She was not in the least impressed by this display of masculine arrogance, she told herself, though her heart proceeded to raise a fuss all the same.
“How dare you?” she said, rather breathlessly. “I am perfectly capable of digging a hole.” She lifted her chin and turned to leave.
He seized her wrist. “What you are capable of is beside the point. I’ll do what needs to be done, and that doesn’t include spending the night worrying about the safety of a rash female.”
Worrying? Was he truly anxious about her safety? Really, that was rather... quaint of him, she told herself, while her heart drummed against her ribs. Then she became acutely aware of the hand closed about her wrist and a most puzzling sensation of weakness in her limbs. Baffled, she stared hard at his hand. He quickly released her.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I did not mean to manhandle you.”
“No, I suppose not,” she answered, feeling dreadfully confused. “Not unless I’m disobedient, I gather.”
He gave her a faint smile. “But you won’t be, will you, Miss Desmond? You won’t try my patience, I hope?”
Miss Desmond sighed and promised to do as he bid.
Chapter Twelve
As he learned a while later, Mr. Langdon had not told falsehoods after all. There had indeed been a summons for Lord Berne, who had already left to accompany his parents back to Streetham Close by the time Jack returned to Rossing Hall.
Relieved that he would not have to endure his friend’s quizzing, Jack quickly set about preparing for his evening’s skullduggery. The first order of business was to get rid of his valet, who was given the night off. Though Mr. Fellows lingered in the house until after dinner—to make certain his master donned proper attire—he did leave at last, and Jack could ransack his own wardrobe free of prying eyes and ironic comments.
Eventually he found an old set of clothing suitable to his purposes. After donning these, he sat down with a volume of Andrew Marvell’s poetry to wait.
Delilah had intended, as soon as she returned to the house, to inform her father of Atkins’s apparent treachery. She could not. Mr. Desmond had gone out and did not plan to return until very late that evening, Lady Potterby disapprovingly informed her grand-niece.
“Some card game or cock fight, I suppose,” Lady Potterby muttered. “But that is to be expected. I only wonder he has remained so quietly at home all this time.”
As predicted, he did not return for dinner and when, several hours later, he had not yet put in an appearance, Delilah decided this was just as well. She really ought not say anything to him until she was certain the memoirs were gone. Otherwise he might go after Mr. Atkins and get himself taken up for assault on an innocent man.
Since no festivities were scheduled for tonight, the household made an early bedtime. By ten o’clock, having dismissed her maid, Delilah was curled up in the window seat of her bedchamber, gazing out at the. darkened expanse of park towards Rossing Hall.
She would have preferred a view of the garden, but her room was on the wrong side of the house. As it was, she doubted she’d be able to see anything, even if Mr. Langdon did come that way, and she had no way of knowing whether he would.
Still, she waited and watched as the old clock in the hall downstairs tolled eleven o’clock, then midnight. The clock had scarcely left off chiming when she discerned a faint light moving between the row of elms. Immediately her heart began pounding.
Lud, wasn’t that just like him—to bring a lantern. What if one of the grooms was up and about in his quarters by the stable and spied the light?
Jack darkened his lantern and placed it on the ground. Having decided that, if caught, he would simply confess all, he had brought along a spade, which he now plunged into the earth. He had just emptied his third shovelful when he heard a faint creak, then rustling. There was a light patter of footsteps, and Jack looked up to see a dark figure approaching. It was not a tall, dark figure. He uttered a sigh.
“I told you to keep away,” he whispered as the figure drew near. “Must you be so pigheaded?”
The object of his rebuke hesitated but a moment before stepping closer. In the moonlight Mr. Langdon was able to ascertain that Miss Desmond had thrown on a coat obviously not her own. The coat, which dragged on the ground, would have comfortably covered two or three Miss Desmonds. Though she clutched her large wrapping tightly about her, a peep of white at the neck and another near the toes sufficiently indicated what was beneath.
