. Finally, she had done the same with the luggage that had followed them on from Paris.
The coins she had were few, but she might sell some of her clothes and jewels to shore up her funds. Most of those items had been gifts from the Comte de Vergelles and it was therefore unlikely that Dartois would countenance her continuing to wear them. Now she only needed to find a way to sell them.
“Abigail?” Emilie asked, looking up from the book she had not been reading and speaking to the maid who sat too close beside her.
“Yes, Miss Cadeaux?”
“Do you know where I might sell some clothes I no longer need?” Emilie carried on quickly, giving her reasons for the seemingly out of the blue question, before the maid could get suspicious. “My clothes from his Lordship will be arriving from the dressmaker soon, and I already have a selection of millinery and shawls from our trip the other day. Soon I will have more clothes than I know what to do with, so it seems sensible to get rid of some, though they’re far too good a quality to give away.”
“You wish to sell them, not hand them on?” the maid asked, clearly hoping she would have been the recipient of some of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s dresses as many maids were of their mistress’ cast-offs.
