Georgette Heyer - Regency Romance Classics - Georgette Heyer Collection

Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.

I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning.

Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils.

"Well, I'm damned!" said Sir Maurice beneath his breath. "Puppy!"

Mr. Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market-place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him.

Crossing the market-place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr. Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened.

Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr. Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr. Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared.

Mr. Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg.

"Oh!" gasped Cleone, becomingly flustered. "Gracious! Is it you, Mr. Bancroft?"

Mr. Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clodhopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.

Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr. Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.

Cleone looked up at him provocatively.

"Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!"

"A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?" cried Mr. Bancroft. "Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips—"

"But," interrupted Cleone, blushing, "my name escaped your memory. Confess, Mr. Bancroft, it is indeed so?"

Mr. Bancroft waved his handkerchief with a superb gesture.

"A name—bah! What is it? 'Tis the face that remains with me. Names do, indeed, escape me. How could a mere name conjure up this fair image?" He bowed slightly. "Your name should be Venus, madam."

"Sir!" Cleone was shocked. "I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft," she said primly.

Mr. Bancroft was quite equal to the occasion.

"My dear," he said fondly, "do you think I did not know it?"

Cleone shook her head.

"You did not know it. And, indeed, I am prodigiously hurt and offended that you should have forgot me."

"Forgot you?" Mr. Bancroft was derisive. "Forget the little nymph who so tormented me in my youth? Fie on you, madam!"

"Oh, I did not! How can you say so, sir? 'Twas you who were always so provoking! Do you remember how we played? You and Jennifer and I and Philip—oh, and James."

"The games I remember," he answered. "But Jennifer, no. And who are Philip and James?"

"You've a monstrous short memory," reproved Cleone. "Of course you remember Philip Jettan?"

"How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?" he protested. "Could I be sensible of another's presence when you were there?"

Cleone giggled. She found Mr. Bancroft's compliments very entertaining and novel.

"You are quite ridiculous, sir. And this is my home."

"Alas!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "I would it were a mile away." He opened the gate and held it for her, bowing. "May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?" he begged.

"If you please, sir," said Cleone, eyes cast down.

They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr. Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace.

Bancroft stepped forward, hat in hand.

"I dare not hope for recognition, madam," he bowed. "Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand."

Madam Charteris extended it weakly.

"Henry Bancroft? Gracious heaven, is it indeed you?"

Bancroft kissed the tips of her fingers, holding them lightly to his mouth with two fingers and a thumb.

"I met Mistress Cleone in the market-place," he told her. "Conceive my surprise, madam, my joyful ecstasy!"

"Indeed!" stammered madam. "In the market-place—to be sure."

"Mr. Bancroft was so kind as to relieve me of my basket," explained her daughter. "He pretends that he had not forgot me, Mamma! But he cannot deceive me."

"He never sought to deceive you, Mistress Cleone. He spoke sooth when he said your image had remained with him throughout."

"Take him into the garden, Cleone," begged madam. "He will wish to see your papa."

It had not occurred to Mr. Bancroft, but he swallowed it with a good grace.

"Will you conduct me thither, Mistress Cleone?" He bowed, one arm extended.

Cleone laid the tips of her fingers on the arm.

"Certainly, sir. We shall find Papa among the roses." They walked to the door.

"The roses!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "A fit setting for your beauty, dear Cleone."

Cleone gave a little gurgle of laughter.

"'Tis Papa's beauty they frame, sir, not mine," she replied.

Twenty minutes later Sir Maurice walked into the rose-garden to find Bancroft and Cleone seated in an arbour engaged in close converse, while Mr. Charteris nipped off the dead flowers nearby.

Mr. Charteris welcomed his visitor with a wave of his large scissors.

"Good day, Sir Maurice! What a very pleasant, warm day it is, to be sure! Did you ride over to see us?"

Sir Maurice drew him apart.

"I met that—that rainbow in the village. What a plague is it? What does he do here?"

Mr. Charteris' chubby countenance was wreathed in a great, sly smile, suspiciously like a grin.

"Have you ever seen aught to equal it?" he chuckled. "'Tis young Bancroft—in seclusion."

"I guessed as much. In seclusion, is he? Puppy!"

Mr. Charteris held up his hands.

"Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth—a polished gentleman, I assure you."

"Polished coxcomb!" snapped Sir Maurice. "Confound his impudence!" He turned and walked towards the arbour.

Cleone rose and came forward.

"Why, Sir Maurice! I did not see you!"

Sir Maurice raised both her hands to his lips.

"You were otherwise engaged, my dear. Will you present your cavalier?"

Cleone frowned upon him.

"Sir Maurice—! This is Mr. Bancroft, sir. Mr. Bancroft, Sir Maurice Jettan."

Mr. Bancroft's hat swept the ground. His powdered head was bent.

"I am delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, sir."

Sir Maurice inclined his head.

"I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some few weeks?" he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. "You must meet my son, Philip."

"Nothing could give me more pleasure," Bancroft assured him. "I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one"—he bowed to Cleone—"had not forgot me."

"H'm!" said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. "I have ridden over to beg Mr. Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday—"

"Delighted, delighted!" nodded Charteris, who had joined them.

"—with madam and Cleone. You'll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma."

Cleone slipped her hand in his arm.

"Why, it's very kind of you, Sir Maurice. Thank you very much."