Drat the woman! She’d come out in her night rail, for heaven’s sake. How in blazes would he explain that if they were caught?
“Go back in the house this instant,” he whispered harshly.
This Miss Desmond firmly refused to do. Since arguing with her was bound to prove only an exasperating waste of time, Jack decided to ignore her and go on digging.
Because he had not dug a very deep hole originally, not many shovelfuls were required to confirm their fears: The false book and its contents were gone.
Miss Desmond stared for a long while at the empty hole. Then her head bent and her shoulders began to shake, and in another moment Jack heard the unmistakable sounds of weeping.
He thrust his spade securely into the dirt and stepped back to take her in his arms. Accepting the offer of comfort without protest, Miss Desmond pressed her face against his chest and sobbed like a child while he patted her back and muttered every sort of consolation he could think of.
Even if Atkins had the memoirs now, there was no reason her father could not get them back again, Jack told her. Was her papa not a brilliant man? Besides, Atkins was terrified of him. One confrontation and the nervous little fellow would give up his purloined goods. He must. Since he hadn’t yet paid in full for them, he didn’t legally own them.
Under this calming influence, Miss Desmond’s weeping gradually abated. Regrettably, Mr. Langdon did not have the same tranquilizing effect upon himself. At the moment, the young lady was a somewhat awkward bundle, but it was she, all the same. The feel of her face pressed against his coat was very pleasant. The proximity of her person, even with all that coarse wrapping, was agreeably warm. His comforting pats gradually became gentle stroking, and very soon, Jack was in agonies.
He wanted to bury his face in her hair. His fingers itched to caress her neck, her shoulders, to fling away the dratted coat and...
She raised her head just as his right hand was about to plunge into her tangled hair. The hand paused mid-air.
“Oh, Jack,” she said softly. “You’re always so sensible.”
Jack? “Jack?” he echoed stupidly, stunned by the beckoning sound of his own dull name. His hand dropped to her shoulder. His face was beginning to lower to hers when another word intruded upon his consciousness: sensible?
As she saw him withdraw, Delilah immediately set about persuading her crestfallen self she was vastly relieved. She had a sensed a kiss coming, and certainly he had no business... but that was no good, she realized with dismay as she drew away from the comfortingly strong arms. She’d wanted him to kiss her. Good heavens—she’d even called him by his Christian name!
“Excuse me, Mr. Langdon,” she said, backing away and nervously rubbing her nose on her coat-sleeve. “I should not have been so familiar. I was— distraught. Thank you so much. You have been very—very—kind. I—I had better go in now, I think. And you had better go home. The night air, you know. Most insalubrious, my aunt says,” she babbled. Then she turned and fled.
She sped up the backstairs, pausing only to return Bantwell’s overcoat to its peg, and on to her room.
She threw herself down at the dressing table and began savagely brushing her hair. Two minutes later she put down the brush and went again to the window. By now he was gone, and what possible consolation watching the faint light move through the park could have been to her, she could not imagine.
Delilah leaned her head against the glass. How very comfortable and safe she had felt, held securely against his hard chest. Well, t
hat was nothing. Jack Langdon was as safe as houses, quiet and diffident and scholarly and serious.
She blinked. Not when he kissed her, though. Not when he lost his temper and threw her onto her horse. That had left her dumbfounded. She hadn’t realized he was so strong. After all, hadn’t they been well matched during their tussle at the inn? Or had that been more of his chivalry? Very likely. He’d held himself back because a gentleman could not hurt a woman, murderess or not. Damn his gallantry. Why must he be so honourable, always, and make her feel more ill-bred than ever?
Her eyes itched, threatening tears. Angrily she rubbed them away, telling herself it would serve him right if she used that honour to manipulate him into marrying her. Certainly that would solve her problems very easily. She’d never need have a moment’s anxiety about her parents’ future. After all, Papa was not getting any younger. He could not go on living by his wits forever.
