The Devil's Delilah

by Loretta Chase

  “So long as it does work,” she said, “I don’t care whether I just learned it or knew it all along.”

  “I assure you it works admirably,” he answered as he gave the horses leave to start. “That particular brand of aristocratic disdain cannot be learned. One is born with it. Keep that in mind the next time anyone tries to make you feel like—” he hesitated.

  “A trollop, I think you mean.”

  He uttered an exaggerated sigh. “Madam,” he said sorrowfully, “have you never heard of euphemism?”

  Delilah was able to put her lesson to practical use that evening at a ball given by Lady Rand. The technique was unfailingly effective, giving Miss Desmond the satisfying assurance that without uttering a syllable she could make a rogue just as uncomfortable as he made her. This made the affair more enjoyable than any she’d attended previously. The ball was sheer pleasure from start to near-daybreak finish, and not a little of her joy, she admitted ruefully, was attributable to Mr. Langdon’s lingering nearby for a sizable portion of the evening.

  He must like me, she thought later, as she sat at her dressing table, making a vague pretence of brushing her hair. He wasn’t a saint. He would not be so kind and... protective... if he truly despised her. Certainly he would not have encouraged his friends to rally round her if he did. That she knew he had done for her—had perhaps known it in her heart even before Aunt Millicent had pointed it out during a lecture about ingratitude.

  There was something else in her heart, Delilah was forced to acknowledge as she put down the hairbrush. When he’d eyed her in that insolent way this afternoon, he’d shocked her to the core. Yet at the same time, his look had conjured up other confrontations—one kiss in particular. And within she’d felt...

  She shook her head and rose to remove her dressing gown, but as the silk slipped from her shoulders and fell, unheeded, to the carpet, the feeling came to her again. It had been, she realised with dismay, anticipation.

  Mr. Langdon did not rise until early afternoon. He had not expected to rise at all.

  He’d always prided himself on his cool detachment. He’d even managed in the past few weeks to keep his head—more or less—during the hundred mutinies his baser instincts had attempted against his reason. Yet this same philosophical Jack Langdon had fled Lady Rand’s ball shortly after midnight in a state bordering on insanity. He’d been seized with a fit of possessiveness so fierce that he must leave the place or commit mayhem.

  The fit had come upon him the instant Delilah Desmond had entered. Prom that point on, it was all he could do to keep from swooping down on her and dragging her away. As it was, he’d planted himself at her side for at least half the evening while he scoured every masculine countenance for a hint of insult towards her. When he discovered what he sought, he could only seethe with impotent fury because he had no right to do anything about it. That she’d defended herself well, just as he’d known she would, had not improved his state of mind—or mindlessness was more like it—one iota.

  He did not want them looking at her in any way, let alone talking or dancing with her. She was his.

  Instead of pretending to be a civilised gentleman of the modern world, he should have been attired in filthy animal skins, grunting as he dragged his knuckles along the ground. That was what he’d felt when he’d danced with her the first time. She had remarked his sleek black coat and told him, in her light, practised way, that he looked rather dashing—and he had practically growled in answer.

  When he’d felt his last vestiges of self-restraint deserting him, he’d made his exit. After attempting to relieve his feelings by kicking an unoffending lamppost, he had marched off to White’s, to gamble away all his money and drink himself to death.

  That he’d failed in the latter was evident when his eyelids scraped open and searing pain pierced the tender organs beneath. He shut them and struggled up very slowly to a sitting position. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Mr. Fellows, tray in hand, gazing down upon him.

  “Good grief,” Jack groaned. “No breakfast, I beg of you.”

  “Breakfast today comes from the chemist’s shop, sir,” said the valet as he placed the tray on his master’s lap. “You had better drink it before you try the coffee.”

  Jack eyed the tray with revulsion. “What is that?” he asked, nodding painfully at the rolled-up newspaper lying next to the coffee cup. “Where is the Times?”

  “I think, sir, you will find this particular organ of communication more enlightening today.”

