That she’d spared him was not, she knew, entirely attributable to noble self-sacrifice. How could she possibly have allowed him to make his offer-let alone have accepted it?
She put her book aside and rose from her chair to stand by the window. Even in Town Lady Potterby must have her garden, more elaborate yet than the one at Elmhurst—perhaps to compensate for the lack of acreage.
As she gazed out into the shadows, Delilah remembered one late-night meeting in another garden ... the looked-for kiss that never came and her embarrassed retreat. She shook her head. Of course she could not marry him, she who was prepared to accept the first respectable offer that came her way. Her cynical heart was not quite cynical enough. It was not quite hard and cold enough to bear rejection, regardless how courteous a form it took.
In the following weeks there were few opportunities to be rejected, politely or otherwise, for Mr. Langdon was rarely to be seen. Of a half dozen events, he might attend one, and then came and went so quickly that their conversations were little more than greeting and farewell.
Delilah did not see much more of her parents. They spent a great deal of time away from the house, though they were never seen at any fashionable gatherings. When they were at home, they were generally in the study, poring over papers.
Though for the first time in her life Delilah felt shut out, she was not altogether sorry. Her parents were far too perceptive, and she did not wish to be closely examined by either of them. They would know immediately something was wrong and would not rest until they’d teased it out of her. Delilah did not want to think about what was wrong if she could help it. Certainly she did not wish to voice any of her unhappy thoughts, even to her beloved parents.
Instead she kept busy, which was not at all difficult. When no more was heard of the memoirs, the Beau Monde quickly turned its attention to other matters, while its members assured one another they had known all along the announcement was nothing but a hoax. Even Angelica Desmond’s arrival scarcely caused a stir. For one, she was almost never seen; for another, she was old news.
In mid-August, following the breakdown of the Prague conference, hostilities had resumed with Napoleon. Though his army was rapidly dwindling, the allied forces were behaving so indecisively that Britons at home devoted considerable energy to expressing their exasperation.
On the non-political side was Byron, who had recently embarked upon an affair with Lady Frances Webster. These and other current sensations were a deal more interesting than what one woman had done more than twenty-five years ago.
Thus the invitations continued to arrive at Potterry House. In addition to Society in general was Society in particular—that is to say, Lady Rand. She and Delilah spent their days shopping for books as well as more frivolous items, or visiting galleries, or seeing London sights. In the evenings they danced their slippers to shreds or got crushed at routs or stifled their yawns at rather mediocre musicales. Occasionally they went to the theatre or opera, and would rant happily at each other on the way home about the audience’s boorish behaviour.
Through all this activity, Lord Berne was very much in evidence, the most prominent of Delilah’s beaux. Oddly enough, he had also become the most kind, courteous, and altogether well-behaved of the lot. He seemed to be a changed man, for he behaved with a discretion Miss Desmond would not have thought possible. Though he was frequently at her side, there were no more languishing looks and ardent speeches. Instead he treated her with gentle affection and polite solicitude. He contented himself with one dance of an evening, and though he hovered before and after, he was so amusing and made himself so agreeable that Delilah could find nothing whatever to fault him with. He was so decorous a suitor, in fact, that his mother threw up her hands in despair.
Lady Jane, for her part, had too much pride to acknowledge his preference for another, and soon stopped wasting her hostile looks and innuendos on what everyone had begun to perceive as a lost cause. She took up with Lord Argoyne, much to the delight of that gentleman’s mama, who had been in agonies all year because he persisted in throwing himself at nobodies.
Since these two enemies seemed to believe Lord Berne was finally, seriously, in love, Delilah was cautiously inclined to believe so as well. All the same, she was determined not to be overly confident again and made a point of giving all her admirers equal attention. Unfortunately, Lord Berne was so assiduous and so formidable a rival—being, perhaps, the most beautiful young man who had ever been seen in London—that gradually the others withdrew in defeat. While she still had dance partners and riding and driving offers, Delilah soon perceived that no other sort of offers would be forthcoming. Like it or not, Lord Berne seemed to be her only solid prospect.
