“Do they, by Gad? Do you come from Paris, my dear?”
She nodded.
“I was Monseigneur’s pa—” She clasped her hands over her mouth, and her eyes danced.
Rupert was greatly intrigued. He cast a shrewd glance at her short curls.
“Pa—?”
“I must not say. Please do not ask me!”
“You were never his page?”
Léonie stared down at her toes.
“Here’s a romance!” said Rupert, delighted. “His page, by all that’s marvellous!”
“You must not tell!” she said earnestly. “Promise!”
“Mum as a corpse, my dear!” he answered promptly. “I never thought to stumble on such a fairy tale! What are you doing cooped up here?”
“I am learning to be a lady, milor’.”
“Milor’ be damned, saving your presence! My name’s Rupert.”
“Is it convenable for me to call you that?” she inquired. “I do not know these things, you see.”
“Convenable, my dear? I pledge you my word it is! Are you not my brother’s ward?”
“Y‑es.”
“Eh bien, then, as you’d say yourself! Fiend seize it, here’s my cousin!”
Madam Field came down the stairs, peering out of her shortsighted eyes.
“Well, to be sure! And is it indeed you, Rupert?” she exclaimed.
Rupert went forward to meet her.
“Ay, cousin, it’s myself. I hope I see you in your customary good health?”
“Save for a trifling touch of the gout. Léonie! You here?”
“I presented myself, cousin. I believe I am something in the nature of an uncle to her.”
“An uncle? Oh no, Rupert, surely not!”
“I will not have you for an uncle,” said Léonie with her nose in the air. “You are not enough respectable.”
“My love!”
Rupert burst out laughing.
“Faith, I’ll none of you for a niece, child. You are too saucy.”
“Oh no, Rupert!” Madam assured him. “Indeed, she is very good!” She looked at him doubtfully. “But, Rupert, do you think you should be here?”
“Turning me from mine own roof, cousin?”
“I protest, I did not mean—”
“I am come to make the acquaintance of my brother’s ward, cousin, as is fitting.” His voice was convincing. Madam’s brow cleared.
“If you say so, Rupert—pray where are you staying?”
“At Merivale, cousin, by night, but here, an it please you, by day.”
“Does—does Justin know?” ventured Madam.
“Do you suggest that Alastair would object to my presence, cousin?” demanded Rupert in righteous indignation.
“Oh no, indeed! You misunderstand me! I make no doubt ’tis monstrous dull for Léonie to have only me to bear her company. Perhaps you will sometimes ride out with her? The child will leave her groom at home, which is vastly improper, as I have told her many times.”
“I’ll ride with her all day!” promised Rupert jovially. “That is if she will have me.”
“I should like it, I think,” said Léonie. “I have never met anyone tout comme vous.”
“If it comes to that,” said Rupert, “I’ve never met a girl like you.”
Madam Field sighed, and shook her head.
“I fear she will never become quite as I should wish,” she said sadly.
“She’ll be the rage of town,” Rupert prophesied. “Will you walk with me to the stables, Léonie?”
“I will get a cloak,” she nodded, and ran lightly upstairs.
When she returned Madam Field had delivered a short lecture to Rupert, and had extracted a promise from him that he would behave with suitable decorum towards Léonie.
As soon as they had left the house, Léonie, dancing along beside Rupert with little excited steps, looked up at him with her confiding smile.
“I have thought of a plan,” she announced. “Suddenly it came to me! Will you please fight me with a sword?”
“Will I do what?” ejaculated Rupert, stopping short.
She stamped an impatient foot.
“Fight with swords! Fence!”
“Thunder an’ turf, what next? Ay, I’ll fence with you, rogue.”
“Thank you very much! You see, Monseigneur began to teach me, but then he went away, and Madam Field does not fence at all. I asked her.”
“You should ask Anthony Merivale to teach you, my dear. Justin’s good, I’ll admit, but Anthony nearly worsted him once.”
“Aha! I knew there was a mystery! Tell me, did Monseigneur intrigue himself with miladi Jennifer?”
“Ran off with her in Anthony’s teeth, my dear!”
“Vraiment? She would not like that, I think.”
“Lord no! But what woman would?”
“I should not mind,” said Léonie calmly. “But Lady Merivale—ah, that is another thing! Was she married then?”
“Devil a bit. Justin’s not often in an affair with a married woman. He wanted to marry her.”
“It would not have done,” she said wisely. “She would have wearied him. Milor’ then came to the rescue?”
“Ay, and tried to fight Justin à outrance. Marling stopped it. Never was there such a scene! They don’t speak now, y’know. Damned awkward, seeing that we’ve known Merivale since we were children. Marling don’t love Justin overmuch either.”
“Oh!” Léonie was scornful. “He is a kind man, that one, but of a dullness!”
“Ay, but ’tis enough to make a man sober to be wedded to Fanny, I can tell you.”
“I think your family is very strange,” she remarked. “Everyone in it hates everyone else. Oh no, Lady Fanny sometimes loves Monseigneur!”
“Well, you see, we’d a spitfire for mother,” Rupert explained. “And the old Duke was no saint, the Lord knows! ’Tis no wonder we grew up like snarling dogs.”
They had arrived at the stables, where Rupert’s horse had been taken. He spoke to one of the grooms, hailing him good-naturedly, and went to inspect the few horses that were there. By the time they returned to the house he and Léonie might have known one another for years. Rupert was delighted with his brother’s ward, and had already decided to remain some time at Merivale. A girl who was as outspoken as a boy, and who evidently did not expect him to make love to her was something quite new to Rupert. A month ago he had danced attendance on Mistress Julia Falkner; he was weary of the pastime, and had determined to eschew feminine company. But Léonie, with her friendliness and her quaint ways, would be a pleasant amusement, he thought. She was very young, too,
