Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (2 page)

Mr. Atkins did not wait for removal. He shot past the earl out of the room.

Lord Streetham's icy glare now fell upon the dark gentleman, who produced another gleaming grin. The earl's hauteur faltered slightly. "So it
is
you, Desmond," he said. "When I heard that voice I was certain I'd passed over. Where else but in Hades would one expect to see
you
again?"

"But not, surely, where you'd expect to find yourself, eh, Marcus?" Mr. Desmond returned. "You are, I promise, still in this sad world, and this poor hostelry is hardly the Other Place, though the Devil himself takes refuge here from the storm."

Lord Streetham manufactured a taut smile. "Then I may take it this young woman belongs to you?"

The green eyes glittered. "Young
lady
, if you please. This is my daughter, Delilah."

"Daughter?" the earl repeated weakly.

The tension in the air was palpable. Once more Jack braced himself.

To his amazement, the earl's hauteur vanished completely, replaced by a rather white expression of solicitude. "My dear young lady, a thousand apologies," he said. "The poor light — and my eyes are not what they used to be. I took you for that saucy maid. A terrible misunderstanding."

Miss Desmond stared coldly at him.

"Nearly fatal, actually," said her father. "Now I suppose I must call you out. How tiresome."

"Too tiresome, Papa," said Miss Desmond. "His lordship has apologised. I am unharmed." Obviously, his lordship was not, but the young lady tactfully forbore to mention this. "Now if his accomplice will apologise as well," she added with an amused glance at Jack, "we might all continue peaceably about our business."

Jack was certain that some sort of signal passed then from daughter to father, but he could not perceive what it was. A nicker of an eyelid… an infinitesimal movement… or even — impossible — no one could read another's mind.

He looked to the earl for guidance.

"A misunderstanding, Jack," said Lord Street-ham. "That's all."

All. He, Jack Langdon, had violently assaulted an innocent young woman who had only been attempting to defend her honour. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him, but as floors are rarely accommodating in this way, he reddened with mortification instead.

"I — I do beg your pardon, Miss Desmond," he stammered. "I'm dreadfully sorry — and — and — " Abruptly he recalled the appalling urges she'd aroused. "I hope I caused you no injury."

"Oh, no," she answered soberly, though her eyes were lit with amusement. "And I trust I caused
you
none."

Mr. Langdon's colour deepened. "N — no. Of course not."

"Very well, Mr.-?"

"Langdon," the earl impatiently supplied. "Jack Langdon. Known him since he was a babe. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Very well, Mr. Langdon. Apology accepted."

Mr. Langdon begged pardon of the room at large, then fled.

He found the correct parlour this time and sat staring at the table for half an hour before he remembered that he'd dropped his book during his scuffle with Miss Desmond. Reluctant to risk bumping into any of the witnesses to his humiliation, he sent a servant to retrieve the volume.

Once it was safely in his hands, Jack relaxed somewhat, and even managed to order his dinner without stammering. This was about all he could manage. He ate his meal without tasting it, and read his book without comprehending a syllable. The storm continued with savage fury, and he noticed nothing. Hours later, when all was quiet within and without, he crept to his room and stared at the ceiling until daybreak.

While Mr. Langdon was trying in vain to find oblivion in his book, and Miss Desmond was recounting her adventure to her papa, Lord Streetham was relieving his own frustrations at the expense of the hapless Mr. Atkins. After berating the poor fellow unmercifully for nearly revealing their connexion, his lordship proceeded to an unkind analysis of said connexion.

The world knew Lord Streetham as an enthusiastic book collector. Mr. Atkins knew him as a secret partner in his publishing business. That this was a closely guarded secret was perhaps because of the firm's tendency to offer the British public some of the naughtiest volumes ever to be hidden under mattresses or tucked away in locked draw-ers. Despite readers' regrettable affinity for anatomy manuals, directories of prostitutes, reviews of
crim con
cases, and guides to seduction, the business had not done well of late — as the earl was at present pointing out.

Atkins was obviously a failure, his lordship observed, perhaps a fraud as well. Be that as it may, he now had leave to plunge into bankruptcy solo. In short, Lord Streetham proposed to cease tossing good money after bad.

