Published in 1937 under the objectionable title “Lady, Your Pardon“ — it was changed by Woman’s Journal editor Dorothy Sutherland, who had a sad habit of renaming Heyer’s works — this short story would go on to be the inspiration for Georgette Heyer’s 1941 novel Faro’s Daughter.
Lighter in tone, and with a far less disagreeable hero, many of that novels plot points are nevertheless encompassed in this story, so SPOILER WARNING for Faro’s Daughter!
We are pleased to publish the story here under the author’s preferred title.
PHARAOH’S DAUGHTER BY GEORGETTE HEYER
Deborah never played a more reckless game than the one where love was the stake.
I
“AN adventuress!” said Lady Lindon deeply. “Her father was a gamester.”
“So was mine,” remarked her nephew, a grimace half-rueful, half amused twisting his lean face.
Lady Lindon closed her fan with a snap. “In the most gentlemanly way!” she said with asperity. “I have yet to learn that my poor brother junketted about the Continent keeping disreputable gaming-houses!”
“Was that the late Mr. Varley’s profession?”
“Certainly. I obtained the fullest intelligence from Fotherham. There can be no doubt. Moreover, her aunt, with whom she is now residing, keeps a gaming-house in St. James’ Square.”
“A Banking lady!” remarked Sir Henry. “Well, well! Did you say she was engaged to Kit?”
“It is a pity he is so rich,” went on Sir Henry. “I daresay she thought the title an inducement, too. What a fool the boy is!”
“All young men are fools,” stated Lady Lindon. “Christopher must be saved from the consequences of his own folly. That, my dear Harry, is why I have sent for you.”
“Do you think you were wise, ma’am? I’ve no tact, you know.”
“Tact,” said her ladyship briskly, “is not needed. The creature must be bought off. You may depend upon it that that is her object.”
Sir Henry looked sceptical. “More likely she means to keep her claws in the lad.”
“Fiddle!” said Lady Lindon. “She must know very well that his family would never permit him to marry so disastrously.”
Sir Henry dragged himself out of his chair, and walked over to the fireplace. He was a tall, lean man, dressed in a plum-coloured coat and buff riding-breeches, and a plain cravat tied carelessly round his throat. “My dear ma’am, if this daughter of faro is determined, how is Kit’s family to prevent the marriage?”
Lady Lindon unfurled her fan again, and began to wave it to and fro. “I shall make inquiries into her past.” she announced. “Christopher’s eyes must be opened. You will see the young female, Harry, and I have little doubt that you will contrive to frighten her into releasing your unfortunate cousin from whatever promises he may have made.”
Sir Henry laughed. “You flatter me, ma’am, indeed you do!”
“Pray don’t be provoking, Harry! You must know very well how to deal with designing females. I suppose matters could be made unpleasant for that odious woman, her aunt.”
“Who is the aunt?” inquired Sir Henry.
“Mrs. De Lisle. She has been holding a faro bank for the last three years, and I’ve heard that the play is not above suspicion.”
Sir Henry gave a low whistle of surprise. “Old Sally De Lisle!” he exclaimed. “Now, who’d have thought of it? I know her quite well.”
“I imagined you might,” said his aunt austerely. “But if you can tell me how an innocent boy like Christopher can have got into her clutches I shall be grateful to you!”
“Why, that’s mighty touching, to be sure. I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.”
“I’ve no notion what the creature may demand, or how far he is pledged. I shall leave it to your discretion. Only do not fail. Harry!”
II
IT was not until after ten that evening that he presented himself and gave up his hat and cane to the porter at the door. He knew the house of old, and needed no escorting to the gaming-rooms, which were up a flight of stairs, and occupied the whole of the first floor. They were decorated in a rococo style, and lit by clusters of candles in sparkling glass chandeliers. In the larger room a round table occupied the centre of the floor, at which were seated upwards of twenty punters, and the astonishing figure of Mrs. De Lisle herself, who held the bank.
