Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (23 page)

"I'm sure Tony has an excellent plan," said Jack, "as well as the means to carry it out, as you said. I do beg your pardon. My remarks were most unjust. I ought to beg his pardon as well. If he's promised to help you, he will. He would not — no gentleman of honour would — make a promise he wasn't sure he could keep."

Since the day he'd made his dramatic exit from his father's study, Lord Berne had really not given the memoirs any thought. The manuscript was his father's problem. The son's was Miss Desmond, and she had become even more of an obsession with him than the memoirs seemed to be with everyone else.

Nothing would move her. She was indifferent to the viscount's beauty and unresponsive to his irresistible charm. He'd pursued her for more than a month and was no nearer to achieving his aims than he'd been at the start. Nonetheless, he refused to believe the situation was hopeless. She was only more difficult and demanding than other women. Looks, charm, and speeches were not enough for her. At the gala he'd discovered loyalty wasn't enough, either. He would have to be heroic as well.

In the heat of the moment, heroics had seemed reasonable enough, but by the following morning, Lord Berne found himself reflecting unhappily upon the reckless promise he'd made.

He'd assumed his father had destroyed the manuscript as soon as he got it. Now the viscount had no idea what his parent was about, nor did he wish to know. Whatever Lord Streetham's intentions, they were bound to be at odds with his son's.

Instead, therefore, of beginning with his father, Lord Berne began with Mr. Atkins. Or tried to. Mr. Atkins, as Miss Desmond had told the viscount, was not to be found.

At the publisher's office, Lord Berne heard only complaints from the assistant left in charge.

"My Lord, I must tell you I begin to doubt there is such a book," said Mr. Black in aggrieved tones. "Mr. Atkins has written to me, telling me only to have the printer prepared to start on a work at a moment's notice, and to have the first installment complete in a matter of weeks. You should hear what the printer has to say about
that
. Yet my master never says what the work is, so I cannot tell you whether it is Mr. Desmond's memoirs or Dr. Cable-bottom's anatomy manual. It is most vexing. I am daily plagued with enquiries — not to mention a lot of threatening letters — and we have lost three of our best people — and Mr. Atkins will not stay in one place that one might write to him."

Lord Berne did not wait for more, but hastened instead to the printer's. That interview proved equally unprofitable. At the mention of Atkins, Mr. Gillstone only looked hostile and muttered about overdue bills and wondered how an honest businessman could be expected to survive in a world filled with cheats, liars, and frauds.

Over the next few days, Lord Berne spoke to virtually every human being connected with the business, down to clerks, errand boys — even the charwoman. He learned nothing, though he spent a lot of money doing so. A visit with Mrs. Atkins produced two fits and a flood of weeping.

In short, all the viscount could discover was that half the world was trying to find Mr. Atkins, with the same result.

A week after he'd made his foolish promise, Lord Berne had no more information than he'd had at the start. This left his father, and the young man was more loath than ever to even hint what he wanted from the earl. So much secrecy, the disappearance of Mr. Atkins — well, it looked ominous. Whenever Lord Streetham became deep and secretive, it was best to keep out of his way.

Still, the prospect of his father's rage was not nearly so daunting as that of Miss Desmond's. Tony had made too many easy promises, as she'd reminded him. If he failed in this — abandoned her in her hour of greatest need — she'd never forgive him. She'd turn elsewhere for comfort. To Jack most likely — and the viscount had rather be flogged publicly than endure the humiliation of losing her to a poky book-worm.

Accordingly, as soon as his father had left Mel-grave House, Lord Berne commenced a desperate search of the premises, which yielded, as he might have expected, nothing. All the earl's important papers were kept locked in his writing desk, and the viscount knew nothing whatsoever about locks.

He sat in his father's chair a long while and stared at the keyhole in frustration. He would have to break it, and this obviously was not the time. It must be done at night and blamed on intruders.

Since it was scarcely noon, Lord Berne decided he might as well make some use of the eternity stretching before him. He had not been to Atkins's shop in three days. He might as well go again. Perhaps there was some word.

There was more than word. The viscount found Mr. Atkins himself, crouched over his cluttered desk, tearing at his hair.

