Avers came to himself and returned Wakeford’s gaze. “Just as well I do in the circumstances.”
“I’m afraid my cousin will be rather angry when he finds out the stories we’re fabricating about him—as will my father when he hears.”
“Yes. Agamemnon was a favourite falsehood of mine.”
“Agamemnon!” Wakeford exclaimed, jerked somewhat out of his gloomy attitude.
“Don’t concern yourself. The mythical King of Mycenae was just part of a cock fighting story I conjured to explain away some of my notoriety in Greece. The name seemed fitting, considering your cousin’s interests.”
Wakeford gave an appreciative nod. “I suppose it was his one vice—cock fighting. Clever of you to remember.”
“The devil’s in the detail,” Avers replied.
“Anything else I should know about your meeting with the Comte?”
Avers recounted the whole of his interaction with Vergelles, not leaving anything out, to ensure, hereon, they were singing from the same hymn sheet.
“Do you think they swallowed the story?”
“Largely,” Avers said. “The next meeting will tell me more. Have you knowledge of where I might bump into the Comte again?”
“Yes—that’s the other reason I’m here. The Comte de Vergelles and his cronies meet at the Café Procope almost daily. It should be easy enough to find them there. Hopefully, you can charm the man this time.”
Avers nodded, finishing his brandy and setting his glass down. He drew the tips of his fingers together meditatively.
While Wakeford was sure it was the Comte orchestrating the information leak from his offices, Avers was interested in all Vergelles’ associates. Even the woman. The dark-haired lady reappeared in Avers’ mind—her elfin features, her measuring gaze.
“What do you know about Mademoiselle Cadeaux?”
“The Comte’s mistress?” Wakeford asked.
So, Avers had been correct in his assumption at the salon.
“An actress, as I understand it. Not brilliantly well-known. Until she met the Comte, I believe she was up and coming at the Théâtre des Tuileries.”
Interesting. A woman who had walked the boards and managed to snare a Comte was no fool. Neither would she be completely in the dark as to her lover’s activities. She may prove useful, either as a tap of information, or a weak link through which he might break into Vergelles’ circle.
He would try flattery. It wouldn’t be a falsehood—Mademoiselle Cadeaux had a prettiness about her—but disconcertingly, he had been unable to read her.
And Avers could usually read everyone. Yes, he would need to keep an eye on her.
“Settling in otherwise?” Wakeford asked, breaking into his line of thought.
“Very well,” Avers drawled, a half-smile curving his lips. “I have never been afforded such command as the third son.”
“Anything you need?”
“Hmm?” Avers dropped his steepled fingers, his hands hanging casually from the chair arms and a wolfish smile taking over his languid expression. “Yes—I should appreciate a fight with you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The following day Avers strolled towards the Jardin des Tuileries on his way to the Café Procope, with all the appearance of boredom. It would have been far more modish to call a chair, but he wished to clear his mind before he encountered the Comte. There was a role he must play, and he needed to get into the persona of the spendthrift, scapegrace Duke of Tremaine.
He struck out with a diamond hilted ebony cane, courtesy of the Tremaine vault, and a beaver hat set at a rakish angle on his powdered hair. He wore an embroidered suit of puce silk which was at once rich and uncaring thanks to the way he wore it open, his cloak thrown back to expose it.
He regretted the roquelaure. The sun had arrived over Paris after an uncertain start and the heavy cloak was too hot already. Still, he’d taken great care over his appearance today. His valet, the only servant with him from England, had been upset by his master’s sudden bent for the gaudy. But Avers had ignored the older man’s protestations and scandalised chiding. This costume suited the devil-may-care attitude of the Duke of Tremaine he had constructed.
He meandered through the mix of people on the streets, carriages and chairs passing down the centre of the road, street sellers and hawkers propping up its edges. There were few people of quality walking the thoroughfare, no doubt preferring to be dropped at their destinations, thus avoiding the dirty streets.
There were those of the middling sort passing by Avers, their clothes plainer, and expressions ones of purpose as they strode along. They would not be walking purposelessly through pretty gardens today or sitting aimlessly in cafés. No, they would be in the law courts, the merchants’ guilds, moving the mechanisms of economy that allowed the country’s nobility to live in leisure off the third estate—the peasants and professionals in French Society.
Still, today was different. Avers did have a purpose beyond amusement and he must focus if he wished to aid Wakeford.
“Eau de vie!” The street seller’s cry—let out with sudden shrillness as he passed—caused Avers to jerk in his step and almost stumble into the path of an oncoming carriage.
He shot the hawker an unimpressed frown. The old woman stared expectantly at him from beneath a floppy white cap. Her bird-like features twitched, eyes darting, as she tried to determine whether the gentleman’s initial start would give way to a sale.
She jerked a cup of drink towards him, the gesture showering a little of the water and brandy concoction on the knee of her rough woollen dress.
“Eau de vie!” she said again.
Avers suspected, had she not had a basket of jars with identical looking liquid perched precariously on her knees, she might have pressed her sale home by forcing the cup up into his face.
“Non, merci,” he replied, touching the handle of his cane to the brim of his hat.
The streets were punctuated with pedlars, either those with stationary stalls like this woman, or water-bearers and kindling sellers going from house to house.
The woman, no doubt unused to being acknowledged, took this as encouragement. “Oui, monsieur. C’est bon eau de vie. It gives life,” she said in broken English, clearly identifying Avers’ accent.
She removed the tray of jars from her lap and came forward, offering the glass again. Avers stepped back, knocking into a water bearer behind him, causing the man’s full buckets to slosh water out from under their lids and soak his stocking.
“Imbécile!” the angry young man cried.
“Pardon,” Avers said, righting himself and smiling affably at the cross water bearer who clearly hadn’t seen it was a gentleman of quality he was cursing. “For your troubles.” Drawing a silver coin from his pocket, Avers dropped it into the man’s waistcoat.
“And no more of your distractions,” he commanded, turning back to the eau de vie seller and holding up a restraining hand.
The old woman threw her free arm up in the air, exasperated, and then without pause tossed off the now half-cup of eau du vie herself, causing Avers to laugh heartily as he turned on his way.
At the west entrance to the Jardin des Tuileries, Avers took the curving Fer à Cheval path towards the octagonal lake. Maintaining an easy pace as he followed the edge of the Bassin Octogonal, its fountain defying gravity and pattering across the broad waters, he meandered through the mix of people already promenading in the mid-morning sun.
Up ahead, towards the central path, were a series of street performers and sellers. There were more of the quality here. Riders passed by and open-topped carriages displayed their fashionably adorned aristocratic contents for Society to see. Expensive silks milled about, extravagant millinery stood out in the crowd, and most noticeable of all, the loud, entitled voices of the nobility rang out, as if every passer-by might be interested in what they had to say.
While last night was a time to build his credibility within Society, today he was on the hunt for his prey, and no greetings and niceties were necessary. He picked up the pace a little, making it past swells in the crowd where they gathered around one performer or another. At that moment, Avers heard the sound of a woman arguing, the words cutting through the focus he had on his destination.
The confrontation was in rapid-fire French, and he might have lost attention quickly, had not the voice sounded familiar.
