# The Black Moth/Chapter 27

His Grace of Andover made a sign to the footmen, and with a sinking heart Diana watched them leave the room, discreetly closing the door behind them. She affected to eat a peach, skinning it with fingers that were stiff and wooden. Tracy leaned back in his chair, surveying her through half-shut eyelids. He watched her eat her peach and rise to her feet, standing with her hand on the back of the high, carved chair. She addressed him nervously and with would-be lightness.
“Well, sir, I have eaten, and I protest I am fatigued. Pray have the goodness to conduct me to your housekeeper.”
“My dear,” he drawled, “nothing would give me greater pleasure—always supposing that I possessed one.”
She raised her eyebrows haughtily.
“I presume you have at least a maidservant,” she inquired. “If I am to remain here, I would retire.”
“You shall, child, all in good time. But do not be in a hurry to deprive me of your fair company.” He rose as he spoke, and taking her hand, led her dumbly to a low-backed settee at the other end of the great room.
“If you have aught to say to me, your Grace, I beg that you will reserve it until to-morrow. I am not in the humour to-night.”
He laughed at her.
“Still so cold, child?”
“I am not like to be different, sir.”
​His eyes glinted.
“You think so? I shall show you that you are wrong, my dear. You may loathe me, you may love me, but I think you will lose something of that icy indifference. Allow me to point out to you that there is a couch behind you.”
“I perceive it, sir.”
“Then be seated.”
“It is not worth the while, sir. I am not staying.”
He advanced one step towards her with that in his face that made her sink hurriedly on to the couch.
He nodded smiling.
“You are wise, Diana.”
“Why so free with my name, sir?” This with icy sweetness.
Tracy flung himself down beside her, his arm over the back of the settee and the fingers of his drooping hand just touching her shoulder. It was all the girl could do to keep from screaming. She felt trapped and helpless, and her nerve was in pieces.
“Nay, sweet! An end to this quibbling. Bethink you, is it worth your while to anger me?”
She sat rigid and silent.
“I love you———ay, you shudder. One day you will not do that.”
“You call this love, your Grace?” she cried out, between scorn and misery.
“Something near it,” he answered imperturbably.
“God help you then!” she shivered, thinking of one other who had loved her so differently.
“Belike He will,” was the pleasant rejoinder. “But we wander from the point. It is this: you shall retire to your chamber at once—er—armed with the key—an you will swear to marry me to-morrow.”
Very white, she made as if to rise. The thin fingers closed over her shoulders, forcing her to remain.
“No, my dear. Sit still.”
Her self-control was slipping away from her; she struggled to be free of that hateful hand.
​“Oh, you brute, you brute! Let me go!”
“When you have given me your answer, sweetheart.”
“It is no!” she cried. “A thousand times no!”
“Think. …”
“I have thought! I would rather die than wed you!”
“Very possibly. But death will not be your lot, my pretty one,” purred the sinister voice in her ear. “Think carefully before you answer; were it not better to marry me with all honour than to———”
“You devil!” she panted, and looked wildly round for some means of escape. The long window was open, she knew, for the curtain blew out into the room. But his Grace was between it and her.
“You begin to think better of it, child? Remember, to-morrow will be too late. This is your chance, now. In truth,” he took a pinch of snuff, “in truth, it matters not to me whether you will be a bride or no.”
With a sudden movement she wrenched herself free and darted to the window. In a flash he was up and had caught her as she reached it, swinging her round to face him.
“Not so fast, my dear. You do not escape me so.”
His arm was about her waist, drawing her irresistibly towards him. Sick with fear, she struck madly at the face bent close to hers.
“Let me go! How dare you insult me so? Oh, for God’s sake let me go!”
He was pressing her against him, one hand holding her wrists behind her in a grip of iron, his other arm about her shoulders.
“For my own sake I will keep you,” he smiled, and looked gloatingly down at her beautiful, agonised countenance, with its wonderful eyes gazing imploringly at him, and the sensitive mouth a-quiver. For one instant he held her so, and then swiftly bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
She could neither struggle nor cry out. A deadly faintness assailed her, and she could scarcely breathe.
