The Transformation of Philip Jettan

by Georgette Heyer

  Brenderby staggered back, clutched at his arm, and tried to raise his sword again. But Philip was at his side, supporting him.

  “It’s only a flesh wound—painful now—bien sûr. It will—heal quickly. I do not—mistake,” he gasped.

  “Damme—I’m not done for—yet!”

  “But yes! I fight—no more. You cannot—keep your blade—steady—now! Sit down!” He lowered Brenderby into a chair, and whisked out his handkerchief. He bound up Sir Deryk’s wound and fetched him a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard.

  “Thanks!” Sir Deryk gulped it down. “But where are my manners? Pour some for yourself, Jettan! Gad, but you pinked me neatly!” He seemed to slip back into his habitual drawl. “As pretty a piece of sword-play as I wish to see. But you fence French-fashion.”

  Philip drank some wine.

  “Yes. It was at Paris that I learned. With Guillaume Corvoisier.”

  “No!” Brenderby heaved himself up. “Corvoisier, forsooth! No wonder you’re so quick!”

  Philip smiled and bowed.

  “You frightened me more than once, sir.”

  “Faith, it wasn’t apparent then! You were so intent on winning?”

  “It means so much, you see,” said Philip simply. “My whole life’s happiness.”

  “What! You really intend to wed Cleone?”

  Again Philip bowed.

  “I have always intended to wed her.”

  “You?” Brenderby stared. “I never knew that! What of that young sprig Winton?”

  “Oh, I think I can persuade James!”

  “Like this?” Brenderby glanced down at his arm.

  “No, not like that. Tell me, sir, did you intend to wed Mademoiselle?”

  “Heaven forbid! I’ve no mind to tie myself up yet awhile. Your entrance last night forced me to say what I did to spare the lady’s blushes. I’d no notion of continuing the comedy, until young Winton thrust in with his prior claim. Gad, but ’twas amusing! Did you not find it so?”

  “I? No. But I was closely concerned in the affair, you see. I may take it that you will say naught of last night’s work?”

  “Of course not. ’Twas a mad jest, but I’d not let it go so far as to damage a lady’s reputation. And you may tell Mistress Cleone that I apologise—for what happened before. She’s too damnably beautiful.”

  Philip worked himself into his coat.

  “ ‘Damnably’ is not the word I should employ, but n’importe.” He sat down and started to pull on his boots. “I have enjoyed myself. I said I should.”

  “Tare an’ ’ouns, so have I! It’s an age since I’ve had a sword in my hand. I am indebted to you, sir.”

  “Yes, you are out of practice. I thank the kind fates for that!”

  “Ay, I’d have kept you at it longer, but I don’t know that the issue would have been different. You must go?”

  Philip picked up his hat.

  “I must. I have to thank you for—”

  “Oh, stuff! I’d no notion of holding Cleone to her promise, but I could not resist the offer of a fight. I wish you could see how monstrous amusing it was, though!”

  Philip laughed.

  “Had it been anyone but Cleone I might have been able to appreciate the humour of the situation! I trust the wound will heal quickly.”

  “Oh, that’s naught! A mere prick, but I was winded. Fare ye well, Jettan. My felicitations! You felicitated me last night, did you not?” He laughed.

  “With black murder in my heart!” nodded Philip. “I do not say good bye, but au revoir!”

  “Here’s my hand on it then—my left hand, alack!”

  Philip grasped it. Brenderby accompanied him to the front door and waved to him as he ran down the steps.

  “Bonne chance, as you’d say yourself! Au ’voir!”

  Philip waved back at him and turned to hail a passing chair. He instructed the bearers to carry him to Jermyn Street.

  It seemed that the luck was indeed with him, for he arrived just as James was descending the steps of his house. Philip sprang out, paid the chairmen, and took Winton’s arm.

  “My friend, a word with you!”

  “Yes?” said James. “You seem excited, Philip.”

