Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

“I like everything you have on, even the so badly arranged cravat! I am consumed with impatience! Come!”

“But why. Are you hasting to see the unspeakable Bancroft?” “But yes! Whom else? I will explain en route.”

De Bergeret suffered himself to be led to the door.

“Philippe, it is not convenable to display such enthusiasm. Languor is now the fashion.” “I am a fashion unto myself, me. I am an original. And I go to call out M. Bancroft!” De Bergeret stopped short.

“What! A brawl? No, then, I’ll not come!”

“A brawl? Is it possible? I shall conduct the affair with great douceur, I assure you! You and Saint-Dantin are to be my seconds.”

“Miséricorde! Philippe, you become more and more tiresome!” expostulated his friend. “Why must you fight this fellow?”

“An old quarrel-the settling of an unpaid score! Allons!” “Oh, the devil,” muttered Bancroft.

“Où donc?” inquired Le Vallon, who was sitting next him and who understood English. Bancroft shot an angry glance towards the door. Le Vallon turned to see what had excited his wrath.

Talking to De Farraud, with many quick gestures and smiles, was Philip. He had just arrived, and he was apologising for his lateness, throwing all the blame on De Bergeret, who accepted it meekly.

“Oh, the little Englishman!” said Le Vallon scornfully. “Always late, always eccentric. And grey lace! What an affectation!”

Philip cast a swift glance round the room. His eyes rested an instant on Bancroft’s face, then they passed on. Two or three men called to him, and he presently went to dice with De Vangrisse. But when Le Vallon left Bancroft to join a faro group, Philip swept up his dice, and with a laughing word to De Vangrisse, promising to return, he walked over to Bancroft’s table, and sat down in Le Vallon’s chair with a swirl of his full skirts.

Bancroft was about to rise. Astonished at Philip’s sudden advent, he sank back again. “To what do I owe this honour?” he demanded.

Philip dealt out the cards.

“I will tell you. A hand of piquet? You will declare?”

Bancroft sorted his hand rather sullenly. Not until he had declared and played his card did Philip speak again. Then he took the trick and leant forward.

“It comes to my ears that you have been bandying a certain lady’s name about Paris in a way that does not please me. You understand, yes?”

“What the devil is it to you?” cried Bancroft, crimson-faced.

“‘Sh, sh! Not so loud, if you please! Go on playing! I am informed that you speak of this lady as a pretty piece! It is not how I will have you speak of her. Also, you say that she fell in love with you en désespéré. Eh bien, I say that you lie in your throat!”

“Sir!”

“Doucement, doucement. Further, I say that if so be you again mention this lady’s name in public I shall send my lackeys to punish you. It is understood?”

“You-you-you impudent young cockerel! I shall know how to answer this! What’s Cleone to you, eh?”

The pleasant smile died. Philip leaned forward. “That name I will not have spoken, m’sieur. Strive to bear it in mind. I have many friends, and they will tell me if you speak of the lady when I am not by. And of the rest I have warned you.”

“Ye can understand this, Mr Jettan-I’ll speak of her how and when I like!” Philip shrugged.

“You talk foolishly. There is no question of refusal to comply with my wishes. If I so please I can make Paris very uncomfortable for you. You know that, I think.”

Bancroft was speechless with rage.

“There is another matter,” continued Philip amiably. “Once before I had occasion to complain of your manner. I do so again. And. I find the colour of your ribbons most distasteful to mine eye.”

Bancroft sprang up, his chair grating on the polished floor. “Perhaps you’ll have the goodness to name your friends, sir?” he choked. Philip bowed.

“This time, yes. It is a little debt I have to pay. M. le Comte de Saint-Dantin and M. de Bergeret will act for me. Or De Vangrisse yonder, or M. le Duc de Vally-Martin.” “The first named will suffice,” snapped Bancroft. “My friends will wait on them as soon as may be.” With that he flounced away to the other end of the room.

Philip walked back to De Vangrisse and perched on the arm of his chair. De Bergeret cast his dice and nodded at Philip.

“The deed is done?”

“Most satisfactorily,” answered Philip. “Throw, Paul, you can beat that.” “Not I! Jules has the devil’s own luck tonight. If it is not an impertinence, are you to meet M. Bancroft?”

“Of course. Oh, peste!”-as De Vangrisse cast his dice. “What did I tell you? May I second you?”

“A thousand thanks, Paul. But Saint-Dantin and Jules have consented to act for me.” “Well, I shall come as a spectator,” said De Vangrisse. “Jules, another hundred! I’ll not be beaten by you!”

Le Vallon, who had watched the brief encounter between his friend and Philip with great curiosity, now edged across to where Bancroft was standing.