That redoubtable lady was arrayed in gown of brocade, lavishly trimmed with lace, over a petticoat of scarlet flower damask. Her hair was piled up into the style known as the pouf à la Belle Poule, which consisted of a powdered erection rising to an immense height, and surmounted by a miniature ship in full sail.
“Harry!” Young Lord Lindon, who made up one of the number of onlookers who lounged behind the punters’ chairs, watching the run of the play, started forward to greet his cousin, a look of unfeigned pleasure on his face. “Why, this is famous! I had thought vou down in Hampshire!”
It was evident that no suspicions of his cousin’s errand had crossed his ingenuous mind, and as Sir Henry took one of the vacant chairs at the table he bent over him to say in his ear: “I must see you presently. I’ve something to tell you—someone I desire to make known to you.”
Sir Henry nodded, but felt a little startled. Certainly he had never played the mentor to the lad, but could Kit be so lost to all sense of his folly that he meant to confide the whole absurd story to him?
Mrs. De Lisle’s shrewd eyes raked the table, appraising the value of the stakes. She turned up two cards with a snap from the pack before her, and laid them down, one to the right and one to the left.
Sir Henry felt his cousin’s hand still resting on his shoulder, grip for a moment, as though unconsciously. It was abruptly removed. Lord Lindon moved away from the table, and Sir Henry, picking up his winnings, looked up quickly under his brows towards the double doors at the other end of the room. They were concealed by curtain of crimson velvet, hanging slightly apart, and a young woman had brushed her way between them and stood just inside the cardroom, one hand on her hip, her head turned over her shoulder to speak to the man behind her.
Sir Henry leaned back in his chair, and while a dispute raged between his hostess and one of the dowagers he had leisure to observe Miss Deborah Varley.
She was very tall: that was the first impression he had of her. She was fully as tall as Christopher, already standing at her elbow. A strapping wench, Sir Henry told himself. He heard her laugh at what the man behind her bent forward to whisper in her ear. Then she turned her head, and he saw her face.
Sir Henry, with a deliberation calculated enough to be faintly insolent, had raised his quizzing glass, but he lowered it again. Across the room grey eyes met grey, the one pair with an arrested look in them, the other at first indifferent, and then a trifle surprised. Miss Varley put up one eyebrow, and without betraying the least sign of discomposure, proceeded to stare Sir Henry out.
But it was a moment or two before he turned his attention to the game again. Mrs. De Lisle was watching him, her painted face sharp with intelligence, her eyes a little narrowed. “What’s your stake, Sir Harry?” she asked. “Playing high tonight, eh?”
He picked up a rouleau of fifty guineas, and laid it on the knave of diamonds. “Have at you, ma’am!” he said.
III
IT was midnight before Sir Henry rose from the table. His fortune had fluctuated but he rose a slight winner, and, pocketing his guineas, strolled towards the velvet curtains, and went through them to the room where the refreshments, tea, coffee and rum-punch, were spread on a long table.
Deborah Varley was standing in the centre of the room with Christopher at her elbow and several other men gathered about. She seemed to have the knack of collecting a court round her. There was a twinkle in her eye, and a glass in her hand. All but Christopher were laughing at something she had said: he merely watched her with troubled, admiring eyes.
She glanced towards the curtains as Sir Henry lounged in, and said immediately: “Ah, now, here’s my unknown admirer come to join us. Christopher, my dear, a glass of punch for the gentleman.”
Lord Lindon said eagerly, “Deb, it’s my cousin. I want you to meet him. Let me present him to you. Sir Henry Morville – Miss Varley!”
She held out a hand not small, but very shapely. “Lord, he’s in transports!” she said, laughing. “Oh, sir, I’m honored!”
“Ma’am!” said Slr Henry, bowing deeply over her hand. “But have we not met before?”
She frowned at him. “Have we? I don’t recall it.”
“At Rome?” said Sir Henry, at a guess. “Or was it Dresden?”
“Both, it may be,” she replied. “I have been about the world a little.”
Slr Henry indicated his surroundings with a wave of his hand. “I seem to remember just such an establishment as this—oh, and its charming châtelaine!”