​“By God, it is too late!” he swore. “You had best give in, madam—nought can avail you now.”
And then the unexpected happened. Even as in her last desperate effort to free herself she moaned the name of him whom she deemed hundreds of miles away across the sea, a crisp voice, vibrating with a species of cold fury, sounded directly behind them.
“You delude yourself, Belmanoir,” it said with deadly quiet.
With an oath Tracy released the girl and wheeled to face the intruder.
Framed by the dark curtains, drawn sword in hand, murder in his blue eyes, stood my lord.
Tracy’s snarl died slowly away as he stared, and a look of blank amazement took its place.
Diana, almost unable to believe her eyes, dizzy with the suddenness of it all, stumbled blindly towards him, crying:
“Thank God! Thank God! Oh, Jack!”
He caught her in his arms, drawing her gently to the couch.
“Dear heart, you never doubted I should come?”
“I thought you in France!” she sobbed, and sank down amongst the cushions.
Carstares turned to meet his Grace.
Tracy had recovered from the first shock of surprise and was eyeing him though his quizzing glass.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, my lord,” he drawled with easy insolence.
Diana started at the mode of address and looked up at Carstares, bewildered.
“I perceive your sword in the corner behind you, your Grace!” snapped Jack, and flung over to the door, twisting the key round in the lock and slipping it into his breeches pocket.
To Diana he was as a stranger, with no laugh in the glittering blue eyes, and none of the almost finicking politeness that usually characterised his bearing. He ​was very white, with lips set in a hard straight line, and his nostrils slightly expanded.
His Grace shrugged a careless refusal.
“My dear Carstares, why should I fight you?” he inquired, seemingly not in the least annoyed by the other’s intrusion.
“I had anticipated that answer, your Grace. So I brought this!”
As he spoke Jack drove the sword he held into the wood floor, where it stayed, quivering.
Nonchalantly Tracy took it in his hand and glanced at the hilt.
His fingers tightened on it convulsively, and he shot a piercing glance at Jack.
“I am entirely at your service,” he said very smoothly, and laid the sword on the table.
Some of the glare died out of my lord’s eyes, and a little triumphant smile curved the corners of his mouth. Quickly he divested himself of his fine velvet coat, his waistcoat and his scabbard, and pulled off the heavy riding boots, caked with mud. He proceeded to tuck up his ruffles, awaiting his Grace’s convenience.
As one in a dream, Diana saw the table pushed back, the paces measured, and heard the ring of steel against steel.
My lord opened the attack after a few moments’ cautious circling, lunging swiftly and recovering, even as the Duke countered and delivered a lightning riposte en quinte. My lord parried gracefully in tierce, and chuckled softly to himself.
With parted lips and wide eyes, the girl on the couch watched each fresh lunge. A dozen times it seemed as though Carstares must be run through, but each time, by some miraculous means, he regained his opposition, and the Duke’s blade met steel.
Once, indeed, thrusting in quarte, Tracy’s point, aimed too high, flashed above the other’s guard and ripped the cambric shirt at the sleeve. My lord retired his foot nimbly, parried, and riposted with a straight ​thrust, wrist held high, before Tracy could recover his opposition. The blades clashed as forte met foible, and my lord lunged straight at his opponent’s breast.
Diana shut her eyes, expecting every moment to hear the dull thud of Tracy’s body as it should fall to the ground. It did not come, but instead there sounded a confused stamping, and scraping of blades, and she looked again to find the Duke disengaging over my lord’s supple wrist and being parried with the utmost ease and dexterity.
Carstares knew that he would not be able to last long, however. His shoulder, fretted by the long ride, was aching intolerably, and his wrist seemed to have lost some of its cunning. He was conscious of a singing in his head which he tried, in vain, to ignore. But his eyes glowed and sparkled with the light of battle and the primitive lust to kill.
