Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (26 page)

"Good heavens, sir! I do beg your pardon," said a greatly flustered Mr. Langdon. "I was not looking — most careless of me. I hope you have taken no harm, Mr. Atkins."

Mr. Atkins clutched his package to his bosom.

"N — not at all, sir. I — I fear I was at f — fault. Excuse me." He tried to get by, but he could not, for Mr. Langdon had bent over in the doorway to retrieve the parcels he had dropped. When he straightened, he apologised again profusely before moving out of the way.

Mr. Atkins, his face soaked with perspiration, edged through the door… and came up short against a large, hard figure. Swallowing, he looked up into the glittering green eyes of Devil Desmond.

Mr. Atkins turned white and began to sway.

Mr. Desmond called for assistance, and an apprentice hastened in to help him lead Mr. Atkins to a chair.

"My dear fellow," said Mr. Desmond after the publisher had been made to swallow a few gulps of gin. "I'm afraid I gave you a turn."

"Don't kill me," Mr. Atkins whimpered. "It isn't my doing, I swear to you. I never wanted — "

"Pray do not distress yourself, sir," came the solicitous reply. "I have no wish to cause you any trouble. I've only come for the rest of my money."

"Y-your what?"

"The money, sir, you promised me." Desmond glanced around at the gathering crowd of onlookers. "But perhaps you would prefer to discuss these mercenary matters in a less public place."

A short time later, Mr. Atkins was sufficiently in possession of his wits to believe he was not dreaming. This was Devil Desmond, sitting calmly across from him in a cramped room, claiming to be perfectly content to have his work published after all.

"Much ado about nothing," the Devil confided to his stunned listener. "What is Woman if not changeable? My daughter, sir, is bored to extinction with London Society and wishes to go abroad. Immediately, of course. She has no patience, you know. I have been trying for days to speak to you, but you have been unavailable." The Devil's teeth gleamed as he grinned. "Press of business, I daresay. You could not possibly have been avoiding me. You are not so poor-spirited a fellow as that."

Mr. Atkins was sufficiently poor-spirited to tremble, though he still maintained his fierce possession of the manuscript. Even when he had swooned, he had not loosened his grip. His fingers had apparently long since frozen permanently in position.

"My good man," said Mr. Desmond. "I assure you there is no reason for suspicion. Please, do what you must with that package. I shall wait here patiently. I suppose there are papers to be signed?"

"Y — yes," said Mr. Atkins. "But they are at my office."

"Then by all means let us go there. I shall be confounded relieved to have done with this tiresome business."

Not many minutes later, the printer had the package and his instructions, while Mr. Atkins, still nearly speechless with amazement at this turnabout, was accompanying his author back down Dean Street.

When the two had turned the corner, Mr. Lang-don stepped out of the nearby chemist's shop and disappeared into the printer's. He re-emerged ten minutes later and glanced furtively about him before hastening down the street.

Lord Berne, who had been watching events unfold from the shadows of a doorway across the street, broke into a smile. No wonder Desmond had got the word so quickly — even before himself. The Devil had had Langdon — innocent, honest Jack — do his spying for him. And Langdon had probably got all his information just by appearing muddled and forgetful. He had likely not paid a farthing in bribes.

"Ah, Jack," he murmured, "How it saddens me to see you take up these wicked ways. Yet I do believe you have spared me a great deal of trouble."

Mr. Langdon managed to restrain himself until he was safely home. He had walked slowly, looking, he hoped, as innocently preoccupied as ever, and suitably inept as he hailed a hackney.

He even managed a semblance of calm as he entered his library. Then he shut the door and began ripping open one of his packages. Not until he'd checked the pages and assured himself this
was
the manuscript did he sit down and allow himself a sigh of relief.

Thank heaven he looked so muddled. Even the printer, harassed as he was, had felt sorry for him. He'd never doubted for an instant that Mr. Lang-don had picked up Mr. Atkins's package by mistake and given the publisher his own.

Jack had just rung for a well-deserved glass of brandy when Lord Berne was announced.

"Two glasses, Joseph," said Mr. Langdon. "Only give me a moment before you show him in."

