The Transformation of Philip Jettan

by Georgette Heyer

  “Good gracious, child, what’s amiss?” exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. “You’re as white as my wig!”

  “Take me home!” begged Cleone. “I am b-betrothed to Sir Deryk and James! Oh, for heaven’s sake, take me home!”

  SEVENTEEN

  MISTRESS CLEONE AT HER WITS’ END

  SIR MAURICE and his brother were sitting at breakfast next morning when Philip burst in on them. Tom jumped up and swore.

  “Damn you, Philip! At this hour!”

  Philip paid not the slightest heed to him. He grasped his father by the shoulder.

  “Father, you must to Lady Malmerstoke’s house at once!”

  Sir Maurice ate another mouthful of beef.

  “Sit down, my son, and be calm. What’s to do?”

  “God alone knows!” cried Philip. He sank into a chair and rejected his uncle’s offer of breakfast. “Breakfast? What have I to do with food when I’m nigh demented?”

  “Drink’s the thing,” agreed Tom placidly. He pushed a tankard of ale towards his nephew. “What ails you, lad?”

  “Cleone’s betrothed to Brenderby,” announced Philip wretchedly.

  “No!” Tom was dumbfounded.

  “And to Winton.” Philip sought to drown his troubles in the tankard.

  “What!” Sir Maurice dropped his knife. “Betrothed to Brenderby and Winton? You’re raving!”

  “Would to God I were!” Philip emerged from the tankard, and wiped his lips with his father’s napkin. “I asked her to marry me at the ball last night. She refused; I won’t tell you her exact words. Half an hour later I found her kissing ce scélérat Brenderby in a secluded corner!” He laughed savagely.

  “You mean that Brenderby kissed her?” suggested Tom.

  “No, I do not! Voyons, would he be alive now had he dared embrace Cleone against her will? She submitted—she wished it!”

  “I’ll not believe that!” exclaimed Sir Maurice.

  “You must believe it. She is betrothed to him. She said it herself. James was with me. He interposed, saying that she was already promised to him.”

  Tom gave a chuckle.

  “Faith, the child is rich in—” He caught Philip’s eye and subsided. “Oh, ay, ay! Go on.”

  “I know no more. I deemed it time for me to withdraw.”

  “The proper thing to have done,” said Tom solemnly, “was to have struck an attitude and said, ‘Not so! The girl is mine!’ ”

  “What right had I? I was not amongst the favoured ones.”

  “Don’t sneer, Philip,” interposed Sir Maurice. “There must be something behind all this.”

  Philip turned to him.

  “That’s what I hope and trust! You must go at once to Lady Malmerstoke’s!” His head sank into his hands and he gave way to a gust of laughter. “Oh, Gad! neither would give way an inch. Both held Clo to her promise!”

  “Ye seem monstrous light-hearted about it,” said his uncle.

  Philip sprang up.

  “Because I thought that—for one moment—she looked at me for help!”

  “Which you declined to give?” asked Sir Maurice dryly.

  “Mon cher père, I have my own game to play. Now go to Lady Malmerstoke’s, I implore you!”

  Sir Maurice rose.

  “I’ll go at once. What madness can have seized Cleone?”

  Philip almost pushed him out of the room.

  “That is what I want to know. Quickly, Father!”

  The little black page swung open the door of my lady’s boudoir.

  “Sah Maurice Jettan!”

  “The very man I wish to see!” exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. “Maurry, never were you more opportune!”

  Sir Maurice kissed her hand with punctilious politeness. He then smiled at Cleone, who stood by the table, pale and wan-looking.

  “I hope I see you well, Cleone?”

  “Very well, thank you, sir,” said Cleone dully.

  Lady Malmerstoke sat down.

  “Clo has disgraced me,” she said comfortably. “Is it not exciting?”

  Cleone turned her head away. Sir Maurice saw her lips tremble.

  “Please, Aunt—please don’t—don’t—I shall wed—Sir Deryk.”

  “And what’s to happen to t’other? You can’t wed two men, my dear. I’m not sure that I shall consent to your marrying either.”

  “Sir Deryk—has my word.”

  “But so has James.”

