The Devil's Delilah

by Loretta Chase

  Really, the situation was absurd, he thought. He could hardly dash out and haul Tony away from the shrubbery. If that’s where the reckless fool wanted to take Miss Desmond, that was the fool’s problem.

  All the same, Mr. Langdon continued to watch. Just as the pair approached the perilous pathway, he saw Lady Streetham shoot out of the house like a rocket and draw Miss Desmond back to the terrace. Jack smiled. Now the countess would send Tony off on one of her errands, as she had been doing practically from the moment the Desmonds arrived.

  That was not at all surprising. Lady Streetham had been snatching her son out of the jaws of romantic disaster for years, and entanglement with the penniless daughter of the notorious Devil Desmond was obviously in that category.

  Mr. Langdon left the window and reseated himself at the writing desk. Miss Desmond ought to have known better, he told himself, especially after he dropped his hint about the perils of the hedgerows to her yesterday. If she was so set on learning decorum, she really oughtn’t encourage Tony. Surely by now she must have recognised what a rakehell he was. Or at least her father might have warned her. But no. In a mere twenty four hours she had developed all the usual symptoms. True, Tony had needed to add a few coals to the blaze of his charm, but Miss Desmond appeared ready enough now to be consumed.

  Jack threw down his pen and went in search of a book sufficiently taxing to occupy his brain more profitably. His fingers flicked over volumes of Euripides, Aristophanes, Aristotle, and Herodotus, but each was rejected as too familiar, even in Greek. Then he found a large, moroccan-bound, heavily gilded volume whose title and author were unknown to him. He drew it out, selected a capacious leather chair, and settled himself to read.

  What he found within the covers was not exactly what he’d expected, but after an initial gasp of surprise and a few moments of confusion, he became entirely deaf, dumb, and blind to all else but what he found in those pages.

  Utterly absorbed, Mr. Langdon continued reading as late morning warmed into early afternoon and luncheon passed unnoticed. The household being familiar with his ways, a modest array of sustenance was brought to him on a tray. It remained untouched and was later carried away by the same servant, who smiled indulgently as he closed the library doors behind him.

  The servant speedily erased his smile a moment later when he met up in the hall with his mistress and Miss Desmond.

  Lady Streetham frowned at the tray and then, more deeply, at the servant. “This will not do,” she said. “You will bring him another, Nicholas, and this time be sure he is eating before you leave the room.”

  “I am sure I have told them a hundred times not to leave it to him,” said Lady Streetham after the servant had bowed himself away. “One would think after all these years they would learn, but they do not. Of course that tiresome boy will neglect his tea as well, and what good dinner will do him I cannot think, when he only daydreams at the epergne.”

  Miss Desmond suppressed her own smile. “I hope Mr. Langdon is not ill,” she said.

  “It is a miracle if he is not. He is always engrossed in one book or another, to the exclusion of all else—friends, family, even his own health. I do what I can, because he is very like a son to me, but one cannot watch him every minute.”

  Especially not, Delilah added inwardly, when one is maintaining unwinking guard over one’s actual offspring. She had no opportunity to make the obligatory sympathetic response because the butler now approached to inform the countess that Lady Gathers and her daughter had arrived.

  “So soon?” said Lady Streetham. “But Tony is not yet retur—Well, no matter.” She turned to her guest with an expression of cold resignation. “Miss Desmond, if you are not too fatigued, perhaps you would enjoy meeting my neighbours.”

  “I should like nothing better,” Delilah answered.

  Her hostess’s features grew more rigid.

  “Unfortunately,” Miss Desmond went on, “I find myself unusually susceptible to the heat and am sure to make but poor company as a result. Would you think it unconscionably rude, My Lady, if I excused myself?”

  “Not at all,” said the countess with a shade of eagerness in her customary chilly tones. “Quite oppressive, the heat. Perhaps you will want a long nap before tea?”

  “Actually, I had thought I would sit quietly in your cool library with a book. If Mr. Langdon is still there, I will certainly urge him to cease insulting your excellent chef.”

