The Black Moth by Georgette Heyer (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📕

>“You look it.”

John cast a startled glance down his slim person.

“Is that so, madam? And I rather flattered myself I did not!”

“I was only laughing at you. You do not expect me to believe that fabrication—surely?”

“I fear I do,” he sighed. “‘Tis very true, alack!”

“Oh, indeed? Also a friend of Sir Miles O’Hara, J.P.—and of Mr. Everard?”

“At least the last-named is not an acquaintance to be proud of,” he retorted.

“Perhaps not. My Di says he is some great gentleman.”

“I perceive that your Di is by nature suspicious. Why does she think that?”

“You will see. Di, love, here is Mr. Carr trying to make me believe that he is a highwayman!”

Diana came up to them smiling.

“I fear he teases you, aunt. Do you remember this, sir?” Into Jack’s hands she put his Grace of Andover’s sword.

Carstares took it, surprised, and glanced casually at the hilt. Then he started up.

“Why, ‘tis his sword. And I thought ‘twas left on the roadside. Can it be—did you bring it, mademoiselle?”

She dropped him a curtsey, and laughed.

“You are surprised, sir? You demanded the sword, so I naturally supposed that you required it. Therefore I brought it home.”

“‘Twas monstrous thoughtful of you then. I dared not hope that it had not been forgotten. I am very grateful—”

“Then pray show your gratitude by sitting down again!” advised the elder Miss Beauleigh. “Remember that this is your first day up, and have a care!”

John subsided obediently, turning the sword over in his hands.

Diana pointed to the wrought gold hilt with an accusing finger.

“An I mistake not, sir, that is a coronet.”

My lord’s eyes followed the pink-tipped finger and rested wrathfully upon the arms of Andover. It was like Tracy to flaunt them on his sword-hilt, he reflected.

“It certainly has that appearance,” he admitted cautiously.

“Also, those are not paste, but real diamonds, and that is a ruby.”

“I do not dispute it, madam,” he answered meekly.

“And I believe that that big stone is an emerald.”

“I am very much afraid that it is.”

“An expensive toy!” she said, and looked sharply at him.

“Ornate, I agree, but as true a piece of steel as ever I saw,” replied my lord blandly, balancing the rapier on one finger.

“A very expensive toy!” she repeated sternly.

John sighed.

“True, madam—true.” Then with a brightened air: “Perhaps Mr. Everard has expensive tastes?”

“It is very possible. And I think that Mr. Everard must have been more than a simple country gentleman to indulge those tastes.”

Carstares bit his lip to hide a smile at the thought of Tracy in the light of a simple country gentleman, and shook his head sadly.

“Do you infer that he came by this sword dishonestly, madam?”

The dimple quivered and was gone.

“Sir, I believe that you are playing with me,” she said with great dignity.

“Madam, I am abashed.”

“I am very glad to hear it, then. I infer that Mr. Everard was something more than he pretended to be.”

“In truth, a sorry rogue to deceive a lady.”

“And I want to know if I am right. Is he, perhaps, some grand gentleman?”

“I can assure you, madam, that there is very little of the gentleman about Mr. Everard.”

Miss Betty began to laugh.

“Have done, my dear! ‘Tis of no avail, and ‘tis impolite to press Mr. Carr too hard.”

Diana pouted.

“He is monstrous provoking, I think,” she said, and eyed him reproachfully.

“I am desolated,” mourned Jack, but his eyes danced.

“And now you are laughing!”

“But then, mademoiselle, so are you!”

She shook her head, resolutely repressing the dimple.

“Then I am inconsolable.”

The brown eyes sparkled and her lips parted in spite of her efforts to keep them in a stern line.

“Oh, but you are ridiculous!” she cried, and sprang to her feet. “And here is Sir Miles!”

O’Hara came across the lawn towards them, bowed to the ladies, and glanced inquiringly from one to the other.

“Is it a joke ye have?” he asked.

Diana answered him.

“Indeed no, sir. ‘Tis Mr. Carr who is so provoking.”

“Provoking, is it? And what has he been doing?”

“I’ll tell you the whole truth, Miles,” interposed the maligned one. “‘Tis Mistress Diana who is so inquisitive!”

“Oh!” Diana blushed furiously “I protest you are unkind, sir!”

“Sure, ‘tis no gentleman he is, at all!”

“‘Twas on the subject of gentlemen that we—”

“Quarrelled,” supplied her aunt.

“Disagreed,” amended his lordship.

“Disagreed,” nodded Diana. “I asked him whether Mr. Everard was not some grand gentleman, and he evaded the point.”

“I vow ‘tis slander!” cried Jack. “I merely said that Everard was no gentleman at all.”