  “What’s this?” Sir Maurice spoke with well-feigned astonishment. “Cleone, you are not betrothed, surely?”

  “To two men,” nodded her aunt. “I have never been so amused in my life. I always considered myself to be flighty, but I’ll swear I never was engaged to two men at one and the same time!”

  Cleone sat down, staring out of the window and biting her lips.

  “What!” cried Sir Maurice in liveliest horror. “Engaged to two men? Cleone!”

  The golden head was bowed. A great sob shook Cleone.

  “But—good heavens, my dear! This is dreadful! How could such a thing have come to pass?”

  “Of course it’s dreadful,” said her ladyship. “Think of the scandal when it is known. And that’ll be soon, I’ll wager. Brenderby will never keep such a piece of spice to himself.” As she spoke, one of her eyelids flickered. Sir Maurice smiled, unseen by Cleone.

  “You—forget, Aunt. I am going to—wed—Sir Deryk.” A shudder ran through her at the thought.

  “But I don’t understand! Tell me how it happened, Cleone!”

  “Yes, tell him, Clo. Mayhap he can help you.”

  “No one can help me,” said Cleone miserably. “I must bear the pain of my own folly. I—oh, I have been so wicked!”

  “Now, Cleone? Why? What happened?”

  “I may as well tell you. It will be all over town by to-night—everyone will know me for a flirtatious, flighty woman. I—”

  “You won’t have a shred of reputation left,” said her aunt maliciously.

  Cleone started.

  “Rep—Oh, and I said—!”

  “Said what, my love?”

  “Naught. I—I—oh, Sir Maurice, Sir Maurice, I am so unhappy!” Cleone burst into tears.

  Sir Maurice patted one heaving shoulder.

  “There, there, Cleone! Tell me all about it!”

  “It—it was at the ball last n-night. I—I—no, first James proposed—to me, and I said yes, but I didn’t mean it!”

  “You said yes, but you didn’t mean it?”

  “I didn’t hear what he said—I—I said yes because he worried so! And—and he knew I didn’t mean it, for he walked away. Then I—I—went with Sir Deryk to a room apart—”

  “Cle-one!”

  “Oh, I know, I know! It was terrible of me, but I was so upset—I hardly cared what I did!”

  “But why were you upset? Because James had proposed?”

  “No—I—I—something—else—I can’t tell you! Anyway—Sir Deryk took me to this room, and—and taught me to—to dice—yes, I know it was horrid! And—and I lost my rose to him, and when he—was taking it, he broke the string of my locket, and he wouldn’t give it me, but said he must see what was inside, and I couldn’t let him! I couldn’t!”

  “What was inside?” asked Sir Maurice.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t ask her that!” begged Lady Malmerstoke. “It sets her off into floods of tears!”

  “Aunt, please! And—and so I played him—for it—and I lost and had to—to kiss him—for it. Don’t, don’t look at me! And then—and then he came—with James—and saw! What he must think of me! And I said that he—Oh, he must—”

  “Who is ‘he’?” asked Sir Maurice innocently. He watched a tell-tale blush steal up under Cleone’s fingers.

  “Mr.—Mr. Jettan—I—he—saw me kiss—Sir Deryk! Then—then—I think, to spare me—Sir Deryk said I was his betrothed wife. I could not say I was not, could I? It was too dreadful! And Phil—Mr. Jettan congratulated us! But James suddenly said he was g
oing to marry me because I had said yes to him—by mistake! Of course I said I was not, but he wouldn’t release me from my word, and nor would Sir Deryk! Then—then he—Ph—I mean Mr. Jettan—just bowed and went away, but I could see what he—thought of—of me. Oh, what shall I do? Neither will let me go! I am betrothed to two gentlemen, and—oh, what shall I do?”

  Sir Maurice took a pinch of snuff. A smile hovered about his mouth. He shut the box with a snap.

  “It seems, my dear, that the situation calls for a third gentleman,” he said, and picked up his hat.

  Cleone sprang to her feet.

  “Oh—oh, what are you going to do?” she cried.

  Sir Maurice walked to the door.

  “It needs a masterful hand to extricate you from your delicate position,” he said. “I go in search of such a hand.”

  Cleone ran to him, clasping his arm.