Mr. Langdon would take care of her parents. She needn’t fear they’d be tossed into debtors’ prison or be left to languish in a workhouse or spend their declining years in sordid lodgings, waiting to die. At the same time, their daughter would be spared the mortification of striving to be accepted by a Great World which didn’t want her.
Given the way Lord Berne’s family and friends had reacted, gaining acceptance was going to be a more formidable battle than Delilah had imagined—even if her own heedless behaviour did not continue to trip her up. Now, with the memoirs gone, it seemed she was to be defeated before she’d even begun.
All the same, she chided herself, Delilah Desmond was no coward. Here was a man who, while perhaps physically attracted—which was nothing, since every male seemed to be—could barely tolerate her, and who only irritated her and made her behave badly. A choice between entrapping him and tackling Society was no choice at all. She left the window, kicked off her damp slippers, and crawled into bed.
Directly after breakfast the following morning, Delilah asked her father to ride with her. As soon as they’d left the stables, she informed him of all— or nearly all—that had transpired the previous day. She thought it wisest not to mention her struggle with the love-crazed viscount.
Though mildly amused at Mr. Atkins’s intrepidity and unable to suppress a chuckle when he learned of Mr. Langdon’s midnight assault upon the unfortunate flower bed, Mr. Desmond endeavoured to show a proper sympathy for his daughter’s distress.
“In truth, my dear, I do curse the day I ever began the dratted thing,” he said. “I never dreamed my paltry tale would arouse so much powerful emotion in so many breasts. Chicanery, collusion, deceit on every side. Conspiracy in the dead of night. Where it will all end, I shudder to guess. No doubt we can expect rioting in the streets of London. Wellington will have to be recalled to restore the peace. Prinny will be most cross with me. I will probably be imprisoned for sedition.”
Delilah gasped. “You’re teasing, I hope, Papa.”
Her father smiled. “Exaggerating, perhaps. Yet he was not happy with the Hunts. They were sentenced to two years in prison for the unflattering portrait of him they printed in the Examiner.”
“Surely far worse insult than what you wrote appears in the print shop windows daily.”
“Florizel is capricious, and at present we have insufficient funds for lawyers.”
“Good grief,” she said, dismayed. “And all I worried about was scandal.”
“You worry far too much, my dear. I do not understand why you cannot be like your peers and leave worrying to the lower orders.”
Mr. Desmond appeared to study his daughter with profound curiosity. Then he shrugged and said, “All the same, I suppose I had better attend to Mr. Atkins forthwith. I shall depart for London tomorrow.”
“We shall depart,” Delilah corrected.
The parent raised an eyebrow, but the stubborn set of his daughter’s mouth boding a tiresome argument, he resignedly agreed she might as well see a bit of London before the Ton descended in force.
The matter settled between them, it remained only to be settled with Lady Potterby, who at first, as was expected, made every objection. She was no match, however, for two persuasive Desmonds. By mid-afternoon, her ladyship was driving herself and her servants distracted with a frenzy of packing.
So great was the uproar within Elmhurst that time for only the barest exchange of civilities could be spared the two visitors who simultaneously appeared upon the doorstep. Lord Berne and Mr. Langdon were hustled in and out of the house so speedily that their heads were spinning as dizzily as those of the servants.
Dear Mr. Langdon,
I hope you will excuse the family’s rather cold reception today, and in particular my own inability to express my gratitude for your exceedingly kind assistance. Papa has asked me to convey his thanks as well as his apologies for the great inconvenience we have caused you.
We were unable to thank you properly because we have been all about the ears, trying to do a week’s worth of packing in twenty-four hours. As you may expect, we leave immediately for London, in pursuit of The Odious Mr. Atkins (though, naturally, my aunt believes it is on other business).
I supposed it is improper of me to write you, but Papa could not, being occupied with supervising arrangements. I thought it the lesser impropriety to write than to leave without a word. You will pardon me, I know. You are too chivalrous to do otherwise.