  Lady Streetham’s frigid countenance thawed ever so slightly. “Very well,” she said, and took herself away.

  “Yes, it is very well, you stuck-up old battle-axe,” said Delilah under her breath. “Far better than having to introduce Devil Desmond’s daughter to your exalted friends.” Not, Delilah told herself as she moved down the long hall towards the library, that she wanted to meet them. Lady Gathers was doubtless another battle-axe and her daughter a demurely proper nincompoop. The entire conversation would be devoted to tearing their friends’ reputations to shreds.

  All the same, it was rather hard to be treated like a leper, for heaven’s sake, when one’s blood was every bit as blue as theirs. Bluer. In Charles II’s time, the Melgraves had been mere jumped-up squires, while her papa’s family had been Norman barons long before the Conqueror was an illicit gleam in his father’s eye.

  Caught up in her angry reflections, Delilah neglected to knock. As soon as she entered she perceived that knocking would have been futile anyhow. Mr. Langdon did not even look up when she flounced into the room.

  He ought to look up. He ought to have looked up at least once in the past twenty-four hours. She had not needed Lord Berne’s lyrical compliments last night to be assured that her new amber gown became her. Even this simple sprigged muslin fit her to perfection, and it had cost Papa a substantial sum. Mr. Langdon might at least show some aesthetic interest.

  What on earth was so fascinating about that stupid book? She crept noiselessly to his chair and glanced down over his shoulder at the volume that lay open on his lap. Then she gasped.

  Mr. Langdon came abruptly to attention. “Miss Desmond,” he began, but the look on her face stopped him.

  “You!” she cried. “You-you beastl”

  “Miss Desmond—”

  “Don’t you speak to me, you wretched man. How dare you?”

  “I—I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Langdon, much taken aback. Bent over him was a flushed, furious, and blindingly beautiful countenance whose wrath seemed to set the very air throbbing. Certainly it had his senses reeling.

  “A sneak. A horrid, sneaking thief. And I felt sorry for you. Oh, I wish Papa had killed you. No, I wish I had done it myself.” Her hand went to the neckline of her frock, then halted.

  It dawned on Mr. Langdon that he was for some unaccountable reason in very real danger. The gesture had puzzled him only for an instant, until he’d guessed that she’d gone for her pistol, which, luckily for him, was not at present upon her person.

  Quickly he stood up, the volume clutched under his arm.

  “Miss Desmond, you are distressed. Shall I—”

  “Distressed?” she echoed wrathfully. “You have stolen my father’s manuscript and sit here coolly reading it, when anyone might come in and—and—” She paused. “Good Lord, are you mad?”

  “I am not mad, Miss Desmond,” he said in the soothing tones usually reserved for sufferers of delirium. “I fear, however, that you are hysterical. This volume belongs to your father?”

  “No,” she snapped. “It is the property of the Archhishop of York. Of course it’s my papa’s. Surely you noticed that the pages are handwritten—that it is a manuscript, in fact—that it is my father’s?”

  “Yes, I noticed all that.”

  “Well?”

  “I also could hardly fail to notice that it was here on the shelves with the rest of our host’s collection. I assumed your father had given it to Lord Streetham. My own collection contains some unpublished efforts by friends—though I must say this is far more w
orthy of publication.”

  The angry flush on her cheeks faded to a more becoming pink as her fury subsided, to be replaced by discomfiture. She did not answer, however, only gazed unhappily at the book he held.

  “You are telling me, Miss Desmond, that this book does not belong to Lord Streetham?”

  “No, it does not,” she answered in a choked voice.

  “Then why was it here, and enclosed in this odd binding?” He moved closer to show her the richly tooled cover. “This is supposed to be a work on horticulture.”

  “Yes, I know. I can read Greek,” she said stiffly.

  “You can?”

  “Don’t patronise me, sir.”

  “I beg your pardon. I meant no offence. It’s just that young ladies—”

  “Oh, don’t, please.”

  To his surprise, Miss Desmond threw herself into the chair he’d vacated and clutched her head in her hands. Several pins flew out, and the gleaming black tresses they’d contained slipped out after them to dangle against her shoulders.