  “It’s what I am, then. I’ve come to speak to you of Cleone.”

  James stiffened.

  “I’ll not give her up to that fellow Brenderby!” he said fiercely. “It’s more than flesh and blood can bear.”

  “Assuredly. But will you give her up to me?”

  James turned to stare at him.

  “You? But she is to wed Brenderby!”

  “Ah, but no! that is at an end. Brenderby releases her. He is not so bad a man as you think. En effet, I like him.”

  “I loathe the sight of him, drawling fop!”

  “To-day I have seen him in another light. But that is not what I have to say. Cleone does not wish to marry you, mon enfant, and it is churlish to persist.”

  “I know she’ll never marry me,” answered James gloomily. “I only held her to her word because I thought she’d have Brenderby if I did not.”

  “I understand. You’ll release her—for me?”

  “I suppose so. Why did you say naught last night?”

  “There were reasons. They no longer exist. Come, Jamie, don’t look so glum! You are young yet.”

  “It’s easy to say that. Oh, I knew I never had a chance with her! I congratulate you, Philip.”

  Philip pressed his arm.

  “My thanks. You’re very generous! And now I must fly!”

  “Where? May I accompany you?”

  “Again many thanks, but no! I have an engagement. Au revoir, mon cher! ”

  NINETEEN

  PHILIP JUSTIFIES HIS CHIN

  ONCE MORE Lady Malmerstoke’s page went up to the boudoir.

  “Mistah Philip Jettan is below, m’lady!”

  Up started Cleone.

  “I will not see him! Aunt Sarah, I beg you will go to him! Please spare me this—humiliation!”

  Lady Malmerstoke waved her aside.

  “Admit him, Sambo. Yes, here. Cleone, control yourself!”

  “I can’t see him! I can’t! I can’t! How can I face him?”

  “Turn your back, then,” said her unsympathetic aunt. “I wonder what he has done?”

  “D-do you think he—could have—arranged everything?” asked Cleone, with a gleam of hope.

  “From what I have seen of him, I should say yes. A masterful young man, my dear. Else why that chin?” She moved to the door. Philip came in, immaculate as ever. “Ah, Philip!”

  Philip shot a look past her. Cleone had fled to the window. He bent and kissed Lady Malmerstoke’s hand.

  “Bonjour, madame!” He held open the door and bowed.

  Her ladyship laughed.

  “What! Turning me from my own boudoir?”

  “If you please, madame.”

  “Aunt—Sarah!” The whisper came from the window.

  Philip smiled faintly.

  “Madame . . .”

  “Oh, that chin!” said her ladyship, and patted it. She went out and Philip closed the door behind her.

  Cleone’s fingers clasped one another desperately. Her heart seemed to have jumped into her throat. It almost choked her. She dared not look round. She heard the rustle of Philip’s coat-skirts. Never, never had she felt so ashamed, or so frightened.

  “Your devoted servant, mademoiselle!”

  Cleone could not speak. She stood where she was, trembling uncontrollably.

  “I have the honour of informing you, mademoiselle, that you are released from your engagements.”

  Was there a note of laughter in the prim voice?

  “I—thank you—sir,” whispered Cleone. Her teeth clenched in an effort to keep back the tears. She was blinded by them, and her bosom was heaving.

  There was a slight pause. Why did he not go? Did he wish to see her still more humiliated?

  “I have also to offer, on
Sir Deryk’s behalf, his apologies for the happenings of last night, mademoiselle.”

  “Th-thank—you, sir.”

  Again the nerve-killing silence. If only he would go before she broke down!

  “Cleone . . .” said Philip gently.

  The tears were running down her cheeks, but she kept her head turned away.

  “Please—go!” she begged huskily.

  He was coming across the room towards her . . . Cleone gripped her hands.

  “Cleone . . . dearest!”

  A heartbroken sob betrayed her. Philip took her in his arms.

  “My sweetheart! Crying? Oh no, no! There is naught now to distress you.”

