Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer Read Free Book Online Page A

ended by punishing him. No pleasant thought, that Bancroft was master not only of words but of swords; he, Philip, was master of neither. He brooded over the question, chaffed and irritable. And so came home to Sir Maurice.
    He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice, glancing up, observed Philip’s sling. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed an instant.
    Philip threw himself down upon a bench.
    “Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met.” “I thought it would come,” nodded his father. “I’m no match for him. He—pinked me with some ease.” Again Sir Maurice nodded.
    “Also”—Philip spoke with difficulty—“Cleone—will have none of me—as I am.” He looked across at his father with some bitterness. “As you prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft.”
    “And so—?”
    Philip was silent.
    “And so Mr Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine,” added Sir Maurice. “Have I said so, sir?” Philip spoke sharply. “Cleone desires a beau—she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what—she thinks—is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than”—he mimicked his father’s tone—“to till the earth! I’ll learn to be the painted fop you’d like to see me! Neither you or she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!” “Now, here’s a heat! “remarked Sir Maurice. “So you’ll to London, boy? To your uncle?” Philip shrugged.
    “As well to him as any other. I care not.”
    “That’s the wrong spirit for your emprise,” said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes .”You must enter into your venture heart and soul.”
    Philip flung out his arm. “My heart’s here, sir, at home!”
    “It’s also at Sharley House,” said his father dryly, “or why do you go to London?” “Ay, it’s there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes a sport of me for her amusement!” “Tra-la-la-la!” said Maurice. “Then why go to London?”
    “To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!” answered Philip, and marched off.
    Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.
    Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice’s hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice—well, he chid himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip’s departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip’s return.
    Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.
    “Well met, Philip, my boy! What’s to do now?” Philip sank into a chair.
    “I’ll tell you when I’m fed,” he grinned. “That sirloin pleases my eye.” “Not an artistic colour,” said Tom, studying it, “but appetising, I grant you.” “Artistic be damned!” said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. “H’m! No, Tom, ’tis a displeasing blend—red and brown.”
    Tom looked at him in surprise. “What’s colour to you, Philip?”
    “Naught, God help me,” answered Philip, and fell to with a will. “I echo that sentiment,” said Tom. “How does your father?” “Well enough; he sends you his love.”
    Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom pushed back his chair. “Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!” Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat’s