  Jack politely looked away.

  “Young ladies,” she muttered. “Yes, a fine lady I am, don’t you think? Make a fool of myself first, then think after. That’s the way of it. Good grief.” She looked up, her grey-green eyes clouded with remorse. “I’m sorry I called you those horrid names. In case you had any doubts, I have a beastly temper. And no one knows where I get it from because Mama and Papa both are so—oh, never mind.”

  Though he was unaccustomed to coping with overwrought young women—that was more in Tony’s line—Jack had lived with three short-tempered sisters. “I don’t mind,” he said, trying for the airy tone he often took with Gwendolyn. “It was all very exciting, actually—though I was grateful you hadn’t a weapon handy. As the child’s rhyme goes, names will never hurt me.”

  “Oh,” she moaned, twisting herself into the corner of the chair and burying her face in her arms. “Now you’re going to be gallant. I can’t bear it.”

  “Shall I call you names, then, and make us even?”

  “Yes,” was the muffled response. “And you’d better not be gentle.”

  “Very well.” Holding the volume against his breast, Jack recited calmly. “Virago. Hellcat. Beldam.”

  She winced.

  “Is that enough?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  Jack thought. “Termagant,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Shrew, fury, tigress, she-wolf. Ah, here’s an excellent one: cross-patch.”

  Miss Desmond giggled weakly and raised her pale face towards him.

  “Shall I commence in Latin or Greek, or is that sufficient?”

  “That will do, Mr. Langdon. I feel much better.” She rose. “Now if you will please to give me the book.”

  Jack’s face fell and he backed away. He was, of course, a gentleman to the very core and would do anything to assist a damsel in distress. Anything, that is, except relinquish a book before he’d finished reading it. Especially this book, which was a revelation to him.

  “But Miss Desmond, I’m scarcely halfway through it,” he said uneasily. “Your father’s hand is not always decipherable.”

  Her slanted eyes narrowed. “Sir, that work is not intended for public consumption,” she responded with the exaggerated patience of one addressing a half-wit. “I am not certain why Papa placed it here, though I would guess it was his idea of a perfect hiding place. He has used that false binding before,” she explained. “Greek is unenticing to the average person. The topic is even less inviting. The combination is guaranteed to drive off all potential readers. Except,” she added with a small sigh, “you.”

  “I see.” He gazed disconsolately at the volume. “I had better put it back.” He turned towards the shelves.

  “No!” she cried. “You must give it to me. It’s obviously not safe here.”

  “Of course it is,” he said, growing stubborn. “Lord Streetham only collects books for show. He never reads anything but political tracts. Tony is interested only in sporting journals. The countess is addicted to gothics. As you said, no one but I would ever muster any interest in so forbidding a volume. Your father obviously knew what he was about. Besides, I might still finish it.”

  “No! I don’t want you to read any more,” she blurted out.

  Though he was convinced Miss Desmond was a tad unbalanced at present, Mr. Langdon felt guilty. Unbalanced or not, she should not be tormented. He saw her eyes glisten then, and he was undone. He had never in his life made a woman cry, and he was certain this woman was not one to weep easily. He felt like a monster.

  He took a step towards her then paused. She wanted the book, not comforting, and it was not his place to comfort her anyhow—not at least in the way he’d instinctively wished to.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “I’ve been most inconsiderate. I’m afraid I thought only of finishing this wonderful story and not—”

  “And not about entertaining the ladies, eh, Mr. Langdon?” came a low voice from the doorway.

  Chapter Four

  Miss Desmond whirled round. “Papa,” she breathed.

  Her father was glancing over his shoulder into the hall. “In here, Marcus,” he said in more carrying tones. “As her ladyship promised, Delilah has come to rescue Mr. Langdon from eyestrain.”

  Mr. Desmond stepped into the library. An instant later, Lord Streetham appeared.

  “Ah, still here,” said the earl to Jack. “My lady wife tells me you’ve been holed up all day, neglecting your meals. Won’t do, you know. You must relinquish your books and tend to the ladies at least, if you will not attend to your victuals.” He glanced at the volume Jack clasped to his breast. “What have you got there? Greek? You are a sorry rogue, indeed. What do you want with such dusty stuff?”

