These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

His Grace offered Merivale snuff.

‘Why, I believe my infant speaks for us all,’ he said.

‘Hey, is it you, Tony, or am I in my cups?’ demanded a jovial voice. Lord Rupert came up, and wrung Merivale’s hand. ‘Where are you staying? When did you come?’

‘Last night. I am with De Châtelet. And –’ he looked from one to the other – ‘I am something anxious to hear what befell you all!’

‘Ay, you were in our escapade, weren’t you?’ said Rupert. ‘Gad, what a chase! How does my friend – stap me if I have not forgot his name again! – Manvers! That’s the fellow! How does he?’

Merivale flung out a hand.

‘I beg you’ll not mention that name to me!’ he said. ‘All three of you fled the country, and faith, it’s as well you did!’

‘I suggest we repair to the smaller salon,’ Avon said, and led the way there. ‘I trust you were able to satisfy Mr Manvers?’

Merivale shook his head.

‘Nothing less than your blood is like to satisfy him,’ he said. ‘Tell me all that happened to you.’

‘In English,’ drawled his Grace, ‘and softly.’

So once again the tale was told of Léonie’s capture and rescue. Then Madame de Vauvallon came in search of Léonie, and bore her away to dance with an ardent youth. Rupert wandered away to the card-room.

Merivale looked at the Duke.

‘And what does Saint-Vire say to Léonie’s success?’ he inquired.

‘Very little,’ replied his Grace. ‘But he is not pleased, I fear.’

‘She does not know?’

‘She does not.’

‘But the likeness is striking, Alastair. What says Paris?’

‘Paris,’ said his Grace, ‘talks in whispers. Thus my very dear friend Saint-Vire lives in some dread of discovery.’

‘When do you intend to strike?’

Avon crossed his legs, and eyed one diamond shoe-buckle pensively.

‘That, my dear Merivale, is still on the knees of the gods. Saint-Vire himself must supply the proof to my story.’

‘It’s awkward, damned awkward!’ Merivale commented. ‘You?

?ve no proof at all?’

‘None.’

Merivale laughed.

‘It does not seem to worry you!’

‘No,’ sighed his Grace, ‘no. I believe I can trap the Comte through his so charming wife. I play a waiting game, you see.’

‘I am glad that I am not Saint-Vire. Your game must be torture to him.’

‘Why, so I think,’ agreed Avon pleasantly. ‘I am not anxious to put an end to his agonies.’