“Pray do not describe my probable symptoms as well as your own, infant. You have certainly been prodigiously ill-used, but endeavour to forget it! Eat one of those sweetmeats.”
Léon selected one of the little cakes, and started to nibble it.
“Do you always eat these things in England, Monseigneur?” he asked, pointing to the beef and the puddings.
“Invariably, my infant.”
“I think it would be better if we did not stay very long here,” said Léon firmly. “I have finished now.”
“Then come here.” His Grace had moved to the fire, and was sitting on the oaken settle. Léon sat beside him obediently.
“Yes, Monseigneur?”
Avon started to play with his fan, and his mouth was rather grim. He was frowning slightly, and Léon racked his brains to think how he could have offended his master. Suddenly Avon laid his hand on Léon’s and held it in a cool strong clasp.
“My infant, it has become necessary for me to put an end to the little comedy you and I have been playing.” He paused, and saw the big eyes grow apprehensive. “I am very fond of Léon, my child, but it is time he was Léonie.”
The little hand in his quivered.
“Monseigneur!”
“Yes, my child. You see, I have known from the very first.”
Léonie sat rigid, staring up into his face with the look of a stricken creature in her eyes. Avon put up his free hand to pat her white cheek.
“It is no such great matter after all, infant,” he said gently.
“You—you won’t send me—away?”
“I will not. Have I not bought you?”
“I—I may still be your page?”
“Not my page, child. I am sorry, but it is not possible.”
All the rigidity went out of the slight frame. Léonie gave one great sob, and buried her face in his coat sleeve.
“Oh please! Oh please!”
“Infant, sit up! Come I object to having my coat ruined. You have not heard all yet.”
“I won’t, I won’t!” came the muffled voice. “Let me be Léon! Please let me be Léon!”
His Grace lifted her.
“Instead of my page you shall be my ward. My daughter. Is it so terrible?”
“I do not want to be a girl! Oh please, Monseigneur, please.” Léonie slipped from the settle to the floor, and knelt at his feet, gripping his hand. “Say yes, Monseigneur! Say yes!”
“No, my babe. Dry your tears and listen to me. Don’t tell me you have lost your handkerchief.”
Léonie drew it from her pocket, and mopped her eyes.
“I don’t w-want to be—a girl!”
“Nonsense, my dear. It will be far more pleasant to be my ward than my page.”
“No!”
“You forget yourself,” said his Grace sternly. “I will not be contradicted.”
Léonie gulped down another sob.
“I—I am sorry, Monseigneur.”
“It’s very well. As soon as we have come to London I am going to take you to my sister—no, do not speak—my sister, Lady Fanny Marling. You see, infant, you cannot live with me until I have found some lady to act as—ah—duenna.”
“I will not! I will not!”
“You will do as I say, my good child. My sister with clothe you as befits your new position, and teach you to be—a girl. You will learn these things—”
“I will not! Never, never!”
“–because I command it. Then, when you are ready, you shall come back to me, and I will present you to Society.”
Léonie tugged at his hand.
“I won’t go to your sister! I will be just Léon! You cannot make me do as you say, Monseigneur; I will not!”
His Grace looked down at her in some exasperation.
“If you were still my page I should know how to deal with you,” he said.
“Yes, yes! Beat me, if you like, and let me still be your page! Ah, please, Monseigneur!”
“Unhappily it is impossible. Recollect, my infant, that you are mine, and must do as I say.”
Léonie promptly collapsed into a crumpled heap beside the settle, and sobbed into the hand she held. Avon allowed her to weep unrestrainedly for perhaps three minutes. Then he drew his hand away.
“You want me to send you away altogether?”
“Oh!” Léonie started up. “Monseigneur, you would not! You—oh no, no!”
“Then you will obey me. It is understood?”
There was a long pause. Léonie stared hopelessly into the cold hazel eyes. Her lip trembled, and a large tear rolled down her cheek.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” she whispered, and drooped her curly head.
Avon leaned forward, and put his arm about the childish figure, drawing it close.
“A very good infant,” he said lightly. “You will learn to be a girl to please me, Léonie.”
She clung to him, her curls tickling his chin.
“Will—will it please you, Monseigneur?”
“Above all things, child.”
“Then—I’ll try,” said Léonie, a heartbroken catch in her voice. “You won’t l-leave me with y-your sister for l-long, will you?”
“Only until I can find someone to take care of you. Then you shall go to my house in the country, and learn to curtsy, to flirt with your fan, to simper, to have the vapours—”
“I—won’t!”
“I hope not,” said his Grace, smiling faintly. “My dear child, there is no need for such misery.”
“I have been Léon for so—so long! It will be so very, very hard!”
“I think it will,” said Avon, and took the crumpled handkerchief from her. “But you will try to learn all that you are taught, that I may be proud of my ward.”
“Could you be, Monseigneur? Of—of me?”
“It is quite possible, my infant.”
“I should like that,” said Léonie, more happily. “I will be very good.”
The Duke’s fine lips twitched.
“So you may be worthy of me? I wish Hugh could hear.”
“Does—does he know?”
“It transpired, my child, that he always knew. Allow me to suggest that you rise from your knees. So. Sit down.”
Léonie resumed her place on the settle, and gave a doleful sniff.
“I must wear petticoats, and not say bad words, and always be with a woman. It is very hard, Monseigneur. I do not like women. I wish to be with you.”
“And I wonder what Fanny will