“There! And was not that evading the point, Sir Miles?”

“Was it? Sure, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“I declare you are both in league against me!” she cried, with greater truth than she knew. “I mean, was he perhaps a titled gentleman?”

“But how should Jack know that?”

“Because I am sure he knows him—or, at least, of him.”

“Listen, Mistress Di,” broke in my lord, shooting a warning glance at O’Hara. “I will tell you all about Mr. Everard, and I hope you will be satisfied with my tale.” He paused and seemed to cudgel his brain. “First he is, of course, titled—let me see—yes, he is a Duke. Oh, he is certainly a Duke—and I am not sure but what he is royal—he—”

“Now you are ridiculous!” cried Miss Betty.

“You are very teasing,” said Diana, and tried to frown. “First you pretend to know nothing about Mr. Everard, and then you tell me foolish stories about him. A Duke, indeed! I believe you really do know nothing about him!”

As Carstares had hoped, she refused to believe the truth.

“He is playing with ye, child,” said O’Hara, who had listened to Jack’s tale with a face of wonder. “I warrant he knows no Everard—eh, Jack?”

“No, I cannot say that I do,” laughed his lordship.

“But—but—you said—”

“Never mind what he said, Miss Di. ‘Tis a scurvy fellow he is.”

She regarded him gravely.

“Indeed, I almost think so.”

But the dimple peeped out for all that The next instant it was gone, and Diana turned a face of gloom to her aunt, pouting her red lips adorably, so thought my lord.

“Mr. Bettison,” she said in accents of despair.

At these mystic words, Jack saw Miss Betty frown, and heard her impatient remark: “Drat the man!”

He looked towards the house, and perceived a short, rather stout, young man to be walking with a peculiar strutting gait towards them. The boy was good-looking, Carstares acknowledged to himself, but his eyes were set too close. And he did not like his style. No, certainly he did not like his style, nor the proprietary way in which he kissed Diana’s hand.

“How agreeable it is to see you again, Mr. Bettison!” said Miss Betty with much affability. “I declare ‘tis an age since we set eyes on you!”

“Oh, no, Aunt,” contradicted Diana sweetly. “Why, it was only a very short while ago that Mr. Bettison was here, surely!” She withdrew the hand that the young man seemed inclined to hold fast to, and turned to John.

“I think you do not know Mr. Bettison, Mr. Carr?” she said. “Mr. Bettison, allow me to present you to Mr. Carr. Sir Miles I think you know?”

The squire bowed with a great deal of stiff hostility. Carstares returned the bow.

“You will excuse my not rising, I beg,” he smiled. “As you perceive—I have had an accident.”

Light dawned on Bettison. This was the man who had rescued Diana, confound his impudence!

“Ah, yes, sir! Your arm, was it not? My faith, I should be proud of such a wound!”

It seemed to Carstares that he smiled at Diana in a damned familiar fashion, devil take his impudence!

“It was indeed a great honour, sir. Mistress Di, I have finished sorting your green silks.”

Diana sank down on the cushion again, and shook some more strands out on to his knee.

“How quick you have been! Now we will do the blue ones.”

Bettison glared. This fellow seemed prodigious intimate with Diana, devil take him! He sat down beside Miss Betty, and addressed my lord patronisingly.

“Let me see—er—Mr. Carr. Have I met you in town, I wonder? At Tom’s, perhaps?”

This country bumpkin would belong to Tom’s, reflected John savagely, for no reason at all. Aloud he said:

“I think it extremely unlikely, sir. I have been abroad some years.”

“Oh, indeed, sir? The ‘grand tour,’ I suppose?”

Mr. Bettison’s tone was not the tone of one who supposes any such thing.

John smiled.

“Not this time,” he said, “that was seven years ago.”

Mr. Bettison had heard rumours of this fellow who, it was murmured, was nought but a common highwayman.

“Really? After Cambridge, perhaps?”

“Oxford,” corrected Carstares gently.

Curse his audacity! thought Mr. Bettison.

“Seven years ago—let me think. George must have been on the tour then—Selwyn, I mean, Miss Beauleigh.”

Jack, who had made the tour with several other young bucks fresh down from college, accompanied as far as Paris by the famous wit himself, held his peace.

Mr. Bettison then launched forth into anecdotes of his own tour, and seeing that his friend was entirely engrossed with Miss Diana and her silks, O’Hara felt it incumbent on him to draw the enemy’s fire, and, taking his own departure, to bear the squire off with him. For which he received a grateful smile from my lord, and a kiss blown from the tips of her fingers from Mistress Di, with whom he was on the best of terms.