  Less than an hour later Jack was at Potterby House, a torn sheet of newspaper crushed in his hand as he stammered a reply to Mr. Desmond’s greeting.

  The Devil glanced down at the crumpled paper. “Ah, you have seen it, Mr. Langdon. It seems I was mistaken in my surmises.”

  He took the paper from Jack and read aloud in mincing tones, “‘Rumours are afloat that Society will be set rocking one month from today, when the first installment of the long-awaited, much-feared Reminiscences of Mr. Darryl “Devil” Desmond are scheduled to appear.’ Lurid, don’t you think?” said the Devil, with a cynical smile. “Buonaparte earns from the British public little more than a disdainful sniff—while my paltry tale is to trigger an earthquake. Really, one does wonder whether these journalist fellows would not be more profitably employed by the Minerva Press.”

  “Of course you don’t mean to let them get away with this,” said Jack. “We’ll go to Atkins now. I’m sure we can stop him.”

  “My dear young man, what is the point of that? The damage is done, don’t you see? You and I are not the only persons in London who read the newspapers—if one can dignify this tattle rag with such a title.”

  He studied his guest’s face for a moment. “Come sir. You look to me a man in need of the hair of the dog.” He steered Mr. Langdon into the late Lord Potterby’s luxurious study and sent a servant in search of proper refreshment.

  The servant had just appeared with the tray when Miss Desmond burst in and pushed him back out.

  “Oh, Papa,” she cried, running towards him.

  Jack considerately closed the door.

  What followed was not altogether coherent, though the language with which Miss Desmond denounced Mr. Atkins was plain enough, being composed of nearly every oath Jack had ever heard, in more than one language. She was, he was surprised to discover, more angry than alarmed. The only alarm she expressed regarded her father’s safety.

  “The hypocrites would say nothing to my face,” she raged. “They only pretended they could not see me. But Joan heard plenty as we shopped, from the servants—and Papa, it’s just as you said. The members of Parliament are already talking of sedition. It appears,” she said scornfully, “your revelations will stir the masses to revolution.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Jack. As he caught her startled look, he realised—not with any great surprise—that she’d been unaware of his presence. Stifling a sigh, he continued, “The worst we can expect to happen is that a few noble wives will be angry with their spouses. A very few,” he added. “Only those who take any notice of their husbands’ existence. Good grief—it’s all ancient history.”

  Mr. Desmond raised an eyebrow.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Jack. “I did not mean to imply—”

  “But I am ancient, Mr. Langdon. I will be sixty years old in November. And while I have been irresponsibly racketing about these last thirty or forty years, Marchingham and Corbell have risen to unspeakable heights of political consequence. They and my other old friends are doubtless terrified my book will make fools of them. Your upper classes, sir, have but two fears in this world: appearing foolish and being murdered by a revolutionary mob. Naturally they believe it is all one thing. It is very difficult for the British gentleman to develop and retain more than one idea in his lifetime.”

  “In other words, your powerful friends mean to work up some trumpery charges to throw you into prison and suppress the book,” said Delilah. “Though how they are to st
op odious Mr. Atkins when you have been unable, I cannot think. Not that I mean us to remain and see how they’ll manage it. We must return to Scotland.”

  “I had rather go to prison, I believe,” said Mr. Desmond unperturbedly. “One meets all one’s old chums there—those at least who are not currently running the nation. Scotland is needlessly cold and damp,” he complained. “Besides, I can never make heads or tails of what those fellows are saying—”

  “Papa!”

  “My dear, I know your mama is there, and I do miss her grievously—but she would be appalled if I came slinking back with my tail between my legs. I could never look her in the eye again. Such fine eyes she has,” he added dreamily. “You know, Mr. Langdon, I never grow tired of gazing into them, though we have been married nearly five and twenty years.”

  In vain did Miss Desmond try to awaken her father to a sense of his peril. Reason, threats, rage, and tears were all futile. The Devil had never been a coward, and he did not propose to begin now. His daughter may return to Scotland if she liked. He certainly would prefer that, as he was sure Lady Potterby would. He, however, would remain. Besides, he had an engagement this evening.

