Powder and Patch (12 page)

Philip shook out his ruffles.

“I have never noticed that Jacques showed signs of a so violent temper,” he remarked. “But no! Of a surety, he would not exhibit his terrible passion to m’sieur! Is it that I should permit him?”

“Well,” Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, “I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own.”

François’ face cleared as if by magic.

“M’sieur is kind! A house of his own. Je me rangerai bien! M’sieur contemplates a mariage, perhaps?”

Philip dropped his snuff-box.

“Que diable—!” he began, and checked himself. “Mind your own business, François!”

“Ah, pardon, m’sieur!” replied the irrepressible François. “I but thought that m’sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!”

“Hold your tongue!” said Philip sharply. “Understand me, François, I’ll have no meddling bavardage about me either to my face or below stairs! C’est entendu?” “But yes, m’sieur,” said François abashed. “It is that my tongue runs away with me.” “You’d best keep a guard over it,” answered Philip curtly.

“Yes, m’sieur!” Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, “M’sieur is still enraged?” he ventured.

Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François’ anxious, naive expression, the frown faded, and he laughed.

“You are quite ridiculous,” he said.

François broke into responsive smiles at once.

But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“En verité, c’ast une femme,” he remarked. “C’est ce que j’ai cru.”

Chapter XII. Philip Plays a Dangerous Game

françois endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to François. From that moment the excitable valet’s spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for m’sieur; he would find m’sieur a chef. Philip was content to waive responsibility. François sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fair chef and a good garçon. Philip had no idea that François possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, François looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when m’sieur told him of the new home.

“Then, subitement, I remember, for m’sieur will require a chef, is it not so?” “Assuredly,” said Philip. “But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook.”

“An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m’sieur to be so ill served? No! M’sieur shall have a French chef, bien sûr. What does an Englishman know of the cuisine? Is m’sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!”

“Very well,” said Philip.

“And then we have a household bien tenu. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house.”

“I hope I am not to be excluded?” smiled Philip.

“M’sieur se moque de moi! Is it that m’sieur is English? M’sieur is tout comme un Français.” He bustled away, full of importance.

The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. François exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip’s responsibility. François gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; François was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. François, Jacques, and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform François that he was a treasure.

That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.

The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a persona grata in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. The men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.

Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learnt, London’s newest beauty.

She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever. He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip’s hand clenched slowly on his snuffbox. “Aha, Jettan! You have espied the lovely Cleone?”

Philip turned. Lord Charles Fairfax stood at his elbow. “Yes,” he said.

“But how stern and forbidding!” exclaimed Fairfax. “What ails you?” Philip’s mouth lost its hard line.

“I am struck dumb,” he answered gaily. “Can you wonder at it?” “So are we all. She is very beautiful, is she not?”

“Ravishing!” agreed Philip. He saw Cleone’s partner lead her to a chair. “Will you present me?”

“What! And destroy my own chances? We have heard of your killing ways with the fair sex!” “I protest I have been maligned!” cried Philip. “I do implore your mercy! Present me!” “Against my will, then,” said his lordship roguishly. He walked forward to where Cleone sat. “Mistress Cleone, have you no smile for the humblest of your admirers?” Cleone turned her head.

“Oh, Lord Charles! Give you good even, sir! Do you know you have not been near me the whole evening? I am monstrous hurt, I assure you!”

“Dear lady, how was I to come near you?” protested Fairfax. “Until this moment you have been surrounded.”

Cleone gave a happy little laugh.

“I am sure ’tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!” Her eyes wandered past him to Philip. Fairfax drew him forward.

“Mistress Cleone, may I present one who is newly come from Paris, and is, he swears, struck dumb by your beauty? Mr Jettan, of whom we all know some naughty tales!” The colour drained from Cleone’s cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not

Philip, this foppish gentleman who was bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! It was Philip! How could she mistake that square chin?

“Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour,” he said. “I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! Philip! Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible. What was he saying now?

