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

reluctantly back to his sister.

“What’s that you say, Lavvy?”

“How provoking of you not to listen to me! I asked where you met Harold.”

“Where I met him? Let me see—where did I meet him? Oh, I remember! At the Cocoa-Tree, a fortnight since.”

“And he is altered?”

“Not in any way, dear sister. He is the same mad, reckless rake-hell as ever. And unmarried.”

“How delightful! Oh, I shall be so glad to see him again!”

“You must present him to Richard,” sneered the Colonel, “as an old flame.”

“I must, indeed,” she agreed, his sarcasm passing over her head. “Oh, I see him! Look! Coming across the grass!”

She rose to meet the tall, fair young Guardsman who came swiftly towards her, curtsying as only Lady Lavinia could curtsy, with such stateliness and coquetry.

“Captain Lovelace!”—she put forward both her hands.

Lovelace caught them in his, and bent his head over them so that the soft, powdered curls of his loose wig fell all about his face.

“Lady Lavinia!—Enchantress!—I can find no words! I am dumb!”

“And I!”

“In that case,” drawled the Colonel, “you are not like to be very entertaining company. Pray give me leave!” He bowed and sauntered away down the path with a peculiarly malicious smile on his lips.

Lavinia and Lovelace found two chairs, slightly apart from the rest, and sat down, talking eagerly.

“Captain Lovelace, I believe you had forgot me?” she rallied him.

“Never!” he answered promptly. “Not though you well-nigh broke my heart!”

“No, no! I did not do that. I never meant to hurt you.”

He shook his head disbelievingly.

“You rejected me to marry some other man: do you say you did not mean to?”

“You naughty Harry! … You never married yourself?”

“I?” The delicate features expressed a species of hurt horror. “I marry? No! I was ever faithful to my first love.”

She unfurled her fan, fluttering it delightedly.

“Oh! Oh! Always, Harold? Now speak the truth!”

“Nearly always,” he amended.

“Disagreeable man! You admit you had lapses then?”

“So very trivial, my dear,” he excused himself. “And I swear my first action on coming to London was to call at Wyncham House. Imagine my disappointment—my incalculable gloom (on the top of having already dropped a thousand at faro) when I found the shell void, and Venus—”

She stopped him, her fan held ready for chastisement.

“Sir! You said your first action was to call upon me!”

He smiled, shaking back his curls.

“I should have said: my first action of any importance.”

“You do not deem losing a thousand guineas important?” she asked wistfully.

“Well—hardly. One must enjoy life, and what’s a thousand, after all? I had my pleasure out of it.”

“Yes!” she breathed, her eyes sparkling. “That is how I think! What pleasure can one get if one neither hazards nor spends one’s money? Oh, well!” She shrugged one shoulder, dismissing the subject.

“Have you seen Tracy of late?”

“He was at a court ball I attended at Versailles, but I did not have a chance of speaking with him. I heard he was very popular at Paris.”

“Ay!” she said proudly. “He has the French air… . I so desire to see him again, but I fear he does not think of returning. I know he was promised for the Duchess of Devonshire’s rout months ago—before even the date was fixed, she so dotes on him—but I do not expect to see him there.” She sighed and drummed on the ground with her diamond-buckled shoe. “Harry, I am chilled! Take me to the Pavilion! I doubt they are dancing—and Dicky will be there.”

“Dicky?” he repeated. “Dicky! Lavinia, do not tell me there is another claimant to your heart?”

“Wicked, indelicate creature! ‘Tis my husband!”

“Your husband! Enfin—”

She cast him a sidelong glance of mingled coquetry and reproof.

“Your mind is at rest again, I trust?”

“Of course! A husband? Pooh, a bagatelle, no more!”

“My husband is not a bagatelle!” she laughed. “I am very fond of him.”

“This grows serious,” he frowned. “‘Tis very unfashionable, surely?”

She met his teasing eyes and cast down her lashes.

“Captain Lovelace, you may take me to the Pavilion.”

“Sweet tormentor, not until you cease so to misname me.”

“Harold, I am indeed chilly!” she said plaintively and snatched her hand from his lips. “No, no! People will stare—look, there is my odious brother returning! I declare I will not stay to listen to his hateful, sneering remarks! … Come!”

They walked across the grass together, keeping up a running fire of raillery, punctuated on his side by extravagant compliments filled with classical allusions, all more or less erroneous, and on hers by delighted little laughs and mock scoldings. So they came to the Pavilion, where the musicians fiddled for those who wished to dance, and where most of the company had assembled now that it was growing chilly without. Down one end of the hall, card-tables were set out, where members of both sexes diced and gambled, drinking glasses of burgundy or negus, the men toasting the ladies, and very often the ladies returning the toasts with much archness and low curtsying.

