‘I thank you, infant. It needs for someone to support my declining prestige. If you are to rise to-day you will rest now, Rupert. Léonie, an you wish to ride out I am at your disposal.’
She jumped up.
‘I will go and put on my riding-dress at once. Merci, Monseigneur.’
‘I’d give something to come with you,’ said Rupert wistfully, when she had gone.
‘Patience, child.’ His Grace drew the curtains across the window. ‘Neither the doctor nor I keep you in bed for our amusement.’
‘Oh, you’re a damned good nurse! I’ll say that for you,’ grimaced Rupert. He smiled rather shyly up at his brother. ‘I’d not ask for a better.’
‘In truth, I surprise myself sometimes,’ said his Grace, and went out.
‘Ay, and you surprise me, damme you do!’ muttered Rupert. ‘I’d give something to know what’s come over you. Never was there such a change in anyone!’
And indeed his Grace was unusually kind during these irksome days, and the biting sarcasm which had withered Rupert of yore was gone from his manner. Rupert puzzled over this inexplicable change for some time, and could find no solution to the mystery. But that evening when he reclined on the couch in the parlour, clad in his Grace’s clothes, he saw Avon’s eyes rest on Léonie for a moment, and was startled by their expression. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
‘Thunder an’ turf !’ he told himself. ‘He’s fallen in love with the chit!’
Tuesday brought no Gaston, and Avon’s frown grew blacker.
‘Of a certainty Madame has died,’ Léonie said wickedly. ‘Tiens, c’est bien drôle! ’
‘You have a perverted sense of humour, child,’ said his Grace. ‘I have often remarked it. We start for Paris on Friday, Gaston or no Gaston.’
But soon after noon on Wednesday there was some bustle in the village street, and Rupert, seated by the parlour window, craned his neck to see if it were Gaston at last.
A hired coach of large dimensions drew up at the door, followed by another, piled high with baggage. From this vehicle Gaston leaped nimbly down, and ran to the door of the first coach. One of the lackeys let down the steps, the door was opened, and a serving-maid climbed out. Behind her came a little lady enveloped in a large travelling cloak. Rupert stared, and burst out laughing.
‘Egad, ’tis Fanny! Lord, who’d have thought it?’
Léonie ran to the window.
‘It is! It is! Mon Dieu, que c’est amusant! Monseigneur it is Lady Fanny!’
His Grace went in a leisurely fashion to the door.
‘So I understand,’ he said placidly. ‘I fear your unfortunate duenna is indeed dead, infant.’ He opened the door. ‘Well, Fanny?’
Lady Fanny came briskly in, embraced him, and let fall her cloak to the ground.
‘La, what a journey I have had! My sweetest love, are you safe indeed?’ she embraced Léonie. ‘I have been in a fever of curiosity, I give you my word! I see you are wearing the muslin I sent you. I knew ’twould be ravishin
g, but never tie your sash like that, child! Oh, and there is Rupert! Poor boy, you look quite too dreadfully pale!’
Rupert held her off.
‘Have done, Fan, have done! What in thunder brought you over?’
Lady Fanny stripped off her gloves.
‘Since my cousin was nigh dead with the vapours, what would you?’ she protested. ‘Besides, ’twas so monstrous exciting I declare I could not be still!’
The Duke put up his glass.
‘May I ask whether the worthy Edward is aware that you have joined us?’ he drawled.
My lady dimpled.