Powder and Patch (18 page)

“She cannot! She—”

“She don’t know it, of course, but it’s true. Be advised by me, Philip, and insist on having your way with her. Don’t be finicky!”

“It’s very well, but she doesn’t love me!”

“Oh, drat the man!” said her ladyship. “You fatigue me. Go your own road, but don’t blame me when everything goes awry. If you have made Clo miserable she’ll do something mad. And now I’ve warned you. Oh, here is James, looking like a sulky bear! James, my good boy, I’ve left my handkerchief in another room. Will you fetch it for me, please? Over there, behind that curtain. Yes, shocking, isn’t it? But ’twas only old Fotheringham, so you can tell your uncle, Philip.”

He rose and laughed down at her. “And will he master you, my lady?”

“Not he,” said Lady Malmerstoke placidly. “I’m past the age of wanting that nonsense. Not that I ever wanted it, but I was always unusual. Be off with you!”

Philip took James by the arm.

“We are summarily dismissed! Come, Jamie, we’ll find her handkerchief, and she’ll smile again.”

In the withdrawing-room Cleone was dicing with Sir Deryk. A very unmaidenly proceeding. She had just lost the rose at her breast to Brenderby, and he was trying to undo the pin that held it in place. Failing in that, he grasped the stem firmly, and broke off the bloom. But with the rose he had clutched a thin blue riband from which hung a locket. It snapped, and the trinket rolled on to the floor.

Cleone was already overwrought. She sprang up. “Oh, my locket!” And searched wildly on the floor.

Surprised at her earnestness, Brenderby went down on his knees, and presently retrieved the locket just as Cleone had seen it. He rose, and was about to present it to her when she clasped agitated hands and demanded that it should be given her at once! This aroused Sir Deryk’s curiosity. He withheld it.

“Why so anxious, Cleone? What secret does it hide?” “Naught! Oh, give it me, give it me!”

Sir Deryk held fast to the trophy.

“Not so fast, Cleone! I’ll swear there’s some mystery here! I’ve a mind to peep inside!” “I forbid you!” said Cleone. “Sir Deryk—” She controlled herself. “Please give it me!” “And so I will, fairest, but first I must see what is inside!”

“Oh, no, no! There’s naught! I could not bear you to look! Besides, it’s—it’s empty. I—oh, give it to me!” She stamped angrily.

Brenderby’s eyes were alight with impish laughter.

“I’ll make a bargain, sweetest! You shall play me for it.” He picked up the dice-box. “If you beat my throw, I will give you the locket unopened. If you lose you shall pay a price for it.” “I don’t understand! What do you mean?”

“You shall kiss me for it One hard-earned kiss. Come, you must admit my terms are generous!”

“I won’t! How dare you, sir! And it is my locket! You have no right to it!” “What I find I keep! Come! The odds are equal, and in neither case do I open the locket.” “I—I thought you a gentleman!”

“So I am, Clo. Were I not—I’d take the price and then the locket. There’s no one to see, and no one need not know. Cleone—you lovely creature!”

Cleone wrung her hands.

“I should die of shame! Oh, Sir Deryk, please be kind!”

“Why should I be kind when you are not? You’ll none of my terms? Very well!” He made as if to open the locket.

“No, no, no!” almost shrieked Cleone. “I’ll do anything, anything! Only don’t open it!” “You’ll play me?”

Cleone drew a deep breath.

“Yes. I will. And I’ll never, never, never speak to you again!” He laughed.

“Oh, I trust you’ll change your mind! Now!” He cast the dice. “Aha! Can you beat that?” Cleone took the box in a firm clasp, and shook it long and violently. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes tight shut. She threw the dice. Brenderby bent over the table. “Alack!” Her eyes flew open.

“I’ve won? Oh, I have won!”

“No. I was grieving for you, fairest, not for myself. You have lost.” Tears glistened on the end of her long lashes.

“Sir Deryk—p-please be gen-generous now! I don’t want to—kiss you!” “What! You cry off? Shame, Cleone!” he teased.

“You are monstrous unk-kind! It’s my locket, and I d-don’t want to kiss you! I don’t, I don’t! I hate you!”

