“Yes. Though last time I saw Tremaine he’d grown a beard in veneration of Sophocles.”
“I shall not be doing that.” Avers ran a hand over his smooth chin. “That’s where I draw the line.”
“I know it’s a madcap scheme,” Wakeford said, no longer taking in his friend’s words, but following his own worried line of thought. He took the proffered glass from Avers without pause and tossed it off with zeal. “I didn’t know what else to do. That’s why I sent my man to you with a letter. I knew you, of all my friends, would come quietly to Paris if I asked.”
“The offer couldn’t have come at a better time,” Avers said affably, his tone at odds with his friend’s mood.
“How can you be so dashed calm all the time?”
“Practice.” Avers retook his chair and took a meditative sip of brandy.
In truth, he hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to get out of London until Wakeford’s servant had arrived with the letter. The distraction of this scheme was exactly what he needed. With his cousin Sophie lately married, and the complications surrounding her nuptials resolved, all that had been left for Avers in London were unpleasant memories.
He wouldn’t have called coming to his friend Wakeford’s aid in Paris ‘running away’ exactly, but the offer of such a diversion had been gratefully received.
Besides, Wakeford was a good friend. They’d grown up together and the idea that he was at risk of being suspected a traitor would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so serious.
“You really do look like Charlie,” Wakeford said, eyes widening as they stared wonderingly over at his friend.
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.
