“I’m afraid I am not familiar with the book’s contents—which does not surprise me,” said the earl. “My collection is so extensive and the demands on my time so great. Yet I supposed Mr. Langdon’s interest was purely academic. After all, did not the ancients place great reliance upon conjunctions of certain planets and sacrifices to their pagan deities? Hardly the sort of theories to put to scientific experiment, I should think.”
Though he spoke casually, Lord Streetham’s mind was working at full speed. The massive tome Jack had clutched... the panicked look he’d darted at Desmond. The pages themselves... something odd... not thick and rough-edged—because, perhaps, they had never required to be cut?
Lady Potterby sighed. “I do not know what Mr. Langdon was thinking—who ever does? But he was a perfect sight when he came in to tea. Lord Rossing said he put him in mind of the grave diggers in Hamlet, and asked whether they’d unearthed poor Yorick’s skull.” She did not notice the earl’s slight start. “Delilah’s maid declares she will never be able to remove the stains from that frock. How odd,” Lady Potterby added, glancing toward the corner windows, her brow knit. “Now I think of it, I do not recall seeing the book again. Dear me, I hope Mr. Langdon did not leave it in the garden. He is dreadfully absentminded, you know.”
Lord Streetham too looked towards the window, though what he perceived was in his mind’s eye— the stunning reality of what had occurred.
It had been Desmond’s book contained in that elaborate binding, and the earl himself had given it to Jack. Then Jack, so easily manipulated, had done the Devil’s bidding and buried it—there, just a few steps away, in the garden.
Not the slightest flicker of excitement was visible in his lordship’s countenance, however, as he turned back to his hostess to agree in a good-natured, avuncular way that Jack was indeed absentminded.
“We are still collecting articles that he left behind, poor fellow,” he said with a small smile. “When his valet is not with him, one can only pray he will not present himself at dinner in his nightshirt. Very likely he did forget the book, and one day he will appear upon your doorstep, flustered and embarrassed, looking for it.”
“One day!” cried Lady Potterby. “In the middle of February, no doubt. Good heavens, that fine volume might be lying in the dirt yet—and we have had two storms since Friday. I had better send one of the servants to look.”
Lord Streetham rose. “No need for that. You’ve made me most curious about his experiment. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look myself.”
They went out to the garden, where they found the plants, as Lady Potterby had predicted, in various stages of decline. The book, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Lord Streetham stared hard at the woebegone flower bed. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t put it past the lad to have inadvertently buried the book in the process of turning the soil.”
“Buried it! Good heavens, he could not be so muddled as that—and with Delilah by. Surely she would have noticed.”
“If Jack was declaiming on Greek wisdom, she very likely had given all her concentration to follow his discourse,” said the earl smoothly. “I think I had better find a spade.”
Less than an hour later, Lord Streetham was once more upon the road. A thick tome, its cover damp and dirty, lay at his feet. One quick glance at the contents had been sufficient to assure him of what he’d found.
Obtaining possession of the volume had been simple enough. He’d insisted upon doing the digging himself, because it would never do for the gardening staff to know of Mr. Langdon’s folly. Then the earl had only to express the charitable wish to have the book repaired secretly, to spare Jack embarrassment. Lord Streetham had solemnly assured Lady Potterby the restored volume would be discreetly returned to the young man. All they had to do was keep the matter to themselves. After all, Jack was a very good fellow, and absentmindedness was a trivial flaw in the great scheme of things, was it not?
Lady Potterby, properly impressed by this show of magnanimity, had yielded up the book without argument.
While his father was returning home with his ill-gotten goods, Lord Berne was gazing discontentedly in the general direction of France. To soothe his troubled soul, he compared his beloved’s hair to a waterfall of black pearls, her ears to shells, her lips to pink oysters, and her eyes to the rolling ocean. He made a mental note to jot down these revelations for future use as soon as he returned to his lodgings.
