The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, 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 snuff-box.

  “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 stood 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 him.”

  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. “Ah, 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, chère 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!” tittered 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 leaped. Was there a note of pique, of hurt, in the smooth voice?

  “My mem