  “Mr. Langdon does not find the work at all dull,” said Delilah smoothly when Jack proved mute. “He’s spent the last quarter hour explaining it to me. How remarkable, is it not, that he understands Greek so well, to be able to translate such complicated horticultural theories?”

  The earl’s eyes glazed over. “Yes, yes, I daresay. All the same, Jack, you must come off your hobbyhorse and be sociable. No more reading. Take the book home with you when you go, if you like it so much. It’s yours. I’m sure I’ll never miss it, and Greek is not Tony’s forte, as you know.”

  “You are too generous, My Lord,” said Jack, nervously eying Mr. Desmond. “I can’t possibly accept.”

  “Take it, take it,” said the earl irritably as he moved to the door. “But mind you appear for tea or her ladyship will be most vexed with you.”

  “But My Lord—” Jack called after the earl’s retreating back.

  “Don’t be ungrateful, Mr. Langdon,” said Mr. Desmond. “Mustn’t hurt his lordship’s feelings, you know.” He winked and followed the earl out of the room.

  Delilah was just opening her mouth to speak when her papa put his head back in the door. “My dear, hadn’t you better go upstairs and let Joan do something about your hair? I’m afraid you’re all atumble again. You will not wish to outrage your hostess’s sensibilities, I’m sure.”

  Miss Desmond shot Mr. Langdon a resentful glance and hastened from the room.

  Mr. Langdon had scarcely a minute to recover his composure before Nicholas appeared, bearing a heavily laden tray. “If you please, sir,” he said, “her ladyship has asked me to convey her wishes that you take a bite to sustain you until tea time.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Jack muttered.

  The servant deposited the tray upon a side table, drew out a chair, and stood waiting.

  “Was there anything else, Nicholas?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but she told me I was not to stir from the room until I actually saw you begin to eat,” the servant said apologetically.

  Jack sighed, placed the troublesome volume upon the writing desk, and sat down before the repast.

  He lifted a napkin, glared at it, and droppe
d it onto his lap. With the air of a man condemned to hard labour, he took up his silverware and began to eat.

  Nicholas waited a few minutes, then bowed and exited.

  “I shall not need to enter a monastery,” Jack grumbled to himself when the door had closed. “By nightfall they’ll have packed me off to Bedlam.”

  When he’d made a reasonable show of attending to his victuals, Mr. Langdon took up the so-called work on horticulture and went in search of Mr. Desmond. He finally ran that gentleman to ground in the billiard room, where a thick grey haze showed that Mr. Desmond had retired to enjoy a cheroot in solitude.

  “I must speak with you, sir,” said Jack without preamble.

  “Yes, I thought so. Well, have a seat. Will you join me?” the older man asked as he offered his cigar case.

  Jack, whose meal had not settled very well, shook his head. “I won’t be but a moment,” he said. “I only wanted to return your manuscript to you.”

  “Ah, but I’d much rather you didn’t,” said the Devil, sending up a lovely grey billowing cloud that curled about his head much as darker, more ominous smoke must hover about his namesake. “You see, it’s no longer safe in my custody,” he explained. “That is why I’m obliged to relinquish it to yours.”

  Mr. Langdon had already had one disagreeable experience in connexion with this volume. Now he began to scent danger, an aroma as palpable as that of Mr. Desmond’s cigar. Jack also sensed that he’d have a very difficult time dissuading this gentleman from involving him.

  Mr. Desmond’s easy courtesy and low, drawling tones could not disguise a most formidable will. He was, Jack thought, the Irresistible Force personified. Obviously, more than the man’s escapades had earned Desmond his nickname.

  “I’m flattered you repose such trust in me,” Jack said cautiously, “but I really don’t deserve it. I’m not reliable. Ask anybody.”

  “I have,” said the Devil, “and what I hear only confirms my belief that you are exactly the man for the job.”

  Jack sat down, taking the volume upon his lap. It had grown much heavier in the past few minutes.