Christopher made a restless movement, and said quickly: “Oh, nonsense! You’re mistaken, Harry.”
“Egad, I think he’s mistaken,” agreed Deborah, her eyes on Sir Henry’s face. “But it might be true. I’ve been châtelaine of a dozen such houses as this,”
“Deb,” Christopher protested. “We need not talk of that, surely!”
“Why not?” she said. “Faith, isn’t your cousin itching to talk over old times?”
“Say, rather, to renew an old acquaintanceship,” corrected Sir Henry.
She seemed to consider him for a moment, then she drained her glass and set it down. “Come, then: let’s renew it. You know, you interest me.” She put her hand on his arm, and dismissed Lord Lindon with a smile and a friendly nod. “Run away, child: run away and play! It’s what you came for, after all.” She withdrew with Sir Henry into a smaller room adjoining, and there faced him, still faintly amused and a good deal curious. “Now, sir, what’s your will?” she asked abruptly. “I never laid eyes on you before in my life, that I’ll swear.”
He laughed. “My dear ma’am, amongst the many how should I expect to hold a place in your memory?”
She frowned upon him but more out of puzzlement than anger. “Do you know, I’ve a notion you’re trying to be insolent?” she said.
“The devil’s in it. I’ve no tact.” he apologised. “Forgive me! I believe you are right, and I have not met you before.”
“So? Now why?”
He grinned. “My dear, had I had that inestimable pleasure I must have made it my business to impress myself on your memory.”
She smiled a little. “Lord, am I to take that for a compliment? Making love to me seems to run in your family ”
“Making love to you might well run in any family,” responded Sir Henry. “But I fear Lord Lindon’s is only calf love—hardly worthy of you!”
“Tut-tut, don’t you know he wants to make me a viscountess?” said Deborah.
“These impetuous children!” sighed Sir Henry, shaking his head. “Now, you and I, ma’am, being of the world, as they say, know how to value that kind of fond ambition.”
“Well, I’ve a kindness for Kit,” remarked Deborah. “I doubt he means to do honestly by me. A viscountess, now! And me a gamester’s daughter! Not but what my father was born a gentleman—if he was to be believed.” She cast a swift look at Sir Henry, an expression of dawning comprehension in her eyes. “Faith, I wonder if we’ve reached the root of the matter, Sir Cousin?”
“We’ve reached it,” nodded Sir Henry, swinging his eyeglass.
She moved towards a chair, and sat down on the arm of it. “To think I took so long to guess it! Do I disturb the noble Lindons?”
“In certain circumstances you might,” he replied. “I’m a trifle disturbed myself, and I’m no Lindon. I admit I thought Kit a fool—but I had not met you then. You’re unexpected, Miss Varley. I wish I had met you—in Rome or Dresden.”
She said slowly: “For the life of me I can’t tell why, but I’ve taken an odd liking to you. What do you want of me? My word I won’t marry your little cousin?”
“Just that,” said Sir Henry.
She looked mischievous. “What, am I to forgo the pleasure of being a viscountess? This is hard, indeed! What’s to become of me if I let such a rare chance slip?”
“There would be certain compensations, of course,” said Sir Henry, pensively.
The smile lingered about her mouth, but quite vanished from her eyes. She looked intently at him. “Well, let’s have the button off that foil of yours, sir. Explain the compensations to me.”
Sir Henry produced a snuff-box from one capacious pocket, and flicked it open. Holding a pinch to one nostril, he sniffed; and said meditatively: “A viscount doesn’t rank high in the peerage. Shall we rate him at five hundred pounds?”
Her eyes had darkened, but there was a glow in them. “So that’s your errand, is it?” She got up, and pulled the scarf round her shoulders. “I thank you for the bid, Sir Cousin. It’s refused.”
He said sardonically: “Not high enough? Bethink you a little. The boy’s relatives won’t let him ruin his life easily. They’ll pay in reason, but beyond reason they might prefer to fight instead.”
“Make up your mind,” she said jeeringly. “Do you come to bribe or to threaten?”