  “Speak to him, Mr. Langdon,” she entreated. “You’re always so sensible. Make him understand that a man of sixty cannot long survive imprisonment, and Mama and I will not wish to survive if anything happens to him.”

  Mr. Langdon dutifully did his best, though he found it monstrous difficult to concentrate. Not once, he thought—not one word about her hopes, of the destruction of her plans. Not a hint of alarm at the formidable displeasure she must confront if she remained. It was all her parents.

  Was it all? Was that why she was here—for her parents’ sake? Had she not told him once that her father’s skill at cards was their only source of income? What had she said? Something about her parents not getting any younger. Was her cold-blooded resolve to marry well solely determination to provide for them?

  That his arguments were disappointingly weak soon became apparent.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Langdon, you do sound as if you take his side,” she exclaimed in exasperation. “Must you men always stick together, ranting about honour?”

  “Miss Desmond, I can’t believe your father is in genuine danger,” Jack answered mollifyingly. “The work will not be made public for a month. He cannot be imprisoned on mere rumours. Actually,” he went on, “it’s you who can most expect to suffer in the immediate future. Mere rumour is enough to make a social outcast of you. Your father is quite right in his advice. You ought to return to Scotland.”

  “Yes, my dear. I fear the news will frighten all your beaux away—which, may I remind you, was the reason in the first place we decided against publishing.”

  “Then who wants such paltry fellows?” she retorted. “I shall certainly not run away on their account—or on account of a lot of hypocritical females, either. I have some pride too, Papa. You did not bring up your daughter to be a coward. I shall never desert you,” she concluded rather melodramatically.

  ***

  Melodrama or no, she had looked very fine, Jack reflected as he left the house some time later. Proud, noble—and obstinately wrong-headed, of course—but that was why he loved her.

  Mr. Langdon paused, thunderstruck, as he reached the corner of the square. Then he turned to stare at the house he had just left. Loved her?

  “‘How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude,’” quoted Mr. Stoneham. “But—to make a proper shambles of Cowper—do you mind a friend in your retreat?”

  Jack shook himself out of his unhappy reveries to welcome the scholar. Stoneham, at least, would not weary him with the current scandal.

  “It seems you’ve found the only quiet corner of White’s,” said the gentleman. “Perhaps the only quiet corner of the kingdom. All London is buzzing over this impending publication of Desmond’s memoirs. What is your opinion? Will the tales of Society’s excesses stir the mob to revolution?”

  “It’s all idle gossip,” said Jack, for what must have been the hundredth time this afternoon. “Desmond’s appearance in Town is a nine days’ wonder, and everyone is convinced he’s come with a purpose other than the entertainment of a marriageable daughter. Naturally some fool has decided it must be a book of reminiscences and that fool tells another and soon the newspapers print it as solemn truth.”

  “So I had thought,” was the complacent answer. “Now we’ve had our obligatory discussion of Mr. Desmond, I am eager to pursue the matter we were debating the other day.”

  Jack smiled. “We’ve said all there is to be said, I think. You may argue until you are blue in the face, Stoneham, but you will never convince me any mortal is capable of ‘improving’ the Bard.”

  Mr. Stoneham promptly asserted that the issue was not improvement. “Is it not better that young ladies read the work in diluted form than never read it at all for fear of being put to the blush?” he asked, warming to the debate.

  “Young ladies read whatever they please, in spite of their mamas and teachers. To trick them with a work of art mutilated beyond recognition is criminal.”

  “Bowdler doesn’t mean to mutilate, I am sure. A passage here, a change of phrase there. The meaning would remain, but in more palatable form for the innocent.”

  “Dr. Bowdler is a meddling, officious old busybody who, if he had a grain of wit, would write his own work instead of attempting to rewrite—” Mr. Langdon stopped to gaze blankly at his companion.

  “Emendations merely,” Mr. Stoneham insisted.

  “Emendations.”