Lord Berne's face immediately became a mask of sympathy as he apologised for intruding. "I heard you were back," he said. "Being in the neighbourhood, I thought to stop and congratulate you. It appears you have achieved quite a coup with Desmond's — "

"My Lord, I beg you will not speak that name," the publisher cried. "It is cursed, and everything it touches is cursed."

"Surely not," said Lord Berne. "By now I daresay you are inundated with advance orders. This book will be the making of you, sir. Murray and Lackington — not to mention all your other competitors — will be grinding their teeth in envy. I applaud your perspicacity. Indeed, I cannot but regret my ill-chosen words at our last meeting."

"You were right," was the doleful reply. "It ought to have been buried, deep, deep beneath the earth. Where I might as well be. No wonder he has not troubled himself to come and kill me. He has no need. I am ruined. He's poisoned everything."

The publisher lifted a stack of letters and flung it to the floor. "Warnings, threats, all of them. The House of Lords wants me hanged. And that is not the half of it," he went on querulously. "My colleagues, my employees all run from me as if I had the plague. Black has given notice of quitting. Gill-stone will not take it — he claims his presses are too busy. Nobody else will take it. Nobody will do business with me. I cannot even buy paper."

"Because of the threats?" Lord Berne asked, barely controlling his eagerness.

"Because the Devil has set rumours abroad that I am bankrupt. The fact is, I am short of cash at the moment — but I am not bankrupt. Yet no one will extend a farthing's credit. I know it was he," Mr. Atkins went on darkly as he drew out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. "No one will say so, but I know it was he."

"Indeed? Well, that must be most disagreeable for you," said Lord Berne, thinking furiously. "What becomes of the manuscript now? Do you admit defeat and return it to Desmond?"

"If only I could. But your father berates me for being superstitious. He is suddenly determined the book must be published, despite everything — and upon the most impossible schedule. Three weeks. Who ever heard of such a thing, even in the cheap paper cover? Does he think I have all the copyists of the
Times
working for me?"

"Pray do not overset yourself, sir," said Lord Berne reassuringly. "My father is a man of influence, which he is bound to exert on your behalf."

"Heaven help me, I wish he would not. The thing is cursed, I tell you, bringing nothing but trouble from the start. But Lord Streetham says we must go forward, and so we must — though I know it is to ruin." Atkins wiped away a tear. "At any rate, I have persuaded him to take it back until the work can begin. I would not have that wretched manuscript in my keeping an instant longer than I can help it."

Lord Berne's heart sank. His father had the damned thing
yet
. Forcing heartiness into his voice, he said, "You must not be cast down, Atkins. My father is a careful man. All will be well, I promise you. You must banish these dark thoughts, and think of your golden future. You will make ten times what Murray has on Byron's
Giaour
."

Mr. Atkins only groaned in reply and dropped his head to his desk.

Lord Berne politely took his leave.

"Naturally they speak of sedition," Lord Street-ham impatiently told the son who trailed him into his study. "All the Hunts did was call the Regent names. Desmond has told unflattering tales of half the peerage. He's certain to be tried."

"But if such a matter goes to the courts, will not your connexion be revealed?"

"You know nothing of these matters, Tony, and I wish you would tax neither your brain nor my patience by quizzing me about them."

"You are my parent. I cannot help but be concerned," said Lord Berne piously.

"I had rather," said the parent, glaring, "you concerned yourself with Lady Jane. She is arrived in Town and it would behove you to call on her. Atkins and I can manage our business well enough."

"I don't see how I'm ever to learn anything if you persist in treating me like an ignorant schoolboy," the son complained. "I am trying to understand how you expect to proceed safely in this, when the world is in such an uproar."

Lord Streetham sighed and sat down at his writing desk. While he son watched with suppressed eagerness, the earl took out a key from his pocket and unlocked the desk. "I have a great deal of neglected correspondence to attend to," said Lord Streetham. "But if you must know, it is a question of ownership. We took pains to ensure that the manuscript remained, legally, Desmond's property. It is only his word against Atkins's that the book is published against the Devil's will, and Atkins's solicitor will make short work of that claim, should Desmond dare to make it. If he does, there is not a solicitor in London, reputable or not, who will agree to take up his case."