"But, My Lord, to give up now — when a brilliant success is practically in my grasp — virtually in the printer's hands." Mr. Atkins squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. "Oh, my. I had not meant — oh, dear me."

Lord Streetham paused in the act of bringing his glass to his lips and studied his companion's face over the rim. Then he put the glass down and fixed his pale blue eyes on the publisher.

"What hadn't you meant?" he asked.

The man only stood speechless and terrified, gazing back.

"You'd better speak up, Atkins. My patience is quite at an end."

"My — My Lord, I c — cannot. I'm sworn to's — secrecy."

"You have no business secrets from me. Speak up at once."

The publisher swallowed. "The memoirs, My Lord."

"I am not in the mood to catechize you, Atkins, and you are provoking me."

"
His
memoirs," the publisher said miserably. "Mr. Desmond has written his memoirs and I have paid him — partially, I mean, as an incentive to complete them speedily. That is why I am here. I learned he was travelling to Rossingley to visit relatives, so I came up from Town to — to spare him the trouble of bringing them to me."

"Written his memoirs, has he?" Lord Streetham asked as he absently poured more wine into his still nearly full glass.

"Yes, My Lord. I saw them — at least part of them — myself. He had written to ask whether I had any interest, and naturally, being familiar with his reputation — as who is not? — I made all haste to examine the work. I had to travel all the way to Scotland, but the journey was well worth my while, I assure you. All of Society will be clamouring to read Devil Desmond's story. We'll issue it in installments, you see, and — "

"And have you got them?" his lordship asked.

Mr. Atkins was forced to admit he had not, because Mr. Desmond had raised difficulties.

"Of course he has," said the earl. "If you know his reputation, you should know better than to give Devil Desmond money before you have the goods in your hands. You are a fool. These memoirs do not exist. He showed you a few scraps of paper he'd got up for the purpose, and you were cozened."

The publisher protested that the manuscript must exist, or Miss Desmond would not have been so eager to interrupt the meeting with her father. "He's ready to publish," Atkins explained, "but she won't let him. She's afraid of the scandal. The girl's looking for a husband, you know. That's why Mr. Desmond has returned to England."

The earl sneered. "Devil Desmond's daughter? A husband? The wench must be addled in her wits. I suppose she means to find herself a lord — a duke, perhaps?" Lord Streetham chuckled. "Silly chit. What's one more scandal to her? As it is — but no, ancient history bores me. Still, the public dotes on such sorry tales, and you are correct. These memoirs, if they truly exist, are certain to be popular. Unfortunately…" He paused and lightly drummed his fingers on the table.

"My Lord?"

"People change, Atkins," said the earl, without looking up. "Some of those with whom Desmond consorted in his wicked youth have died of their excesses. Those who survived are today men of prominence, highly respected. They will not take kindly to such an exposure of their youthful follies. If you are not careful, you will be sued for libel."

"My Lord, I assure you — "

Lord Streetham continued, unheeding, "Furthermore, libellous or not, there may be information that would destroy the peace of innocent families. We can't have that." His lordship sipped his wine with an air of piety.

Mr. Atkins panicked. "Oh, My Lord. For fear of a few domestic squabbles you are prepared to deprive the world of these recollections? I promise you, they'll be pounding at the doors every time a new installment is announced. I beg of you, My Lord, reconsider." Tears formed in the publisher's eyes.

Lord Streetham reflected for several agonising minutes while Mr. Atkins mopped his brow and waited.

"Very well," said the earl at last. "It would be wrong to deprive the public. He has lived an extraordinary life. You may publish, if you can — but on one condition."

"Anything, My Lord."

"I must approve the material first. A bit of editing here and there will do no harm, and may spare some of my colleagues considerable pain."

Having agreed to accept any condition, Mr. Atkins could hardly quarrel with this modest request. Some time later, however, as he took himself to bed, he bewailed the cruel fate that had brought Lord Streetham to this accursed inn. By the time his lordship had done "approving" Devil Desmond's memoirs, they'd look like a book of sermons, and Mr. Atkins would consider himself very fortunate if even the Methodists would buy them.

