Black Moth

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘You will approach their present groom, and you will insinuate that I, Andover, am in need of a second groom. You will tell him that I pay handsomely – treble what Mr Beauleigh gives him. If I know human nature, he will apply for the post. You then step in. If Mr Beauleigh asks for some recommendation, you are to refer him to Sir Hugh Grandison, White’s Chocolate House, St James’s Street. When you are engaged I will send further instructions.’

  The man gaped, shut his mouth, and gaped again.

  ‘Do you fully understand me?’ asked Belmanoir calmly.

  ‘Er – er – yes, your Grace!’

  ‘Repeat what I have said, then.’

  Harper stumbled through it and mopped his brow unhappily.

  ‘Very well. In addition, I pay you twice as much as Mr Beauleigh gives you, and, at the end, if you serve me well – fifty guineas. Are you satisfied?’

  Harper brightened considerably.

  ‘Yes, your Grace! Thank you, sir!’

  Tracy laid twenty guineas before him.

  ‘That is for your expenses. Remember this: the sooner the thing is done, the more certain are your fifty guineas. That is all. Have you any questions to ask?’

  Harper cudgelled his still dazed brain, and finding none, shook his head.

  ‘No, your Grace.’

  ‘Then you may go.’

  The man bowed himself out, clutching his guineas. He was comparatively a newcomer in his Grace’s service, and he was by no means accustomed to the Duke’s lightning method of conducting his affairs. He was not sure that he quite appreciated it. But fifty guineas were fifty guineas.

  Twenty-one

  Mrs Fanshawe Lights a Fire and O’Hara Fans the Flame

  Richard Carstares very soon availed himself of Mrs Fanshawe’s permission to call upon her, and duly put in an appearance at No. 16, Mount Street. He found the house very tastefully appointed, the sister elderly and good-natured, and the widow herself an excellent hostess. The first time he called he was not the only visitor; two ladies whom he did not know and a young cousin were already there, and later, a bowing acquaintance, Mr Standish, also arrived. Seeing that he would have no opportunity to talk with the widow on the subject of his brother, he very soon took his leave, promising to wait upon her again at no very distant date. When, three days later, he again sent in his name and was admitted, he found the lady alone, and was gratified to hear her order the servant to deny her to all other visitors.

  He bowed over her hand and hoped she was well.

  Mrs Fanshawe drew him down beside her on the settee.

  ‘I am very well, Mr Carstares. And you?’

  ‘Also,’ he smiled, but his looks belied his words.

  She told him so, laughing, and he pleaded a worried week.

  ‘Well, sir, I presume you did not come to talk to me about your health, but about my friend – eh?’

  ‘I assure –’

  ‘Remember, no vapid compliments!’ she besought.

  ‘Then, madam, yes. I want to hear about – Ferndale. You see, I – like you – took a great interest in him.’

  She sent him a shrewd glance, and nodded.

  ‘Of course. I will tell you all I know, Mr Carstares, but it is not very much, and maybe you will be disappointed. But I only knew him the short time we were both in Vienna, and – he was not very communicative.’

  ‘Ah! – he did not confide in you, madam?’

  ‘No. If one attempted to draw his confidence, he became a polite iceberg.’

  ‘Nevertheless, madam, please tell me all that you know.’

  ‘It will not take long, I fear. I met him in '48 at Vienna, in the Prater, where I was walking with my husband, who had come to Vienna for his health. I chanced to let fall my reticule when Sir Anthony was passing us, and he picked it up, speaking the most execrable German.’ She smiled a little at the remembrance. ‘Mr Fanshawe, who had the greatest dislike for all foreigners, was overjoyed to hear the English accent. He induced Sir Anthony to continue his walk with us, and afterwards he called at our lodgings. I think he, too, was glad to meet a fellow-countryman, for he came often, and once when I had been talking with him for some time he let fall – what shall I say? – his reserve – his guard – and told me that he had scarcely spoken his own language for four years. Afterwards he seemed to regret having said even that much, and turned the subject.’ She paused and looked up to see if her auditor was interested.

