Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (22 page)

Mr. Desmond raised an eyebrow.

"I beg your pardon," said Jack. "I did not mean to imply — "

"But I
am
ancient, Mr. Langdon. I will be sixty years old in November. And while I have been irresponsibly racketing about these last thirty or forty years, Marchingham and Corbell have risen to unspeakable heights of political consequence. They and my other old friends are doubtless terrified my book will make fools of them. Your upper classes, sir, have but two fears in this world: appearing foolish and being murdered by a revolutionary mob. Naturally they believe it is all one thing. It is very difficult for the British gentleman to develop and retain more than one idea in his lifetime."

"In other words, your powerful friends mean to work up some trumpery charges to throw you into prison and suppress the book," said Delilah. "Though how they are to stop odious Mr. Atkins when you have been unable, I cannot think. Not that I mean us to remain and see how they'll manage it. We must return to Scotland."

"I had rather go to prison, I believe," said Mr. Desmond unperturbedly. "One meets all one's old chums there — those at least who are not currently running the nation. Scotland is needlessly cold and damp," he complained. "Besides, I can never make heads or tails of what those fellows are saying — "

"Papa!"

"My dear, I know your mama is there, and I do miss her grievously — but she would be appalled if I came slinking back with my tail between my legs. I could never look her in the eye again. Such fine eyes she has," he added dreamily. "You know, Mr. Langdon, I never grow tired of gazing into them, though we have been married nearly five and twenty years."

In vain did Miss Desmond try to awaken her father to a sense of his peril. Reason, threats, rage, and tears were all futile. The Devil had never been a coward, and he did not propose to begin now. His daughter may return to Scotland if she liked. He certainly would prefer that, as he was sure Lady Potterby would. He, however, would remain. Besides, he had an engagement this evening.

"Speak to him, Mr. Langdon," she entreated. "You're always so sensible. Make him understand that a man of sixty cannot long survive imprisonment, and Mama and I will not wish to survive if anything happens to him."

Mr. Langdon dutifully did his best, though he found it monstrous difficult to concentrate. Not once, he thought — not one word about
her
hopes, of the destruction of her plans. Not a hint of alarm at the formidable displeasure she must confront if she remained. It was all her parents.

Was it all? Was that why she was here — for her parents' sake? Had she not told him once that her father's skill at cards was their only source of income? What had she said? Something about her parents not getting any younger. Was her coldblooded resolve to marry well solely determination to provide for them?

That his arguments were disappointingly weak soon became apparent.

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Langdon, you do sound as if you take his side," she exclaimed in exasperation. "Must you men always stick together, ranting about honour?"

"Miss Desmond, I can't believe your father is in genuine danger," Jack answered mollifyingly. "The work will not be made public for a month. He cannot be imprisoned on mere rumours. Actually," he went on, "it's you who can most expect to suffer in the immediate future. Mere rumour is enough to make a social outcast of you. Your father is quite right in his advice. You ought to return to Scotland."

"Yes, my dear. I fear the news will frighten all your beaux away — which, may I remind you, was the reason in the first place we decided against publishing."

"Then who wants such paltry fellows?" she retorted. "I shall certainly not run away on their account — or on account of a lot of hypocritical females, either. I have some pride too, Papa. You did not bring up your daughter to be a coward. I shall never desert you," she concluded rather melodramatically.

Melodrama or no, she had looked very fine, Jack reflected as he left the house some time later. Proud, noble — and obstinately wrong-headed, of course — but that was why he loved her.

Mr. Langdon paused, thunderstruck, as he reached the corner of the square. Then he turned to stare at the house he had just left.
Loved her
?

" 'How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude,' " quoted Mr. Stoneham. "But — to make a proper shambles of Cowper — do you mind a friend in your retreat?"

Jack shook himself out of his unhappy reveries to welcome the scholar. Stoneham, at least, would not weary him with the current scandal.

"It seems you've found the only quiet corner of White's," said the gentleman. "Perhaps the only quiet corner of the kingdom. All London is buzzing over this impending publication of Desmond's memoirs. What is your opinion? Will the tales of Society's excesses stir the mob to revolution?"