He gazed with lackluster eyes upon a fancy bit of muslin who smiled encouragingly as she passed. He looked away towards the ocean once more and sighed heavily. These activities being not quite so productive as when performed for an audience, he resolved to leave for home first thing tomorrow.
Lord Streetham closed the cover of the book and smiled at the soiled binding.
The references to himself were so easily amended that it was foolish to destroy the manuscript, as he had in certain panicked moments thought of doing. The book would take England by storm, just as Atkins had insisted. The lively adventures, the impudent, witty style, together with the occasional scandalous revelation, guaranteed tremendous popular success. There might be lawsuits, but the profits could easily absorb the legal costs—and since Desmond had taken care to show Prinny and his siblings in a favourable, indulgently humourous light, there was small likelihood of sedition charges from that quarter.
At any rate, being the largest shareholder of the firm, Lord Streetham had a right to make the occasional correction. Even Desmond must admit as much—if, that is, he ever got wind of the matter.
Lord Streetham opened the book, carefully removed the pages from the false binding, and carried them to his writing desk.
Half an hour later he sat, pen poised in mid-air, exactly as though some evil spirit whispering in his ear had distracted him.
Here was a remarkably tactful though highly entertaining account of Lord Gaines’s drunken interview with a notorious bawd of the day.
Lord Streetham recalled the episode, having formed one of the small party of revellers, and wondered now why Desmond had been so discreet. He’d left out altogether the best part: the bawd’s loud expressions of pity for poor Lord Gaines. His lordship had tried every one of her girls with so little success that she’d recommended he avail himself of Dr. James Graham’s Celestial Bed as the only certain cure for impotence.
Lord Gaines had recently subjected one of Lord Streetham’s proposals to a scathing satire in the House of Lords, resulting in a most humiliating defeat. It would serve the foul-mouthed rascal right, said the fiend at the earl’s ear, to have his personal inadequacies exposed to John Bull’s mockery.
And what of Corbell and Marchingham? These thorns in Lord Streetham’s side had once been numbered among Desmond’s cronies. What amusing tales could be told of those two! With a judicious phrase inserted here, a short passage there, an occasional substitution of one word for another, these recollections would do a great deal more than make a fortune. Lord Streetham smiled and set to work.
Chapter Nine
“To dinner?” Jack echoed hollowly. “Here?”
Lord Rossing removed his spectacles and placed them on his writing desk. “That’s what I said. There’s no need to make a Greek tragic chorus, Jack. I’ve asked the Wembertons, which means, as it turns out, we must expect Lord and Lady Gathers and their daughter as well, because they’re visiting. Also, Streetham and his countess—though I never dreamed they’d accept, considering the distance.”
“Good God,” Jack muttered.
“I believed I ought at least offer to repay their hospitality to you—though one dinner can hardly repay a lifetime of it. They propose to stay with the Wembertons as well, and I daresay they’ll all be quite cozy.” Lord Rossing sniffed in disdain, then went on. “Also, Bleakly and his wife, and Lady Potterby and her guests. I’ve already sent out the other invitations, but Lady Potterby’s ought to be delivered personally. Just run across, will you, Jack?” said the vi
scount as he handed his dismayed nephew the invitation. “I’d go myself, but last night’s storm has stirred up my rheumaticks again.”
Jack looked down at the folded sheet in his hand and sighed. “I wish you had war—mentioned this to me sooner. I was planning to return to London.”
“Your valet has just come up from Town. Why did you make him take the journey if you only meant to go back again? Really, Jack, I begin to wonder at you. I would assume you had a touch of the sun, but you haven’t been out of the house in nearly a week—and all you do in it is take out books and leave them strewn about while you gape out the windows. You’re not ailing, are you, boy?”
“No, Uncle.”
“Well, you’d better not. Let Fellows attend to you before you go. If you appear at Millicent’s with that woebegone expression and your hair all up on end – stop that!” Lord Rossing commanded, as Jack’s fingers began raking his hair. “One look at you and she’ll start dosing you with brimstone and treacle and heaven knows what other foul concoctions.”