  ‘Yes, yes?’ urged Richard. ‘And then?’

  ‘I do not remember. He came, as I said, often, mostly to talk to my husband, who was a great invalid, but sometimes to see me. He would hardly ever speak of England – I think he did not trust himself. He never mentioned any relations or any English friends, and when I spoke of home, he would shut his mouth very tightly, and look terribly sad. I saw that for some reason the subject pained him, so I never spoke of it if I could help it.

  ‘He was a most entertaining companion, Mr Carstares; he used to tell my husband tales that made him laugh as I had not heard him laugh for months. He was very lively, very witty, and almost finickingly well dressed, but what his occupation was I could not quite ascertain. He said he was a gentleman of leisure, but I do not think he was at all wealthy. He frequented all the gaming houses, and I heard tales of his marvellous luck, so one day I taxed him with it, and he laughed and said he lived by Chance – he meant dice. Yet I know, for I once had conversation with his servant, that his purse was at times very, very slender.’

  ‘The time he aided you, Mrs Fanshawe, when was that?’

  She flushed.

  ‘That was a few months after we first met him. I was – foolish; my married life was not – very happy, and I was – or, rather, I fancied myself – in love with an Austrian nobleman, who – who – well, sir, suffice it that I consented to dine with him one evening. I found then that he was not the galant homme I had thought him, but something quite different. I do not know what I should have done had not Sir Anthony arrived.’

  ‘He did arrive then?’

  ‘Yes. You see, he knew that this Austrian had asked me to dine – I told him – and he counselled me to refuse. But I – well, sir, I have told you, I was young and very foolish – I would not listen. When he called at our house and found that I was out, he at once guessed where I had gone, and he followed me to the Count’s house, gave an Austrian name, and was announced just as the Count tried to – tried to – kiss me. I think I shall never forget the relief of that moment! He was so safe, and so English! The Count was furious, and at first I thought he would have his lackeys throw Sir Anthony out. But when he heard all that Anthony had to say, he realised that it was useless to try to detain me – and I was taken home. Anthony was very kind – he did not scold, neither had he told my husband. Two days after, he and the Count fought a duel, and the Count was wounded in the lung. That was all. But it made me very grateful to him and interested in his affairs. Mr Fanshawe left Vienna a few weeks after that, and I have never seen my preux chevalier since.’ She sighed and looked steadily across at Carstares. ‘And you – you are so like him!’

  ‘You think so, madam?’ was all he could find to say.

  ‘I do, sir. And something more, which, perhaps, you will deem an impertinence. Is Anthony your brother?’

  The suddenness of the attack threw Carstares off his guard. He went white.

  ‘Madam!’

  ‘Please be not afraid that mine is the proverbial woman’s tongue, sir. It does not run away with me, I assure you. When I saw you the other night for the first time, I was struck by the resemblance, and I asked my partner, Mr Stapely, who you were. He told me, and much more beside, which I was not at the time desirous of hearing.’

  ‘Trust Will Stapely!’ exclaimed Richard, and mentally cursed the amiable gossip-monger.

  ‘Among other things he told me of your elder brother – who
– who – in fact, he told me the whole story. Of course, my mind instantly leapt to my poor Sir Anthony, despite that in appearance he is younger than you. Was I right?’

  Richard rose to his feet and walked away to the window, standing with his back to her.

  ‘Ay!’

  ‘I was sure of it,’ she nodded. ‘So that was why he would not speak of England? Poor boy!’

  Richard’s soul writhed under the lash of her pity.

  ‘So he will always be outcast,’ she continued. ‘Alone, unhappy, without friends –’

  ‘No!’ he cried, turning. ‘’Fore Gad, no, madam!’

  ‘Will society – cruel, hard society – receive him, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Society will – one day – receive him, Mrs Fanshawe. You will see.’

  ‘I long for that day,’ she sighed. ‘I wish I had it in my power to help him – to repay in part the debt I owe him.’

  At that he lifted his head.

