"No longer, sire," he admitted, truth coming as the one course.
"My cousin,—you served him as his secretary?"
"Yes, sire."
Adrian sat down on a broad marble seat under the trees, lifting his head with the movement usually to be translated as a signal of danger.
"You serve me at present, not the Regent. As one of my household, you will accept from me in future."
"Pardon me, sire—"
"I will have it so, monsieur. You must be all mine, all. I shall speak to Feodor. Why do you object? You do, then, consider yourself his, not mine?"
"Sire, you misinterpret; I am assuredly of your service."
"Then you accept?"
Allard met the flashing gaze helplessly; it was the other Adrian, distrustful, jealous, haughty, whom he faced and to whom he yielded.