  The feel of his arms about her was sheer bliss; their strength was like a haven of refuge. Yet Cleone tried to thrust him away.

  “What—must you—think of me!” she sobbed.

  He drew her closer, till her head rested against his shoulder.

  “Why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little Cleone. Chérie, don’t cry. It is only your Philip—your own Philip, who has always loved you, and only you. Look up, my darling, look up!”

  Cleone gave way to the insistence of his arms.

  “Oh, Philip—forgive me!” she wept. “I have—been mad!” She raised her head and Philip’s arms tightened still more. He bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely.

  *

  Later, seated beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, and his arm about her, Cleone gave a great sigh.

  “But why—why did you treat me so—hatefully—when you—came back, Philip?”

  “I was hurt, darling, and wished to see whether you wanted the real me—or a painted puppet. But then you changed suddenly—and I knew not what to think.”

  Cleone nestled closer.

  “Because I thought you—did not care! But oh, Philip, Philip, I have been so unhappy!”

  Philip promptly kissed her.

  “And—last night—Philip, you don’t think I—”

  “Sweetheart! Is it likely that I’d believe ill of you?”

  She hid her face.

  “I—I believed—ill—of you,” she whispered.

  “But you do not believe it now, sweetheart?”

  “No, oh no! But—but—that duel with Mr. Bancroft. Was it—was it—some—French lady?”

  Philip was silent for a moment.

  “No, Cleone. That is all I can say.”

  “Was it”—her voice was breathless—“was it—me?”

  Philip did not answer.

  “It was! How wonderful!”

  Philip was startled.

  “You are pleased, Cleone? Pleased?”

  “Of course I am! I—oo!” She gave a little wriggle of delight. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “It is not—one of the things one tells one’s lady-love,” said Philip.

  “Oh! And to-day? How did you—persuade Sir Deryk?”

  “Through the arm. But he had no intention of holding you to your word.”

  Cleone grew rather rigid.

  “Oh—indeed? In-deed?”

  Philip was mystified.

  “You did not want to be held to it, did you, chérie?”

  “N-no. But—I don’t like him, Philip.”

  “I did not, I confess. I think I do now.”

  “Do you? And what of James?”

  “Oh, James! He will recover.”

  There was a pause while Cleone digested this.

  “Philip?”

  “Cleone?”

  “You—you—don’t care for Jenny, do you?”

  “Jenny? Cleone, for shame! Because I was polite—”

  “More than that, Philip!”

  “Well, dearest, no one paid any heed to her or was kind. What would you?”

  “It was only that? I thought—I thought—”

  “Cleone, you think too much,” he chid her. “Next you will accuse me of loving Ann Nutley!” It was a master-stroke, and he knew it.

  “You didn’t? Not a tiny bit?”

  “Not an atom!”

  “And no one—in Paris?”

  “No one. I have pretended, but they all knew that I had already lost my heart.”

  “You pretended . . .? Oh!”

  “One must, sweetest.”

  “But—”

  He drew her closer.

  “But never, most beautiful, did I become engaged—twice in one evening!” He stifled the cry that rose to her lips.

  “Philip, that is ungallant, and—and hateful!”

  He laughed.

  “Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?”

  “Something I meant to burn,” she murmured.

  “But did not?”

  “No—I could not.” She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. “See for yourself, Philip.”

  He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over.

  “Yours till death, Philip,” he read. “Cleone, my love.”

  She buried her face on his shoulder.

  “Your—hair—your poor hair!” she said.

  “All gone! Look up, Cleone!”

  She lifted her face. He gazed down at her, rapt.

  “Oh, Cleone—I shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes!” he breathed.

  TWENTY

  MADEMOISELLE DE CHAUCHERON RINGS DOWN THE CURTAIN

  SIR MAURICE Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened his shoulders.

  There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin and lace.

  Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect his daughter-in-law.

  “Upon my soul, Cleone!” he ejaculated.

  Cleone swept him a curtsey, laughing.

