The Transformation of Philip Jettan

by Georgette Heyer

  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
ory 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?”

  “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 to-morrow? 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! To-morrow 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 bed-post. “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.”

  THIRTEEN

  SIR MAURICE COMES TO TOWN

  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 Château-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.”