“That adds spice, my dear. Must I take the price?” She choked down a sob.

“Very well. Kiss me.” She stood where she was, face upturned, with the resignation of a martyr.

He laid his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her.

“By God, Cleone, you’re damnably beautiful!” he said thickly. “You’ve played with fire tonight—but I won’t burn you too much!” He bent his head till his lips met hers. At that inauspicious moment James and Philip walked into the room. “No, it was here she said, Philip. I re—”

With a cry of horror Cleone sprang away from Sir Deryk, her cheeks flaming. Her wide eyes went from James’ face of frozen astonishment to Philip’s pale, furious countenance. Philip took a half step forward, his hand wrenching at his sword-hilt. Then he checked and slammed the sword back into the scabbard. Cleone had not struggled in Brenderby’s embrace. What could he do? He had always thought her in love with the fellow. And on the top of his own proposal .... He swept a magnificent bow.

“Mille pardons, mademoiselle! It seems that I intrude.”

Cleone winced at the biting sarcasm in his voice. She tried to speak, and failed. What could she say?

James came out of his stupor. He strode forward. “What in thunder—”

“I don’t kn-know!” quavered Cleone. “Oh—oh, heaven!”

Quickly Brenderby stepped to her side. He took her hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Gentlemen, you have the honour of addressing my affianced wife,” he said haughtily. Philip’s hand was on the curtain. It clenched slowly. He stood very still, his eyes on Cleone’s face.

“Oh!” cried Cleone. “Oh, I—” She stopped helplessly. Heavens, what a position she was in! If she denied that she was betrothed to Brenderby, what could Philip think? What must he think? He had seen her in Sir Deryk’s aims; the only excuse was a betrothal. And she had accused Philip of loose behaviour! Whatever happened, he must not think her a light woman! But, oh! how could she say she was betrothed to another when she desired nothing better than to fly to him for protection? She compromised.

“I—oh, I think I am about—to faint!” she said. Sir Deryk drew her hand through his arm.

“No, no, my love! Tell these gentlemen that it is as I say.” Cleone looked at Philip. Was he sneering? She couldn’t bear it. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

Philip seemed to stiffen. He bowed again.

“Permit me to offer my felicitations,” he said, but his voice was not quite steady. James hurried forward, furious.

“Your pardon, sir! I beg leave to contradict that statement!”

They all stared at him in amazement. Philip eyed him through his quizzing glass.

“I—beg—your—pardon?” drawled Brenderby.

“I am betrothed to her myself!” shouted James. Cleone’s hands flew to her cheeks.

“Oh!” she fluttered. “Oh—oh, I am going to faint!” Brenderby’s eyes twinkled.

“Bear up a little longer, dear! Of course, I know there is no truth in what Mr Winton says!” “It is true!” James danced in his fury. “Cleone promised to wed me, only a little while back! You can’t deny it, Clo! You did!”

“I did not!”

“You did! You said yes! You know you did!”

Cleone leant on the nearest thing to her for support. It chanced to be Sir Deryk, but she was past caring.

“James, you know I—never meant it!”

Suddenly Philip’s lips twitched. Brenderby was bubbling over with ill-suppressed merriment. “My dear, this is most serious! Did you, indeed, accept Mr Winton’s proposal?” “Yes, but he knows I did not mean it! I—”

“Cleone, do you tell me you accepted him and—” “Yes, she did! And I hold her to her promise!” Cleone’s knees threatened to give way. “James, I can’t marry you, I won’t marry you!”

“I hold you to your promise!” repeated James, almost beside himself. “And I.” Sir Deryk passed his arm round Cleone’s waist. “I hold Cleone to the promise she has given me!”

Philip interposed.

“Probably the lady would be glad of a chair,” he suggested evenly. “James, Brenderby—let your future wife sit down!”

Sir Deryk’s shoulders shook. He led Cleone to the couch, and she sank on to it, hiding her face.

Philip swung the curtain aside.

“Permit me to withdraw. Decidedly I am de trop. Mademoiselle, messieurs!” He went out, and the curtain fell back into place.