As soon as the servant left the room, Jack slipped the manuscript back into its wrapper and placed it underneath the other parcels.

"Jack! How glad I am to find you at home," Lord Berne cried as he entered. "One sees so little of you these days. No doubt you've reverted to habit-buried in your books again." He glanced at the stack of packages heaped on a chair. "Are these additions to the collection?"

Jack nodded. "With Madame de Stael in residence, I thought I ought to familiarise myself with her work."

Joseph entered with the brandy. Mr. Langdon poured. His hands were surprisingly steady, considering he was beside himself with impatience. If only he could be rid of Tony quickly, so he might go at once to Potterby House with the book. He should have gone directly, but he could not trust his luck, and had to check his treasure first — without Miss Desmond's scornful eyes upon him.

"Ah, just the thing," said Lord Berne. "For now, that is. Perhaps later today I may return the favour with champagne, when I solicit your congratulations."

Jack paused in the act of lifting his glass.

"I'm going to do it, Jack. I mean to be riveted at last — if she'll have me." Glass in hand, Lord Berne sauntered away from his friend to gaze at a small marble bust of Caesar Augustus that stood upon the mantel. He smiled. "I think she will. She has at least given me reason to hope."

He turned his innocent blue gaze upon his friend. "Will you wish me luck, Jack? Though she has been kind, I find my courage repeatedly deserting me. I have twice set out for Potterby House today and twice turned back. I was so agitated I feared I should be incapable of speaking at all."

"Potterby House," Jack said weakly, his one frail, mad hope that Lord Berne referred to another woman dashed. Then, catching himself, he went on. "You mean to offer for Miss Desmond? Have your parents yielded at last?"

"No, they have not," was the composed answer. "Yet I am no babe, to have my life managed and manipulated by my parents. They would consign me to Hell — to Lady Jane — which is quite the same thing. 'But when I became a man, I put away childish things.' I've learned there is only one woman I love, can ever love, and that is the woman I will have. No other course bears contemplation."

Jack Langdon was too much in the habit of putting himself in the other's place to leave off now. He had dreamed and hoped for months. He had laboured all these past weeks with one aim. It was not inconceivable that Tony, in his own way, had been doing the same. Less inconceivable was that Tony had been doing so to better purpose.

While Jack was not sufficiently unselfish to keep from hoping desperately that his friend would fail, he knew the hope was not only futile, but absurd. What woman in her senses could ever resist Tony? Countless women had abandoned the path of virtue because he smiled upon them. Though Miss Desmond, unlike the others, had resisted ruin, that was just barely. Certainly she would not decline his honourable offer of marriage.

Jack suppressed a sigh, scarcely attending his friend's impassioned declarations of love, loyalty, fearlessness, and heaven knew what else. Really, it was beginning to grow tiresome. First Max with Catherine, now Tony with Delilah. All in the space of a few months.

This time was worse than the one before, far worse. Jack could not imagine what the next time would be like. Perhaps there would be no next time. Perhaps he would simply withdraw from the world as his Uncle Albert had and spend his remaining days as a reclusive, confirmed bachelor, his sole passion lined up neatly upon the shelves of his library.

Jack swallowed his brandy in one long gulp and raised the decanter once more. He might as well get drunk. He was entitled.

That was the last complete thought he had, for as he was refilling his glass, there came a sharp, blinding pain… and then there was nothing at all.

Lord Berne gazed sadly down upon the unconscious form sprawled upon the carpet.

"Frightfully sorry, old chap," he said softly, "but we can't have any more of that misplaced gratitude now, can we?"

He coolly began unwrapping the packages piled on the chair until he found the one he wanted. Then he sat down at his friend's writing desk, scrawled a brief note, and left.

Having had an unsatisfactorily short and not altogether enlightening conversation with her mama, Miss Desmond was at the moment wearing a circular path in the parlour carpet. She was not fitted by nature to endure suspense with her mother's tranquillity. That lady had, to Delilah's utter incredulity, retired to her chamber for a nap. She had been up all night, like everyone else, it seemed, while Delilah and Lady Potterby had slept in blissful ignorance of the plots being hatched below.

