“My thanks, my lady, my thanks for your candor,” his voice soft and very kind—“I shall see to it that your Colonel does not go alone.”
“Small danger,” she replied, as she slowly closed the door, “Your Highness has been seeing to that with fine success, these many years—au revoir, mon Prince,” and the latch clicked between them.
With a shrug, the Duke turned away. What a vixen she was!—and how very sure Dehra must be of the American’s succession, when one of her Household would venture to flout Ferdinand of Lotzen to his face. His mouth hardened. Damn the woman who played with statecraft—who meddled with the things she knew nothing of—who would impose a foreigner upon an ancient Kingdom, just because he was her lover. Damn the whole tribe—they were fit only to play with clothes, and to serve man’s idle moment....
The rattle of a sword and click of spurs sounded on the stairway, and the Regent’s Adjutant turned the corner.
“Ah, Colonel, well met!” said Lotzen briskly, as Moore came to attention and salute; “I took the liberty, as I passed your quarters, of looking at His late Majesty’s portrait; I wish to have a copy made—the door was open, so I assumed I might go in,” and with a pleasant smile and nod he passed on—then stopped. “My congratulations on your promotion—though as the smartest soldier in the army it belonged to you.”
Moore looked after him thoughtfully.
“What particularly fine bit of deviltry are you up to now,” he muttered; “and what were you really doing in the library?”
Half way down the corridor Moore met Elise d’Essoldé.
“Whither away, my lady, whither away?” he asked, sweeping the floor with his cap.
“I’m not your lady,” she answered, making to pass by, but smiling sidelong at him.