  “No, no, no! Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sir Maurice, stop!”

  He laid a hand over her clutching fingers.

  “My dear, do you want a scandal?”

  “No, oh no! But I must persuade James!”

  “And do you want to marry this Brenderby?”

  “I—am going to marry him.”

  “Cleone, answer me! Do you want to marry him?”

  “I don’t want to marry anyone! I wish I were dead!”

  “Well, child, you are not dead. I refuse to see you fall into Brenderby’s clutches, and I refuse to countenance the scandal that would arise if you rejected him. I am too old to serve you, but I know of one who is not.”

  “Sir Maurice, I implore you, do not speak to him! You don’t understand! You—Oh, stop, stop!”

  Sir Maurice had disengaged himself. He opened the door.

  “You need not fear that the third gentleman will cause you any annoyance, my dear. I can vouch for his discretion.”

  Cleone tried to hold him back.

  “Sir Maurice, you don’t understand! You must not ask Ph—your son to—to—help me! I—I didn’t tell you all! I—Oh, come back!”

  The door closed behind Sir Maurice.

  “A very prompt, wise man,” commented Lady Malmerstoke. “Now I am to be baulked of the scandal. Hey-dey!”

  Cleone paced to and fro.

  “I can’t face him! I can’t, I can’t! What must he think of me? What must he think? Aunt, you don’t know all!”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” retorted her ladyship.

  “No, no, you do not! Philip asked me to marry him—and—I refused! I—I—told him—I would not marry a man with a tarnished reputation! I—I said that—and worse! I accused him of trifling and—and—oh, it’s too awful! That he should have been the one to see! How he must scorn me. Oh, Aunt, Aunt, can’t you say something?”

  “Ay, one thing. That you will have to be very humble to Master Philip. At least, he was never betrothed twice in one night.”

  Cleone collapsed on to the couch.

  “I’ll not see him! I—oh, I must go home at once! I must, I must! Everything is all my fault! I ought never to have—sent him away! And now—and now he despises me!”

  “Who says so?”

  “I—how could he do else? Don’t—don’t you realise how dreadful I have been? And—and his face—when—when he—heard everything! He’ll never never believe—the truth!”

  “What matters it?” asked my lady carelessly. “Since you do not love him—”

  “Oh, I do, I do, I do!” wept Cleone.

  *

  François admitted Sir Maurice. His round face was perturbed. It cleared somewhat at the sight of Sir Maurice.

  “Ah, m’sieur, entrez done! M’sieur Philippe he is like one mad!—He rage, he go up and down the room like a caged beast! It is a woman, without doubt it is a woman! I have known it depuis longtemps! Something terrible has happened! M’sieur is hors de lui-même!”

  Sir Maurice laughed.

  “Poor François! I go to reassure m’sieur.”

  “Ah, if m’sieur can do that!”

  “I can—most effectively. Where is he?”

  François pointed to the library door.

  *

  Philip literally pounced on his father.

  “Well? You have seen her? Is she in love with Brenderby? Is she to wed him? What did she tell you?”

  Sir Maurice pushed him away.

  “You are the second distracted lover who has clutched me to-day. Have done.”

  Philip danced with impatience.

  “But speak, Father! Speak!”

  Sir Maurice sat down leisurely and crossed his legs.

  “At the present moment Cleone is betrothed. Very much so,” he added, chuckling. “I am about to put the whole matter into your hands.”

  “My hands? She wants my help?”

  “Not at all. She is insistent that you shall not be appealed to. In fact, she was almost frantic when I suggested it.”

  “Then does she not want to marry Brenderby?”

  “Certainly not. But she will do if you fail to intervene.”

  Philip flung out his hands.

  “But tell me, sir! What happened last night?”

  “Sit down and be quiet,” said Sir Maurice severely. “I am on the point of telling you.”

  Philip obeyed meekly.

  “And don’t interrupt.” Sir Maurice proceeded to relate all that he had heard from Cleone . . . “And she was so upset that she went with Brenderby, not caring what happened. That is the whole story,” he ended.

  “Upset? But—was she upset—because I had offered and been rejected?”

  “Presumably. Now she is so hopelessly compromised that she daren’t face you.”