Bancroft turned.

“Come apart a moment,” he said. His voice was still trembling with passion. He and Le Vallon drew near to the window.

“You saw that damned fellow come up to me just now?” “But yes! I watched very closely. What did he want with you?” “He came to impose his will-his will!-on mine. Curse his impudence!” “Why? What did he say?” asked Le Vallon inquisitively. Bancroft did not answer.

“I want you to act for me,” he said abruptly. “He insulted me, and I’ve sworn to teach him a lesson.”

Le Vallon drew back a little.

“What? You seek to kill him? Kill le petit Anglais?” His tone was dubious. “No, not quite that. I’ve no wish for trouble. He has too many friends. I’ll teach him to leave me alone!”

“Oh, yes! But …” Le Vallon pursed his lips. “But what?” barked Bancroft.

“It is said that he is a not-to-be-despised swordsman. He pinked Armand de Sedlamont with great ease.”

“Pooh!” said Bancroft. “Six months ago-” “I know, I know, but he has changed.” Bancroft scowled.

“Well, will you act for me or not?”

Le Vallon drew himself up.

“M’sieur, I do not entirely appreciate your manner,” Bancroft laughed uneasily.

“Oh, come, Le Vallon! Don’t take offence! That puppy has so annoyed me that I can scarce keep my temper. Where’s De Chambert?”

“Playing at lansquenet with De Farraud. And I think we had best mingle with the others. I do not care to appear conspicuous.”

Bancroft caught at his arm. “But you will second me?”

“I shall be honoured,” bowed Le Vallon. “And I hope you will succeed in showing my fine gentleman his place.”

Later in the evening Saint-Dantin sauntered over to where Philip sat, perched on the edge of the table, toasting some of his friends. Saint-Dantin joined the gathering and laid a hand on Philip’s shoulder. Philip, who was drinking, choked.

“Malediction! Oh, ’tis you, Louis! What now?”

“There is a rumour that you go to fight ce cher Bancroft, Philippe.” “Already?” Philip was startled. “Who told you?”

“Personne.” Saint-Dantin smiled. “It is whispered here and there. And Bancroft looks so black at you. It’s true?”

“Of course it’s true! Did I not say I should do it? His seconds are to wait upon you and Jules.”

“How very fatiguing!” sighed Saint-Dantin. “But quite amusing. One jubilates. Bancroft is not at all liked, He is so entreprenant. An I mistake not, you will have an audience,” he chuckled. “What?” Philip gripped his wrist. “I won’t have an audience!”

Saint Dantin blinked, loosening the clasp on his wrist.

“Pas si éclatant, Philippe,” he said. “You twist and turn like a puppet on wires! I only know that at least five here tonight swear they’ll see the fight.”

“But this is monstrous!” objected Philip. “I forbid you to divulge the whereabouts of the meeting.”

“Oh, entendu! But the secret will out.”

“How am I to keep a steady wrist with a dozen ogling fools watching?” demanded Philip. “You must keep it steady,” said De Chatelin. “My money’s for you, petit Anglais!” Philip looked genuinely perturbed.

“Henri, it is iniquitous! It is not a public exhibition that I engage in! One would say we were gladiators!”

“Reste tranquille,” grinned De Vangrisse. “We are all backing you, mon petit.” “I trust you’ll not forget to inform His Majesty of the rendezvous,” said Philip, resorting to bitter sarcasm. “And have you engaged a fiddler to enliven the meeting?” “Philippe se fâche,” teased De Chatelin. “Quiet, little fighting cock!” “I shall write an ode!” threatened Philip direfully.

“Ah no, that is too much!” cried De Vangrisse with feeling. “And I shall read it to you before I engage. Well?”

“It is a heavy price to pay,” answered Paul, “but not too heavy for the entertainment.”

Cleone sat on a stool at Sir Maurice’s knee and sighed. So did Sir Maurice, and knew that they sighed for the same thing.

“Well, my dear,” he said, trying to speak cheerfully, “how is your mamma?” “The same as ever, I thank you,” answered Cleone.

Sir Maurice patted her hand.

“And how is little Cleone?”

“Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well,” she said, with great sprightliness. “And you?” Sir Maurice was more honest.

“To tell the truth, my dear, I miss that young scamp.”

Cleone played with his fingers, her head bent.

“Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you-do you yet know where he is?” “No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters.”

“Mr Tom-has not told you, I suppose?”

“No. I’ve not seen Tom for some time …. The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I’d like to see him walk in at that door!”

Cleone’s head sank a little lower.

“Do you think-harm could have come to him, sir?”