Delilah glanced from one compassionate countenance to the other. Then she gave an exasperated sigh, rose from her chair, and stomped out of the room.
Chapter Nineteen
Being a man of honour and possessed of a powerful sense of justice, Mr. Langdon knew where his duty lay. He had a most disagreeable task to perform, but he did not shrink from it. He would do what honour required of him... and then he would hang himself. It was quite simple, really. All would be over within a matter of hours.
Accordingly, after he had lain in his bed long enough to call it rest, he arose, dressed, and taking up the neat bundle Mr. Fellows had made of Lord Berne’s clothes, took himself to Melgrave House.
Though the butler admitted him with some reluctance, he did admit him, no orders having been given to the contrary, and directed Jack to the viscount’s dressing room.
Lord Berne glanced at his friend’s face, then at the bundle he handed the valet.
“Leave us,” the viscount told his servant.
The valet exited.
“There is no point in calling me out,” said Lord Berne before Jack could speak. “If you force me to a duel, I promise to delope. You may kill me if you like. I cannot blame you. You’d be doing me a great favour, in fact. I wish I was dead.” He said all this without his usual dramatic vehemence, though his face was white and rigid.
Jack looked at him in incomprehension. “I don’t think you understand, Tony. It was I last night—”
“I know. I guessed it when my father told me how he found me so speedily. He told me you’d been here looking for me earlier.”
He turned from his friend’s gaze. “I should not have hit you. I might have killed you. I should not have done a great many things, as my father has pointed out at length. He says I’m to offer for Lady Jane today,” Tony went on bitterly. “If I do not, he’ll cut off my allowance and forbid every tradesman in the kingdom to extend me credit. If he had another son, I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to have me transported.”
Jack thought that if Conscience had been a living creature, it would have risen up and throttled him on the spot.
“This is all my fault,” he said. “I misjudged you horribly. You’ve told me repeatedly how much you cared for Miss Desmond and I refused to believe you. I persisted in thinking this was like every other passing fancy, when naturally it couldn’t be. You’ve never spoken so of other women, never persisted so long.”
The viscount smiled faintly. “An hour, Jack. Maybe a day. Certainly I never nearly murdered my friends on such an account. Yes, it was—is— different, but—”
“And you might have been married by now, if I hadn’t jumped on my charger. Gad, I shall never forgive myself. Lady Jane—Tony, you cannot do it.”
“I must. I am not equipped to live modestly, and, being a perfect gentleman, I have no productive skills by which to earn my keep. I’m not even a good card player.” The smile turned bleak.
Jack considered a moment. “Miss Desmond is,” he said absently. “Her father taught her a great many things, including how to use a pistol.” Noting his friend’s bafflement, he added, “You knew she had a pistol with her, didn’t you, Tony?”
“No,” came the stunned reply.
“That’s why I made her throw down her reticule. She would have shot me without turning a hair.”
Lord Berne found a chair and fell into it, his face working strangely.
Jack moved to the dresser. Jewelled tie pins, rings, watchchains, and seals lay strewn about in gay abandon. Idly he began arranging and rearranging these in tidy lines.
“How idiotic I was,” he said, “to think you could dishonour her, even if you’d meant to—though I do apologise for thinking you would. You know enough of women to know she’s a treasure.”
He placed an emerald tie pin next to a diamond ring, frowned, and moved it next to one of the seals.
“There’s no one, there never will be anyone like her,” he went on. “You saw that, and told yourself you could never settle for anything less.”
Lord Berne was staring at the carpet.
“It’s more than beauty, isn’t it?” said Jack. “Even though it’s a beauty that breaks your heart. When she’s near, you feel you’re in some wild, primitive, very dangerous place. Yet there’s something so tender and fragile about her, as well. She will strike out and wound you, and even as you’re reeling from it, you ache to protect her—perhaps from herself.”
He drew a deep breath and moved away from the dresser. Tony looked up, and there was dawning respect in his blue eyes.
“How do you know so much, Jack,” he asked.
Jack shrugged. “She’s the Devil’s daughter,” he answered lightly enough. “She makes every man a little mad, I think, and so to some extent, every man must understand.”
“You love her.” It was not a question.
“I love quiet and peace, everything in its proper place. When one is forever muddled, you know, one prefers that everything else not be so.”
“That’s no answer,” said the viscount quietly. “But I won’t plague you. I’ve done enough of that-more than I knew. If it’s any comfort to you, I shall be paying, all the rest of my life. Lady Jane will see to it.”
“In that case,” said his friend, “you’re a great fool.”
And without another word, the friend was gone.
An hour after his conversation with Jack, Lord Berne was at Potterby House. To be precise, he was in the study with Mr. Desmond, under whose withering, green-eyed scrutiny the viscount struggled in vain not to quail. The viscount seemed to be shrinking smaller by the minute under that gaze, until he felt he was looking up at the Devil’s boot. At least, the young man thought wryly, it wasn’t a cloven hoof.