  Philip sank his head into his hands and gave way to a long peal of laughter.

  “Sacré nom de Dieu, the tables are turned, indeed. Oh, Clo, Clo, you wicked little hussy! And what was in that locket?”

  “That you will have to ask her yourself,” answered Sir Maurice.

  Philip jumped up.

  “And I shall. Mordieu, never did I dream of such a solution to my difficulties!”

  “Perhaps she still will not have you, Philip,” warned Sir Maurice.

  Philip flung back his head.

  “Thunder of God, she will have me now if I have to force her to the altar! Ciel, you have taken a load off my mind, sir! I thought she cared for Brenderby! She smiled on him so consistently. And now for ce cher Brenderby! I am going to enjoy myself ”

  “Remember, Philip! No breath of scandal!”

  “Am I so clumsy? Not a whisper shall there be! François, François! My hat, my cloak, my boots, and my SWORD!”

  EIGHTEEN

  PHILIP TAKES CHARGE OF THE SITUATION

  SIR DERYK’S valet came to him, bowing.

  “There is a gentleman below who desires speech with you, sir.”

  “Oh? Who is he?”

  “Mr. Philip Jettan, sir.”

  Sir Deryk raised his eyebrows.

  “Jettan? What can he want with me? Ay, I’ll come.” He rose and went languidly downstairs. “This is an unexpected honour, Jettan! Come in!” He led Philip into a large room. “Is it a mere friendly visit?”

  “Anything but that,” said Philip. “I have come to tell you that you will not be able to wed Mistress Cleone Charteris.”

  “Oh?” Brenderby laughed. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” Philip smiled a little, “I am going to wed her myself.”

  “You? Oh, Gad, you make the third!”

  “And there is, as you know, luck in odd numbers. Are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied? Damme, no! The girl’s lovely! I’ve a mind to her.”

  “Even though I tell you that she desires to be released?”

  “Even though she told it me herself!”

  “I trust you will allow me to persuade you?” Philip patted his sword-hilt lovingly.

  A light sprang to Brenderby’s eyes.

  “Is it a fight you’re wanting? By Gad, no man has ever had need
to challenge me twice! Here? Now? Help me push the table back!”

  “One moment! You love a hazard, I think? I fight you for the right to wed Mistress Cleone. If I win you relinquish all claim upon her, and you swear never to breathe a word of what passed last night. If you win—oh, if you win, you do as you please!”

  “Ay, aught you will! I’ve been pining for a fight for many a long day. You’re a man after my heart, stap me if you’re not! Here, wait while I fetch my sword!” He hurried out of the room, returning in a very short time with a rapier. “I’ve told my man that you have come to fence with me. But we’ll lock the door in case of accidents. How does my sword measure with yours?”

  Philip compared them.

  “Very well.” His eyes danced suddenly. “Dieu! I never thought to fight so strange a duel!” He pulled off his boots. “We’ll fight in wigs, yes? One is so displeasing without a hair to one’s head.”

  “A dozen, if you like!” Brenderby struggled out of his coat and vest. “You know, you are shorter than I am. We’re not fair matched.”

  Philip laughed, tucking up his ruffles.

  “No matter. You see, I must win!”

  “Why?” Brenderby made an imaginary pass in the air.

  “So much depends on it,” explained Philip. “Is the light fair to both?”

  “Fair enough,” said Brenderby.

  “You are ready, then? Eh bien!”

  The blades met and hissed together.

  Opening in quarte, Brenderby seemed at first to be the better of the two. Philip stayed on the defensive, parrying deftly and allowing Brenderby to expend his energies. Once Brenderby’s blade flashed out and all but pinked Philip, but he managed to recover his opposition in time. His eyes opened wider; he became more cautious. Suddenly he descried an opening and lunged forward. There was a moment’s scuffle, and Brenderby put the murderous point aside. Then Philip seemed to quicken. When Brenderby began to pant, Philip changed his tactics, and gave back thrust for thrust. His wrist was like flexible steel; his footwork was superb; the whole style of his fencing was different from that of Brenderby.

  All at once Brenderby saw an opening. He thrust in quinte, steel scraped against steel, and Philip’s point flashed into his right arm above the elbow.