Lord Streetham took to his own bed in bad humour. He might have known this would be a night of ill omen from the start, when his mistress had failed to appear. Then, when Desmond's chit had entered his private parlour, he'd mistaken her for the tart, and nearly had his claret spilled. After that, he'd narrowly escaped certain death at Devil Desmond's hands, had had to truckle to the monster — with Jack Langdon, the soul of rectitude, a witness to the whole tawdry scene. Worst of all were these curst memoirs, whose pages must surely reveal secrets of his own to the unsympathetic London mob.

His lordship was not altogether easy in his mind about the publisher, either. The choice between certain success and certain ruin is not a difficult one, and a desperate man is not a patient one. Suppose Atkins betrayed him, and made off with the manuscript? Suppose, even if he didn't, the book was so scurrilous that editing would not be enough? Perhaps it were safest to destroy the work altogether. With these and hosts of other, equally unsettling questions did Lord Streetham while away the long, dreary night.

Chapter 2

Hoping once again to avoid his fellow travellers, Jack stole out of his room shortly after dawn. As he was about to turn the corner towards the stairs, there came a noise from a room nearby. Jack glanced back at the precise instant that another gentleman came hurrying around the corner. The two collided, and Mr. Langdon was sent staggering against the wall.

"Drat — so sorr — Jack!" exclaimed the gentleman. "Is that you, truly?"

He reached out a hand to help, but Jack had swiftly recovered his balance, though he was still rather dazed. He glanced up into what most women would have described as the face of an angel. It was a face that might have been painted by Botticelli, so classically beautiful were its proportions, so finely chiseled every feature, so clear, blue, and innocent its eyes, so golden the halo of curls that crowned it.

This, however, was not only the face of a mortal man, but of a most unseraphic member of that gender. Lord Streetham's son, the Viscount Berne, was well on his way to becoming the most dangerous libertine the British peerage had ever produced. He was also Jack's oldest friend.

"Yes, it's me — at least I think so," said Jack with a grimace as he rubbed the back of his head.

"What brings you here — up and about at this ungodly hour? And as usual, never looking where you went. Why, I nearly threw you down in my haste."

"That's quite all right, Tony," said Mr. Langdon. "I'm growing accustomed to falling on my face."

Lord Berne's innocent countenance immediately became pitying. "Oh, yes, I heard about that. Too bad about Miss Pelliston."

Mr. Langdon winced. He had not been aware that his failure was common gossip.

"Still, that's the way of love," the viscount consoled. "Plants you a facer every now and then. The secret is to pick yourself up and march on to the next battle. We civilians must take our lesson from Wellington."

He threw an arm about his friend's shoulder and led him down the stairs. "First, you want sustenance. We shall breakfast together. Then, you must return with me to the ancestral pile for a long visit. I'm forced to ruralise because I am obliged to court Lady Jane Gathers. Of course she'll make a paragon of a wife. My sire's judgement is infallible, as he incessantly reminds me."

Since Lord Berne had a tendency to run on wherever his fancy took him, his monologues could continue for hours if not ruthlessly interrupted and hauled back to the point.

Accordingly, Jack cut in. "You don't usually ruralise at inns — at least not so close to home. What brings you here?"

"A wench of course. What else? Perhaps you have not yet met the fair and saucy Sarah? No matter. I scarcely saw her either, for I'd no sooner stepped into the coffee room than I spied a high flyer sitting lonely and neglected amid the storm-tossed rabble. What choice had I but to come to the dark-haired damsel's aid?"

"Lady Jane will hardly appreciate that sort of knight errantry," said Jack as they stepped into the main passage.

"Lady Jane is determined to know nothing about such matters, which is most becoming in her. I only wish her face were more becoming. But no matter. We'll woo her together, you and I," Tony offered.

He deftly steered his preoccupied friend into the public dining room. "Perhaps you'll steal her away. Actually, Jack, I wish you would. She's all very well, but I'm not ready — Good God! Where did
she
come from? With my noble sire, no less. Where in blazes did
he
come from?"

Mr. Langdon followed his companion's gaze past the enormous communal table to a quiet corner near the fireplace. There Mr. Desmond and his daughter sat breakfasting with the Earl of Street-ham.