Free Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer Page A

your presence here. He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad.”
    “Yes,” said Philip. He frowned. “Very sad. But what does he say?” “He divulges your close-guarded secret,” said the Vicomte solemnly. “Oh!” Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. “It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft. Continue, Charles!”
    “He speaks of a lady in ‘Leetle Feeteldean’ who has blue, blue eyes, and—” “Shall we pass over her eyes?” smiled Philip.
    “But certainly! Her hair—”
    “And her hair? In fact, shall we pass over all her attractions?” “He is very much in love,” loudly whispered De Bergeret. Philip flashed a smile at him.
    “Very much, Jules. Proceed, Vicomte.” The Vicomte sipped his wine.
    “M. Bancroft, he told of your—ah—infatuation. He described the lady—oh, fully!” The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly compressed. Philip nodded. “Allons! Allons!”
    “Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-hells amuse you?” asked Saint-Dantin sharply. But the Vicomte was a mischief-loving soul. He disregarded the rebuke. “A pretty piece,” he called her, “but no more than a simple country wench. By name—” “Oh, have done!” exclaimed Saint-Dantin impatiently.
    “But no!” Philip waved him aside. “I am very interested in what m’sieur has to say.” “By name, Cleone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love with him for his beaux yeux and his so charming manner.”
    “Ah!” Philip’s chin sank into his cupped palms. “Et puis?”
    “It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, ‘What of the pretty Cleone?’ he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he wearied of her as of all others.”
    Saint-Dantin’s crisp voice cut into the sudden silence.
    “Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived in his duel with Mardry
    last month. A—”
    “I will ask Paul to show me that pass,” said Philip. He leant back in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his interrupted discussion with De Bergeret. Afterwards Saint-Dantin took him aside.
    “Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is incorrigible!” “On the contrary, I am grateful to him,” replied Philip. “I might not have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow’s mouth.”
    “How?” asked Saint-Dantin blankly. Philip made an imaginary pass in the air.
    “Short of killing him,” objected Saint-Dantin, “I don’t see—” “Kill him? Not I! I may count on you to—uphold me?” “Of course. But what do you mean to do?”
    “First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my lady’s name in public.” Saint-Dantin nodded.
    “I’ll vouch for those here tonight.”
    “Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send François to administer a little beating. It is well.”
    The Comte laughed outright.
    “Oh, Philippe, thou art a young hot-head! Is this Cleone of so great account?” Philip drew himself up.
    “She is the lady whom I hope one day to make my wife.”
    “Comment? Your wife? Ah, voyons! cela change l’affaire! I did not know that. Stop his talk, by all means.”
    “It’s what I am going to do,” said Philip. “Scélérat!” “With a vile taste for pink, hein? You’ll call upon me?” “If you please. And, I think, De Bergeret.”
    “Saint-Dantin, a wager!” called De Vangrisse. “What are you talking of so earnestly?” “Of pink coats,” answered Philip. “Oh, my rondeau! Where is it?” “Devil take your rondeau!” cried the Vicomte, “Come and hazard a throw with me.” “A l’instant!” Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread