The Devil's Delilah

by Loretta Chase

  “You need never angle for praise, Miss Desmond,” was the prompt reply.

  The exotic countenance grew blank with boredom, and Lord Berne was wise enough to revise his tactics.

  “Actually,” he said, dropping his voice, “Jack is more than usually abstracted because”—he paused dramatically—”he has had a disappointment.”

  Miss Desmond was intrigued. “Really? What sort? It cannot have been love, since you say he eludes feminine wiles. What can it be?”

  “To disclose that would be dishonourable.”

  “Then you were dishonourable to mention it at all,” she retorted, tossing her head. This tipped her beaver riding hat over her forehead, causing several black tendrils to escape from behind. She impatiently thrust these back Tinder the hat while Lord Berne watched with every evidence of enchantment.

  “As long as I am sunk beneath reproach, I suppose one more indiscretion can scarcely matter,” he said, when hat and hair had been jammed into order. “Yes, there was a lady in the case. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “She must have been extraordinary to distract him from his books.”

  “Not at all. From what I’ve heard, she was a mousy little model of propriety—and a blue stocking. I think he’s had a narrow escape, though it wouldn’t do to tell him so, of course. A friend is obliged to sympathise and console.”

  “Then I keep you from your obligations, My Lord. You must attend to Mr. Langdon, and leave Papa and me to make shift without you.” So saying, she rode ahead to catch up with her father.

  “Bored so soon?” asked Mr. Desmond^. “I told you he was like everyone else.”

  “On the contrary, he’s a wonderful gossip. In less than an hour I have learned the entire past Season’s on-dits.”

  “Then doubtless the conversation grew too warm for your maidenly ears.”

  Delilah shot him a disbelieving glance. “His lordship was courteously amusing, no more. Still, if the prey is not elusive, the hunter soon loses his relish for the pursuit, as you have told me a thousand times.”

  The father grinned. “I am always right, of course. You’ve set your mind on Streetham’s heir, then?”

  Delilah shook her head. “His parents would never condone it. I was most surprised by his lordship’s invitation. I don’t think he likes you, Papa.”

  “Loathes me,” the Devil replied easily. “Still, he wouldn’t want his faux pas to be noised about—and even I am not so low a cur as to tattle on my gracious host, am I?”

  “What an old hypocrite he is! Naturally his son is out of the question.” She smiled into the sunlit distance. “As a husband, I mean. But as a pursuer, he could prove useful. It would be pleasant to have at least one suitor on hand when the Little Season begins. Let us hope he pursues me as far as London.”

  It was fortunate that Lord Streetham was not a superstitious man, else he had concluded a curse had fallen upon him from the moment he’d strayed past the Black Cat’s portals. A diligent search of all of the Desmonds’ belongings, including their carriage, had yielded nothing.

  Lord Streetham now had two choices. He could offer Desmond an enormous sum for the memoirs. Though the earl was tight-fisted, he was prepared to pay in so urgent a case. The trouble was, he must pay Desmond, and to admit himself at that creature’s mercy was unthinkable. The second choice— to seek his irresponsible son’s help—was nearly as unthinkable. Yet this was one of the few enterprises in which Tony’s narrow talents could be useful. Thus, as soon as the group had returned to the house, Lord Streetham sent for his son.

  “I suppose you are on your way to making a conquest of Miss Desmond,” said the earl, once the door was closed.

  Tony shifted uneasily. “I was only trying to entertain them, sir. That is one’s duty to one’s guests.”

  “I’ll tell you your duty,” the earl snapped. “I didn’t ask them here for their amusement or yours, and I mean to be rid of them as soon as possible. Your mother is still in fits, and she doesn’t know the half of it.” Lord Streetham proceeded to tell his son the whole of it—or most of it, for he did not reveal precisely what revelations he feared. He dwelt instead upon the ignorance of the public and the jealousy of political rivals. The latter, he insisted, would snatch at any straw that might discredit him.

  “They will twist minor peccadillos out of all recognition and make me appear unfit to lead,” he stiffly explained. “What you or I, as men of the world, would shrug off as youthful folly they will exaggerate into weakness of character. Mere boyish pranks will be transformed into heinous

  crimes.”

  He turned from the window in time to catch his son grinning. The grin was hastily suppressed.

  “I’m delighted you find this so amusing,” said Lord Streetham coldly. “Doubtless your mother will find it equally so, particularly when she grows reluctant to go about in public, for fear of hearing her former friends snickering behind their fans, or—and I’m sure this will be most humorous—enduring their expressions of pity.”

  Lord Berne became properly solemn. “I beg your pardon, My Lord. I did not mean—”

  “I’ll tell you what you mean, you rattle! You mean to relieve Desmond of that confounded manuscript.”

  “I?”

  “The girl, you idiot. If you must dally with her, then do so with a purpose. I am unable to locate the memoirs. That does not surprise me. Desmond is cunning. She may be equally so—certainly her mother is—but she is a female, and all females can be managed.”

  Since Lord Berne had never met a young woman he couldn’t manage, he could hardly find fault with this reasoning. Nor, being sufficiently intelligent, was he slow to grasp what his father wished him to do.

  “You believe I might persuade her to turn this manuscript over to me, sir?” he asked.

  Lord Streetham uttered a “sigh of vexation. “Why else would I impose so on that depraved brain of yours? Of course that is what I wish. Now go away and do it,” he ordered.

  Lord Berne went away not altogether pleased with his assignment—which was rather odd, considering this was the first time his father had ever trusted him with any matter of importance. Furthermore, what was at stake was power, and the viscount had selfish reasons for preferring that his father’s not be diminished in any way. Lord Streetham’s influence had more than once saved his son from an undesirable marriage, not to mention tiresome interviews with constables.

  The trouble was, the son was accustomed to pursue pleasure for its own sake. Though he would have been delighted to dally with the ravishing Miss Desmond, doing so as a means to an end was very like work, and his aristocratic soul shuddered at the prospect.

  Still, he thought, his noble sire could not possibly expect him to begin this minute. Consequently, Lord Berne took himself to the water tower for a cold bath, and remained there, coolly meditating, for two hours.

  Chapter Three

  Though she had bathed and dressed leisurely, Miss Desmond discovered she had still the remainder of the afternoon to get through and no idea what to do with herself.

  Lady Streetham, Delilah knew, was not eager for her company, and the feeling was mutual. Papa was having a nap. Her host was closeted with his steward. Lord Berne, according to her maid, had not yet returned to the house.

  Clearly, Miss Desmond would have to provide her own amusement until tea. The prospect was not appealing. She could not play billiards, because that was unladylike. She doubted very much her hosts would approve her gambling with the servants. For the same reason, she could not spend the time in target practice. This enforced inactivity left her to her reflections, which were not agreeable.

  Though she’d made light of it to her father, last night’s contretemps preyed on her mind. It was no good telling herself, as her father had assured her, she hadn’t had any choice. She might have attempted at least to reason with the earl before drawing out her pistol. Certainly she needn’t have wrestled, for heaven’s sake, with Mr. Langdon. She might have pretended to faint or burst in
to tears, but not one of these alternatives had occurred to her, though they would have been instinctive to any truly genteel young lady.

  Delilah Desmond had a great deal to learn about ladylike behaviour, that was for certain. She hoped Lady Potterby would be up to the task of reeducating her grand niece. Otherwise that grand niece would never attract the sort of gentleman she needed to marry.

  Right now, for instance, she ought to make an effort to impress her stony hostess by conversing with her on some suitably dull subject, preferably while doing needlework. The trouble was, Delilah was heartily sick of Lady Streetham’s condescension and would be more likely to plunge her needle into that lady’s starched bosom.

  Miss Desmond decided her wisest course was to take a stroll in the gardens. At least they were extensive enough to make the walk something like real exercise.

