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

am very stupid. But you will ride with her after to-day, will you not?”

“Certainly I will accompany my daughter when I can spare the time,” he replied with dignity, and with that she had to be content.

Diana rode leisurely along the lane, beside great trees and hedges that were a blaze of riotous colour. Autumn had turned the leaves dull gold and flame, mellow brown and deepest red, with flaming orange intermingled, and touches of copper here and there where some beech tree stood. The lane was like a fairy picture, too gorgeous to be real; the trees, meeting overhead, but let the sunlight through in patches, so that the dusty road beneath was mottled with gold.

The hedges retained their greenness, and where there was a gap a vista of fields presented itself. And then they came upon a clump of berries, black and red, growing the other side of the little stream that meandered along the lane in a ditch. Diana drew up and addressed her companion.

“See, Harper—there are berries! We need go no further.” She changed the reins to her right hand and made as if to spring down.

“The place I spoke of is but a short way on, miss,” ventured the man, keeping his seat.

She paused.

“But why will these not suffice?”

“Well, miss, if you like. But those others were a deal finer. It seems a pity not to get some.”

Diana looked doubtfully along the road.

“‘Tis not far?”

“No, miss; but another quarter of a mile, and then down the track by the wood.”

Still she hesitated.

“I do not want to be late,” she demurred.

“No, miss, of course not. I only thought as how we might come back by way of Chorly Fields.”

“Round by the mill? H’m.” …

“Yes, miss. Then as soon as we get past it there is a clear stretch of turf almost up to the house.”

Her eye brightened.

“A gallop? Very well! But let us hurry on.”

She touched the cob with her heel, and they trotted on briskly out of the leafy canopy along the road with blue sky above and pasture land around. After a little while the wood came in sight, and in a minute they were riding down the track at right angles to the road. Harper was at Diana’s heels, drawing nearer. Half unconsciously she quickened her pace. There was not a soul in sight.

They were coming to a bend in the road, and now Harper was alongside.

Choking a ridiculous feeling of frightened apprehension, Diana drew rein.

“I do not perceive those berries!” she said lightly.

“No, miss,” was the immediate response. “They are just a step into the wood. If you care to dismount here I can show you.”

Nothing could be more respectful than the man’s tone. Diana shook off her nervous qualms and slipped down. Harper, already on the ground, took the cob’s rein and tied both horses to a tree.

Diana gathered her skirts over her arm and picked her way through the brambles to where he had pointed.

The blackberry hedges he held back for her entrance swung back after they had passed, completely shutting out all view of the road. There were no berries.

Diana’s heart was beating very fast, all her suspicions springing to life again, but she showed no sign of fear as she desired him to hold the brambles back again for her to pass out.

“For there are no berries here, as you can see for yourself.”

She swept round and walked calmly towards the bushes.

Then, how she could never quite remember, she was seized from behind, and before she had time to move, a long piece of silk was flung over her head and drawn tight across her mouth, while an arm, as of steel, held and controlled her.

Fighting madly, she managed to get one arm free, and struck out furiously with her slender crop. There was a brief struggle, and it was twisted from her grasp, and her hands tied behind her, despite all her efforts to be free.

Then her captor swung her writhing into his arms, and strode away through the wood without a word.

Diana was passive now, reserving her strength for when it might avail her something, but above the gag her eyes blazed with mingled fright and fury. She noticed that she was being carried not into the wood, but along it, and was not surprised when they emerged on to the road where it had rounded the bend.

With a sick feeling of terror, she saw a coach standing in the road, and guessed, even before she knew, what was her fate. Through a haze she saw a man standing at the door, and then she was thrust into the coach and made to sit down on the softly-cushioned seat. All her energies were concentrated in fighting against the faintness that threatened to overcome her. She won gradually, and strained her ears to catch what was being said outside.

She caught one sentence in a familiar, purring voice:

“Set them loose and tie this to the pummel.” Then there was silence.

Presently she heard footsteps returning. An indistinguishable murmur from Harper, and the door opened to allow his Grace of Andover to enter the coach. It gave a lurch and rumbled on.

Tracy looked down with a slight smile into the gold-flecked eyes that blazed so indignantly into his.

“A thousand apologies, Miss Beauleigh! Allow me to remove this scarf.”

As he spoke he untied the knot, and the silk fell away from her face.

For a moment she was silent, struggling for words wherewith to give vent to her fury; then the red lips parted and the small, white teeth showed, clenched tightly together.

“You cur!” she flung at him in a panting undertone. “Oh, you cur!—you coward! Undo my hands!”

“With pleasure.” He bowed and busied himself with this tighter knot.

“Pray, accept my heartfelt apologies for incommoding you so grievously. I am sure that you will admit the necessity.”

“Oh, that there were a man here to avenge me!” she raged.

His Grace tugged at the stubborn knot.