“Whichever you choose,” he said.
“By Heaven, you can do neither!” she said. “But I promise you, you shall hear from me.” She bent, and caught up her train, and swept past him out of the room.
He looked frowningly after her, and slowly shut and fobbed his snuff-box, and having restored it to his pocket strolled back into the gaming-rooms.
IV
HE lodged in Half Moon Street, and was at his breakfast next morning when the retired gentleman’s gentleman who owned the house brought up a visiting card on a tray. He picked it up, and read the inscription on it in some surprise. Mr. Robert Varley ran the legend. “This becomes interesting,” remarked Sir Henry.
“Show him up, Withers.” He looked at the card again, and finally laid it down on the table. “And who the devil may Mr. Robert Varley be?” he wondered.
In a few moments the door was opened again, and Withers announced the visitor. A slim young man in a long, enveloping cloak and a very elegant hat strode into the room, and stiffly bowed to him.
“Sir Henry Morville?” he said crisply.
Sir Henry returned the bow, and looked at him searchingly.
“I sent up my card,” said his guest. “It had not perhaps occurred to you that Miss Deborah Varley might possess a brother?”
“No, but to tell you the truth I had not given the matter much thought,” said Sir Henry.
“I may readily believe that,” said Mr. Varley. “It is unfortunate for you that she is not without a natural protector.”
Sir Henry seemed to find this amusing. He laughed, and said: “But why? I’m sure I wish her joy of her protector.”
Mr. Varley looked across at him, and said in a hard, clear voice: “Sir Henry, last night you saw fit to insult my sister. I am here to answer you. She promised, did she not, that you should hear from her?”
“She did,” agreed Sir Henry.
Mr. Varley brought his left arm out from the folds of his cloak. In it were cradled two slender smallswords, identical in size and design. He laid them down on the table, took off his cloak, and flung it over a chair, tossing his gloves after it.
“We seem now to be in a state of siege,” remarked Sir Henry. “Would you have me bolt the windows?”
Mr. Varley ignored this pleasantry. Coming back into the centre of the room, he stopped by the table and, laying his hand on the duelling swords, said coldly: “I have a message for you from my sister, Sir Henry, which I wish to deliver before coming to the main object of my call. In your assumption that my Lord Lindon had made my sister an offer for her hand, you were correct; but the inference you drew from this circumstance was not only false but an impertinence. It may be of interest to you to learn that his lordship’s suit was at the outset rejected.”
“Great interest,” said Sir Henry.
Mr. Varley’s hand clenched. “You no doubt find this rejection of what you appear to consider a splendid match difficult to believe. I shall refer you to Lord Lindon himself who, whatever his aspiration, will not, I think, deny the truth of what I say. My sister has further charged me to inform you that her age being five-and-twenty years and his lordship not yet having reached his one-and-twentieth birthday, the thought of matrimony between them had seemed to her an absurdity only the very foolish could suppose at all possible.”
Sir Henry smiled, and bowed. “I thank you.”
“Furthermore,” said Mr. Varley, still in that cold voice of anger, “my sister would have you know that even a gamester’s daughter may have not only reputation, but honour. She is not to be bought, sir! Had you known that there was a man behind her, I daresay you might have hesitated before making her an offer which was as unnecessary as it was insulting!”
“You wrong me,” said Sir Henry amiably.
A contemptuous laugh broke from Mr. Varley. He shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “You would naturally say as much.”
“You know, you are fast becoming offensive,” said Sir Henry.
“It’s my intention. Do you expect me to apologise?” flashed Mr. Varley.
“Devil a bit. I think you expect an apology from me.”
“I do,” said Mr. Varley. “Do you choose to make one?”
“What, at the sword’s point?” said Sir Henry, levelling his quizzing-glass at the weapons under Mr. Varley’s hand. “No, my young friend, I do not.”
Mr. Varley drew a long breath.
“You shall make one,” he said. “Believe me, you shall make one. How dared you suppose my sister a creature you could bribe? What cause had you to think her an adventuress bent on trapping a boy scarce out of the schoolroom?”