“Marry her?” Desmond was saying in the most affable way. “Why the deuce should I give my daughter into the keeping of an ill-gotten, lying, sneaking, idle wretch of a pretty boy like yourself? Even if I didn’t think you were mad as a hatter— which I do, incidentally. Even if I were not convinced you were a prime candidate for Bedlam, why should I give her into the custody of one whose father has done everything possible to destroy my family?” He turned away and sauntered to the window. “I only ask for information,” he added.
“When you put it like that,” said a thoroughly crushed Lord Berne, “I really cannot imagine any satisfactory answer.”
“Then perhaps you are not quite so deranged as I thought. You are correct. There is no satisfactory answer.”
Mr. Desmond continued to gaze out the window. After an agonisingly long minute he said, “She tells me you never touched her. Is that so, or was she protecting you?”
“It is true, sir.” The green eyes fastened on him again and Lord Berne, to his horrour, heard himself adding, “I did not have the opportunity.”
“That’s just as well,” was the cool reply. “She would have shot you.”
The viscount wondered wildly if what he’d heard was true: that the Devil was a mesmerist. Certainly one could not possibly tear one’s gaze from those glittering eyes. No more had Lord Berne been able to keep back his ghastly confessions, for it seemed as though that control too had been given over entirely to the Devil’s keeping.
“Moreover,” Desmond went on, “it would give me the greatest pleasure to shoot you myself. Unfortunately, that would only play into your father’s hands. He would like to see me hanged. He’s longed for such a conclusion these five and twenty years. Do you know why?”
Lord Berne shook his head.
“Because my wife would not have him.” He smiled faintly. “They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. How little they know. How little you know, My Lord. But you have a beautiful face and a fine figure, and perhaps Delilah will take those into account. At any rate, I’m confident she’ll provide you a most stimulating education.”
Lord Berne required a moment to digest this speech. “I beg your pardon, sir. Are you giving me your permission?” he asked, astonished.
“I have no choice. I am so overcome by your audacity that I have not the strength of mind to resist you.”
“But you hate me,” said Lord Berne.
“My dear young man, you are scarcely worthy of so much energy. I do, however, pity you, for a number of reasons—your obsession with Delilah being not the least of these. Whether she accepts you or not, she will make you thoroughly wretched, and there is some satisfaction in that. She will make your father even more wretched, and to be perfectly frank, I find the prospect irresistible.”
“My father can have nothing to say to this. I explained the situation to you, I thought.”
The Devil waved this away.
“You are merely his son,” he said. “He does what he likes with you. He will not find me nearly so malleable. If Delilah weds you, it will be in St. George’s, Hanover Square, and all the world will be obliged to think it a very good match, indeed. Rely upon it.”
Mr. Desmond returned his cynical gaze to the window. “You may go to her now,” he said. “After you’ve had your answer—whatever it is—my wife and I will have something more to say to you.”
Mr. Langdon had proceeded from Melgrave House to that of Lord Rand, in order to see his friends one last time before he hanged himself.
He had devoted the walk to convincing himself he had no need to see Miss Desmond one last time because she would only break his heart again. It was wounded in so many places already that one more blow would surely collapse it altogether, and he did not wish to die in front of her. Hanging himself was more dignified, and certainly more discreet.
All of which he knew was ridiculous, but he was lovesick and his case was hopeless and, in the circumstances, being ridiculous was virtually an obligation.
Peace, he thought, eternal peace. Never again need he struggle to preserve the mask of a civilised gentleman while a ravening beast within fought wildly to overpower him.
In the end he’d be quiet, just as he’d told Tony—in a cool, tranquil vault where she could never get
at him and rattle him. Never again would he look upon her maddeningly beautiful face or hold her in his arms. Never again would she run her willful hands through his hair... and, pull his mouth to hers... and moan so softly, her breath warm on his face.
He had just turned the corner into Governor Square and had to stop and lean against a railing because all the breath seemed to have rushed out of his body at once. He stood there, clutching the railing, oblivious to the curious stares of passersby, a long while. Then he straightened, tugged at his cravat, and turned back in the direction of Potterby House.
The butler was just explaining that Miss Desmond was busy at the moment, when Lady Potterby fluttered out, all smiles, and led Jack into the drawing room.
Ten minutes later, Jack was on his way home. He saw no need to linger. Tony was in the parlour with Delilah and they were unchaperoned because Tony was proposing, as Lady Potterby had been stubbornly assuring one and all he would. He had even, her ladyship announced triumphantly, gone about it in the proper way, speaking first to the young lady’s papa.
Oddly enough, Jack felt calm at last. This was the end of it. He would not hang himself—not yet. No doubt Tony would want his friend as groomsman, and it would be churlish to commit suicide before fulfilling one’s obligations to one’s friends.
Meanwhile, Jack would go back to Rossingley. He would not, however, stop at any inns along the way, not even if overtaken by a hurricane.
Lord Berne made the most moving proposal any young lady was like to hear in this century. Following his interview with her father, Tony had decided he’d be wisest to commence with a clean state. He admitted he’d been driven by lust and had intended only to make her his mistress. The special license, he explained with some shame, he’d had for ages, and had used twice before to deceive his victims.
Delilah did not appear at all surprised. She listened quietly, in a vaguely bored manner that made her suitor feel even more like a worm than he’d been made to feel by everyone else.