“There are three outside,” he answered blandly. “But I do not think they are like to oblige you.”

He removed her bonds and sat back in the corner, enjoying her. His eyes fell on her bruised wrists, and at once his expression changed, and he frowned, leaning forward.

“Believe me, I did not mean that,” he said, and touched her hands.

She flung him off.

“Do not touch me!”

“I beg your pardon, my dear.” He leaned back again nonchalantly.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, trying to conceal the fear in her voice.

“Home,” replied his Grace.

“Home!” Incredulously she turned to look at him, hope in her eyes.

“Home,” he reiterated. “Our home.”

The hope died out.

“You are ridiculous, sir.”

“‘Tis an art, my dear, most difficult to acquire.”

“Sir—Mr. Everard—whoever you are—if you have any spark of manliness in you, of chivalry, if you care for me at all, you will this instant set me down!”

Never had she seemed more beautiful, more desirable. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, soft and luminous, and the tragic mouth pleaded, even trying to smile.

“It would appear that none of these attributes belongs to me,” murmured his Grace, and wondered if she would weep. He had never a taste for a weeping woman.

But Diana was proud. She realised that tears, prayers and all would avail her nothing, and she was determined not to break down, at least in his presence. Tracy was surprised to see her arrange her skirts and settle back against the cushions in the most unconcerned manner possible.

“Then, since you are so ungallant, sir, pray tell me what you purpose doing with me?” The tone was light, even bantering, but with his marvellous, almost uncanny perspicacity, he sensed the breathless terror behind it.

“Why, my dear, I had planned to marry you,” he answered, bowing.

The knuckles gleamed white on her clenched hand.

“And if I refuse?”

“I do not think you will refuse, my dear.”

She could not repress a shiver.

“I do refuse!” she cried sharply.

The smile with which he received this statement drove the blood cold in her veins.

“Wait. I think you will be glad to marry me—in the end,” he drawled.

Her great eyes were hunted, desperate, and her face was very white. The dry lips parted.

“I think—you will be—very sorry—when my father—comes.”

The indulgent sneer brought the blood racing back to her cheeks.

“And he will come!”

His Grace was politely interested.

“Really? But I do not doubt it, Diana, an he knows where to come.”

“He will find a way, never fear!”

She laughed with a confidence she was far from feeling.

“I do not fear—not in the least—I shall be delighted to welcome him,” promised his Grace. “I do not anticipate a refusal of your hand from him.”

“No?” Diana, too, could sneer.

“No, my dear. Not after a little—persuasion.”

“Who are you?” she shot at him.

His shoulders shook in the soundless laugh peculiar to him.

“I am several people, child.”

“So I apprehend,” she retorted smoothly. “Sir Hugh Grandison amongst them?”

“Ah, you have guessed that?”

“It rather leaps to the eye, sir.” She spoke in what was almost an exact imitation of his sarcastic tone.

“True. It was neatly done, I flatter myself.”

“Quite marvellous, indeed.”

He was enjoying her as he had rarely enjoyed a woman before. Others had sobbed and implored, railed and raved; he had never till now met one who returned him word for word, using his own weapons against him.

“Who else have you the honour to be?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“I am Mr. Everard, child, and Duke of Andover.”

Then she turned her head and looked at him with glittering eyes.

“I have heard of you, sir,” she said, evenly.

“You are like to hear more, my dear.”

“That is as may be, your Grace.”

Now she understood the elaborate hilt of the mysterious sword with the coronet on it, wrought in jewels. She wondered whether Jack had it still, wherever he was. If only some wonderful providence would bring him to her now in her dire need! There was no one to strike a blow for her; she was entirely at the mercy of a ruthless libertine, whose reputation she knew well, and whose presence filled her with dread and a speechless loathing. She felt very doubtful that her father would succeed in finding her. If only Jack were in England! He would come to her, she knew.

His Grace leaned towards her, laying a thin, white hand on her knee.

“My dear, be reasonable. I am not such a bad bargain after all.”

The tenderness in his voice filled her with horror. He felt her shrink away.

“Take your hand away!” she commanded throbbingly. “Do not touch me!” He laughed softly and at the sound of it she controlled her terrors and dropped again to the mocking tone she had adopted. “What? Ungallant still, your Grace? Pray keep your distance!”

The pistol holster on the wall at her side caught her attention. Instantly she looked away, hoping he had not observed her. Very little escaped his Grace

“I am desolated to have to disappoint you, my dear. It is empty.”

She laid a careless hand on the holster, verifying his statement.

“This? Oh, I guessed it, your Grace!”

He admired her spirit more and more. Was there ever such a girl?

“My name is Tracy,” he remarked.

She considered it with her head tilted to one side.

“I do not like your name, sir,” she answered.

“‘There was no thought of pleasing you when I was christened.’” he quoted lazily.

“Hardly, sir,” she said. “You might be