Jack’s hand dropped to his side and he walked slowly from the room.
Only when the door had closed behind him did his uncle give vent to a low snort of laughter.
“Mr. Langdon,” said the valet reproachfully.
“Yes, yes, I know. My uncle just told me. I suppose I’d better comb my hair,” said Jack, moving to the dresser. “He wants me to deliver an invitation to Lady Potterby. To dinner. Can you believe it?” He stared at his reflection in the glass. “I’ve been coming here since I was in skirts and not once do I recall my uncle entertaining. Not once.”
“If you mean to go out, sir, you had better change. With the Hessians it must be the green coat and buff pantaloons,” said the valet. He collected these objects and laid them out.
“I’m only running next door, Fellows.”
“Indeed, sir, but you are not departing in that costume, unless you plan to muck out Lady Potterby’s stables. As it is you will astonish the horses.”
Plainly, Mr. Langdon’s valet was not of the stoically all-enduring, self-effacing variety. Mr. Fellows had tried that technique early in his employment and found it unproductive. He had learned that if his master was not to disgrace him in public, the servant must speak his mind and maintain a tight rein.
Mr. Fellows was well aware that his employer, having recently suffered a setback in an affair of the heart, required a suitable period of mourning. That is why Mr. Langdon had been indulged a solo trip to his uncle’s. However, in Mr. Fellows’s considered opinion, a week or so was quite sufficient a period of lamentation for a healthy young man. It was now time for Mr. Langdon to be marched back—properly attired—to the world of the living. Besides, there was a young lady next door whose abigail’s acquaintance Mr. Fellows had made this morning and wished to pursue. If the lady thought Mr. Langdon’s appearance shabby, her maid would entertain similar conclusions about the gentleman’s gentleman.
Immaculately groomed but heavy-hearted, Mr. Langdon walked slowly along the path which intersected the graceful line of tall elms forming the boundary between the two estates. Ahead the way cut through a rolling expanse of lawn dotted with oaks and more elms. In the shade of one venerable oak a herd of sheep languidly graced.
All about him was the familiar tranquillity Jack had left London for. He’d come here hoping the serenity and isolation of Rossing Hall would soothe away all memories of his failure with the one young lady who might have made him happy. True enough, the disappointment and shame had subsided—but only because they’d been so violently uprooted and hurled aside by a tempest in the form of Delilah Desmond.
Jack knew he was infatuated with her. He had sense enough remaining to recognise that. But for the life of him he could not understand why. Always before his senses had responded in accord with his character and tastes. Even the impures he’d occasionally taken up with had been the quieter, more genteel of their breed. He loathed noise, confrontation, violence, and argument, yet he was obsessed with a Fury in human form. Well, not exactly a Fury, he amended, but she was at least as capricious and temperamental as any of the ancient female deities.
She screamed at him and struck him and humiliated him and scorned him, and through the turbulence that seemed to whirl constantly about her—even on those rare occasions when she was relatively subdued—he wanted her. That was all, and that was everything.
This morning, after another tormented, sleepless night, he’d reviewed his situation and concluded he must either return to London and trust time and absence to cure him, or offer for her and let her cure him—or kill him. The last, he thought, was a deal more likely.
Though she despised him, she might consent. Given Society’s prejudices, she may not have another suitable offer. He felt, as he always did when he considered her situation, a surge of compassion for her and anger at his fellows.
That was almost the worst of it. If the world had not persisted in visiting the sins of the parents upon the offspring, Miss Desmond might never have crossed his path. She might have been shackled as soon as she emerged from the schoolroom, and he would not be in so pathetic a case as to contemplate wedding a woman so admirably designed to make him wretched.
Besides, he chided himself as he took a shortcut through Lady Potterby’s garden, marrying Miss Desmond was too extreme a remedy, even if she were desperate enough to consent. It was like cutting off one’s head to cure a toothache. He would return to London directly after this curst dinner party.
