Heart of Gold Read Online Free PDF

someone who's currently at leisure,
someone I can trust.'
    'Dr Romellier.' Aubrey stood. 'Monograph. I'd be
delighted to fetch it for you.'
    'I'm glad, my dear. You always were a considerate one.'
She studied him for a moment. 'And keep that heroic
impulse in check while you're in Lutetia, won't you?'
    'I'll do what I can. You know how it is.'
    'I do.' She sighed. 'I married your father, didn't I?'

    A UBREY HAD BARELY REACHED HIS ROOM WHEN G EORGE rushed in. 'I say, old man, Mother and Father have said
I can go with you to Gallia.' He stopped dead in his
tracks. 'What's wrong with you? You look as if you found
five pounds but lost ten.'
    'It was meant to be a holiday,' Aubrey said, throwing
himself onto the red velvet settee. He covered his eyes
with his hands. 'I need a holiday.'
    George dropped into one of the armchairs. Absently,
he prodded a large set of brass scales for weighing horses.
'Holidays are always good. Can't get enough of 'em,
personally.'
    'But this one's turning into a chore. Both Mother and
Grandmother want me to spend time chasing up things
for them. And Bertie wants me to find something for
him, too.'
    'What sort of things?'
    'Oh.' Aubrey waved a hand. 'Things.'
    'I see. Dashed inconsiderate of them. Things, eh?
Can't be easy to find things in Lutetia, it being foreign
and all.'
    Aubrey opened an eye. 'Am I being precious, George?'
    'Just a little.' George grinned. 'We're in Lutetia for a
month. I'm sure you'll have time for your errands and
after that we'll be able to devote ourselves to other
pursuits.'
    'Such as?'
    George sat back in the chair and put his arms behind
his head. 'I understand that the young ladies of Gallia are
particularly striking.'
    'George, you don't speak a word of Gallian.'
    'You're not the only one who enjoys a challenge, old
man. I aim to extend myself while I'm over there.'
    Aubrey was prevented from investigating this claim
further when Tilly, one of the maids, knocked on the
door frame. 'Excuse me, Master Aubrey, but Sir Darius
would like to see you in the conservatory.'
    Aubrey stood. 'About things, no doubt.'
    'Excuse me, sir?'
    'Never mind, Tilly. George, would you like to go down
to lunch? This could take some time.'
    'Lunch?' George jumped to his feet. 'Capital idea.'

    T HE FACT THAT S IR D ARIUS WAS IN THE CONSERVATORY was a sign, and not a terribly good one. Aubrey's father
ignored the conservatory unless politics were getting too
much for him. Then he sought the warm leafiness of the
indoor garden as a refuge.
    Aubrey found him in one of the huge bow-backed
wicker chairs. It was enveloped in the bosom of a spreading
fig tree. Sir Darius was sitting, an elegant figure in
grey, hands steepled in front of his mouth, frowning
in thought.
    'Father.'
    'Ah, Aubrey. I'm glad you're here. I have a task for you.'
    The lines under his father's eyes reminded Aubrey that
times were difficult for the Prime Minister of Albion.
Despite the best efforts of his political foes, Sir Darius's
Progressive Party had been successful at the recent
election, but Aubrey had been wondering if this was a
poisoned chalice. With the military build-up on the
Continent, Albion was in a precarious position.
    'What can I do for you, sir?' Aubrey desperately
wanted to live up to the example set by his father, but it
was difficult. While his father never seemed to judge,
Aubrey was conscious that he had expectations – as did
society. He knew that many, many people were waiting
to see if Aubrey succeeded or failed, with the naysayers
currently in the ascendant.
    The entire plot to kill the King had never been made
public as it had been deemed 'contrary to the national
interest'. Aubrey had been dismayed by the efforts of the
Special Services, which had spread rumour to the effect
that Aubrey and some of his 'young friends' had been
rather careless at the shooting weekend the Crown
Prince had organised, endangering the royal personage.
While Aubrey had to admit it was a clever layer of
subterfuge,