‘Assuredly.’ His Grace went out with a swish of silken skirts. Léonie sat down again, and regarded her toes. Overhead, in Rupert’s chamber, she heard footsteps and the muffled sound of voices. These signs of the Duke’s proximity reassured her a little, but when again she heard the clatter of hoofs on the cobbled street some of the delicate colour left her cheeks.

‘This time it is in very truth that pig-person,’ she thought. ‘Monseigneur does not come – he wants me to play the game a little by myself, I think. Eh bien, Léonie, courage! ’

She could hear Saint-Vire’s voice upraised in anger outside. Then came a quick, heavy tread, the door was flung open, and he s

tood upon the threshold. His boots were caked with mud, and his coat bespattered; he carried a riding-whip and gloves, and his cravat and hair were in disorder. Léonie looked at him in some hauteur, copying Lady Fanny’s manner to a nicety. For an instant it seemed that the Comte did not recognise her; then he came striding forward, his face dark with passion.

‘You thought you had tricked me, madame page, did you not? I am not so easily worsted. I do not know where you obtained those fine clothes, but they avail you nothing.’

Léonie came to her feet, and let her eyes wander over him.

‘M’sieur is in error,’ she said. ‘This is a private room.’

‘Very prettily played,’ he sneered, ‘but I am no fool to be put off by those airs and graces. Come, where’s your cloak? I’ve no time to waste!’

She stood her ground.

‘I do not understand you, m’sieur. This is an intrusion.’ She rolled the word off her tongue, and was pardonably pleased with it.

The Comte grasped her arm, and shook it slightly.

‘Your cloak! Quickly, now, or it will be the worse for you.’

Much of her icy politeness left Léonie.

‘Bah! Take your hand away from my arm!’ she said fiercely. ‘How dare you touch me?’

He pulled her forward, an arm about her waist.

‘Have done! The game is up, my dear. You will do better to submit quietly. I shall not hurt you if you do as I say.’

From the doorway came the faint rustle of silk. A cool, haughty voice spoke.

‘You mistake, m’sieur. Have the goodness to unhand my ward.’

The Comte jumped as though he had been shot, and wheeled about, a hand to his sword hilt. Avon stood just inside the room, quizzing glass raised.

‘Sacré mille diables,’ swore Saint-Vire. ‘You! ’

A slow and singularly unpleasant smile curved his Grace’s lips.

‘Is it possible?’ he purred. ‘My very dear friend Saint-Vire!’

Saint-Vire tugged at his cravat as though it choked him.

‘You!’ he said again. His voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘Are you in very truth your namesake? Even – here – I find you!’

Avon came forward. An elusive perfume was wafted from his clothes as he walked; in one hand he held a lace handkerchief.

‘Quite an unexpected rencontre, is it not, Comte?’ he said. ‘I have to present my ward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard. I believe she will accept your apologies.’

The Comte flushed dark, but he bowed to Léonie, who swept him a magnificent curtsy, and muttered a few incoherent words.

‘No doubt you mistook her for someone else?’ said his Grace urbanely. ‘I do not think you have met her before?’

‘No. As m’sieur says – I mistook her – Mille pardons, mademoiselle.’

His Grace took snuff.

Tags: Georgette Heyer Alastair-Audley Tetralogy Romance
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