The Black Moth Read online

  To do him justice, Captain Harold was really in love with her and was quite ready to relinquish his commission if only she would run away with him. He had private means of his own, and promised her that her every whim should be satisfied. But Lavinia scolded him, and shook her head. Apart from any ulterior consideration, Richard was, after all, her husband; he, too, loved her, and she was very, very fond of him, although she did plague him dreadfully.

  Lovelace assured her that her husband did not love her nearly as much as he, and when she smiled her disbelief, lost his temper and cried that all the town knew Carstares to be at Mrs Fanshawe’s feet!

  Lavinia stiffened.

  ‘Harold!’

  ‘I am only surprised that you have been blind to it,’ he continued. ‘Where do you think he goes every day for so long? White’s? No. To 16, Mount Street! Stapely called there and met him; another day Lady Davenant saw him with her; Wilding has also met him at her house. He spends nearly every afternoon with her!’

  Lavinia was a Belmanoir, and she had all the Belmanoir pride. Rising to her feet she drew her cloak about her with her most queenly air.

  ‘You forget yourself, Harold,’ she said haughtily. ‘Never dare to speak to me of my husband again in that tone! You may take me at once to my brother.’

  He was very penitent, wording his apology most cleverly, smoothing her ruffled plumage, withdrawing his words, but at the same time contriving to leave their sting behind. She forgave him, yes, but he must never offend her so again.

  Although she had indignantly refused to believe the scandal, it nevertheless rankled, and she found herself watching her husband with jealous eyes, noticing his seeming indifference towards her and his many absences from home. Then came a day when she caused her chair to be borne down Mount Street at the very moment when Richard was coming out of No. 16.

  That was enough for Lavinia. So he was indeed tired of her! He loved another woman! – some wretched widow! For the first time a real worry plagued her. She stayed at home that evening and exerted all her arts to captivate her husband. But Richard, seeing John unhappy, reproachful, every way he turned, his head on fire, his brain seething with conflicting arguments, hardly noticed her, and as soon as he might politely do so, left her, to pace up and down the library floor, trying to make up his mind what to do.

  Lady Lavinia was stricken with horror. She had sickened him by her megrims, as Tracy had prophesied she would! He no longer cared for her! This was why he continually excused himself from accompanying her when she went out! For once in her life she faced facts, and the prospect alarmed her. If it was not already too late, she must try to win back his love, and to do this she realised she must cease to tease him for money, and also cease to snap at him whenever he felt at all out of sorts. She must charm him back to her. She had no idea how much she cared for him until now that she thought he did not care for her. It was dreadful: she had always been so sure of Dicky! Whatever she did, however exasperating she might be he would always adore her.

  And all the time, Richard, far from making love to Mrs Fanshawe, was hearing anecdotes of his brother from her, little details of his appearance, things he had said. He drank in all the information, clutching eagerly at each fresh scrap of gossip, greedy to hear it if it in any way concerned John. His brain was absorbed with this one subject, and he never saw when Lavinia smiled upon him, nor did he seem to hear her coaxing speeches. When she remarked, as she presently did, on his pallor, he almost snapped at her, and left the room. Once she put her arms about him and kissed him on the lips; he put her gently aside, too worried to respond to the caress, but, had she known it – grateful for it.

  His Grace of Andover meeting his sister at Ranelagh Gardens, thought her face looked pinched, and her eyes unhappy. He enquired the reason, but Lady Lavinia refused to confide even in him, and pleaded a headache. Andover, knowing her, imagined that she had been refused some kickshaw, and thought no more about it.

  He himself was very busy. Only two days before a groom had presented himself at St James’s Square, bearing a missive from Harper, very illegible and illspelt, but to the point:

  Yr. Grace,

  I have took the liberty of engageing this Man, Douglas, in Yr. Name. I hope I shall soon be Able to have carried out the Rest of yr. Grace’s Instructions, and trust my Connduct will met Yr. Grace’s Approvall.

  Very Obed’tly,

  M. Harper

  Tracy confirmed the engagement and straightway dispatched the man to Andover, where the head groom would undoubtedly find work for him to do. He was amused at the blind way in which the man had walked into his trap, and meditated cynically on the frailty of human nature, which will always follow the great god of Mammon.

  Not three days later came another letter, this time from Mr Beauleigh, addressed to him at White’s, under the name of Sir Hugh Grandison. It asked for the man Harper’s character.

  His Grace of Andover answered it in the library of his own home, and smiled sarcastically as he wrote Harper down ‘exceeding honest and trustworthy, as I have always found’.

  He was in the middle of the letter when the door was unceremoniously pushed open and Andrew lounged into the room.

  His Grace looked up frowning. Not a bit dismayed by the coolness of his reception, his brother kicked the door to and lowered his long limbs into a chair.

  ‘May I ask to what I owe the honour of this intrusion?’ smiled Tracy dangerously.

  ‘Richard,’ was the cheerful reply, ‘Richard.’

  ‘As I am not interested in either him or his affairs –’

  ‘How truly amiable you are to-day! But I think you’ll be interested in this, ’tis so vastly mysterious.’

  ‘Indeed? What is the matter?’

  ‘Just what I want to know!’

  Tracy sighed wearily.

  ‘Pray come to the point, Andrew – if point there be. I have no time to waste.’

  ‘Lord! Busy? Working? God ha’ mercy!’ The young rake stretched his legs out before him and cast his eyes down their shapeliness. Then he stiffened and sat up, staring at one white-stockinged ankle.

  ‘Now, damn and curse it! where did that come from?’ he expostulated mildly.

  ‘Where did what come from?’

  ‘That great splash of mud on my leg. Brand new on this morning, and I’ve scarce set my nose without doors. Damn it, I say! A brand new –’

  ‘Leg?’

  ‘Hey? What’s that you say?’

  ‘Nought. When you have quite finished your eulogy, perhaps you would consent to tell me your errand?’

  ‘Oh, ay! but twenty shillings the pair! Think of it!… Well, the point – there is one, you see – is this: it is Richard’s desire that you honour him with your presence at Wyncham on Friday week, at three in the afternoon exactly. To which effect he sends you this.’ He tossed a letter on to the desk. ‘You are like to have the felicity of meeting me there.’

  Tracy ripped open the packet and spread the single sheet on the desk before him. He read it through very deliberately, turned it over, as if in search of more, re-read it, folded it, and dropped it into the waste-paper basket at his side. He then picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink again.

  ‘What think you?’ demanded Andrew, impatiently.

  His Grace wrote tranquilly on to the end of the line.

  ‘What think I of what?’

  ‘Why, the letter, of course! What ails the man? “Something of great import to impart to us,” forsooth! What means he?’

  ‘Yes, I noticed ’twas very badly worded,’ commented Tracy. ‘I have not the vaguest notion as to his meaning.’

  ‘But what do you make of it? Lord, Tracy, don’t be such a fish! Dick is summoning quite a party!’

  ‘You appear to be in his confidence, my dear Andrew. Allow me to congratulate you. No doubt we shall know more – ah – on Frid