Lavinia cast off her capuchin and plumed her feathers, giving a surreptitious shake to her ruched skirts and smoothing her ruffles. She rustled forward with great stateliness, fan unfurled, head held high, her gloved fingers resting lightly on Lovelace’s velvet-clad arm. Richard, hearing the little stir caused by her entry, glanced up, and perceived her. He did not recognise her companion, but the sparkle in her eyes and the happy curve to her full lips were quite enough to tell him that it was someone whom she was very contented to have met. He had ample opportunity for studying Lovelace as the good-looking pair drew near, and he could not but admire the delicate, handsome face with the grey eyes that held a laugh in them, the pleasure-loving, well-curved mouth, and the chin that spoke of determination. Here was not one of Lavinia’s lisping, painted puppy-dogs, for in spite of the effeminate curls, it was easy to see that this man had character and a will of his own, and, above all, a great charm of manner. He saw Lavinia blush and rap the Captain’s knuckles in answer to some remark, and his heart sank. He rose and came to meet them.

Lady Lavinia smiled sweetly upon him, and patted his arm with a possessive little air.

“Dicky dear, I have found an old friend—a very old friend! Is it not agreeable? Captain Lovelace—Mr. Carstares.”

The two men bowed, Richard with reluctancy, the Captain with easy bonhomie.

“Sir, I claim to be a worshipper at the shrine of which you, I believe, are High Priest!” he said impudently, and bowed again, this time to my lady.

“You are one of many, sir,” smiled Richard.

Lady Devereux came tripping up to them, and kissed Lavinia with a great show of affection.

“My dearest life! My sweet Lavinia!”

Lady Lavinia presented a powdered cheek.

“Dearest Fanny, how charming to see you again!” she cooed. Through her lashes she gazed at her friend’s enormous headdress, with its rolls of powdered curls and the imitation flowers perched upon the top of the erection.

“But, my angel!” exclaimed Lady Fanny, stepping back to view her, “surely you have been ill?”

“How strange!” smiled Lavinia. “I was about to ask you that same question, my dear! ‘Tis age, I doubt not. Do we both look such dreadful hags?” She turned her bewitching little countenance to the men, and smiled appealingly.

Compliments showered upon her, and Lady Devereux, who was conscious that her own sallow countenance, in spite of rouge and powder, must appear even more sallow beside Lavinia’s pink-and-whiteness, flushed in annoyance and turned away, begging her dearest Lavvy to come to the faro with her. But Lavinia, it appeared, was going to watch the dicing at Richard’s table: she vowed she should bring him monstrous good luck.

“I don’t doubt it, my dear,” replied her husband, “but I am not playing to-night. Will you not take your luck to Bob?” He nodded to where the Colonel was lounging, dice-box in hand.

Lavinia pouted.

“No, I want you to play!”

“‘Tis of no avail, Lady Lavinia!” drawled Sir Gregory. “Richard is the very devil to-night.”

Selwyn, rattling his dice, paused, and looked round at Markham with a face of innocent surprise. Then he turned slowly and stared at Carstares’ grave, almost stern countenance, with even more surprise. He started to rattle the dice again, and shifted back to face his opponent, with pursed lips.

“Is he?” he inquired with studied depression.

Even Lavinia joined in the general laugh, not so much at the wit’s words as at his comic expression, and the extreme deliberation with which he had enacted the little scene.

Someone cried a bet to Lovelace, which was promptly accepted, and Lavinia’s eyes glowed afresh as she followed the Captain to a table.

Richard went to fetch her some refreshment, and on his return, found her leaning over Lovelace’s chair, her hand on his shoulder, eagerly casting the dice on to the table. He was in time to see her clap her hands and to hear her cry of: “My luck! Oh, my luck is in! I will throw again!”

Glancing round she caught sight of her husband, and her face fell.

“Do you mind, Dicky?” she pleaded.

He did mind, but he could not appear churlish before all these men; so he laughed and shook his head, and went to her elbow to watch her play.

When she at length ceased, her luck had run out, and she had lost her much-prized ruby earring to Mr. Selwyn, who placed it carefully in his vest pocket, vowing he should wear it next his heart for ever. Then, and then only, did she consent to leave the gaming tables for the dancing hall, and for another hour Richard had the felicity of watching her tread the minuet with various young bloods, but most often with her new-found Harry Lovelace.