  ‘My brother, madam, would count it not a debt, but an honour,’ he answered proudly.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘You are like him; when you speak like that you might almost be he.’

  ‘He is worth a thousand of me, Mrs Fanshawe!’ he replied vehemently, and broke off, staring down at the table.

  ‘And his name?’ she asked softly.

  ‘John Anthony St Ervine Delaney Carstares,’ he said, ‘Earl of Wyncham.’

  ‘So the Anthony was real! I am so glad, for he would always be Anthony to me.’

  There was a long silence, broken at last by the lady.

  ‘I fear I have made you sad, Mr Carstares. You will drink a dish of Bohea with me, before you go? And we will not speak of this again.’

  ‘You are very good, madam. Believe me, I am grateful to you for telling me all that you have. I beg you will allow me to wait on you again ere long?’

  ‘I shall be honoured, sir. I am nearly always at home to my friends.’

  Her sister entered the room soon after, and private conversation came to an end.

  Carstares lay awake long that night, hearing the hours toll by and the owls screech in the square. The widow’s words had sunk deep into his ever-uneasy conscience, and he could not sleep for the thought of John, ‘alone, unhappy, without friends’… Time after time had he argued this question with himself: John or Lavinia?… He fell to wondering where his brother now was; whether he was still roaming the South Country, a highwayman. No one would even know how he, Richard, dreaded each fresh capture made by the military. Every time he expected John to be among the prisoners, and he visited Newgate so often that his friends twitted him on it, vowing he had Selwyn’s love of horrors.

  He would argue that the matter rested in John’s own hands: if he were minded to come back to society, he would do so; but deep within himself he knew that such a decision was unworthy of one even so debased as was he. Then his mind went to Lavinia, who alternately enchanted and exasperated him. Only a week ago she had defied him openly in the matter of her friendship with Lovelace, yet had she not afterwards apologised, and thrust the Captain aside for his sake? She was so sweetly naughty, so childishly unreasonable. Selfish? Yes, he supposed so, but he loved her! loved her so greatly that it were a pleasure to him to die for her sake. Yet John – John was his brother – the adored elder brother, and by obeying Lavinia he was wronging him, hurting him. If only Lavinia would consent to the truth being told! It always came back to that point: if only she would consent. And she never would. She insisted that, having married her under false pretences, he had no right to disgrace her now. She was right, he knew, but he wished she could be for once unselfish.

  So he worried on through the night, tossing to and fro in his great bed, a weight on his mind, a ceaseless ache in his heart.

  Towards dawn he fell asleep and did not wake again until his chocolate was brought to him. Bitterly he reflected that at least John had no conscience to prey upon him; he did not fall asleep with his brain seething with conflicting arguments, and awake with the decision as far off as ever. To-day his head ached unbearably, and he stayed in bed for some time contemplating the grey morning. A fog hung over the square, and through it the trees, with their withered autumn leaves, loomed dismally before the windows. There was something infinitely depressing about the dull outlook, and presently he rose and allowed his valet to dress him, not able to stand the inaction any longer. His headache was better by the time he had visited his wife in her room, and listened to her enthusiastic account of last night’s rout, and, going out into the square, he called a chair, ordering the men to carry him to White’s, where he intended to write two letters. Somehow, Wyncham House was too poignantly full of memories of John to-day, and he was thankful to be out of it.

  White’s was crowded even at that hour of the morning, and the noise seemed to cut through his head. Men hailed him from all sides, offering him bets; someone tried to tell him some piece of scandal; they would not let him alone, and at last his jagged nerves would no longer support it, and he left the house to go further down the street to his other club, the Cocoa-Tree, which he hoped to find less rowdy. It was fuller than he expected, but many of the men had come as he had, to write letters and to be quiet. Very little gaming was as yet in swing.

  Richard wrote steadily for perhaps an hour, and sealed his last letter preparatory to leaving. As he affixed the wafer, he was conscious of a stir behind him, and heard exclamations of:

  ‘Where in thunder did you spring from?’

  ‘Gad, ’tis an age since I’ve seen you!’

  ‘Lord, ’tis O’Hara!’

  Then came the soft Irish voice in answer, and he slewed round in his chair to face them all. Miles O’Hara was the centre of a little group of interested and welcoming clubmen, explaining his arrival.

  ‘Sure, I was in town on a matter of business, and I thought I must come to the club to see ye all while I was here, for ’tis not often I get the chance –’

  Richard rose, gathering up his letters and stared across at this man who had been Jack’s greatest friend. He took a step towards him. Richard was about to hail him, when he suddenly noticed the change in his expression. The good humour died out of the Irishman’s eyes and left them hard and scornful. His pleasant mouth curved into a disdainful line. Carstares stood still, one hand on the back of a chair, his eyes riveted to O’Hara’s face, reading all the reproach, the red-hot anger that Miles was trying to convey to him. O’Hara achieved a sneer and turned his shoulder, continuing to address his friends.

  Richard’s head swam. O’Hara was ignoring him, would not speak to him… O’Hara knew the truth! He walked blindly to the door, and groped for the handle… O’Hara knew! He was in the passage, on the front steps, in the road, shuddering. O’Hara knew, and he had looked at him as if – as if – again he shuddered, and seeing an empty chair, hailed it, bidding the men carry him to Grosvenor Square… O’Hara despised him! – reproached him! Then Jack was in trouble? He had seen him and learnt the truth? God, but his brain was reeling!…

  Twenty-two

  Developments

  After the encounter with O’Hara, whatever peace of mind Richard had had, left him. He knew not a moment’s quiet; all day, and sometimes all night, his brain worried round and round the everlasting question: John or Lavinia? He had quite decided that it must be either the one or the other; the idea that he might conceivably retain his wife and confess the truth, never occurred to him. So often had Lavinia assured him that he had no right to expect her to share his disgrace, that now he believed it. He thought that she would elope with Lovelace, whom, his tortured mind decided, she really loved. Any attempt to frustrate such an action would, he supposed wretchedly, be the essence of selfishness. Of course he was not himself, and his brain was not working normally or rationally; had he but known it, he was mentally ill, and if Lavinia had thought to examine him closely she could not have failed t
o observe the fever spots on each cheek, the unnaturally bright eyes and the dark rings encircling them. Richard wore the look of one goaded beyond endurance, and utterly tired and overwrought. As he told Mrs Fanshawe, when she exclaimed at his appearance – he could not rest; he must always be moving, thinking. She saw that he was not entirely himself, and counselled him to consult a doctor. His half-angry repudiation of all illness did not surprise her, but she was considerably startled when, in answer to her pleading that he should have a care for himself, he vehemently said: ‘If I could die, I should be glad!’ She wondered what his wife was about not to see his condition, and wished that she might do something. But she was not acquainted with Lady Lavinia, and she felt it would be a piece of gross presumption on her part to speak to her of Richard. If she had thought his malady to be physical, she reflected, she might venture a word, but as she perceived it to be mental, she could only hope that it would pass in time, and that he would recover from his run-down condition.

  Lady Lavinia was pursuing her butterfly existence, heeding nothing but her own pleasure, bent on enjoying herself. She succeeded very well, on the whole, but she could not help wishing that Dicky were a little more cheerful and wishful to join in her gaiety. Of late he was worse that ever, and although he supplied her wants uncomplainingly, she would almost rather he had refused her and shown a little life, than give way to her with his dreadful apathy.

  Lovelace was out of town for a week, and Lavinia was surprised to find how little she missed him. To be sure, playing with fire was very pleasant, but when it was removed out of her reach, it really made no odds. She missed Harry’s adulation and his passionate love-making, for she was one of those women who must always have admiration and excitement, but she was not made miserable by his absence. She continued to flutter round to all the entertainments of the season with one or other of her brothers, and when Lovelace returned he was disturbed by her casual welcome. However, she was undoubtedly pleased to see him, and soon fell more or less under his spell, allowing him to be by her side when Tracy was not near, and to charm her ears with compliments and gallantry.