These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

Avon put up his glass.

‘My infant, you are becoming positively shrewd. Do you know my sister so well?’

‘I am very fond of her, Monseigneur,’ Léonie hastened to add.

‘I do not doubt it, ma fille.’ He looked towards Fanny, who had paused to speak to Raoul de Fontanges. ‘It is most surprising, nevertheless.’

‘But she is so kind to me, Monseigneur. Of course, she is sometimes very s –’ Léonie stopped, and peeped up at the Duke uncertainly.

‘I entirely agree with you, infant. Very silly,’ said his Grace imperturbably. ‘Well, Fanny, can we now depart?’

‘That was exactly what I had a mind to ask you!’ said my lady. ‘What a crush! Oh, my dear Justin, de Penthièvre has been saying such things to me! I vow I am all one blush! What are you smiling at? My love, what had Madame de Saint-Vire to say to you?’

‘She is mad,’ said Léonie, with conviction. ‘She looked as though she were going to cry, and I did not like it at all. Oh, here is Rupert! Rupert, where have you been?’

Rupert grinned.

‘Faith, asleep, in the little salon over there. What, are we going at last? God be praised!’

‘Asleep! Oh, Rupert!’ Léonie cried. ‘It has been fort amusant ! Monseigneur, who is that pretty lady over there?’

‘La, child, that is La Pompadour!’ whispered Fanny. ‘Will you present her, Justin?’

‘No, Fanny, I will not,’ said his Grace gently.

‘Here’s a haughtiness,’ remarked Rupert. ‘For the Lord’s sake let us be gone before all these young pups crowd round Léonie again.’

‘But, Justin, will it serve?’ asked my lady. ‘She will take offence, belike.’

‘I am not a French satellite,’ said his Grace. ‘And therefore I shall not present my ward to the King’s mistress. I believe Léonie can dispense with the lady’s smiles or frowns.’

‘But, Monseigneur, it would please me to –’

‘Infant, you will not argue with me, I think.’

‘Oh, won’t she!’ said Rupert, sotto voce.

‘No, Monseigneur. But I did want to –’

‘Silence, my child.’ Avon led her to the door. ‘Content yourself with having been presented to their Majesties. They are not, perhaps, so powerful as La Pompadour, but they are infinitely better born.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Justin!’ gasped my lady. ‘You’ll be heard!’

‘Think of us!’ Rupert besought him. ‘You’ll have the lot of us clapped up, if you’re not careful, or hounded out of the country.’

Avon turned his head.

‘If I thought that there was the smallest chance of getting you clapped up, child, I would shout my remarks to the whole of this very overcrowded room,’ he said.

‘I think you are not at all in a nice humour, Monseigneur,’ said Léonie reproachfully. ‘Why may I not be presented to La Pompadour?’

‘Because, infant,’ replied his Grace, ‘She is not – er – enough respectable.’

Twenty-seven

The Hand of Madame de Verchoureux

And Paris began to talk, in whispers at first, then gradually louder, and more openly. Paris remembered an old, old scandal, and said that the English Duc had adopted a base-born daughter of Saint-Vire in revenge for past injuries. Paris thought that it must irk Saint-Vire considerably to see his offspring in the hands of his greatest enemy. Then Paris wondered what the English Duc meant to do with Mademoiselle de Bonnard, and found no solution to the riddle. Paris shook its head, and thought that the ways of Avon were inscrutable and probably fiendish.