Compton drank from his glass before answering. “Yes. Although it can be said the complexities demanded we become more creative.”
“I hear you’ve a shipping company. Part of your creativity? Convenient as well, I’d say.” His voice was carefully idle, although he knew for a fact that Compton’s ships were part of their enterprise. His final meeting on English soil with Grady at the Gull’s Wing in Dover put copies of the cargo manifests of Compton’s recent Continental trade ships into his hands.
Compton smiled. “Certainly it has proved profitable.However, one cannot simply ignore politics where there is profit to be made. You must agree with that, Beaumont.”
He shrugged. “I’ve no skin in any political games. Those are my father’s purview. Although I am, of course, always interested in personal gain regardless of politics.”
Compton looked at him over the rim of his glass. “Is that so?”
“I feel certain you have learned as much of me by now.” He flicked a glance towards Dubois, not hiding that it was pointed.
Dubois smiled slightly, message received.
He looked back towards Compton. “But who among us does not wish for more money?”
Cuvelier sloppily raised his glass. “Bien dit!” The baron was rapidly becoming unfit for company. A regular occurrence? Intelligence this morning indicated it, and his own observations increasingly suggested Cuvelier’s role was not in any way that of strategist. He craved power, perhaps, as weak men sometimes do. But it seemed likely Dubois had involved him with Compton purely for the money he brought to the table and perhaps to a lesser extent his connections.
Miss Muir had somehow become mixed up in all that, caught in the cross fire of their power moves.
“If you are so keen to acquire more wealth,” Dubois remarked, “I wonder that you do not gamble more deeply and make for yourself more money. You have the skill, I hear, and perhaps also the Devil’s own luck besides, according to M. Oberlin. He tells me you always stop with three games, however.”
“A personal rule. I may be fairly accused of immoderation in some areas but never with money, regardless of my enjoyment in gaming.”
“Yet I have only seen you at Hewards a handful of times.” Compton leaned forward. “Why is that?”Notan idle question.
“I’ve not been in London much of late now that I may travel freely once more,” he returned. “Avoiding family expectations athome, mainly, although I expect to spend more time there soon, especially if I’ve incentive to do so.” He looked lazily at Dubois before turning back to Compton. “Perhaps, if our friendship grows, you will see more of me upon my next return home. Although certainly I am finding much in Paris to enjoy at present.”
“You have visited Les Moineaux,” Compton remarked. “But you did not engage a girl there.”
He’d half expected that Compton would mention it; it was more of a surprise that Dubois hadn’t. They were verbally circling around one another, wary as wildcats.
“None on offer that afternoon were quite to my tastes.” The honest truth, as it happened, one of very few he could give as Beaumont.
Compton lifted his wine mockingly. “A man with a discerning palate.”
“In all things,” he said coldly, arrogant to his core as Beaumont. “Have I not found the most exquisite companion? I assure you, set alongside her, no girl in Les Moineaux tempts me.”
“Yes, you have found for yourselfsucha delightful companion.” Dubois was fingering his letter opener; he’d done the same last night before directing them to thesalle écarlate. “Very quickly, I’ve heard.”
“An accidental meeting on the street but quite fortuitous. She’d been here less than a week. It was my excellent fortune that no one had yet engaged her. And I will say that thus far she has beenwellworth the expense.” His skin crawled, discussing Isobel so dismissively after what lay between them in truth, but to not do so would be suspicious.
“If you tire of your girl, I would be pleased to take her off your hands.” From his tone, Compton could equally have been discussing a stray dog as a woman.
If he failed, Lucy remained at Compton’s mercy—Compton’s and Dubois’s both—where there was no mercy at all. If he failed, Isobel could well be next.
He forced himself to keep his hands relaxed and quelled the stiffness trying to creep into his shoulders. “I am far from tiring of her yet. Are you in the market for a mistress?”
“I have veryspecificinterests.” Compton’s eyes were hard. “Regrettably there are few women who are capable of accommodating those interests to my satisfaction. I always have use for a beautiful woman, however. Especially one fluent in multiple languages. Despite her last name and refined accent, Mlle Blanchet is not truly French.”
Dubois was watching him as closely as Compton. Lying gained him nothing and potentially lost considerably more. “Her mother was a Frenchémigréeto Britain during the Terror—or so she’s said.” He shrugged as though the story bored him. “I confess I’ve not bothered to look into it. It wasn’t her background that captured my attention, nor are her origins the attributes that have kept my interest.”
His unease was mounting. Isobel and Miss Muir had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. Chrysanthème had not returned.
Cuvelier roused himself. “Compton here introduced me to my own darling Thérèse.”
“Oh?” He kept his face bland.
Cuvelier leaned forward. “I shall tell you a secret, Beaumont. Compton found her?—”
