The Black Moth by Georgette Heyer (famous ebook reader .TXT) 📖

an assumed name, as he would like to have done, for too many people knew Jack Carstares, and would remember him. He saw that he must either live secluded, or—and the idea of becoming a highwayman occurred to him. A hermit’s existence he knew to be totally unsuited to a man of his temperament, but the free, adventurous spirit of the road appealed to him. The finding of his mare—J. the Third, as he laughingly dubbed her—decided the point; he forthwith took on himself the role of quixotic highwayman, roaming his beloved South Country, happier than he had been since he first left England; bit by bit regaining his youth and spirits, which last, not all the trouble he had been through had succeeded in extinguishing… .

Clip-clap, clip-clop… . With a jerk he came back to earth and reined-in his mare, the better to listen.

Along the road came the unmistakable sound of horses’ hoofs, and the scrunch-scrunch of swiftly-revolving wheels on the sandy surface.

By now the moon was right out, but owing to the fact that she was playing at hide-and-seek in and out of the clouds, it was fairly dark. Nevertheless, Jack fastened his mask over his face with quick, deft fingers, and pulled his hat well over his eyes. His ears told him that the vehicle, whatever it was, was coming towards him, so he drew into the side of the road, and taking a pistol from its holster, sat waiting, his eyes on the bend in the road.

Nearer and nearer came the horses, until the leader swung round the corner. Carstares saw that it was an ordinary travelling chariot, and levelled his pistol.

“Halt, or I fire!” He had to repeat the command before it was heard, and to ride out from the shadow of the hedge.

The chariot drew up and the coachman leaned over the side to see who it was bidding them to stop in so peremptory a manner.

“What d’ye want7 Who are ye? Is there aught amiss?” he cried testily, and found himself staring at a long-nosed pistol.

“Throw down your arms!”

“I ain’t got none, blast ye!”

“On your honour?” Jack dismounted.

“Ay! Wish I had, and I’d see ye damned afore I’d throw ‘em down!”

At this moment the door of the coach opened and a gentleman leapt lightly down on to the road. He was big and loose-limbed as far as Carstares could see, and carried himself with an easy grace.

My lord presented his pistol.

“Stand!” he ordered gruffly.

The moon peeped coyly out from behind a cloud and shed her light upon the little group as if to see what all the fuss was about. The big man’s face was in the shadow, but Jack’s pistol was not. Into its muzzle the gentleman gazed, one hand deep in the pocket of his heavy cloak, the other holding a small pistol.

“Me very dear friend,” he said in a rich brogue, “perhaps ye are not aware that that same pistol ye are pointing at me is unloaded? Don’t move; I have ye covered!”

Jack’s arm fell to his side, and the pistol he held clattered to the ground. But it was not surprise at Jim’s defection that caused him that violent start. It was something far more overwhelming. For the voice that proceeded from the tall gentleman belonged to one whom, six years ago, he had counted, next to Richard, his greatest friend on earth.

The man moved a little, and the moonlight shone full on his face, clearly outlining the large nose and good-humoured mouth, and above, the sleepy grey eyes. Miles! Miles O’Hara! For once Jack could find nothing amusing in the situation. It was too inconceivably hideous that he should meet his friend in this guise, and, further, be unable to reveal himself. A great longing to tear off his mask and to grasp Miles’ hand assailed him. With an effort he choked it down and listened to what O’Hara was saying:

“If ye will be so kind as to give me your word of honour ye’ll not be afther trying to escape, I should be greatly obliged. But I tell ye first that if ye attempt to move, I shall shoot.”

Jack made a hopeless gesture with his hand. He felt dazed. The whole thing was ridiculous; how Miles would laugh afterwards. He went cold. There would be no “afterwards.” … Miles would never know… He would be given over to the authorities, and Miles would never know that he had helped Jack Carstares to the scaffold… . Perhaps, too, he would not mind so very much, now that he, Jack, was so disgraced. One could never tell; even if he risked everything now, and told his true identity, Miles might turn away from him in disgust; Miles, who could never stoop to a dishonourable act. Carstares felt that he would bear anything sooner than face this man’s scorn… .

“Never tell me ‘tis a dumb man ye are, for I heard ye shout meself! Do ye give me your word of honour, or must I have ye bound?”