Sir Henry answered deliberately, watching that stormy face rather intently: “Had I no cause then? What should I have expected of one of faro’s daughters? Tell me by what sign I should have guessed that a female sharing the profits of a house where the play is not above question possessed this rare nobility of character?”
Mr. Varley took a quick step towards him. “You lie. The play is straight!”
Sir Henry laughed.
Mr. Varley swung round, snatched up his swords and presented them on his arms, hilts foremost. “Choose, you!” he commanded.
“Take them away,” said Sir Henry, snapping his fingers at them. “I don’t fight gamesters—or striplings.”
“You will fight me.” said Mr. Varley, and struck him across the mouth.
Sir Henry looked down at him, his brow creased. “Are you serious? Do you really wish to cross swords with me?”
“Good heavens, do you need further proof?” demanded Mr. Varley. “I have no greater ambition than to put two feet of steel through you.”
Sir Henry’s eyes were gleaming with laugher. “Egad, I’ll do it,” he said.
“Here and now,” said Mr. Varley.
“Anywhere you like,” replied Sir Henry. “If we are to be irregular, why, let us be irregular!”
Mr. Varley presented his swords once more. “Do not imagine that I am unaware of the rules governing such affairs as these,” he said. “I am perfectly conversant with the Code of Honour, but in this country I have no friends whom I can call upon to act for me.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” said Sir Henry, grasping one of the hilts. “If we push the table into the next room we shall have space enough, which is all that need concern us.”
He laid the sword he had chosen across a chair and walked over to the doors shutting off his bedchamber. These he flung open, and in a minute or two had swept his sitting-room bare of most of its moveable furniture. Mr. Varley, meanwhile, had kicked off his shoes, and extricated himself from his coat and waistcoat. He took up his position at one end of the room, his left arm hanging loosely at his side, the right straight, holding his sword with the point a bare inch from the floor in front of his right foot.
Sir Henry picked up his sword, brought it to the same prescribed position, and said: “Well, you shall have your satisfaction, Mr. Varley.”
He raised his sword in a formal salute, and the blades engaged.
Sir Henry had the advantage of a longer reach than Mr. Varley, but the younger man, pressing a vicious attack, had both pace and a good style, and for the first minute or two kept his more experienced opponent on the defensive. But Sir Henry’s defence was extremely good. Mr. Varley, feinting a disengagement into sixte from quarte, found his feint foreseen and countered with a swift, effortless dexterity that surprised him, and for a moment lost his proper time.
He recovered, but began to fence with more care. Once he allowed Sir Henry, deceiving the parry of counter-seconds, to break through his guard. The point flickered perilously near his heart, but was withdrawn. He gave a gasp, but kept his eyes fixed on Sir Henry’s.
He saw Sir Henry’s blade waver for one careless moment, and like a flash seized the opportunity to deliver a straight thrust in quarte. His point was aimed for the body but found instead the upper arm, just above the elbow
“Touché!” said Sir Henry, and dropped his point.
Mr. Varley was panting, and the sweat rolled down his face. He, too, let his point fall and stared with knit brows at the red stain on Sir Henry’s torn sleeve. He brushed the back of his hand across his wet forehead, and jerked out: “How was it done? Tell me!”
Sir Henry’s lips twitched. “You should know – you did it.”
Mr. Varley shook his head. “No! That beat—deflecting the point, it wasn’t possible!”
Sir Henry drew out his handkerchief from the pocket of his breeches and twisted it round his arm. “I was too late on the parry,” he replied evasively.
Mr. Varley stamped his foot. “No, I tell you! Do you think me a fool? You wounded yourself!”
Sir Henry smiled. “Just a trick. I did not learn my sword play in an English school.”
“Faith! I thought I knew all the tricks. But to bring your blade within mine then—is it deep?”
“Well, not quite two feet,” said Sir Henry apologetically.
Mr. Varley flushed, and laying down his sword came up to Sir Henry and took the handkerchief from him and bound it round the wound and tied it. “It’s nothing. A mere scratch,” he said.