As he approached the terrace, he came upon Miss Desmond, who, head bent and skirts whirling, was agitatedly pacing. Mr. Langdon had but a fleeting glimpse—though one sufficient to make him groan inwardly—of a pair of exceptionally fine ankles before she became aware of his presence and abruptly halted.
Then she did the strangest thing. She smiled, and the upward curve of her sensuous mouth sent every thought of London flying from Mr. Langdon’s head.
As she stepped forward to greet him, he apologised for interrupting her meditations.
“You’re a very welcome interruption, Mr. Langdon,” said she, to his inutterable amazement. “We’ve been plagued with company all day. I only came out to talk to myself, since that was the only party with whom I could have a natural conversation. Decorum is heavy work,” she explained.
“Then I fear you’ll recall the welcome when you learn my errand, because I’m sent to bring you more of the same.” He held up the invitation. “My uncle desires the pleasure of your company—and that of your father and Lady Potterby as well—at dinner Wednesday evening. I hope this is not excessively short notice. You might have wished more time to plan an escape to Mongolia perhaps.”
Another smile. Mr. Langdon grew dizzy.
“You know there’s no escape for me, Mr. Langdon. Anyhow, I did have notice. Lord Rossing was by earlier in the week to ask my aunt whether the date was convenient. Your errand only formalises the plans.”
Mr. Langdon was too stunned by his remarkable fortune in finding Miss Desmond in gentle humour to think of questioning why his uncle had withheld this information.
“As long as my errand is not urgent, perhaps we might delay the formalities,” he said, moved to unheard-of boldness by her amiability. “May I pace the terrace with you awhile and eavesdrop upon your ‘natural conversation’ with yourself?”
A faint colour tinged her cheeks as she shook her head. Several pins dropped to paving stones, loosening the long black curls they’d held. Jack looked at the pins and at the hair, and he was done for.
“Pacing is forbidden before company,” she answered. “In fact, I’m supposed to restrain myself even in private so as not to feed a bad habit.” She sighed. “The trouble is, I’m so full of bad habits that when I leave them off there’s hardly anything left of me.”
“Only a beautiful shell? Well, I shall have to make do,” said Mr. Langdon. “Since you’re so dangerously inclined to pace, perhaps we’d better avail ourselves of that genteel-looking bench behind you.”
When they were seated, Miss Desmond told him of her trials and tribulations with all the callers who came expecting a “common little baggage,” as she put it, and must be conquered by her unspeakable propriety. “It is perfectly excruciating,” she complained. “After an hour I want to scream. After two hours I want to commit murder.”
“You remind me of my friend Max,” said Jack, smiling. “He’s always complaining that propriety wrings all the spirit out of a chap and Convention is just another word for Strangulation.”
“A man after my own heart,” said Delilah. “You’ve mentioned him before, I think? Is this not the same fellow who claims that if something is pleasant, it cannot be correct?”
Mr. Langdon must have appeared very surprised because she laughed and said, “You needn’t look so stunned. Sometimes I do listen, you know—and when I do, I usually remember. I have an excellent memory—comes of all those card games, I suppose.”
“Then I’ll be sure not to play you for high stakes, Miss Desmond. And I’ll certainly be careful what remarks of Lord Rand’s I share with you. Some of his pearls of wisdom are not fit for feminine ears.”
“Yet you seem to admire him—or like him at least.”
“He’s one of the finest fellows I know,” said Jack, neglecting to add that this noble fellow had stolen away the love of his life. “An old and trusted friend.”
“Lord Berne is another such, I take it? He told me you’ve been friends since you were babies. I find that intriguing. You’re a most puzzling man,” she said. “From what you repeat of Lord Rand’s wisdom and what I’ve seen of Lord Berne, they seem not at all the sort of friends I’d expect you to have.”
The Devil's Delilah Page 10
