It was two days before the theory was proven.
Impatient for an update, Avers returned uninvited to Wakeford’s office early on the morning of the second day.
“Come.” Wakeford’s voice emanated through the closed door.
Avers entered. “Any news?” he said without ceremony, closing the door behind him.
Both Wakeford and Lancelot were standing over the former’s desk and staring at a letter laid out on it.
Wakeford looked up, seeming not to have heard Avers’ question. “Did my note already reach you?” he said, brows raised.
“Note? No—I’ve come for news.”
Wakeford pointed at the letter on the table and Avers came to stand shoulder to shoulder with the two men to see what so fascinated them.
The unfolded paper contained lines of script—unsurprisingly—but instead of communicating knowledge they appeared to be written in gibberish.
“A cypher,” Lancelot explained.
“From the Marquis?”
Wakeford and Lancelot nodded in unison.
“It’s already been copied out and sent to Lancelot’s codebreakers,” said Wakeford, grinning at the turning tide of their situation. “We’re waiting on them to break it.”
“How long will that take?”
It had been two days already. Two days in which anything could have happened to Mademoiselle Cadeaux. Avers had walked past the consul’s residence multiple times in those two days, at a discreet distance, in the hope he might ascertain how she fared, but he had seen no sign of her.
Lancelot shrugged, though his expression remained serious. “It depends. If it’s simple it could only be hours. If it’s more sophisticated maybe days.”
Days? Mademoiselle Cadeaux might not have days.
“We’re hoping that whatever the letter says, it’ll not only incriminate the Comte and Dartois, but also shed light on who they’re using as their go-between here in London for the sale of the papers. They must have come here because they have contacts and that’s Lancelot’s department.”
Avers reined back his rising frustration. These men were entirely focused on the Comte and Dartois and the innocent woman caught up in all this was being forgotten.
“We might not have days,” he said.
Wakeford’s grin slipped. “I know this is not ideal with Mademoiselle Cadeaux still under the Marquis’ protection—”
“Protection?” Avers scoffed, failing to stop himself. “We have to ensure her safety.” His entire body was framed by the tension he felt.
“We’re doing all we can,” Wakeford said, trying to sooth his friend’s frayed nerves. “As soon as we have something we’ll take action.”
Avers’ shoulders dropped a little. They all knew what was at stake. For Wakeford and Lancelot it was the papers. For Avers it was… the love of his life.
“This is my department now,” said Lancelot. “We know what we’re doing, and we’ll take what you’ve said into account.”
The man’s words were less than comforting, but there was nothing more to be said. It was all hypothetical until that cypher was cracked.
It was under fourteen hours later that Avers was recalled to Wakeford’s office. Lancelot’s men had broken the code. The contents revealed a proposed meeting at St Saviour’s docks for the papers to be exchanged for a pre-agreed sum.
An hour later, Wakeford, Lancelot and their men were at the docks waiting to catch their man. And Avers—much to Lancelot’s chagrin—was there to save Emilie.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The dim interior of the carriage in which Emilie travelled with Dartois was lit intermittently by torches or link boys that they passed. It was about nine o’clock in the evening when Dartois had requested her to accompany him out. Emilie had assumed they were attending a rout or card party.
When the maid laid out a day dress, stout leather walking boots and a cloak for her to wear, Emilie assumed differently. Now she was in the carriage she surmised they were travelling east. From the small, dark view outside the window, she could see they were passing through a less salubrious part of Town, the dirt and shabby buildings only weakly lit by the half-moon.
She didn’t ask their destination. The Marquis was in an odd humour. She could sense the tension rolling off him from the opposite carriage seat and she had no wish to provoke him. After more than half an hour, they finally drew to a halt and the steps were let down. As soon as the door opened, a briny smell assailed Emilie’s nostrils, and she realised they must be at the docks.
What was his purpose in bringing her here? Had Dartois grown tired of her lack of interest in him and his plan? Did she know too much and now she was a liability?
She withdrew her gaze from the opposite window, her eyes darting quickly to the open door, where she saw Dartois climbing down.
There had been several times in their journey here when her heart had raced at the possibility that she was travelling to her end. The Duke of Tremaine—or Avers as she knew him now—had not been in contact since Lord and Lady Peregrine’s ball. The blaze of hope that had lit her heart had flickered, dimmed, and almost extinguished.
Rising from her seat on seeing the Marquis beckon her, she allowed him to hand her down from the carriage to the grubby dockside. She stared around, taking in crates, lumber, nets and boats. A grimy, stinking melee of industry. She had assumed Dartois was giving instructions to the coachman and finding whoever they were meeting here, but on glancing back at him, she was startled to realise he was silently staring at her.
Without warning he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, pulled her towards him and covered her mouth with his. There was no tenderness in the kiss. It was hard, fast and spoke of his possession. She tried to pull back, the surprise making it automatic, but his fingers tightened on her arms, pinching the skin.
When he finally released her, he was breathing heavily, his hands still clamped around her arms.
“I grow impatient,” he gasped against her cheek.
