“You are a thief, sir,” the woman snapped. “Last week they were half the price.”

Avers slowed his pace subconsciously, and began scanning the crowd. He was almost certain he recognised that voice.

“I shall pay you no more than two sous.” An indignant little bark punctuated this statement.

“I will not be moved,” the truculent seller responded.

Avers caught sight of him. Stout and thunder-faced, he wore breeches, a linen jacket and a faded white shirt, tied with a jaunty red cravat at odds with its wearer’s humour. In his hand was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and bound with string, and he was using it to gesture ferociously at the woman who accosted him.

A dark-haired woman with elfin features.

“Do not be such a stubborn, vieille chèvre,” the woman replied, now in a weary tone, rolling her eyes with the words. “I have no time for your stupidity.”

The man did indeed look like an old goat with his bandy legs and grizzled grey beard. The corner of Avers mouth twitched as he halted beside Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The dog growled as he spotted Avers’ approach, following his advance with intent little eyes.

“Be quiet you impertinent brute,” Avers commanded in an amused voice, reaching out his gloved hand to pull gently at one of the dog’s ears.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux?” he queried as the dark-haired woman’s gaze dropped to her dog and saw the sudden adoration in the animal’s face at being petted.

The shadow of surprise moved across her features before she turned back, drawing breath, seemingly intent on continuing her battle despite the interruption.

“Trouble?” Avers asked, a lazy smile unfurling on his lips. “The Duke of Tremaine—I believe we met at Madame Pertuis’ salon three night’s since.”

His persistence drew Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s eyes back towards him and in them he beheld undisguised suspicion. It was almost a full minute before she replied, and Avers almost felt intimidated. Almost.

“Bonjour, Your Grace,” she said at last, inclining her head. “You will excuse me.” She turned immediately back to the vendor who still held provokingly before her the brown parcel she desired.

“Are you finished being stupid? My Lutin will have his biscuits and you will have no more than two sous!”

“C’est impossible!” cried the man angrily. “The liver alone has doubled in price. I can let you have them for no less than four sous.” Putting the parcel back in his cart, he made ready to move off.

At that point, Avers stepped forward. “Allow me,” he said gallantly, taking out four copper coins and offering them to the man.

The vendor looked delighted, immediately taking on deferential tones and exchanging the parcel for the money, tugging his forelock at Avers and moving off. Though that was not before one final glare at the woman who had defied him.

Avers turned, holding out the parcel to Mademoiselle Cadeaux, but rather than finding a grateful expression upon the woman’s face, she looked incensed.

How interesting.

The little white dog craned his neck from his mistress’ embrace, sniffing the air near the parcel, and she instinctively moved her pet away.

“It is no trick,” said Avers, gesturing for her to take the parcel.

It was his good fortune to come across the Comte’s mistress by chance and be able to engage her so easily. The purchase of the dog biscuits was calculated. She would be forced by politeness to speak to him further. That was if she stopped looking daggers at him.

“I shall not pay you back for this,” Mademoiselle Cadeaux said, taking the offered parcel and immediately brandishing it back at Avers.

This action caused the dog to try and leap from her arm to get the package between his teeth and she very nearly dropped the creature. “Lutin, stop it!”

“I wouldn’t dream of accepting payment,” he said, the calmness of his tone at odds with hers.

She eyed Avers and then said ungenerously, “You were robbed. That man is a thief. The biscuits are only worth half of what you paid.”

“To aid a beautiful woman and her beast, I consider the biscuits worth at least four sous,” he said smoothly.

He had not expected such a display of raw emotion from a well-practised mistress. And the anger was about spending money which he had no doubt was given her by the Comte. Intriguing.

So, was it not the money she was angry at, but rather his assumption that she needed his help at all? Most women would be happy having a gentleman rescue them from such a situation. Worse, the compliment he had just paid her had not resulted in a smile.

No, she was frowning at him. If he had been susceptible to feminine beauty at this time in his life, he might have found the petulant, delicate face charming. But he was not. The last year had taught him just how false such charm could be. He was immune. That fact suited his cause, for he intended to gain Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s good graces, and use her access to the Comte to smooth his journey into the French noble’s confidences. Now, if only he could deal with that frown.

CHAPTER FIVE

The annoying Englishman did not appear to be leaving. Emilie continued to frown at him, and he continued to smile lazily at her, completely unaffected by her expression or her tone.

He was insufferable.

Paused as they were, in the midst of a stream of people following the central path through the gardens, Emilie found herself jostled more than once. Lutin began growling in her arms.

“Good day—” she began, determined to leave this interfering Englishman in her wake.

“It’s getting rather crowded,” the Duke cut in. “Perhaps I may escort you and your canine companion to one of the smaller paths for respite?” He offered her his arm.

Respite? Had she been so transparent in her frustration with the crowds? How vexing. This man had caught her unawares and she was allowing him to read her like a book. Her outburst a few moments ago had already made her feel foolish. Why must men behave as though she constantly needed managing?

Another person jostled her and Lutin barked. She soothed the little dog, cooing in his ear, and then looked back to the Duke of Tremaine’s offered arm.

“Very well.” If he was not going to leave, she may as well make use of his taller figure. He would be excellent at parting the crowds.

She slipped her hand, still holding the parcel, onto his arm, and to her surprise he took the biscuits from her.

“Allow me to carry them for you,” he said, depositing the package in his pocket.

The kind gesture from the self-serving aristocrat surprised her. It would have been insignificant if not for two reasons. Firstly, the Duke had, up until now, appeared as selfish as any other well-born gentleman. Secondly, no one went out of their way to show kindness to a woman of Emilie’s station.

They had almost reached the centre of the Jardin des Tuileries when the Duke turned them left. The crowds began to thin. On either side were formal gardens, shrubs and flowers arranged in lines and borders, and ahead a set of shallow steps leading up to an elevated path.

In spite of his small display of kindness, Emilie was formulating an excuse to take her leave of the Duke—with the hard-sought dog biscuits in her possession—when he spoke again.

“Might your brave hound like to stretch his short legs? As delectable as being in your arms must be, I can’t help but think the beast should be set free.”

Emilie resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his sycophancy and any warming she had felt towards him immediately cooled. “Now we are past that last entertainer, I shall put him down,” she said. “Lutin cannot abide monkeys and he has had an altercation with that little black one before.”

The Duke looked back to where she indicated. A young dark-haired man was laughing and joking with the crowds, a tiny monkey wearing a striped suit sitting upon his shoulders, pretending to pick fleas out of his hair and throw them at the crowd. Cries of surprise and laughter rang out.

“Ah, a simian tormentor.” Tremaine nodded knowingly. “You know best, Mademoiselle.”