The Black Moth

Clad in his customary black and silver, with raven hair unpowdered and elaborately dressed, diamonds on his fingers and in his cravat, Hugh Tracy Clare Belmanoir, Duke of Andover, sat at the escritoire in the library of his town house, writing.

He wore no rouge on his face, the almost unnatural pallor of which seemed designedly enhanced by a patch set beneath his right eye. Brows and lashes were black, the former slanting slightly up at the corners, but his narrow, heavy-lidded eyes were green and strangely piercing. The thin lips curled a little, sneering, as one dead-white hand travelled to and fro across the paper.

“… but it seems that the Fair Lady has a Brother, who, finding Me Enamoured, threw down the Gauntlet. I soundly whipt the presumptuous Child, and so the Affair ends. Now, as you, My dear Frank, also took some Interest in the Lady, I write for the Express Purpose of informing You that at my Hands she has received no Hurt, nor is not like to. This I in part tell You that You shall not imagine Yr. self in Honor bound again to call Me out, which Purpose, an I mistake not, I yesterday read in Yr. Eyes. I should be Exceeding loth to meet You in a Second Time, when I should consider it my Duty to teach You an even severer Lesson than Before. This I am not Wishful of doing for the Liking I bear You.

“So in all Friendship believe me, Frank,

“Your most Obedient, Humble “Devil.”

His Grace of Andover paused, pen held in midair. A mocking smile dawned in his eyes, and he wrote again.

The lawyer found himself gazing at a slight, rather tall gentleman who swept him a profound bow, gracefully flourishing his smart three-cornered hat with one hand and delicately clasping cane and perfumed handkerchief with the other. He was dressed in the height of the Versailles fashion, with full-skirted coat of palest lilac laced with silver, small-clothes and stockings of white, and waistcoat of flowered satin. On his feet he wore shoes with high red heels and silver buckles, while a wig of the latest mode, marvellously powdered and curled and smacking greatly of Paris, adorned his shapely head. In the foaming lace of his cravat reposed a diamond pin, and on the slim hand, half covered by drooping laces, glowed and flashed a huge emerald.

The lawyer stared and stared again, and it was not until a pair of deep blue, rather wistful eyes met his in a quizzical glance, that he found his tongue. Then a look of astonishment came into his face, and he took a half step forward.

“Master Jack!” he gasped. “Master⁠—Jack!”

The elegant gentleman came forward and held up a reproving hand. The patch at the corner of his mouth quivered, and the blue eyes danced.

“I perceive that you are not acquainted with me, Mr. Warburton,” he said, amusement in his pleasant, slightly drawling voice. “Allow me to present myself: Sir Anthony Ferndale, à vous servir!”

“And, as you remarked, you have experience,” she murmured. He bowed ironically.

“Altogether she’s as spirited a filly as you could wish for. All she needs is bringing to heel.”

“Does one bring a filly to heel? I rather thought⁠—”

“As usual, my dear Lavinia, you are right: one does not. One breaks in a filly. I beg leave to thank you for correcting my mixed metaphor.”

“Oh, pray do not mention it.”

“I will cease to do so. She needs breaking in. It should be amusing to tame her.”

“Should it?” She looked curiously at him.

“Vastly. And I am persuaded it can be done. I will have her.”

“But what if she’ll none of you?”

Suddenly the heavy lids were raised.

“She will have no choice.”

Lady Lavinia shivered and sat up.

“La, Tracy! Will you have no sense of decency?” she cried. “I suppose,” she sneered, “you think to kidnap the girl?”

“Exactly,” he nodded.

She gasped at the effrontery of it.

“Heavens, are you mad? Kidnap a lady! This is no peasant girl, remember. Tracy, Tracy, pray do not be foolish! How can you kidnap her?”

Jacked reined-in his horse and rose in his stirrups to obtain a better view. Then his eyes flashed, and he whistled softly to himself. For the cause of all the turmoil was a slight, graceful girl of not more than nineteen or twenty. She was frenziedly resisting the efforts of her captors to drag her to another coach, further up the road. Jack could see that she was dark and very lovely.

Another, elderly lady, was most valiantly impeding operations by clawing and striking at one of the men’s arms, scolding and imploring all in one breath. Jack’s gaze went from her to a still, silent figure at the side of the road in the shadow of the hedge, evidently the stage-manager. “It seems I must take a hand in this,” he told himself, and laughed joyously as he fixed on his mask and dismounted. He tethered his mount to a young sapling, took a pistol from its holster, and ran softly and swiftly under the lea of the hedge up to the scene of disaster, just as the man who covered the unruly and vociferous pair on the box made ready to fire.

Jack’s bullet took him neatly in the neck, and without a sound he crumpled up, one of his pistols exploding harmlessly as it fell to earth.

With an oath the silent onlooker wheeled round to face the point of my lord’s gleaming blade.

He did not trust himself to answer.

“I know you could. Please do!”

“That is not all,” he forced himself to say. “There is worse.”

“Is there?” she asked wide-eyed. “What else have you done, Mr. Carr?”

“I⁠—once⁠—” heavens, how hard it was to say! “I once⁠ ⁠… cheated⁠ ⁠… at cards.” It was out. Now she would turn from him in disgust. He shut his eyes in anticipation of her scorn, his head turned away.

“Only once?” came the soft voice, filled with awed admiration.

His eyes flew open.

“Mademoiselle⁠—!”

She drooped her head mournfully.

“I’m afraid I always cheat,” she confessed. “I had no idea ’twas so wicked, although Auntie gets very cross and vows she will not play with me.”

He could not help laughing.

“ ’Tis not wicked in you, child. You do not play for money.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Yes, child.”

“Then that was horrid of you,” she agreed.

He stood silent, fighting the longing to tell her the truth.