Carstares pulled himself together and set his teeth as he faced the inevitable. Escape was impossible; Miles would shoot, he felt sure, and then his disguise would be torn away and his friend would see that Jack Carstares was nothing but a common highwayman. Whatever happened, that must not be, for the sake of the name and Richard. So he quietly held out his hands.

“Ay, I give my word, but ye can bind me if ye choose.” It was his highwayman voice: raucous, and totally unlike his own.

But O’Hara’s eyes were fixed on the slender white hands held out to him. In his usual haphazard fashion, Jack had quite forgotten to grime his hands. They were shapely and white, and carefully manicured.

Miles took either wrist in his large hands and turned them palm upwards in the moonlight.

“Singularly white hands ye have, for one in your profession,” he drawled, and tightened his hold as Jack tried to draw them away. “No, ye do not! Now be so good as to step within, me friend.”

Jack held back an instant.

“My mare?” he asked, and O’Hara noted the anxiety in his voice.

“Ye need not be after worrying about her,” he said. “George!”

The footman sprang forward.

“Yessir?”

“Ye see that mare? I want ye to ride her home. Can ye do it?”

“Yessir!”

“I doubt it,” murmured Jack.

So did Jenny. She refused point blank to allow this stranger to mount her. Her master had left her in one spot, and there she would stand until he chose to bid her move. In vain did the groom coax and coerce. She ran round him and seemed a transformed creature. She laid her ears flat and gnashed at the bit, ready to lash out furiously at the first opportunity.

Jack watched the man’s futile struggles with the ghost of a smile about his lips.

“Jenny!” he said quietly, and O’Hara looked round at him sharply, frowning. Unconsciously, he had spoken naturally, and the voice was faintly familiar.

Jenny twitched the bridle from the perspiring groom and minced up to the prisoner.

“Would ye allow me to have a hand free—sir?” he asked. “Mebbe I can manage her.”

Without a word Miles released him, and he caught the bridle, murmuring something unintelligible to the now quiet animal.

O’Hara watched the beautiful hand stroke her muzzle reassuringly, and frowned again. No ordinary highwayman this.

“Mount her now, will ‘ee?” Jack flung at the groom, and kept a warning hand on the rein as the man obeyed. With a final pat he turned away. “She’ll do now, sir.”

O’Hara nodded.

“Ye’ve trained her well. Get in, please.”

Jack obeyed, and in a minute or two O’Hara jumped in after him, and the coach began to move forward.

For a while there was silence, Carstares keeping himself well under control. It was almost unbearable to think that after this brief drive he would never set eyes on his friend again, and he wanted so badly to turn and grasp that strong hand… .

Miles turned in his seat and tried to see the masked face in the darkness.

“Ye are a gentleman?” he asked, going straight to the point.

Jack was prepared for this.

“Me, sir? Lor’ no, sir!”

“I do not believe ye. Don’t be forgettin’ I’ve seen your hands!”

“Hands, sir?” in innocent bewilderment

“Sure, ye don’t think I’d be believing ye an ordinary rogue, with hands like that?”

“I don’t rightly understand ye, sir?”

“Bejabers then, ye’ll be understanding me tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow, sir?”

“Certainly. Ye may as well tell me now as then. I’m not such a daft fool as I look, and I know a gentleman when I see one, even an he does growl at me as you do!” he chuckled. “And I’d an odd feeling I knew ye when ye spoke to the mare. I’d be loth to send a friend to the gallows.”

How well Jack knew that soft, persuasive voice. His hands clenched as he forced himself to answer:

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen ye afore, sir.”

“Maybe ye have not. We shall see tomorrow.”

“What do ye mean by tomorrow, sir?” ventured Carstares uneasily.

“Sure, ye will have the honour of appearing before me, me friend.”

“Before you, sir?”

“Why not? I’m a Justice of the Peace, heaven save the mark!”

There was a breathless pause, and then at last the funny side of it struck Jack, and his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. The exquisite irony of it was almost too much for him. He, the Earl of Wyncham, was to be formally questioned by his friend St. Miles O’Hara, J.P.!

“What ails ye now, man? Ye find it amusing?” asked Miles, surprised.

“Oh, Lud, yes!” gasped Jack, and collapsed into his corner.