  “Nothing more—and all to a very good end, I must in—Langdon? Where are you going?” the scholar asked in some bewilderment, for his adversary had bolted up from his chair, a wild look in his eyes.

  “So sorry. A thousand apologies,” Jack muttered. “Just recollected an appointment.”

  With that, he was gone, leaving a rather affronted Mr. Stoneham to stare after him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Had he been a less selfish young man, Lord Berne would have been deeply distressed by the chilly reception Miss Desmond received that evening at Miss Melbrook’s birthday gala. Since, however, this only cleared the field of all other rivals, Lord Berne was most selfishly ecstatic.

  Still, he made a creditable show of gentle attentiveness as he hovered by her, making conversation and helping her pretend the rest of the company was not keeping its distance. If he expected this thoughtfulness to soften her hard heart, he learned he was much mistaken. Miss Desmond held her head high, and though her smile was brilliant, it was unpleasantly cold.

  He bided his time until they danced. Since her card was as yet nearly empty, he’d had no difficulty in obtaining a waltz. Not until they danced did he allow himself to touch upon her difficulties, express indignation with all of Society, and beg her to make use of him.

  “The services of a libertine are scarcely what I require,” was the unpromising answer. “Besides, they are all afraid of a little book, nothing more. It’s not my trouble, but theirs.”

  Inwardly excusing her unflattering language as emotional distraction, Lord Berne answered gently, “You are a convenient scapegoat. I cannot tell you how my heart aches to see this injustice to one so innocent. You are a national treasure, a splendid jewel in the crown of English womanhood.”

  “My Lord, I am not in a poetical humour this evening. You would be better served, I think, in returning me to Lady Potterby and addressing your pretty metaphors to some other lady. I am bound to put you out of temper.”

  “You are distraught,” he said, “though no one else would know it, you disguise your feelings so well. Only because your smallest gesture speaks volumes to me do I discern your distress. Miss Desmond, may I speak frankly?”

  She shrugged, inadvertently calling his attention to the smoothness of her neck. One part of his mind speculated upon the silken attractions closely connected to that neck, while the other framed his speech.

  “I confess I w
as rather surprised when I first heard of this memoirs matter,” he said cautiously. “Your father is a man of vast experience, Miss Desmond. Naturally I was puzzled why he should wish to publish his recollections at this time, when you’ve so recently entered Society. Was he not aware of the repercussions that would follow? Or was the reason so pressing—”

  “Good grief, can you believe my father has had anything to do with this provoking situation?” she asked incredulously.

  “Then he hasn’t written the story after all?” was the innocent response.

  “Yes, he wrote the curst thing—ages ago, when he was ill, and concerned lest Mama and I be left destitute if he died. Since he survived the illness, there was no longer any urgent necessity to publish.”

  “Yet he did not destroy it.”

  With some impatience, Miss Desmond explained why not. Not until she was concluding did she reflect that perhaps she was unwise to tell Lord Berne so much. Aunt Millicent had insisted on denial. They must all maintain that the memoirs did not exist and the rumours were unfounded. Still, Delilah thought wearily, what was the use? In another month or so the world would only add the epithet “liars” to all the rest.

  “Miss Desmond, are you telling me this work is being published without your father’s permission?” He was genuinely surprised. Hadn’t his father told him he’d gotten the memoirs from Desmond himself? Why, then, had the earl not destroyed them?

  “Without his permission, against his wishes—and no one can find Mr. Atkins or the manuscript to make him give it up.”

  “No one else,” Lord Berne corrected. “I will get the memoirs back for you, if that is what you wish.”

  The music had stopped, but Delilah scarcely noticed. She was not certain whether to laugh at him or hit him, so exasperatingly confident he looked.

  “You make promises too easily, sir,” she reproached, “I do not care to be sported with in this way.”

  “You’ve never believed my concern for your well-being is genuine, Miss Desmond. I cannot blame you. Nor will I bore you with protestations and promises. My actions must speak for me in future,” he said, his blue eyes ablaze with fervent sincerity.