Free These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer Page A

mid-air.
    “Just like a what?”
    “A coin. Léon will explain. Or possibly he has forgotten.”
    Hugh looked inquiringly at the page.
    “What is the joke, Léon? Do you know?”
    Léon shook his head.
    “No, m’sieur.”
    “Ah, I thought perhaps you would not remember,” said his Grace. “Léon was quite satisfied with the King, Hugh. He confided to me that he was just like the coins.”
    Léon blushed.
    “I—I am afraid I was asleep, Monseigneur.”
    “Very nearly so. Do you always sleep as one dead?”
    “N-no. That is—I do not know, Monseigneur. I was put to bed in all my clothes.”
    “Yes, I did that. Having wasted ten minutes in endeavouring to rouse you, I thought that the simplest plan would be to carry you up to bed. You are not all joy, my infant.”
    “I am very sorry, Monseigneur; you should have made me wake up.”
    “If you would tell me how that may be done I shall do so on the next occasion. Hugh, if you must eat beef, pray do not brandish it in my face at this hour.”
    Davenant, whose fork was still suspended midway between his plate and mouth, laughed, and went on eating.
    Justin began to sort the letters that lay beside his plate. Some he threw away, others he slipped into his pocket. One had come from England, and spread over several sheets. He opened them and started to decipher the scrawl.
    “From Fanny,” he said. “Rupert is still at large, it seems. At Mistress Carsby’s feet. When I saw him last he was madly in love with Julia Falkner. From one extreme to another.” He turned over the page. “Now, how interesting! Dear Edward has given Fanny a chocolate-coloured coach with pale blue cushions. The wheat is picked out in blue.” He held the sheet at arm’s length. “It seems strange, but no doubt Fanny is right. I have not been in England for such a time——Ah, I beg her pardon! You will be relieved to hear, my dear Hugh, that the wheat in England still grows as ever it did. The wheels are picked out in blue. Ballentor has fought another duel, and Fanny won fifty guineas at play the other night. John is in the country because town air does not suit him. Now, is John her lap-dog or her parrot?”
    “Her son,” said Davenant.
    “Is he? Yes, I believe you are right. What next? If I can find her a French cook she vows she will love me more than ever. Léon, tell Walker to find me a French cook.—She wishes she could visit me as I suggested some time ago—how rash of me!—but it is quite impossible as she cannot leave her darling Edward alone, and she fears he would not accompany her to my hovel. Hovel. Not very polite of Fanny. I must remember to speak to her about it.”
    “Hôtel,” suggested Hugh.
    “Once more you are right. Hôtel it is. The rest of this enthralling communication concerns Fanny’s toilettes. I will reserve it. Oh, have you finished?”
    “Finished and gone,” answered Davenant, rising. “I am riding out with D’Anvau. I shall see you later.” He went out.
    Avon leaned his arms on the table, resting his chin on the back of his clasped hands.
    “Léon, where does your remarkable brother live?”
    Léon started, and fell back a pace.
    “Mon—Monseigneur?”
    “Where is his inn?”
    Suddenly Léon fell on his knees beside Avon’s chair, and clutched the Duke’s sleeve with desperate fingers. His face was upturned, pale and agonized, the great eyes swimming in tears.
    “Oh no, no, no, Monseigneur! You would not—Oh, please not that! I—I will never go to sleep again! Please, please forgive me! Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”
    Avon looked down at him with upraised brows. Léon had pressed his forehead against his master’s arm, and was shaking with suppressed sobs.
    “You bewilder me,” complained the Duke. “What is it that I am not to do, and why will you never sleep again?”
    “Don’t—don’t give me back to Jean!” implored Léon, clinging tighter still. “Promise, promise!”
    Avon loosened the clasp on his sleeve.
    “My dear