She did like it, she told herself. He was extremely handsome. He admired her, amused her, and treated her kindly. He actually did seem to love her. That she didn’t yet return the sentiment was no great obstacle. If he was a good husband, she would learn to love him. If he turned out a bad one— which was a risk everyone must take—at least he could not hurt her, and certainly she would have every comfort for herself and every means of caring for her parents.
Was this not the reason she had dragged her family back to England? Had she not told her father months ago that love had nothing to do with it?
Chapter Seventeen
Miss desmond succeeded in convincing herself that matters were as well as she could have wished—until one morning in early October when she met up with Mr. Langdon as he came out of her father’s study.
His hair was as rumpled as an unmade bed and his coat looked as though he’d slept in it. She felt a queer tugging inside as she looked at him, and wished she had a comb at least.
“You are about early, sir,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Or have you spent the night with Papa, poring over your papers?”
How odd his eyes looked. There was a peculiar light in their grey depths, a glitter of something, like suppressed excitement.
“Actually, I have,” he said nervously. “Please excuse my appearance, Miss Desmond.”
“You’ve been hard at work. You needn’t apologise for that, when you work on my family’s behalf.” Resisting the urge to straighten his cravat, she forced a bright smile. “I only hope Mr. Fellows will understand.”
“No, he won’t,” was the rueful answer. “He’s already out of all patience with me. I daresay he’ll give his notice as soon as he catches sight of me— or at least when he finds out how little time I can give him to make repairs.”
Delilah retreated a step. “I beg your pardon. You’re in a hurry and I keep you.”
“Not at all,” he said. “That is, I am in rather a hurry—but then it seems I have been for weeks— and I do regret I cannot stop—”
“There’s no reason to regret, Mr. Langdon. I’m sure we’re all most obliged to you.”
“Not at all,” he mumbled, turning away.
She meant to turn as well, to let him go his way. Instead she moved towards him and touched his coat-sleeve. “Mr. Langdon—”
He stopped abruptly and her cheeks burned as she met his puzzled look.
“I—I hope you will try to get some rest, sir. Papa is indefatigable, you know,” she went on hurriedly, “and because he rarely sleeps, he thinks no one else does.” She remembered her hand, then, and tried to draw it away, but his absently closed over it.
He smiled. “In my case, he’s quite correct, Miss Desmond—but you’re kind to mention it. Thank you.” He hesitated an instant, pressed her hand briefly before releasing it, then walked quickly away.
Shortly after noon, a very curious figure was seen making its way down Dean Street. Though the day was mild, the figure was attired in a great coat, round the collar of which was wrapped a thick shawl that covered all but its eyes, and these were shaded by the stove-pipe hat tipped low over its forehead.
The singularity of the figure’s appearance was matched by its behaviour. Instead of walking straight on in a forthright manner, it
darted from doorway to doorway, glancing furtively over its shoulder from time to time—rather in the way of a criminal pursued by the forces of law and order than that of an honest publisher attempting to do an honest day’s business.
This was, nevertheless, none other than Mr. Atkins, who, his heart filled with dread and his teeth chattering like a monkey’s, was on his way to the printer with the bane of his existence, Mr. Devil Desmond’s memoirs.
Mr. Atkins was so terrified that he scarcely dared breathe the entire way. Fortunately, the distance was short. When, his face nearly blue with strain, he reached the entrance he sought, he drew a badly needed breath and thus had sufficient strength to make a mad rush at the door.
Unfortunately, his hat chose just this moment to fall over his eyes and become entangled with the shawl, which prevented his seeing the obstacle in his path.
The obstacle was a gentleman who was at that moment hurrying out of the shop. The resulting collision threw Mr. Atkins back upon the doorstep.
As he frantically pushed the scarf and hat away from his eyes, Mr. Atkins discerned with no small alarm that the man in his way was Mr. Langdon.
“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. Langdon 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 ait 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. Langdon 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.”
&nbs
p; 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.