  “Is it not ridiculous?” Philip insisted. “Wait till you see him!” She ran to the mirror. “Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?”

  “I am struck dumb by the whole effect!” answered Sir Maurice. “Yes, I like that white rose in your hair.”

  “Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, je t’assure. Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!” She re-arranged the roses at her breast. “At one time I expected him to summon François to his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!”

  Sir Maurice sat down.

  “Has he been dressing you, my dear?”

  “Has he—! For the past three hours, sir! He has driven my maid distracted.” She started to count on her fingers. “He spent half an hour superintending my hair-dressing and another half an hour placing this rose and the pearls. Then half an hour went to my patches—this is when he nearly tore his wig!—he could not decide where to put them. The arrangement of my gown occupied quite an hour in all. And then he was much put out over my jewels.” She held up her fingers. “I vow they are red and sore, sir! I have had rings pushed on them, and dragged off them, until I was nigh screaming with impatience! But now I am dressed—and I have been told on pain of Philip’s direst wrath to n’y toucher pas!” She sat down on the couch beside Sir Maurice and slipped her hand in his. “Is he not absurd? And oh, I am prodigious nervous!”

  “Why, my dear? What should make you so?”

  “You see, it is my first appearance in Paris—it is to be my first ball—and I am so afraid I shall not understand what is said to me, or—or something mortifying!”

  “Not understand? Nonsense, Clo! Why, you have talked hardly any English since you have been married.”

  “Yes, but I am not at all fluent. Philip says everyone will be most amiable, but—oh, dear!”

  At that moment François darted into the room, a harassed frown on his face.

  “Ah, pardon, madame! Pard
on, m’sieu’! Je cherche la tabatiere de m’sieu’ Philippe!”

  “Laquelle?” asked Cleone. Sir Maurice was amused by her serious air. “The one with the pearls?”

  “Mais oui, madame. It is this fool of a Jacques who has lost it, sans doute! Ah, la voilà!” He seized the errant box and skipped out again. Cleone breathed a sigh of relief.

  “How terrible if it had been really lost!” she said.

  Sir Maurice laughed.

  “Would it have been so great a catastrophe?”

  “But of course! It matches his dress, you understand.”

  “I see.” Sir Maurice smothered another laugh. “My dear, do you know that it is three years since last I was in this city of cities?”

  “Is it? Don’t you think it is a wonderful place? Philip took me for a walk yesterday, and I was enchanted! And this house—I know I shall never bear to leave it! Philip says that the Hotel Cleone will be the most fashionable one in Paris! I was so surprised when he brought me here! I had no idea that there was a house waiting for me. He and François got all ready the week before our marriage! I’ve never been so happy in my life! And to-night I am to see Philip in what he calls his milieu. He tells me he was never at home in London.”

  “Philip in his milieu. Paris.” Sir Maurice smiled down at her. “When I think of what Philip was not quite a year ago. . . .”

  “It seems impossible, doesn’t it? But oh, I am glad now that I sent him away. He is quite, quite perfect!”

  “H’m!” said Sir Maurice.

  Cleone laughed at him.

  “You pretend! I know how proud you are!”

  “Minx! I confess I am curious to see Philip in his Parisian Society. No one knows that he is here?”

  “Not a soul. He insisted on guarding the secret until he could make a really dramatic appearance at the Duchesse de Sauverin’s ball to-night. He is mad, you know, quite mad! Oh, here he is!”

  Philip came into the room with a rustle of stiff silks. Sir Maurice started at him.

  “Good God, Philip, what audacity!”

  From head to foot his son was clad in white. The only splash of colour was the red heels of his shoes; his only jewels were pearls and diamonds; on the lapel of his coat he wore a single white rose.

  “Isn’t it ridiculous?” said Cleone. “But doesn’t he look beautiful?”

  “Stand up, child, and let me see you side by side. . . . Yes. What audacity! Had I known, I would have attired myself in black—the old man at the ball.”