"It's all idle gossip," said Jack, for what must have been the hundredth time this afternoon. "Desmond's appearance in Town is a nine-days' wonder, and everyone is convinced he's come with a purpose other than the entertainment of a marriageable daughter. Naturally some fool has decided it must be a book of reminiscences and that fool tells another and soon the newspapers print it as solemn truth."

"So I had thought," was the complacent answer. "Now we've had our obligatory discussion of Mr. Desmond, I am eager to pursue the matter we were debating the other day."

Jack smiled. "We've said all there is to be said, I think. You may argue until you are blue in the face, Stoneham, but you will never convince me any mortal is capable of 'improving' the Bard."

Mr. Stoneham promptly asserted that the issue was not improvement. "Is it not better that young ladies read the work in diluted form than never read it at all for fear of being put to the blush?" he asked, warming to the debate.

"Young ladies read whatever they please, in spite of their mamas and teachers. To trick them with a work of art mutilated beyond recognition is criminal."

"Bowdler doesn't mean to mutilate, I am sure. A passage here, a change of phrase there. The meaning would remain, but in more palatable form for the innocent."

"Dr. Bowdler is a meddling, officious old busybody who, if he had a grain of wit, would write his own work instead of attempting to rewrite — " Mr. Langdon stopped to gaze blankly at his companion.

"Emendations merely," Mr. Stoneham insisted.

"Emendations."

"Nothing more — and all to a very good end, I must in — Langdon? Where are you going?" the scholar asked in some bewilderment, for his adversary had bolted up from his chair, a wild look in his eyes.

"So sorry. A thousand apologies," Jack muttered. "Just recollected an appointment."

With that, he was gone, leaving a rather affronted Mr. Stoneham to stare after him.

Chapter 15

Had he been a less selfish young man, Lord Berne would have been deeply distressed by the chilly reception Miss Desmond received that evening at Miss Melbrook's birthday gala. Since, however, this only cleared the field of all other rivals, Lord Berne was most selfishly ecstatic.

Still, he made a creditable show of gentle attentiveness as he hovered by her, making conversation and helping her pretend the rest of the company was not keeping its distance. If he expected this thoughtfulness to soften her hard heart, he learned he was much mistaken. Miss Desmond held her head high, and though her smile was brilliant, it was unpleasantly cold.

He bided his time until they danced. Since her card was as yet nearly empty, he'd had no difficulty in obtaining a waltz. Not until they danced did he allow himself to touch upon her difficulties, express indignation with all of Society, and beg her to make use of him.

"The services of a libertine are scarcely what I require," was the unpromising answer. "Besides, they are all afraid of a little book, nothing more. It's not my trouble, but theirs."

Inwardly excusing her unflattering language as emotional distraction, Lord Berne answered gently, "You are a convenient scapegoat. I cannot tell you how my heart aches to see this injustice to one so innocent. You are a national treasure, a splendid jewel in the crown of English womanhood."

"My Lord, I am not in a poetical humour this evening. You would be better served, I think, in returning me to Lady Potterby and addressing your pretty metaphors to some other lady. I am bound to put you out of temper."

"You are distraught," he said, "though no one else would know it, you disguise your feelings so well. Only because your smallest gesture speaks volumes to me do I discern your distress. Miss Desmond, may I speak frankly?"

She shrugged, inadvertently calling his attention to the smoothness of her neck. One part of his mind speculated upon the silken attractions closely connected to that neck, while the other framed his speech.

"I confess I was rather surprised when I first heard of this memoirs matter," he said cautiously. "Your father is a man of vast experience, Miss Desmond. Naturally I was puzzled why he should wish to publish his recollections at this time, when you've so recently entered Society. Was he not aware of the repercussions that would follow? Or was the reason so pressing — "

"Good grief, can you believe my father has had anything to do with this provoking situation?" she asked incredulously.

"Then he hasn't written the story after all?" was the innocent response.