Please believe me your most grateful,
Delilah Desmond
Of course she’d go, Jack told himself as he stared numbly at the paper in his hand. He’d known that even before he’d entered the frenzied household next door. Her father would be off in pursuit of Atkins, and the daughter must go with him because she refused to believe men were capable of managing their own affairs.
All the same, if the Devil was so clever, why did he not pack his daughter back to Scotland at least, out of harm’s way, while he handled matters himself? In London she was bound to get herself into some sort of trouble or other. Town held too many temptations, too many ways of going wrong, and being Delilah Desmond, she was sure to plunge headlong into all of them.
Slowly Jack traced the handwriting with his finger. He’d never seen her writing before, yet that too was what he would have expected. It was strong and bold, nothing delicate or ladylike about it. But it was a woman’s hand nonetheless, just as hers was a woman’s body, supple and curving... and he had just better not think about that.
The trouble was, as it had been from the start, he could not stop thinking about her. He had not known a minute’s genuine peace since he’d met her. Now at last he would be rid of her maddening presence. Rossingley would be tranquil again, and he might read his beloved books in untroubled solitude.
He gazed about him at the rows of volumes which filled his uncle’s library and grew unbearably weary.
“Don’t,” he murmured to himself. “Don’t be stupid.”
He got up and took a turn about the room, stopping once at a window to gaze disconsolately at the row of elms that blocked his view of the house nearby. Then he left the library, walked upstairs to his room, and summoned his valet.
“I’m leaving for London,” said Jack. “Tonight. You may follow tomorrow or the next day—whatever is most convenient. I shall want you to bring all my things.”
Mr. Fellows might have raised a protest had he not previously learned that a young person named Joan was to be hauled to London much against her will the next day. Therefore he merely nodded and immediately set about packing his master’s belongings.
While the Desmonds, accompanied by a greatly baffled Lady Potterby, were completing the first stage of their journey to Town, Lord Berne was having another row with his father. This was not surprising, for the viscount was very much out of sorts.
He had been on the brink of achieving his heart’s desire with Miss Desmond when Jack Langdon had rudely interrupted. Now the dazzling enslaver was on her way to London, where private audiences would be a deal harder to come by. Nonetheless, Lord
Berne was not daunted by the challenge, nor by his sire’s thundering and threatening when informed of the son’s intentions to depart for Town.
Lord Streetham might as well rail at Fate or the weather. He could not disown his heir, whatever he threatened, and the bills would come regardless of the stoppage of allowances. The earl elected another tack.
“I appreciate your conscientiousness, Tony, but it is quite absurd to keep after the chit. I have no use for her now. The memoirs are safe in hand. I was able to deal with Desmond myself,” the father mendaciously added.
Lord Berne returned that he didn’t give a bloody damn about any stupid book. Some matters had a greater claim on a man than tiresome business dealings. Furthermore, he was not to be imprisoned in the country with a lot of razor-tongued, narrow-minded, sharp-faced females while the grandest girl in the world languished neglected nearly two hundred miles away.
He did not add that what he truly feared was not Miss Desmond’s languishing neglected, but quite the opposite. One more peril of Town was the abundance of idle young gentlemen like himself. Instead, the viscount made his papa a curt bow and stalked majestically from the room.
Mr. Atkins entered not long after. Having given the matter long and painful thought, he’d decided to advise his partner to give up the memoirs as a lost cause. He also gallantly recommended that Lord Streetham dispose of his shares in the firm while there was still time to salvage something from the wreckage.
Lord Streetham smiled as he stepped away to his writing desk briefly. He returned with a handful of pages which hergave to the baffled publisher.
“The memoirs,” said the earl—unnecessarily, for Mr. Atkins had already begun reading.
A moment later, Mr. Atkins looked up. The glow of his face was almost beatific. “My Lord, this is extraordinary. How did you do it?”