The Black Moth, Georgette Heyer [self help books to read .txt] 📗

Richard admire the new device for her hair? Richard was not to be cajoled: did she clearly understand that Lovelace’s visits must cease? She only understood one thing, and that was that Dicky was marvellous ill-tempered and ridiculous to-day. And he must not tease her! Yes, she would be very good, but so must he! And now she was going shopping, and she would require at least twenty guineas.

In spite of her promise to “be good,” she made no attempt to discourage Lovelace’s attentions, always smiling charmingly upon him and beckoning him to her side.

It was the morning of the Duchess of Devonshire’s rout that Carstares again broached the subject. My lady was in bed, her fair hair unpowdered and streaming all about her shoulders, her chocolate on a small table at her side and countless billets doux from admirers scattered on the sheet. In her hand she held a bouquet of white roses with a card attached bearing, in bold, sprawling characters, the initials “H. L.” Perhaps it was the sight of those incriminating letters that roused Richard’s anger. At all events, with a violence quite unlike his usual gentle politeness, he snatched the flowers from her hand, and sent them whizzing into a corner.

“Let there be an end to all this folly!” he cried.

Lavinia raised herself on one elbow, astonished.

“H-how dare you?” she gasped.

“It has come to that!” he answered. “How dare I, your husband, try to control your actions in any way? I tell you, Lavinia, I have had enough of your antics, and I will not longer put up with them!”

“You—you— What in heaven’s name ails you, Richard?”

“This! I will not countenance that puppy’s invasion of my house!” He made a furious gesture towards the wilted bouquet. “Neither will I permit you to make yourself the talk of London through him!”

“I? I? I make myself the talk of London? How dare you? Oh! how dare you?”

“I beg you will cease that foolishness. There is no question of my daring. How dare you disobey me, as you have been doing all this past week?”

She cowered away from him.

“Dicky!”

“‘Tis very well to cry ‘Dicky,’ and to smile, but I have experienced that before. Sometimes I think you are utterly without heart!—a selfish, vain, extravagant woman!”

The childish lips trembled. Lady Lavinia buried her face in the pillows, sobbing.

Carstares’ face softened.

“I beg your pardon, my dear. Mayhap that was unjust.”

“And cruel! And cruel!”

“And cruel. Forgive me.”

She twined white, satiny arms about his neck.

“You did not mean it?”

“No. I mean that I will not allow Lovelace to dangle after you, however.”

She flung away from him.

“You have no right to speak like that. I knew Harry long before I ever set eyes on you!”

He winced.

“You infer that he is more to you than I am?”

“No! Though you try to make me hate you. No! I love you best. But I will not send Harry away!”

“Not if I order it?”

“Order it? Order it? No! No! A thousand times no!”

“I do order it!”

“And I refuse to listen to you!”

“By God, madam, you need a lesson!” he flamed. “I am minded to take you back to Wyncham this very day! And I promise you that, an you do not obey me in this, to Wyncham you shall go!” He stamped out of the room as he spoke, and she sank back amongst her pillows, white and trembling with fury.

As soon as she was dressed, she flounced downstairs, bent on finishing the quarrel. But Carstares had gone out some time since, and was not expected to return until late. For a moment Lavinia was furious, but the timely arrival of a box from her mantua-maker’s chased away the frowns and wreathed her face in smiles.

Richard did not return until it was time to prepare for the rout, and on entering the house he went straight to his chamber, putting himself into the hands of his valet. He submitted to the delicate tinting of his finger-nails, the sprinkling of his linen with rosewater and the stencilling of his brows. He was arrayed in puce and gold, rings slipped on to his fingers, his legs coaxed into hose with marvellous clocks splashed on their sides, and a diamond buckle placed above the large black bow of his tie-wig. Then, powdered, painted and patched, he went slowly across to his wife’s room.

Lavinia, who had by now quite forgotten the morning’s contretemps, greeted him with a smile. She sat before the mirror in her under-gown, with a loose déshabillé thrown over her shoulders. The coiffeur had departed, and her hair, thickly powdered, was dressed high above her head over cushions, twisted into curls over her ears and allowed to fall in more curls over her shoulders. On top of the creation were poised ostrich feathers, scarlet and white, and round her throat gleamed a great necklet of diamonds. The room was redolent of some heavy perfume; discarded ribbons, laces, slippers and gloves strewed the floor; over the back of a chair hung a brilliant scarlet domino, and tenderly laid out on the bed was her gown, a mass of white satin and brocade, with full ruffles over the hips and quantities of foaming lace falling from the corsage and from the short sleeves. Beside it reposed her fan, her soft lace gloves, her mask and her tiny reticule.

Carstares gingerly sat down on the extreme edge of a chair and watched the maid tint his wife’s already perfect cheeks.

“I shall break hearts to-night, shall I not?” she asked gaily, over her shoulder.

“I do not doubt it,” he answered shortly.

“And you, Dicky?” She turned round to look at him. “Puce … ‘tis not the colour I should have chosen, but ‘tis well enough. A new wig, surely?”

“Ay.”