Delilah was still not altogether clear on just what the plot was, because her mama had looked ready to drop from exhaustion. Baffled as Delilah had been, she'd tried to be considerate, and refrained from demanding lengthy details. At any rate, Papa and Mr. Langdon would explain when they returned, her mother had promised. For now, it was enough to say they'd gone for the manuscript and had no doubt of success.

Still, that was hours ago. Surely they ought to be back by now… unless they had failed. The thought was most alarming. Though Delilah had more than once taunted Mr. Langdon with his excessive caution, she did hope he had not been reckless. Papa was accustomed to skirting the boundaries of the law and adept at wriggling out of awkward situations. Mr. Langdon had no such experience. Oh, where
was
he?

She heard the door knocker then and abruptly sat down. Whatever else happened, she would show Mr. Langdon she had as much poise and self-control as any other lady. She folded her hands tightly in her lap and waited.

To her disappointment, Lord Berne was announced. As he entered the room, she struggled mightily to erase all evidence of vexation from her countenance.

Fortunately, Lady Potterby had accompanied him and, during the interval of greetings and small talk, Delilah took herself in hand. She was pleased to see him, she told herself. How could she not be, when he looked so impossibly beautiful, his golden curls slightly windblown, but all else so elegant, sleek, and graceful.

"Indeed, the weather is fine today," he was agreeing with his hostess. "There is not a whisper of a cloud in the heavens. Since these opportunities will be too rare in the coming weeks, I hastened here in hopes Miss Desmond would consent to drive with me — if she will forgive the short notice," he added, bestowing an affectionate glance upon the young lady.

Lady Potterby was even less informed of the latest memoir-connected events than her grand-niece was, for her family had naturally supposed her nerves could not bear more anxiety. She was, furthermore, waiting for Lord Berne to come up to scratch. There was no other possible way to interpret his behaviour of the past three or four weeks, regardless what Angelica said. At the moment, the viscount looked as though he were about to burst with something, and Lady Potterby was not slow to guess what that was. Today. He'd offer today.

To her surprise, her grand-niece appeared most hesitant. Still, her ladyship reflected, that was the way with girls. Bold as brass one minute, then, when matters grew serious, overcome with modesty. Delilah wanted nudging, that was all.

"You could do with some exercise, my dear," Lady Potterby urged with unusual firmness. "You have been too pale these past few days, which I am sure is because you do not take the air. His lordship is most kind to invite you. Though I must ask you, My Lord," she added, dropping him a knowing look, "not to keep her long. She has an appointment with her dressmaker."

Lord Berne solemnly vowed that Miss Desmond would be returned in good time for her appointment.

Miss Desmond smiled weakly and consented.

At least, Delilah thought as the carriage reached the park gates, this was something to do. Better than pacing, certainly, and far better than working herself into a pet because her parents and Mr. Langdon had kept secrets from her. Not that she'd given her parents much opportunity to do otherwise. For nearly a month she'd scrupulously avoided them. As to Mr. Langdon, why should he tell her anything, when all she ever did was pick on him.

She was abruptly jolted from these reflections when Lord Berne, who had been uncharacteristically mute, stopped the carriage and found his tongue.

"Miss Desmond, a few weeks ago I made you a promise," he said, his voice low and rather unsteady. "I have kept it."

She turned a baffled glance upon him. "I beg your pardon?"

"The memoirs. I've got them at last."

He shifted the reins to one hand and reached under the seat. As he drew out a thick package, Delilah experienced a curious sinking sensation. More curious still was the reluctance with which she took the parcel from him and began to undo the wrapping.

"I don't understand," she said, as her eye fell upon the title page. "This is not possible. How — " She broke off as she flicked through the pages and saw this was indeed her father's work.

"It was very nearly impossible, Miss Desmond," said her companion. "I'm afraid I've gotten myself in a — a bit of trouble as a consequence."

What was wrong? she asked herself. She'd been certain she'd never know a moment's peace until the work was back in her possession. Here it was, and she felt nearly ill. This was undoubtedly her father's hand — though the lines seemed uncharacteristically shaky. Or was that her vision? To her chagrin she discovered her eyes were swimming. She blinked back the tears and made her belated answer.