These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘Madame?’ The sparkle was gone from Léonie’s eyes. ‘Have I the honour of madame’s acquaintance?’

‘I am one Henriette de Verchoureux. You do not know me.’

‘Pardon, madame, but I know of you – much,’ Léonie said swiftly. Madame had steered clear of open scandal, but she was somewhat notorious. Léonie remembered the days when Avon had visited her so often.

Madame flushed angrily.

‘Indeed, mademoiselle. And of Mademoiselle de Bonnard is also known – much. Mademoiselle is very clever, sans doute, but to those who know Avon the so strict chaperon is a poor disguise.’

Léonie raised her eyebrows.

‘Is it possible that madame imagines that I have succeeded where she failed?’

‘Insolent!’ Madame’s hand clenched on her fan.

‘Madame?’

Madame stared down at Youth, and knew the pangs of jealousy.

‘Brazen it out!’ she said shrilly. ‘You hope to marry in all honour, little fool, but be advised by me, and leave him, for Avon will wed no base-born girl!’

Léonie’s eyelids flickered, but she said nothing. Madame changed her tactics suddenly, and stretched out her hand.

‘My dear, I protest I pity you! You are so young; you do not know the ways of this world of ours. Avon would not be fool enough to wed with one of your blood, believe me. He were surely lost an he dared!’ She laughed, covertly watching Léonie. ‘Even an English Duke would not be received were he wedded to such as you,’ she said.

‘Tiens, am I so base?’ Léonie said with polite interest. ‘I think it is not possible that madame should have known my parents.’

Madame shot her a piercing look.

‘Can it be that you do not know?’ she asked, and flung back her head, and laughed again. ‘Have you not heard the whispers? Have you not seen that Paris watches you, and wonders?’

‘But yes, madame, I know that I am quite the rage.’

‘Poor child, is that all you know? Why, where is your mirror? Where are your eyes? Have you never looked at that fiery head of yours, never asked whence came your black brows and lashes? All Paris knows, and you are ignorant!’

‘Eh bien! ’ Léonie’s heart beat fast, but she maintained her outward composure. ‘Enlighten me, madame! What does Paris know?’

‘That you are a base-born child of the Saint-Vire, my child. And we – nous autres – laugh to see Avon all unconsciously harbouring a daughter of his dearest enemy!’

Léonie was as white as her ruffle.

‘You lie!’

Madame laughed tauntingly.

‘Ask your fine father if I lie!’ She gathered her skirts about her, and made a gesture of disdain. ‘Avon must know soon, and then what comes to you? Little fool, best leave him now while you may do so of your own choice!’ She was gone on the word, leaving Léonie to stand alone in the salon, her hands clasped together tightly, her face set and rigid.

Gradually she relaxed her taut muscles, and sank down again upon the couch, trembling. Her impulse was to seek shelter at Avon’s side, but she restrained herself, and stayed where she was. At first she was incredulous of Madame de Verchoureux’s pronouncement, but little by little she came to see the probability of the story’s truth. Saint-Vire’s attempt to kidnap her was thus explained, as was also the interest he had always taken in her. Sick disgust rose in her.

‘Bon Dieu, what a father I have!’ she said viciously. ‘Pig-person! Bah!’

Disgust gave way to a feeling of horror, and of fright. If Madame de Verchoureux had spoken the truth, Léonie could see the old loneliness stretching ahead, for it was clearly unthinkable that such a one as Avon could marry, or even adopt, a girl of her birth. He came of the nobility; she felt herself to be of mongrel blood. Lax he might be, but Léonie knew that if he married her he would disgrace the ancient name he bore. Those who knew him said that he would count no cost, but Léonie would count the cost for him, and because she loved him, because he was her seigneur, she would sacrifice everything sooner than drag him down in the eyes of his world.

She bit hard on her lip; it was better by far to think herself of peasant blood than a bastard daughter of Saint-Vire. Her world was toppling about her ears, but she rose up, and went back into the ballroom.

Avon came to her soon, and gave her his arm.

‘I believe you are tired, my infant. We will find Lady Fanny.’