“Oh, oh, oh!” moaned Cleone. James bent over her,

“Come, Clo! Let me take you back to your aunt!” Brenderby stepped to Cleone’s other side.

“Cleone needs no other escort than that of her affianced husband, sir!” “And that is I!”

“On the contrary, it is I! Cleone, sweet, come!” Cleone sprang up.

“It’s neither of you! Don’t—touch me! Oh, that I should be so humiliated! I will not marry you, James! You know that I never heard what you said!”

James set his chin stubbornly.

“I’ll not release you from your promise,” he said. “And nor will I.” Sir Deryk was enjoying himself.

“You must release me, James!” cried Cleone. “I—I am going to wed—Sir Deryk!” She dissolved into tears. “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? How—how dreadful it is! Let me go! I hate you both!” She fled from them and was at her aunt’s side before either had time to follow her.

“Good gracious, child, what’s amiss?” exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. “You’re as white as my wig!”

“Take me home!” begged Cleone. “I am b-betrothed to Sir Deryk and James! Oh, for heaven’s sake, take me home!”

Chapter XVII. Mistress Cleone at her Wits’ End

Sir Maurice and his brother were sitting at breakfast next morning when Philip burst in on them. Tom jumped up and swore.

“Damn you, Philip! At this hour!”

Philip paid not the slightest heed to him. He grasped his father by the shoulder. “Father, you must to Lady Malmerstoke’s house at once!”

Sir Maurice ate another mouthful of beef.

“Sit down, my son, and be calm. What’s to do?”

“God alone knows!” cried Philip. He sank into a chair and rejected his uncle’s offer of breakfast. “Breakfast? What have I to do with food when I’m nigh demented?” “Drink’s the thing,” agreed Tom placidly. He pushed a tankard of ale towards his nephew. “What ails you, lad?”

“Cleone’s betrothed to Brenderby,” announced Philip wretchedly. “No!” Tom was dumbfounded.

“And to Winton.” Philip sought to drown his troubles in the tankard. “What!” Sir Maurice dropped his knife. “Betrothed to Brenderby and Winton? You’re raving!”

“Would to God I were!” Philip emerged from the tankard, and wiped his lips with his father’s napkin. “I asked her to marry me at the ball last night. She refused. I won’t tell you her exact words. Half an hour later I found her kissing ce scéléat Brenderby in a secluded corner!” He laughed savagely.

“You mean that Brenderby kissed her?” suggested Tom.

“No, I do not! Voyons, would he be alive now had he dared embrace Cleone against her will? She submitted—she wished it!”

“I’ll not believe that!” exclaimed Sir Maurice.

“You must believe it. She is betrothed to him. She said it herself. James was with me. He interposed, saying that she was already promised to him.”

Tom gave a chuckle.

“Faith, the child is rich in—” He caught Philip’s eye and subsided. “Oh, ay, ay! Go on.” “I know no more. I deemed it time for me to withdraw.”

“The proper thing to have done,” said Tom solemnly, “was to have struck an attitude and said, ‘Not so! The girl is mine!’”

“What right had I? I was not amongst the favoured ones.”

“Don’t sneer, Philip,” interposed Sir Maurice. “There must be something behind all this.” Philip turned to him.

“That’s what I hope and trust! You must go at once to Lady Malmerstoke’s!” His head sank into his hands and he gave way to a gust of laughter. “Oh, Gad! neither would give way an inch. Both held Clo to her promise!”

“Ye seem monstrous light-hearted about it,” said his uncle. Philip sprang up.

“Because I thought that—for one moment—she looked at me for help!” “Which you declined to give?” asked Sir Maurice dryly.

           
“Mon cher père, I have my own game to play. Now go to Lady Malmerstoke’s, I implore you!”

Sir Maurice rose.

“I’ll go at once. What madness can have seized Cleone?” Philip almost pushed him out of the room.

“That is what I want to know. Quickly, Father!”

The little black page swung open the door of my lady’s boudoir. “Sah Maurice Jettan!”

“The very man I wish to see!” exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. “Maurry, never were you more opportune!”

Sir Maurice kissed her hand with punctilious politeness. He then smiled at Cleone, who

stood by the table, pale and wan-looking.