“I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?” Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her. “No, I—I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke,” she answered.

“Lady Malmerstoke ...?” Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. “Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady.”

“Oh—do you—do you know her?” asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face.

“I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where.” “R—really?” Cleone decided that this was a nightmare. Philip sat down beside her.

“You have been long in town, mademoiselle? You find all this very fatiguing, no doubt?” He waved a languid hand.

Indignation was dispersing the numbness. How dared Philip drawl at her like this? How dared he behave as though they were strangers?

“I have been in London nigh on a month. I do not find it fatiguing at all. I enjoy it.” Slowly the straight brows rose.

“But how refreshing!” said Philip. “When everyone is ennuyé à l’agonie, how delightful to meet one who frankly enjoys.” He looked at her admiringly. “And enjoyment becomes you better than boredom becomes other women.”

Cleone felt that she was drifting further and further into the nightmare. “I am happy to find favour in your eyes, sir. When did you return from Paris?” “A fortnight since. In a fog which chilled me to the marrow. Almost I fled back to France. But now”—he bowed gracefully—“I thank a kindly Fate which forbade me to retreat thus precipitately.”

“Indeed?” said Cleone tartly. “How do you find Sir Maurice?”

“As yet I have not found him,” replied Philip. There was a laugh at the back of his eyes. How dared he laugh at her? “I have written to beg him to honour my house with his presence.” “You do not propose to go to him?” Cleone’s voice trembled.

Philip started.

“Mademoiselle speaks en plaisantant? The country in this weather?” He shuddered. “I see,” said Cleone, and thought that she spoke the truth. Her foot tapped the ground angrily. Philip eyed it through his glass.

“That little foot ...” he said softly. It was withdrawn. “All, cruel! It inspired me with—I think—a madrigal. Cased in silver satin ... Ah!”

“It pleases you to make merry of my foot, sir?” “Jamais de ma vie

!” Philip threw out his hands. “It is neither food for merriment nor sighs. It is food for pure joy. My eye, chére mademoiselle, is susceptible to beauty, be it beauty of face, or beauty of foot; the eye whispers to the brain, and a madrigal blossoms. I dare swear you have listened to an hundred such? Everywhere I have heard tell of your conquests until I am nigh dead with jealousy.”

“How very absurd!” littered Cleone.

“Absurd? Ah, if I could think that!”

“I do not understand you, sir!”

“I can only beg that I, too, may worship at those little feet.” “Mr Jettan, I can only beg that you will cease to make yourself ridiculous.” “If it is ridiculous to adore, then must I refuse to obey you, fairest. For the sake of one smile, all would I do, save that which is without my power.”

Cleone’s eyes glittered.

“You have become very adept at flattery, sir.”

“But no! Flattery shall never be among my accomplishments, even were it necessary, which here”—he smiled ardently—“it most assuredly is not.”

“You surprise me, sir! I thought Paris to be the home of flattery.” “On l’a diffamée. Paris teaches appreciation.”

“La!” Cleone, too, could be affected. “You go too deep for me, Mr Jettan! I fear I am no match for your wit. I am but newly come from the country.” The words bit. “It is almost inconceivable,” he said, studying her with the air of a connoisseur. “Almost as inconceivable as the fact that little more than six months ago you despised all this!” She made a gesture with her fan towards his shimmering coat. “Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle.”

“I?” Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. “No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers.” Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr Jettan was still smiling.

“Now I am desolated!” he sighed. “Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness.”

Cleone’s heart leapt. Was there a note of pique, of hurt, in the smooth voice. “My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you.”

“Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir.”

“It is possible,” he bowed. “Yet I seem to recollect that ’twas you who bade me go—to learn to be a gentleman.”

Cleone laughed carelessly.

“Did I?—It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And—and here is Mr Winton come to claim me!” Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up.

“James!” He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. “You have forgotten, James? And it is, so mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day.” Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip’s jewelled hand. “Jettan—Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?”