"Yes, he wrote the curst thing — ages ago, when he was ill, and concerned lest Mama and I be left destitute if he died. Since he survived the illness, there was no longer any urgent necessity to publish."

"Yet he did not destroy it."

With some impatience, Miss Desmond explained why not. Not until she was concluding did she reflect that perhaps she was unwise to tell Lord Berne so much. Aunt Millicent had insisted on denial. They must all maintain that the memoirs did not exist and the rumours were unfounded. Still, Delilah thought wearily, what was the use? In another month or so the world would only add the epithet "liars" to all the rest.

"Miss Desmond, are you telling me this work is being published without your father's permission?" He was genuinely surprised. Hadn't his father told him he'd gotten the memoirs from Desmond himself? Why, then, had the earl not destroyed them?

"Without his permission, against his wishes — and no one can find Mr. Atkins or the manuscript to make him give it up."

"No one
else
," Lord Berne corrected. "I will get the memoirs back for you, if that is what you wish."

The music had stopped, but Delilah scarcely noticed. She was not certain whether to laugh at him or hit him, so exasperatingly confident he looked.

"You make promises too easily, sir," she reproached, "I do not care to be sported with in this way."

"You've never believed my concern for your well-being is genuine, Miss Desmond. I cannot blame you. Nor will I bore you with protestations and promises. My actions must speak for me in future," he said, his blue eyes ablaze with fervent sincerity.

Mr. Langdon was rather late in arriving, having spent some hours in conference with Mr. Desmond, then a few more in consultation with his friends. All had agreed that, whatever the upshot of his current plans, the rumours must be squelched in the meantime. Accordingly, members of the Demowery family immediately set about laughing the story off. Their dismissal of the scandal sheet was sufficiently scornful to raise doubts in the minds of many of their acquaintance, some of whom — though naturally they could not admit it — were made to feel ridiculous indeed.

Thus the mood of the crowd at Miss Melbrook's party gradually softened, and soon Delilah had most, if not all, her partners back.

Though she remarked this change, she assumed Lord Berne's dancing with her had somehow brought it about. Consequently, she felt obliged to think more kindly of him. Whatever foolish promises he might make and break, he had done her a service. That was why, when he returned a while later to beg for a second dance, she acquiesced, though she had made it a rule never to dance with any known rake more than once in an evening.

Mr. Langdon, who had kept count, was instantly outraged when he saw Lord Berne claim her a second time. Had she taken leave of her wits? All the guests were sure to remark this aberration and speculate upon it — as if they did not already have more than enough to say about Miss Desmond.

Accordingly, Jack took up a martial stance by Lady Potterby. When Delilah returned to her chaperone and her next partner appeared, Mr. Langdon curtly informed the bewildered major that he had made a mistake.

The soldier wisely retreated before Mr. Lang-don's baleful glare, and an irate Delilah found herself being hauled to the dance floor.

"What do you think you're doing?" she fumed.

"Confounding the enemy," he said. "And if you have any
nous
at all, you'll endeavour to appear as imbecilely fascinated with all the rest of your partners as you did with Lord Berne."

"Imbecile? How dare you?"

"You were hanging on his every word," her partner answered.

"Because he was talking sense."

"Tony has never talked sense in his entire life."

The dance separated them briefly, but when she returned to face her partner, Miss Desmond's eyes were blazing.

"Evidently," she snapped, "Lord Berne has been saving up all his sense for when it was most wanted. He has a plan to get Papa's memoirs back," she went on, her voice taunting. "A
plan
, Mr. Langdon. Not just pretending nothing's happened and keeping a stiff upper lip."

Mr. Langdon's upper lip, along with the rest of his countenance, did stiffen at this. He'd altogether forgotten Tony's aspirations. Naturally he'd want to dash to her rescue — and he had the necessary resources. His father had tremendous influence, and being a book collector, was sure to have useful connexions — which Miss Desmond was pointing out when the dance required they separate once more.

Abruptly Mr. Langdon's own plans seemed pathetically inept. When they came together again he felt honour bound to agree with her.