“Why did you do it?”
Sir Henry met the challenge in his eyes, and said: “Did you think I would run you through?”
“I know of no reason why you should not,” retorted Mr. Varley quickly.
“Oh, do you not? Perhaps it was as well that I did know of one,” said Sir Henry. “Tell me now, why did you challenge me to this desperate encounter?”
“I wanted to kill you.”
Sir Henry picked up his sword, and presented the hilt. “If that is your humour do your worst,” he invited. “Come, run me through. I will confess I deserve it.”
“Oh, fiend seize you, I suppose you have guessed the truth!” snapped Mr. Varley.
“Why, yes, did you think I should not?”
“Of course, I thought you would not. Good Lord, I have masqueraded in man’s clothes many a time!” She paused and regarded him reflectively. “Did I give myself away? I have never done so before.”
“Well, do you know, I did not feel that so young a man as you appeared to be would be very likely to call my cousin ‘a boy scarce out of the schoolroom’,” explained Sir Henry.
“Was that all?”
He shook his head. “No, I think I must always recognise you. Will you accept my apologies for the wrong I did you?”
She shrugged, and turned away to pick up her coat and waistcoat. “Oh, I’m satisfied!”
He took the coat from her, and held it for her to put on. As she thrust her arms into it, he said conversationally: “But you shall not marry my cousin, for all that.”
She pulled out her ruffles and patted them into place. “Are we not agreed on that? I’d never a notion of marrying him.” She heaved a short sigh. “Oh, well, let us be honest! Perhaps I played with the thought—no more than that.” She picked up her sword and wiped it on her handkerchief.
“Why? To be a viscountess, or to escape from gaming?”
She did not answer for a moment, but stood mechanically wiping her blade. Then she tossed the stained and crumpled handkerchief into the fireplace, and said with a slight laugh: “Oh, to be a viscountess, of course. Good Lord, do you picture me a martyr? You’re wrong, Sir Harry!”
“Am I?” He took the sword out of her hand, and laid it aside. “Marry me!”
She was startled, but she smiled a little. “Now what’s this?” she demanded.
“It’s a proposal,” he replied. “They run in my family.”
She put her head on one side. “Egad! Does madness also?”
“Not a whit,” he answered cheerfully.
“My dear man, it’s mad or foxed you must be! You know nothing of me!”
“Nothing. Yet I think the instant I saw you I knew I loved you.”
She said lightly: “Is it an affliction you’re much subject to, sir?”
“No, not in all my wanderings.”
She grasped a chairback. “Ah, you’re surely crazy! One of faro’s daughters for your wife!”
“Why not?” he said coolly. “I count myself quite one of faro’s sons. My late father was as hardened a gamester as your own.”
“You’ve said you know nothing of me. There may be things I dare not tell you.”
“I don’t think it,” he answered, looking down at her.
Her face puckered, but she contrived to smile. “Come, that’s handsome of you! There’s nothing I dare not tell you or any man.”
He came close to her, and gathered her hands in his. “I’ve a strong notion we were made for each other. Will you marry me?”
She pulled one hand away, and adjusted the bandage round his arm. “Myself, I’ve a strong notion I should tighten this handkerchief. You are bleeding a trifle.”
He recaptured her hand. “Let it be. Will you marry me?”
“If I may tie up your arm, perhaps.”
He let her go. “Tie it, then.”
Her fingers became busy about the knot of the handkerchief. She said: “I fence well, don’t I?”
“Very well. Who taught you?”
“My father. Will you show me that trick?”
“If you will marry me, perhaps.”
She smiled, tied the handkerchief up again, and raised her face. “My dear, didn’t I know the instant I laid eyes on you? And what must you do but bribe me to let your cousin go!”
He took her in his arms, and held her very close, and said, smiling down into her eyes: “But I’ve no tact, you know!”
THE END
SOURCE: Heyer, Georgette. “Lady, Your Pardon.” The Australian Woman’s Weekly, 3 Apr. 1937.