The Duke was fencing with almost superhuman skill, moving heavily and deliberately, seemingly tireless.
Carstares, on the other hand, was as swift and light as a panther, grace in every turn of his slim body.
He feinted suddenly inside the arm, deceiving the parade of tierce. His Grace fell back a pace, parrying in quarte, and as John with a quick twist changed to quarte also and the blades crossed, Tracy lunged forward the length of his arm, and a deep red splash stained the whiteness of my lord’s sleeve at the shoulder.
Diana gave a choked cry, knowing it to be the old wound, and the Duke’s blade came to rest upon the ground.
“You are—satisfied?” he asked coolly, but panting a little.
My lord reeled slightly, controlled himself and brushed his left hand across his eyes.
“On guard!” was all he replied, ignoring a pleading murmur from the girl.
​Tracy shrugged, meeting Carstares’ blade with his, and the fight went on.
Tracy’s eyes were almost shut, it appeared to Diana, his chin thrust forward, his teeth gripping the thin lower lip.
To her horror she saw that Carstares was breathing in gasps, and that his face was ashen in hue. It was torture to her to sit impotent, but she held herself in readiness to fly to his rescue should the need arise. Suddenly my lord feinted on both sides of the arm and ripped open the Duke’s sleeve, causing a steady trickle of blood to drip down on to the floor.
Tracy took no notice, but countered so deftly that John’s blade wavered, and he staggered back. For an instant it seemed as though the end had come, but somehow he steadied himself, recovering his guard.
Diana was on her feet now, nearly as white as her lover, her hands pressed to her breast. She saw that John’s point was no longer so purposeful, and the smile had gone from his lips. They were parted now, the upper one rigid, and a deep furrow cut into his brow.
Then, startling in the stillness of the great house, came the clanging of a bell, pulled with some violence.
Carstares’ white lips moved soundlessly, and Diana, guessing it to be her father, moved, clinging to the wall, towards the door.
A moment later along the passage came the sound of steps; a gay, boisterous voice was raised, followed by a deeper, graver one.
His Grace’s face became devilish in its expression, but Carstares took no notice, seeming not to hear. Only he thrust with such skill that his Grace was forced to fall back a pace. The loud voices demanded to know what was toward in the locked room, and Diana, knowing that my lord was nearly spent, beat upon the panels.
“Quickly, quickly!” she cried. “Break through, for heaven’s sake, whoever you are! ’Tis locked!”
​“Good Gad! ’tis a woman!” exclaimed the voice. “Listen, Dick!—why—why—’tis a fight!”
“Oh, be quick!” implored poor Diana.
And then came the deeper voice: “Stand away, madam, we will burst the lock.”
She moved quickly aside, turning her attention once more to the duel by the window, as Andrew flung his shoulder against the stout wood. At the third blow the lock gave, the door flew wide, and Lord Andrew was precipitated into the room.
And the two by the window fought on unheeding, faster and faster.
“Well, I’m damned!” said Andrew, surveying them. He walked forward interestedly, and at the same moment caught sight of Jack’s face. He stared in amazement, and called to Richard.
“Good Lord! Here! Dick! Come here! Surely it’s—who is that man?”
Diana saw the tall gentleman, so like her lover in appearance, step forward to the young rake’s side. The next events happened in a flash. She heard a great cry, and before she had time to know what he was doing, Richard had whipped his sword from its scabbard and had struck up the two blades. In that moment the years rolled back, and, recognising his brother. Jack gasped furiously:
“Damn—you—Dick! Out—of—the way!”
Tracy stood leaning on his sword, watching, his breath coming in gasps, but still with that cynical smile on his lips.
Richard, seeing that his brother would fly at the Duke again, closed with him, struggling to wrest the rapier from his weakened grasp.
“You fool, John, leave go! Leave go, I say!”
With a twist he had the sword in his hand and sent it spinning across the room as without a sound my lord crumpled up and fell with a thud to the floor.