Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

“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?”

“He is quite transformed, is he not?” said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her.

Philip’s gay laugh rang out.

“I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein,” he promised. “A sonnet to ‘Friends Who Knew Me Not’. It will be a chef-d’oeuvre, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle.” Winton stepped back the better to observe him.

“Thunder and turf, ’tis marvellous! What’s this about a sonnet? Don’t tell me ye have turned poet!”

“In Paris they do not love my verses,” mourned Philip. “They, would say, ‘No, le petit Philippe se trompe.’ But you shall see! Where are you staying?”

“With Darchit-in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady’s train.” He bowed to Cleone. Philip’s eyes narrowed.

“Aha! James, you will come to a card party that I am giving tomorrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street.”

“Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?” “Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. My ménage will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François.”

“A French valet!”

“But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for chef.” He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. “You would smile, mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race.”

Cleone forced a laugh.

“I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr Jettan?”

“If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?” He bowed with a great flourish. “I shall hope to be allowed to wait on Madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! Tomorrow at 14 Curzon Street!” He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady’s plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her. Scalding tears dropped on to Cleone’s pillow that night. Philip had returned, indifferent, blasé, even scornful! Philip who had once loved her so dearly, Philip who had once been so strong and masterful, was now a dainty, affected Court gallant. Why, why had she sent him away? And, oh, how dared he treat her with that mocking admiration? Suddenly Cleone sat up.

“I hate him!” she told the bedpost. “I hate him, and hate him, and hate him.” Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness. “Cela marche,” decided François. “I go to have a mistress.”

A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr Thomas Jettan’s house with some vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat.

“Where’s your master, Moggat?” demanded the visitor abruptly. Moggat held the door wide.

“In the library, sir. Will you step inside?”

Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation.

“By the way-” Sir Maurice paused, looking back. “My baggage follows me.” “Very good, sir.”

Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared.

Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he turned. “Why, Maurry!” He sprang up. “Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?” He wrung his brother’s hand.

Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table. “What the devil’s the meaning of that?” he demanded. “Why the heat?” asked the surprised Thomas. “Read that-that impertinence!” ordered Sir Maurice.

Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled. “Oh, Philip!” he remarked.

“Philip? Philip, write me that letter? It’s no more Philip than-than a cock-robin!” Tom sat down.

“Oh, yes it is!” he said. “I recognise his hand. Now don’t tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!” He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh.

“‘My very dear Papa,’ he read aloud. ‘I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to remain I cannot tell you, but after

the affinity of Paris and the charm of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present I remain, malgré tout. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father, that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of my chef are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one who has tasted the wonders of a Paris cuisine will easily descry. I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Chateau-Banvau and others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode, Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient son,-philippe.’”

Tom folded the paper. “Very proper,” he remarked. “What’s amiss?” Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned.

“What’s amiss? Everything’s amiss! That Philip-my son Philip!-should write me a-an impertinent letter like that! It’s-it’s monstrous!”

“For God’s sake, sit down, Maurry! You’re as bad as Philip himself for restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter.”

“Dutiful be damned!” snorted Sir Maurice. “Has the boy no other feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see me?”

Tom re-opened the letter.

“The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What’s wrong with that? You have said the same.”

“I? I? What matters it what I should have said? I thought Philip cared for me! He trusts I will enliven his house with my presence! I’m more like to break my stick across his back!” “Not a whit,” said Tom, cheerfully. “You sent Philip away to acquire polish, and I don’t know what besides. He has obeyed you. Is it likely that, being what he now is, he’ll fly back to the country? What’s the matter with you, Maurice? Are you grumbling because he has obeyed your behests?”

Sir Maurice sank on to the couch. “If you but knew how I have missed him and longed for him,” he began, and checked himself. “I am well served,” he said bitterly. “I should have been content to have him as he was.”

“So I thought at the time, but I’ve changed my opinion.”

“I cannot bear to think of Philip as being callous, flippant, and-a mere fop!” “’Twould be your own fault if he were,” said Tom severely. “But he’s not. Something inside him has blossomed forth. Philip is now pure joy.”

Sir Maurice grunted.

“It’s true, lad. That letter-oh, ay! He’s a young rascal, but ’twas to avenge his injured feelings, I take it. He was devilish hurt when you and Cleone sent him away betwixt you. He’s still hurt that you should have done it I can’t fathom the workings of his mind, but he assures me they are very complex. He is glad that you sent him, but he wants you to be sorry. Or rather, Cleone. The lad is very forgiving to you”-Tom laughed-“but that letter is a spice of devilry-he has plenty of it, I warn you! He hoped you’d be as angry as you are and wish your work undone. There’s no lack of affection.”

Sir Maurice looked up. “He’s-the same Philip?”

“Never think it; in a way he’s the same, but there’s more of him-ay, and a score of affectations. In about ten minutes”-he glanced at the clock-“he’ll be here. So you’ll see for yourself.”

Sir Maurice straightened himself. He sighed. “An old fool, eh, Tom? But it cut me to the quick, that letter.”

“Of course it did, the young devil! Oh, Maurry, Maurry, ye never saw the like of our Philip!” “Is he so remarkable? I heard about that absurd duel, as I told you. There’ll be a reckoning between him and Cleone.”

“Ay. That’s what I don’t understand. The pair of them are playing a queer game. Old Sally Malmerstoke told me that Cleone vows she hates Philip. The chit is flirting outrageously with

every man who comes-always under Philip’s nose. And Philip laughs. Yet I’ll swear he means to have her. I don’t interfere. They must work out their own quarrel.” “Clo doesn’t hate Philip,” said Sir Maurice. “She was pining for him until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite’s letter. Was it true that Philip fought over some French hussy?” “No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told, I believe it’s because he has had affaires in Paris, even if that was not one. He’s too dangerously popular.” “So it seemed from Satterthwaite’s account. Is he so popular? I cannot understand it.” “He’s novel, y’see. I’d a letter from Chateau-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of ce cher petit Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!” Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards.