The Black Moth

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘To my cost!’ was the laughing rejoinder, and Fortescue rubbed his sword arm as if in memory of some hurt. ‘You pinked me finely, Tracy!’

  ‘Clumsily, Frank, clumsily. It might have been quicker done.’

  The Viscount, who had been a second at the meeting, tittered amiably.

  ‘Neatetht thing I ever thaw, ’pon my honour. All over in leth than a minute, Avon! Give you my word!’

  ‘Never mind, you had fought Devil, Frank? What possessed you?’

  ‘I was more mad than usual, I suppose,’ replied Fortescue in his low, rather dreamy voice, ‘and I interfered between Tracy and his French singer. He objected most politely, and we fought it out in Hyde Park.’

  ‘Gad, yes!’ exclaimed his partner, Lord Falmouth. ‘Why, I was Devil’s second! But it was ages ago!’

  ‘Two years,’ nodded Fortescue, ‘but I have not forgotten, you see!’

  ‘Lord, I had! And ’twas the funniest fight I ever saw, with you as furious as could be and Devil cool as a cucumber. You were never much of a swordsman, Frank, but that morning you thrust so wildly that stap me if I didn’t think Devil would run you through. ’Stead of that he pinks you neatly through the sword-arm, and damme if you didn’t burst out laughing fit to split! And we all walked off to breakfast with you, Frank, as jolly as sandboys. Heavens, yes! That was a fight!’

  ‘It was amusing,’ admitted Tracy at Fortescue’s elbow. ‘Don’t play, Frank.’

  Fortescue flung his cards face downwards on the table. ‘Curse you, Tracy, you’ve brought bad luck!’ he said entirely without rancour. ‘I had quite tolerable hands before you came.’

  ‘Belmanoir, I will thtake my chestnut mare ’gaintht your new grey,’ lisped the Viscount, coming up to the table, dice-box in hand.

  ‘Stap me, but that is too bad!’ cried Wilding. ‘Don’t take him, Devil! Have you see the brute?’

  The four players had finished their card-playing and were quite ready for the dice.

  ‘Trust in your luck, Belmanoir, and take him!’ advised Pritchard, who loved hazarding other men’s possessions, but kept a tight hold on his own.

  ‘Ay, take him!’ echoed Falmouth.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Fortescue.

  ‘Of course I shall take him,’ answered his Grace tranquilly. ‘My grey against your chestnut and the best of three. Will you throw?’

  The Viscount rattled his box with a flourish. Two threes and a one turned up.

  With a hand on Fortescue’s shoulder, and one foot on the rung of his chair, Tracy leaned forward and cast his own dice on to the table. He had beaten the Viscount’s throw by five. The next toss Fotheringham won, but the last fell to his Grace.

  ‘Damnathion!’ said the Viscount cheerfully. ‘Will you thtake your grey againtht my Terror?’

  ‘Thunder and turf, Fotheringham! You’ll lose him!’ cried Nettlefold warningly. ‘Don’t stake the Terror!’

  ‘Nonthenth! Do you take me, Belmanoir?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the Duke, and threw.

  ‘Oh, an you are in a gaming mood, I will play you for the right to try my hand with the dark beauty!’ called Markham across the room.

  ‘Against what?’ asked Fortescue.

  ‘Oh, what he wills!’

  The Viscount had cast and lost, and his Grace won the second throw.

  ‘It appears my luck is in,’ he remarked. ‘I will stake my beauty against your estates, Markham.’

  Sir Gregory shook his head, laughing.

  ‘No, no! Keep the lady!’

  ‘I intend to, my dear fellow. She is not your style. I begin to wonder whether she altogether suits my palate.’ He drew out his snuff-box and offered it to his host, and the other men finding that he was proof against their railing, allowed the subject to drop.

  In the course of the evening his Grace won three thousand guineas – two at ombre and one at dice – lost his coveted grey hunter and won him back again from Wilding, to whom he had fallen. He came away at three o’clock in company with Fortescue, both perfectly cool-headed, although his Grace, for his part, had imbibed a considerable quantity of burgundy, and more punch than any ordinary man could take without afterwards feeling very much the worse for wear.

  As my Lord Avon’s door closed behind them, Tracy turned to his friend:

  ‘Shall we walk, Frank?’

  ‘Since our ways lie together, yes,’ replied Fortescue, linking his arm in the Duke’s. ‘Down Brock Street and across the Circus is our quickest way.’

  They strolled down the road for a few moments in silence, passing a linkman on the way. Fortescue bade him a cheery good-night, which was answered in a very beery voice, but the Duke said nothing. Frank looked into his dark-browed face thoughtfully.

  ‘You’ve had the luck, to-night, Tracy.’

  ‘Moderately. I hoped entirely to repair last week’s losses.’

  ‘You are in debt, I suppose?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘To what extent, Tracy?’

  ‘My dear fellow, I neither have, nor wish to have, the vaguest notion. Pray do not treat me to a sermon!’

  ‘I shall not. I’ve said all I have to say on the subject.’

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘Yes – many times. And it has had no more effect upon you than if I had not spoken.’

  ‘Less.’

  ‘I daresay, I wish it were not so, for there’s good in you somewhere, Tracy.’

  ‘By what strange process of reasoning do you arrive at that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Fortescue laughing, ‘there’s nearly always some good in the very worst of men. I count on that – and your kindness to me.’

  ‘I should be interested to know when I have been kind to you – beyond the time when I was compelled to teach you to leave me and my affairs alone.’

  ‘I was not referring to that occasion,’ was the dry answer. ‘I had not seen your act in that light. I meant well over the episode.’

  ‘You could not damn yourself more effectually than by saying that,’ said his Grace calmly. ‘But we wander from the point. When have I done you an act of kindness?’

  ‘You know very well. When you extricated me from that cursed sponging-house.’

  ‘I remember now. Yes, that was good of me. I wonder why I did it?’

  ‘’Tis what I want to know.’

  ‘I suppose I must have had some sort of an affection for you. I would certainly never have done such a thing for anyone else.’

  ‘Not even for your own brother!’ said Frank sharply.

  They had crossed the Circus and were walking down Gay Street now.

  ‘Least of all for them,’ came the placid response. ‘You are thinking of Andrew’s tragic act? Most entertaining, was it not?’

  ‘You evidently found it so.’

  ‘I did. I wanted to prolong the sensation, but my esteemed brother-in-law came to the young fool’s rescue.’

  ‘Would you have assisted him?’

  ‘In the end I fear I should have had to.’

  ‘I believe there must be a kink in your brain!’ cried Fortescue. ‘I cannot else account for your extraordinary conduct!’

  ‘We Belmanoirs are all half-mad,’ replied Tracy sweetly, ‘but I think that in my case it is merely concentrated evil.’

  ‘I will not believe it! You have shown that you can behave differently! You do not try to strip me of all I possess – why all those unfortunate youths you play with?’

  ‘You see, you possess so little,’ the Duke excused himself.

  ‘Neither do you sneer at me in your loathsome fashion. Why?’

  ‘Because I have hardly ever any desire to. I like you.’

  ‘Tare an’ ouns! you must like someone else in the world besides me?’

  ‘I can think of no one. And I
do not exactly worship the ground you tread on. The contemplation of my brothers appalls me. I have loved various women, and shall no doubt love many more –’

  ‘No, Tracy,’ interposed Fortescue, ‘you have never loved a woman in your life. ’Tis that that might save you. I do not allude to the lustful passion you indulge in, but real love. For God’s sake, Belmanoir, live clean!’

  ‘Pray do not distress yourself, Frank. I am not worth it.’

  ‘I choose to think that you are. I cannot but feel that if you had been loved as a boy – Your mother –’

  ‘Did you ever see my mother?’ inquired his Grace lazily.

  ‘No – but –’

  ‘Have you ever seen my sister?’

  ‘Er – yes –’

  ‘In a rage?’

  ‘Really, I –’

  ‘Because, if you have, you have seen my mother. Only she was ten times more violent. In fact, we were a pleasant party when we were all at home.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good Gad! I believe you are sorry for me?’ cried Tracy scornfully.

  ‘I am. Is it a presumption on my part?’

  ‘My dear Frank, when I am sorry for myself you may be sorry too. Until then –’

  ‘When that day comes I shall no longer pity you.’

  ‘Very deep, Frank! You think I shall be on the road to recovery? A pretty conceit. Luckily, the happy moment has not yet come – and I do not think it is like to. We appear to have arrived.’

  They were standing outside one of the tall houses where Fortescue lodged. He turned and grasped his friend’s shoulders.

  ‘Tracy, give up this mad life you lead! Give up the women and the drink, and the excessive gaming; for one day, believe me, you will overstep yourself and be ruined!’

  The Duke disengaged himself.

  ‘I very much object to being man-handled in the street,’ he complained. ‘I suppose you still mean well. You should strive to conquer the tendency.’

  ‘I wonder if you know how insolent is your tone, Belmanoir?’ asked Fortescue steadily.

  ‘Naturally. I should not have attained such perfection in the art else. But pray accept my thanks for your good advice. You will forgive me an I do not avail myself of it, I am sure. I prefer the crooked path.’

  ‘Evidently,’ sighed the other. ‘If you will not try the straight and narrow way, I can only hope that you will fall very deeply and very honestly in love; and that the lady will save you from yourself.’

  ‘I will inform you of it when it comes to pass,’ promised his Grace. ‘And now good-night!’

  ‘Good-night!’ Frank returned the low bow with a curt nod. ‘I shall see you to-morrow – that is, this morning – at the Baths?’

  ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ was the smiling rejoinder. ‘Sleep soundly, Frank!’ He waved an ironic farewell and crossed the road to his own lodgings, which stood almost directly opposite.

  ‘And I suppose you will sleep as soundly as if you have not a stain on your conscience – and had not tried your uttermost to alienate the regard of the only friend you possess,’ remarked Frank bitterly to the darkness. ‘Damn you, Tracy, for the villain you are!’ He walked up the steps to his own front door and turned the key in the lock. He looked over his shoulder as a door slammed across the street. ‘Poor Devil!’ he said. ‘Oh, you poor Devil!’

  Eight

  The Biter Bit

  With John Carstares the winter had passed quite uneventfully. He continued his highway robbery, but he made two bad blunders – not from the point of view of a thief, but from that of the gentleman in him. The first was when he stopped an opulent-looking chariot, which he found to contain two ladies, their maid and their jewels, and the second when the occupant of a large travelling coach chanced to be an old gentleman who possessed far greater courage than physical strength. On the first occasion my lord’s dismay had been ludicrous, and he had hastily retired after tendering a naïve apology. The old gentleman in the second episode had defied him so gallantly that he had impulsively offered him the butt end of one of his pistols. The old man was so surprised that he allowed the weapon to fall to the ground, when it exploded quite harmlessly, sending up a cloud of dust and smoke. Carstares then begged his pardon most humbly, assisted him back into his coach, and rode off before the astonished Mr Dunbar had time to collect his wits.

  The robbing was not carried out in a very scientific manner, for, as has been seen, Carstares could not bring himself to terrorise women or old men, and there only remained the young and the middle-aged gentlemen, one of whom Jack offered to fight for the possession of his jewels. His challenge was promptly accepted by the man, who happened to possess a strong sense of humour, and probably saw a chance of saving his belongings in the offer. He had been speedily worsted, but Carstares was so pleased with a particularly neat thrust which he had executed, that he forwent half the booty, and the pair of them divided the contents of the jewel-box by the roadside, the sporting gentleman keeping his most valued belongings and giving Jack the surplus. They parted on the very best of terms, and all Carstares got out of the episode was a little sword practice and a few trinkets.

  When May came he was patrolling the west side of Sussex, beyond Midhurst, not because he thought it a profitable part, but because he knew and loved the country. One late afternoon towards the end of the month he rode gaily into one of the small villages that nestle amongst the Downs, and made his way down the quaint main street to the George Inn, where he drew rein and dismounted. At his call an aged ostler hobbled out of a side door, chewing an inevitable straw, and after eyeing the newcomer and his steed for an appreciable length of time, evidently decided that they were worthy of his attention, for he came forward, remarking that it had been a pleasant day.

  Carstares agreed with him, and volunteered the information that it would be another fine day to-morrow, if the sunset were to be trusted. To this the ostler replied that he, for one, never trusted to no red sunsets, and added darkly that there warn’t nothing so deceitful to his manner o’ thinking. He’d known it be such a red sunset as never was, and yet be a-pouring with rain all next day… Should he take the mare?

  Carstares shook his head.

  ‘No, I thank you. I remain here but a few moments. I doubt she’s thirsty though – eh Jenny?’

  ‘Water, sir?’

  ‘For her, yes. For myself I fancy a tankard of your home-brewed ale. Stand, Jenny!’ He turned away and walked up the steps to the inn door.

  ‘Be you a-going to leave her there, sir – a standing all by herself?’ inquired the man, surprised.

  ‘Why, yes! She’s docile enough.’

  ‘Well! Seems to me a risky thing to leave a hoss – and a skittish hoss at that – a-standing loose in the road. Ye won’t be tying her to a post, master?’

  Carstares leaned his arms on the balustrade and looked down at them.

  ‘I will not. She’d be very hurt at such treatment, wouldn’t you, lass?’

  Jenny tossed her head playfully, as if in agreement, and the ostler scratched his head, looking from her to my lord:

  ‘A’most seems as if she understand what you be a-saying to her, sir!’

  ‘Of course she understands! Don’t I tell you ’tis a clever little lady? If I call her now she’ll come up these steps to me, and not all the ostlers in Christendom could stop her.’

  ‘Don’t ’ee go for to do it, sir!’ urged the old man, backing. ‘She must be uncommon fond o’ ye?’

  ‘She’d be a deal fonder of you if you’d fetch her a drink,’ hinted Jack broadly.

  ‘Ay, sir! I be a-going this werry instant!’ And with many an anxious glance over his shoulder at the perfectly quiet mare, he disappeared through an open doorway into the yard.

  When Carstares, tankard of ale in hand, emerged from the inn and sat himself down on on
e of the benches that stood against the wall, the mare was drinking thirstily from a bucket which the ancient one held for her.

  ‘’Tis a wunnerful fine mare, sir,’ he remarked at length, after a careful inspection of her points.

  Carstares nodded pleasantly, and surveyed Jenny through half-shut eyes.

  ‘I think so every time I look at her,’ she said.

  ‘I should think she could get a bit of a pace on her, sir? Mebbe ye’ve tried her racing?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t brought up to that. But she’s fast enough.’

  ‘Ay, sir. No vices?’

  ‘Lord, no!’

  ‘Don’t kick neither?’

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘Oh! they allus knows who’ll stand it and who won’t.’

  Jack drained his tankard, and setting it down on the bench beside him, rose to his feet.

  ‘She’d not dream of kicking a friend. Jenny!’

  The ostler watched her pick her way towards her master, coquetting with her head, and sidling round him in the most playful manner possible. A slow smile dawned on the man’s face.

  ‘Ah, it be a purty sight to watch her – so it be!’ he said, and received a guinea from Jack, who never tired of listening to praise of his beloved Jenny.

  Carstares remounted, nodded farewell to the ostler, and rode leisurely on down the street, soon branching off to the right into a typical Sussex lane, where he trotted between uneven hedges, sweet with blossom and with May, and placid fields rolling away on either side, upwards until they merged into the undulating hills, barely discernible in the gloom, that are the downs. It was a wonderfully calm evening, with only a gentle west wind blowing, and the moon already shining faintly in the dark sky. There was nothing beyond the sound of the mare’s hoofs to break the beautiful stillness of it all.

  He rode for some way without meeting a soul, and when at the end of an hour someone did chance along the road it was only a labourer returning home to his supper after a long day in the fields. John bade him a cheery good evening and watched him pass on down the road humming.

  After that he met no one. He rode easily along for miles, into the fast-gathering darkness. He was frowning as he rode, thinking.