Her eyes questioned his coldness, and she suddenly remembered the events of the morning. So he was sulky? Very well! Monsieur should see!

Someone knocked at the door; the maid went to open it.

“Sir Douglas Faversham, Sir Gregory Markham, Moosso le Chevalier and Captain Lovelace are below, m’lady.”

A little devil prompted Lavinia.

“Oh, la-la! So many? Well, I cannot see all, ‘tis certain. Admit Sir Gregory and Captain Lovelace.”

Louisa communicated this to the lackey and shut the door.

Richard bit his lip angrily.

“Are you sure I am not de trop?” he asked, savagely sarcastic.

Lady Lavinia cast aside her déshabillé and stood up.

“Oh, ‘tis no matter—I am ready for my gown, Louisa.”

There came more knocking at the door, and this time it was Carstares who rose to open it.

There entered Markham, heavily handsome in crimson and gold, and Lovelace, his opposite, fair and delicately pretty in palest blue and silver. As usual, he wore his loose wig, and in it sparkled three sapphire pins.

He made my lady a marvellous leg.

“I am prostrated by your beauty, fairest!”

Sir Gregory was eyeing Lavinia’s white slippers through his quizzing glass.

“Jewelled heels, pon my soul!” he drawled.

She pirouetted gracefully, her feet flashing as they caught the light.

“Was it not well thought on?” she demanded. “But I must not waste time—the dress! Now, Markham—now Harry—you will see the creation!”

Lovelace sat down on a chair, straddle-wise, his arms over the back, and his chin sunk in his hands. Markham leant against the garde-robe and watched through his glass.

When the dress was at last arranged, the suggested improvements in the matter of lace, ribbons, and the adjustment of a brooch thoroughly discussed, bracelets fixed on her arms and the flaming domino draped about her, it was full three-quarters of an hour later, and Carstares was becoming impatient. It was not in his nature to join with the two men in making fulsome compliments, and their presence at the toilette filled him with annoyance. He hated that Lavinia should admit them, but it was the mode, and he knew he must bow the head under it.

My lady was at last ready to start; her gilded chair awaited her in the light of the flambeaux at the door, and with great difficulty she managed to enter it, taking absurd pains that her silks should not crush, nor the nodding plumes of her huge headdress become disordered by unseemly contact with the roof. Then she found that she had left her fan in her room, and Lovelace and Markham must needs vie with one another in the fetching of it. While they wrangled wittily for the honour, Richard went quietly indoors and presently emerged with the painted chicken-skin, just as Lovelace was preparing to ascend the steps. At last Lavinia was shut in and the bearers picked up the poles. Off went the little cavalcade down the long square, the chair in the middle. Lovelace walked close beside it on the right, and Richard and Markham on the left. So they proceeded through the uneven streets, carefully picking their way through the dirtier parts, passing other chairs and pedestrians, all coming from various quarters into South Audley Street. They were remarkably silent: Markham from habitual laziness, Lovelace because he sensed Richard’s antagonism, and Richard himself on account of his extremely worried state of mind. In fact, until they reached Curzon Street no one spoke, and then it was only Markham, who, glancing behind him at the shuttered windows of the great corner house, casually remarked that Chesterfield was still at Wells. An absent assent came from Carstares, and the conversation came to an end.

In Clarges Street they were joined by Sir John Fortescue, an austere patrician, and although some years his senior, a close friend of Richard’s. They fell behind the chair, and Fortescue took Richard’s proffered arm.

“I did not see you at White’s to-day, John?”

“No. I had some business with my lawyer. I suppose you did not stumble across my poor brother?”

“Frank? I did not—but why the ‘poor’?”

Fortescue shrugged slightly.

“I think the lad is demented,” he said. “He was to have made one of March’s supper-party last night, but at four o’clock received a communication from heaven knows whom which threw him into a state of unrest. What must he do but hurry off without a word of explanation. Since then I have not set eyes on him, but his man tells me he went to meet a friend. Damned unusual of him is all I have to say.”

“Very strange. Do you expect to see him to-night?”

“I should hope so! My dear Carstares, who is the man walking by your lady’s chair?”

“Markham?”

“The other.”

“Lovelace.”

“Lovelace? And who the devil is he?”

“I cannot tell you—beyond a captain in the Guards.”

“That even is news to me. I saw him at Goosetree’s the other night, and wondered. Somewhat of a rake-hell, I surmise.”

“I daresay. I do not like him.”

They were entering the gates of Devonshire House now, and had to part company, for the crush was so great that it was almost impossible to keep together. Carstares stayed by Lavinia’s chair, and the other men melted away into the crowd. Chairs jostled one another in the effort to get to the door, town coaches rolled up, and having let down their fair burdens, passed out again slowly, pushing through the throng.

When the Carstares’ chair at last drew near the house, it was quite a quarter of an hour later. The ball-room was already full and a blaze of riotous colour. Lavinia was almost immediately borne off by an infatuated youth for whom she cherished a motherly affection that would have caused the unfortunate to tear his elegant locks, had he known it.

Richard distinguished Lord Andrew Belmanoir, one of a group of bucks