"I see," said the viscount, not in the least taken aback by this arrogant abuse of power. "But how is Atkins to publish when no one will trade with him?"

"A temporary setback. I'll settle
that
in short order," said the earl ominously.

"And the manuscript? You have it yet? Are you not concerned Desmond will trace it to you?"

"Do you take me for an idiot?" the earl exploded. "The dratted thing is safely locked up with our solicitor. Now will you go and let me do my work? The nation has some claim on my attention, I think."

Much perturbed, Lord Berne went, cursing his recklessness in making so impossible a promise to Miss Desmond. He could not face her now. He could not possibly go to her and admit he was helpless to assist her.

Therefore he did not go to the theatre that evening, because she would be there. Instead he took himself to a gaming hell and, after signing a year's allowance worth of vowels, proceeded to York Place, to a late-night gathering at the cramped house of Mrs. Sydenham, Harriette Wilson's ill-natured sister, Amy.

Restored, no doubt, by a friendly interlude with one of Amy's attractive rivals, Lord Berne awoke the next day with new resolution. If he did not wish to alienate his adored Delilah entirely, it were best to be at least partially honest. He would admit to being delayed — but only temporarily. If he chose his story carefully, she must in all fairness agree to be patient. After all, no one could get the manuscript now, not even her father.

Which meant that no one else could aid her. Surely, as the days passed, she must come to un-derstand that only the Viscount Berne could protect and care for her properly.

He'd scarcely entered Lady Potterby's parlour when her ladyship was summoned out of the room by an agitated servant. Lady Potterby, whose nerves had over a week ago received a jolt from which they had not entirely recovered, was sufficiently distracted by the servant's panic to hurry out of the room with no thought for her grand-niece's lack of chaperonage, though she did have sense enough to leave the door ajar.

The grand-niece was quick to seize the opportunity.

"You have news of the memoirs, My Lord?" she asked, her grey-green eyes bright with hope.

That brightness, the low, throbbing eagerness in her voice, the sweet vulnerability of her entire mien, was Lord Berne's undoing. How sweet, how unspeakably delicious to have her so, lying in his arms! When Paradise seemed so close, how could he wait days, weeks, and in the end perhaps lose her after all — because of some ridiculous book and a lot of stubborn, greedy men.

He had not only word, he lied, but a plan. "It will be difficult, Miss Desmond, and I hesitate to impose upon you after promising to see to it myself."

"Impose?" she whispered, glancing towards the door. "What do you mean?"

The whisper finished him. He could almost feel her warm breath at his ear as he pictured her, snuggled close to him, murmuring shyly in those same soft tones.

"I need your help," he said. "The matter must be handled discreetly and with dispatch, but it will require two people. I have friends I can trust, but-"

"No! I will do it, whatever it is," she interrupted excitedly. "You cannot know how vexatious it is to be a woman, always forced to wait, being told noth-ing — except that one's help is not wanted. I'm no empty-headed, helpless miss, My Lord, and I'm not afraid."

"I've seen enough of your courage to know that," he answered. "You've been splendid all this time, when another woman would have been weeping and fainting and making a pitiful spectacle of herself. But there's nothing of the helpless victim in
you
. You ought to have been born in another age, when womanly bravery and intelligence were better appreciated."

Delilah flushed with pleasure. Everyone else had called her foolish and obstinate because she would not run away. He understood. Rake he may be, but he treated her as an equal. He asked her to help, to be a partner in this, while everyone else had only told her endlessly to keep out of men's affairs.

"What must I do?" she asked.

"Can you come away? My carriage is waiting."

"Now?"

"There is no time like the present. Surely you will not wish to remain on tenter-hooks another day."

Delilah jumped up from her chair. "Not another minute," she answered, shrugging off a chill of apprehension as excitement. "Only wait while I get my bonnet and shawl."

The words were hardly out of her mouth when she heard voices approaching. In the next moment, an elegant figure in blue satin sailed through the door.