  She crossed the terrace and followed one of the neat gravel paths bordered by low, scrupulously manicured hedges until she came to an enormous fountain where water spewed from the mouths of four enraged stone dolphins. Staring raptly at the carved monstrosity was Mr. Langdon, book clamped to his side. He seemed oblivious to her approach.

  “I wonder if they bite,” said Delilah.

  He spun round to face her, his countenance colouring slightly.

  Miss Desmond was surprised to feel her own cheeks grow warm. She wished she hadn’t struck him quite so violently last night—or at least not in that unseemly way. She shook her head to drive off the recollection, and two pins flew out of her hair to drop with a faint tinkle upon the paving stones.

  As his glance went from her hair to the pins, his eyes seemed to darken, but Delilah could not be certain because he immediately bent to retrieve the pins. In her experience, gentlemen invariably used the return of her hairpins as an excuse for squeezing her hand. Mr. Langdon, however, gingerly dropped them into her outstretched palm as though he were afraid of being contaminated.

  “Thank you,” she said with an inward twitch of irritation, “but you needn’t have bothered. I’m forever losing them. Papa says he can always tell where I’ve been because I leave a trail of hairpins behind me.”

  “Then why pin your hair up at all?” he asked.

  She glanced at him suspiciously, but his expression was innocently enquiring. Thrusting the pins back any which way, she said, “Little girls may leave their hair down, Mr. Langdon. A young lady who does so may be mistaken for a demi-rep. At least, so my Abigail repeatedly tells me. I have enough problems being mistaken for what I am not,” she found herself adding under his sober grey gaze.

  He winced as though she had struck him. “Miss Desmond, no words can express my shame and sorrow regarding my behaviour last night,” he said hurriedly. “I should have realised—I should have tried to think first at least—it might have been obvious to an imbecile—”

  “That I was only demonstrating the use of a pistol to his lordship?” Delilah smiled in spite of her discomfort. “Even I must admit the circumstances were most incriminating.”

  “That hardly changes the fact that my behaviour was ungentlemanly, to say the least.”

  How unhappy he was! That rather took the sting out of her own embarrassment. “Mine was unladylike,” she said. “That makes us quits, Mr. Langdon. Shall we forgive each other—and ourselves?” She held out her hand.

  He hesitated a moment before accepting the handshake. His clasp lingered just an instant longer than pure sportsmanship required, but after the business with the hairpins this might be accounted a minor triumph, and Miss Desmond had never been one to quibble over instants.

  “As long as you’ve given me your hand, may I have your arm as well?” she asked lightly. “Will you walk with me and talk amiable inanities, as though we’d only now met in these sedate circumstances?”

  “With pleasure,” said her companion. He did not look pleased, however. He looked as though he’d much prefer to run away.

  Though common sense told her he had good reason to avoid her, Miss Desmond had sufficient vanity to be piqued by this show of reluctance.

  “If you think it a pleasure, oughtn’t you smile at least?” she chided as she took his arm and they began to walk. “You look so grim, as though I had asked you to commit treason—” She caught herself up, struck with a disconcerting possibility. “Or have I stepped wrong again? Was it forward of me to ask for your company?”

  “Forward?” he asked, plainly bewildered.

  “Fast. Bold. Vulgar. I don’t know. Was it wrong?”

  He considered for a moment. “Not wrong certainly. I mean, it can’t be a hanging offence,” he said with a faint smile, “though there were over two hundred of them at last count. As to bold or forward or fast, I am the last man on earth who’d know. There are some subtleties of social behavior that utterly elude me. My friend Max always says any behaviour that’s pleasant can’t be correct. If I employ his measure, I must conclude,” he said, his smile broadening and lighting up the clean, straight lines of his profile, “that it is incorrect.”

  He turned the smile full upon her then, and Miss Desmond felt a tad breathless, but she answered sturdily enough. “Of course it must be. I fear the subtleties elude me also, Mr. Langdon, but I assure you I mean to learn them. In future I will not make such unseemly requests. Lud, I hope I commit no faux pas at tea. As it isv her ladyship seems in constant expectation of some outrage. I daresay she’s certain that Papa and I will swing from the draperies or slide down banisters or, heaven help us, treat the servants like human beings.”

  “You had better not say ‘lud’ then, Miss Desmond. I distinctly recall my mother ringing a peal over my sister Gwendolyn on that account.”

  “Fast?”

  “Vulgar.”

  “How tiresome.”

  “Then we shan’t speak of it,” said Mr. Langdon, and immediately turned the subject. “I understand you plan to visit your aunt?”

  “My great aunt. Lady Potterby.”

  Her companion started. “Lady Millicent Potterby?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?” Delilah asked, wondering why he’d changed instantly from amiability to discomfiture. Was there some dreadful scandal about Mama’s Aunt Mimsy as well?”

  “I know her very well. She is a near neighbour of my uncle. The properties adjoin, actually. What a small world it is,” he added uneasily. “I was on my way to visit him.”

  They had reached the shrubbery, but instead of taking the narrow pathway between the tall hedges, he steered her along the outer border.

  Miss Desmond did not at first notice the abrupt change in direction. She was too taken up with the unsettling news that Mr. Langdon would be her next door neighbour—if, that is, he persisted in his intention to visit with his uncle. Perhaps now he would change his mind—and why on earth were they circling the hedges instead of entering them?

  “Oh, Mr. Langdon, is it not a maze? I should like ever so much—”

  “Another time, perhaps,” he said stiffly.

  She felt the warmth rising in her cheeks. “Lud— I mean, good heavens—I had not thought—but these tall hedges would screen one from view of the house, and we are obliged to keep in plain sight, are we not?”

  “Miss Desmond—” He hesitated. Then he drew a long breath and said, “It is not a true maze, and we are indeed so obliged, particularly as your maid is not with you.”

  “To protect me, you mean. But from what, sir?” she could not help asking. “Do wild animals lurk there? Or is the danger in your company?”

  “No—at least—no.”

  She felt the muscles of his arm tighten under her hand and wondered if he would bolt now. Instead, he bent a searching look upon her and after a moment’s hesitation asked, “Miss Desmond, are you ... flirting with me?”

  “Yes,” she answered in some surprise. “I believe I am.”

  “Then I am obliged to tell you that is a prodigious waste of time.”

  “You are impervious to my charms, of course,” she said, as he steered he
r back to the rose garden.

  His face instantly became shuttered. “You must be well aware no man can be that, so long as he is breathing.”

  “Then perhaps you do not approve of flirtation,” she persisted, intrigued. “You consider it indecorous.”

  “I am only a bookworm, Miss Desmond, not, I hope, a prig. I make an excellent bookworm, I’m told, but a most disappointing flirt.”

  “Now who told you that, I wonder?”

  “No one had to tell me. It’s perfectly obvious.”

  Her pique gave way to curiosity. He meant what he said. What an odd man he was.

  “Not to me, Mr. Langdon,” she answered, “and I assure you I am an excellent judge. Ah, now I have shocked you at last.”

  She found that steady, studying look upon her again and once more felt rather short of breath.

  “Miss Desmond, only your beauty shocks me,” he said as though the words were wrung from him. “A man could look upon your face for the next one hundred years and never grow tired of it. But you would soon grow tired of that, I think,” he added more briskly, “when he could not simultaneously amuse you with witty gallantries. Nor, surely, could you amuse yourself by fencing with an unarmed man.”

  “Unarmed?” she repeated, bemused.

  A voice called out then, and Delilah turned to see Lord Berne, his golden hair in damp ringlets about his head, sauntering up the pathway toward them. She simultaneously felt her companion gently disengage her hand from his arm. When the viscount drew near, Mr. Langdon, with some vague remark about “letters to write,” excused himself and quickly strode away.

  Mr. Langdon must have had a great many letters to write—or perhaps only one very long and difficult one—because he did not emerge from the library again until it was time to dress for dinner.

  He was there the next day as well, with even less prospect of completing his task, for he spent most of his time wandering aimlessly about the room or staring out the windows. At the moment, he was engaged in the latter occupation, and it was not an especially agreeable one.