Nevertheless, he went on determinedly, “Even today I thought only of myself, and felt sorry for myself because I had failed and would not have another chance. I was even prepared to wed as my father ordered, because I was afraid of the consequences if I didn’t. Luckily, I have a friend far more loyal than I deserve, who helped me see my error. I tell you all this to make an end once and for all, of deception. I only hope you will be more generous than I deserve. Will you forgive me, my dear, and allow me to begin fresh? Will you do me the very great honour and give me the great happiness of consenting to be my wife?”
Delilah was certain she’d meant to say Yes. The words came out as No, however, and she thought her heart would break when she saw the shattered look on his beautiful countenance. More beautiful, she thought, than it had ever been before, perhaps because for once in his life he had told not his fantasy truth but his heart’s truth.
Yet as he’d spoken, he’d somehow revealed her own heart’s truth as well, and that crumbled all her carefully built defences, her cynical rationales, and her assurance.
“I’m so sorry, Tony,” she said. “I really am sorry to hurt you. I meant to marry you, you know. I would have made you do it—you don’t know me— and then we would have been so unhappy.”
“Why? How?” he asked. “You could never make me unhappy—except now, to tell me you will not be my wife. I love you, Delilah. I would die to make you happy.”
Even as he spoke the words, he knew they were futile. Though she sat quietly enough, gazing down at her folded hands, he sensed this was not the world-weary repose it seemed to be. With a jolt he remembered what Jack had said.
Tony lifted her chin so he could look into her beautiful eyes. “It’s Jack, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re in love with him. That’s why.” There was no reproach in his tones. He saw it in her eyes, a fact, and like the others he’d confronted today, this would not go away for wishing or pretending.
She smiled, rather cynically, he thought, but that was not the truth. That was pose. What she said was pose as well—pretending, wishing.
“Oh, Tony,” she said. “You look for a rival instead of listening to what I say.”
“It’s what I see,” he answered.
“Your vision is clouded,” she said, “if you see Delilah Desmond in love with a bookworm.”
He’d risen, intending to leave, but something nagged at him. He struggled for a moment, then sat down beside her on the sofa and, taking her hand, began to speak once more.
“What is this?” Mr. Atkins screamed. “Where did you get this?”
Mr. Gillstone gazed down in bewilderment at the sheets the publisher was clutching in his hands. “From you,” he said, wondering if the man had at last gone completely mad. Atkins was too high-strung for the business. It wanted a less sensitive nature.
“This is not the manuscript I gave you,” the little man cried. “Do I not know the curst thing by heart? Where did you get it? Who bribed you to take it?”
A heated argument ensued, Mr. Gillstone being much offended by the accusation.
They shouted at each other for twenty minutes. Finally, when Mr. Atkins’s face had turned purple and the blood vessels were visibly throbbing in his temples, the printer recollected the muddled, flustered, apologetic young man who’d come to him yesterday. Then he dragged Mr. Atkins to his office, made him swallow a tumbler of gin, and told him what had occurred.
The soothing effects of Geneva notwithstanding, Mr. Atkins bolted from his chair, snatched up the manuscript, and dashed out of the shop.
Two minutes later he was back again.
“Print it,” he said.
“Print it?” Mr. Gillstone echoed.
“Yes. This is the only book we shall ever get from that fiend without trouble and I shall never see my money again, so we might as well salvage what we can. Just don’t show it to me when it’s done. Deal with my assistant. I never want to see the curst thing again as long as I live.” br />
Chapter Twenty
Mr. langdon had ordered his bags packed so that he might leave first thing in the morning. He’d had enough of dashing about like a madman in the middle of the night.
All the same, he did not expect to spend the night in repose, so he did not even attempt to go to bed. He sat in the library, staring at a volume of Tacitus for two hours before he noticed he had not turned a page. He slammed the book shut and flung it aside.
Then he put on his coat and went out for a walk. A long walk. Perhaps he would be set upon by ruffians and savagely beaten. That would be a profound relief.
He circled the West End endlessly, passing houses where drawn-back curtains and brilliant lights boasted of festivities in progress. Occasionally a carriage clattered past, but it was too early for great folks to be heading home, and the streets were relatively quiet. At midnight the watchman’s voice rang out, informing the interested public not only of the hour, but of the circumstance that the world, at present, was well, the moon in the sky where it belonged, and the sky itself gradually clearing.
That was when Jack’s mind must have snapped, because the watchman had scarcely completed his observations when Mr. Langdon’s legs, no longer controlled by a brain or anything like it, blithely took him to Potterby House.
The house was dark, in the front at least. Facades, however, can be deceiving, and ever a seeker of Truth, Mr. Langdon slipped round to the back. There on the second floor, one window remained faintly lit. He stood at the gate for a moment. Then he climbed over it and dropped into the pathway leading to the garden.
His eyes went up to the window once more, and his heart began to pound because he saw a movement by the curtains. A figure in a gauzy negligee passed quickly—though not quickly enough to prevent his catching one tantalising glimpse of the form outlined in the candlelight.
“‘But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?’” he murmured, though he had sense enough left to smile at his folly. “‘It is the east, and Delilah is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon—’”