The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  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