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.