The Black Moth - Georgette Heyer (best ereader for students TXT) 📗
- Author: Georgette Heyer
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It was a master stroke, and for an instant his brows drew together. Then he laughed.
“Merci du compliment, mademoiselle! I admire your wit.”
“I protest I am overwhelmed. May I ask when we are like to arrive at our destination?”
“We should reach Andover soon after eight, my dear.”
So it was some distance he was taking her?
“I suppose you had the wit to provide food for the journey?” she yawned. “You will not wish to exhibit me at an inn, I take it?”
He marvelled at her indomitable courage
“We shall halt at an inn certainly, and my servant will bring you refreshment. That will be in about an hour.”
“So long?” she frowned. “Then, pray excuse me an I compose myself to sleep a little. I am like to find the journey somewhat tedious, I fear.”
She shifted farther into the corner, leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
Thus outwitting his Grace. For it is impossible to be passionate with a girl who feigns sleep when she should be struggling to escape from you. So Tracy, who, whatever else he might lack, possessed a keen sense of humour, settled himself in his corner and followed her example. So they jogged on… .
Arrived at length at the inn, the coach pulled up slowly. Diana opened her eyes with a great assumption of sleepiness.
“Already?” she marvelled.
“I trust you have slept well,” said his Grace suavely.
“Excellently well, I thank you, sir,” was the unblushing reply.
“I am relieved to hear you say so, my dear. I had thought you unable to—your mouth kept shut so admirably. Doubtless you have schooled your jaw not to drop when you sleep sitting up? I wish I might do the same.”
The triumph in his voice was thinly veiled. She found nothing to say.
He rose.
“With your leave, I will go to procure you some refreshment, child. Do not think me uncivil if I remind you that a servant stands without either door.”
“I thank you for the kind thought,” she smiled, but her heart was sick within her.
He disappeared, returning a few moments later with a glass of wine and some little cakes.
“I deplore the scanty nature of your repast,” he said. “But I do not wish to waste time. You shall be more fittingly entertained when we reach Andover.”
Diana drank the wine gratefully, and it seemed to put new life into her. The food almost choked her, but rather than let him see it, she broke a cake in half and started to eat it, playing to gain time: time in which to allow her father a chance of overtaking them before it was too late. She affected to dislike the cake, and rather petulantly demanded a ‘maid of honour.’
Tracy’s eyes gleamed.
“I fear I cannot oblige you, my dear. When we are married you can go to Richmond, and you shall have maids of honour in plenty.”
He relieved her of her glass, taking it from hands that trembled pitifully.
The rest of the journey was as some terrible nightmare. She felt that she dared no longer feign sleep. She was terrified at what his Grace might do, and kept him at arm’s length by means of her tongue and all her woman’s wit. As a matter of fact, Andover had himself well in hand, and had no intention of letting his passion run away with him. But as the time went on and the light went, some of Diana’s control seemed to slip from her, and she became a little less the self-possessed woman, and a little more the trapped and frightened child. When they at last reached Andover Court, and his Grace assisted her to alight her legs would barely carry her up the steps to the great iron-clamped door. She trembled anew as he took her hand.
On the threshold he paused and bowed very low. “Welcome to your future home, my queen,” he murmured, and led her in, past wooden-faced footmen who stared over her head, to his private room, where a table was set for two. He would have taken her in his arms then, but she evaded him and slipped wearily into a chair.
“I protest,” she managed to say, “I protest, I am faint through want of food.”
Andover, looking at her white lips, believed her. He took a seat opposite.
Two footmen came to wait on them, and although her very soul was shamed that they should see her there, she was thankful for their restraining presence.
MY LORD RIDES TO FRUSTRATE HIS GRACE
MY LORD yawned most prodigiously and let fall the Spectator. His eyes roved towards the clock, and noted with disgust that the hands pointed to half after five. He sighed and picked up the Rambler.
His host and hostess were visiting some miles distant, and were not likely to be back until late, so my lord had a long dull evening in front of him, which he relished not at all. Lady O’Hara had tried to induce him to accompany them, promising that he would meet no one he knew, but he had for once been prudent and refused steadfastly. So my lady, after pouting crossly at him and assuring him that he was by far the most obstinate and disagreeable man that she had ever come across, not excepting her husband, who, to be sure, had been quite prodigiously annoying all day, relented, told him she understood perfectly, and even offered to kiss him to make up for her monstrous ill-humour. Jack accepted the offer promptly, waved farewell to her from the porch, and returned to the empty drawing-room to while away the time with two numbers of the Spectator and his own thoughts till dinner, which was to be later than usual to-day, on account of an attack of vapours which had seized the cook.
His thoughts were too unpleasant to be dwelt on; everything in his world seemed to have gone awry. So he occupied himself with what seemed to him a particularly uninteresting number of the Spectator. The sun had almost disappeared, and very soon it became too dark to read; no candles having been brought as yet, my lord, very unromantically, went to sleep in his chair. Whether he would have eventually snored is not known, for not more than a quarter of an hour afterwards the butler roused him with the magic words:
“Dinner is served, sir.”
Carstares turned his head lazily.
“What’s that you say, James?”
“Dinner is served, sir,” repeated the man, and held the door wide for him to pass out.
“Faith! I’m glad to hear it!”
My lord rose leisurely and pulled his cravat more precisely into position. Although he was to be alone, he gave his costume a touch here and there, and flicked a speck of dust from one great cuff with his elegant lace handkerchief.
He strolled across the old panelled hall to the dining-room, and sat down at the table.
The curtains were drawn across the windows, and clusters of candles in graceful silver holders were arranged on the table, shedding a warm light on to the white damask and the shining covers. The footmen presented a fish, and my lord permitted a little to be put on his plate. The butler desired to know if Mr. Carr would drink claret or burgundy, or ale? Mr. Carr would drink claret. A sirloin of beef next made its appearance, and went away considerably smaller. Then before my lord was spread an array of dishes. Partridges flanked one end, a pasty stood next, a cream, two chickens, a duck, and a ham of noble proportions.
My lord went gently through.
The butler desired to know if Mr. Carr would drink a glass of burgundy? He exhibited a dusty bottle. My lord considered it through his eyeglass and decided in favour. He sipped reflectively and waved the ham away.
Sweetmeats appeared before him and a soup, while plump pigeons were uncovered at his elbow.
One was whipped deftly on to his plate, and as he took up his knife and fork to carve it, a great scuffling sounded without, angry voices being raised in expostulation, and, above all, a breathless, insistent appeal for Mr. Carr or Sir Miles. My lord laid down the knife and fork and came to his feet.
“It appears I am demanded,” he said, and went to the door. It was opened for him at once, and he stepped out into the hall to find Mr. Beauleigh trying to dodge the younger footman, who was refusing to let him pass. At the sight of Carstares he stepped back respectfully. Mr. Beauleigh, hot, distraught, breathless, fell upon my lord.
“Thank God you are here, sir!” he cried.
Carstares observed him with some surprise. Mr. Beauleigh had been so very frigid when last they had met.
“I am glad to be at your service, sir,” he bowed. “You have commands for me?”
“We are in terrible trouble,” almost moaned the other. “Betty bade me come to find you, or failing you, Sir Miles, for none other can help us!”
Carstares’ glance grew sharper.
“Trouble? Not— But I forget my manners—we shall talk more at ease in here.” He led Mr. Beauleigh into the morning-room. Beauleigh thrust a paper into his hands.
“Diana went riding this afternoon, and only her horse returned—with this attached to the pommel! Read it, sir! Read it!”
“Diana!” Carstares strode over to the light, and devoured the contents of the single sheet, with eager eyes.
They were not long, and they were very much to the point:
“Mr. Beauleigh may haply recall to mind a certain ‘Mr. Everard,’ of Bath, whose Addresses to Miss Beauleigh were cruelly repulsed. He regrets having now to take the Matter into his Own Hands, and trusts to further his Acquaintance with Mr. Beauleigh at some Future Date, when Miss Beauleigh shall, He trusts, have become ‘Mrs. Everard.’”
Jack crumpled the paper furiously in his hand, grinding out a startling oath.
“— insolent cur!”
“Yes, yes, sir! But what will that avail my daughter? I have come straight to you, for my sister is convinced you know this Everard, and can tell me where to seek them!”
Carstares clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Never fear, Mr. Beauleigh! I pledge you my word she shall be found this very night!”
“You know where he has taken her? You do? You are sure?”
“Back to his earth, I’ll lay my life; ‘tis ever his custom.” He strode to the door, flung it wide and shot clear, crisp directions at the footman. “See to it that my mare is saddled in ten minutes and Blue Devil harnessed to your master’s curricle! Don’t stand staring—go! And send Salter to me!”
The footman scuttled away, pausing only to inform my lord that Salter was not in.
Carstares remembered that he had given Jim leave to visit his Mary at Fittering, and crushed out another oath. He sprang up the stairs, Mr. Beauleigh following breathlessly.
In his room, struggling with his boots, he put a few questions.
Mr. Beauleigh related the whole tale, dwelling mournfully on the excellent references for Harper he had received from Sir Hugh Grandison.
Jack hauled at his second boot.
“Tracy himself, of course!” he fumed, adjusting his spurs.
“Pray, Mr. Carr, who is this scoundrel? Is it true that you know him?”
“Andover,” answered Jack from the depths of the garde-robe. “Damn the fellow, where has he put my cloak?” This to the absent Jim, and not the Duke.
“Andover! Not—surely not the Duke?” cried Mr. Beauleigh.
“I know of none other. At last!”
He emerged and tossed a heavy, many-caped coat on to the bed.
“Now, sir, your attention for one moment.”
He was buckling on his sword as
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