The Devil's Delilah

by Loretta Chase

  Her parents must be beside themselves with worry—or, in Papa’s case, rage—and she hated to think the condition Aunt Millicent must be in. Delilah could only hope her father was not yet in hot pursuit. At least he had no clue to her direction. Though at present she wouldn’t mind being caught and taken home, she would mind very much what Papa would do. The Devil was not short-tempered, but even his patience could be tried too far, and the result would be deadly. If he found them, he’d be certain to kill Lord Berne first and ask questions after. Then Papa would be hanged—and it would all be her fault.

  If she had been more discreet, Lord Berne would have known nothing about the manuscript but what the gossips said. Then he would not have stolen it. It was a stupid thing for him to do, and so clumsy. Papa would have had a much cleverer scheme, untraceable to himself. Still, she was to blame for the viscount’s foolhardiness. She’d demanded heroics and Tony, romantic fool that he was, had performed them.

  Even Mr. Langdon had tried, in his way, to be heroic. Only he’d failed, poor man. How embarrassed he must be. She could picture him, his hair all rumpled and his cravat limp and wrinkled and his face flushed ... and she wanted to weep, because she would have given anything if, at this moment, she might have smoothed his hair and straightened his cravat... and covered his flushed face with kisses and told him she loved him anyway.

  This last reflection resulted in an urge to weep so violent that she had to focus all her energies upon resisting it. Being so occupied, she did not at first comprehend the sudden halt of the carriage, or the meaning of the hoarse shout, “Stand and deliver!”

  Not certain she had heard correctly, Delilah raised her head—to behold a masked figure astride a dark horse. The figure was pointing a pistol at Lord Berne’s head.

  Delilah’s heart seemed to shoot up into her throat, but her brain instantly cleared. Under cover of the rug which wrapped her, she drew her reticule closer and opened it. Her hand had just clamped round the handle of her pistol when the harsh voice rang out once more, making her start.

  “No, madam. Throw it down—now—or your lover dies.”

  “For God’s sake, Delilah, do as he says,” Tony whispered.

  Delilah threw her reticule into the road in front of the robber’s horse.

  “Now you,” he said hoarsely to Lord Berne. “Give the lady the reins and down into the road with you.”

  Tony scrambled down from the carriage.

  “Off with your coat—and your waistcoat—and your boots. And be quick about it.”

  Though Lord Berne promptly obeyed, Delilah could see, even in the weak moonlight, that his face was contorted with rage. She could not think what to do. She dared not whip up the horses. The highwayman might shoot Tony—not to mention her. Her reticule was now far put of reach, and she could hardly expect to overcome their assailant by throwing the manuscript at him—even if she could get to it without attracting his attention.

  She wracked her brains for some comparable experience of her father’s to guide her. But Papa would never have been so careless. Gad, how could Lord Berne have been so foolish as to continue travelling after dark? Why was he not armed? Why had he not suggested they spend the night at the inn where they’d stopped earlier?

  While Delilah was plaguing herself with If Onlys, her companion had completed his undressing.

  Keeping his pistol trained on the viscount, the robber dismounted and collected Lord Berne’s belongings and her reticule. He tied his horse to the carriage, then climbed up onto the seat beside her.

  “Turn the carriage,” he growled, his pistol now aimed at her.

  “I can’t,” she lied. “I don’t know how.”

  “Turn it!” the thief hissed.

  “Don’t argue with him, Delilah,” Tony pleaded. “He’ll hurt you.”

  Muttering a most unladylike oath, and certain she would be hurt regardless, Delilah turned the curricle. With the pistol pointed at her, she could do nothing else but drive on as ordered, leaving Lord Berne behind in his silk-stockinged feet, in the dust.

  Considering her peril, Miss Desmond ought to have been frightened out of her wits, but she was too furious to be afraid. To be at the mercy of a common thief—she, the daughter of Devil Desmond—was the outside of enough. At the first opportunity, she vowed inwardly, she’d drive the carriage into a ditch. At worst, they’d both be killed. At best, she might make an escape. In any case, she would not wait quietly to be raped by this low ruffian.

  Rape seemed inevitable. Why else had he not left her behind with Lord Berne?

  They were rapidly approaching a fork in the road. The highwayman told her to take the right turning—which was odd, she thought. This was the way she’d come from London—but no, there were other turnings. He must be heading for some out-of-the-way spot. His hideaway, no doubt. Some thieves’ den.

  Her mouth went dry. He must have accomplices. Lud, what would Papa do? The odds. Weigh the odds first. One man, one pistol, versus one woman. Later, who knew how many cutthroats, or how soon she’d be in their midst? It must be now.

  Delilah slowed the carriage, ostensibly for the turn, then pulled hard on the reins. As the horses reared in protest, she threw herself at the robber.

  The sudden attack took him by surprise, and the pistol fell out of his hand to the floor of the carriage. Delilah lunged for it, but was taken up short when he grasped the hair dangling at her neck and yanked her back.

  He tore the reins from her hands. “Damn you,” he rasped as the horses settled down. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Somewhere in the periphery of her consciousness was a jolt of recognition, but Delilah was in too violent a state to pay attention. Her fist swung towards his face, only to be grabbed and wrenched aside. Then a hard chest pressed upon her, pushing her back hard against the carriage seat. She could scarcely breathe, but with what little breath she had she informed him in Arabic that he was the product of an interesting relationship between a camel and a dung beetle.

  As she tried to twist away from the menacing masked face lowering to her own, she thought she heard him snicker.

  Startled, she looked at him. Behind the narrow slits of the mask were glittering eyes. In an instant, the glitter turned to darkness as his mouth descended upon hers.

  Though she twisted and struggled, she found herself slowly, inexorably sinking back onto the seat under the relentless pressure of her attacker’s body. Unable to budge him, she shut her eyes tight and willed herself to be rigidly unresponsive. That much control she had at least.

  Unfortunately, her position was awkward and painful to begin with. Maintaining a stiff posture made it more so. Her body ached horribly, and she was badly winded. Even her will was rapidly deserting her. Struggling had done nothing, evidently, but drain all her strength, for her stupid body was weakening, warming, succumbing to the brutal, seeking kiss. Sick and miserable, she gave up battling because she simply couldn’t continue. Later, she promised herself... later she would kill him.

  In the next instant, to her astonishment, the weight was lifted off her. She opened stunned eyes to meet her attacker’s serious gaze. Serious? It could not be, she thought hysterically.

  He’d started to move away from her, but in a flash she caught hold of the scarf covering his face and yanked it down, unmasking him.

  “You,” she gasped. “Good God, Jack, I nearly killed you. Why didn’t you say right off it was you?” Joy, relief, welled up inside her, and she was about to hug him when he moved hastily away and gave the weary cattle leave to start.

  “I was about to,” he answered irritably, “when you attacked me. What on earth possessed you, Miss Desmond? We might have both been killed. If the horses hadn’t been so tired, they might have taken off and overturned us.”

  Miss Desmond? Delilah squelched a sigh of vexation. “I thought I was being abducted by a highwayman,” she said, striving for patience. “What did you expect me to do? It’s the middle of the night. You were wearing a mask. How was I
to know it was you?” Her lower lip quivered. “I think you’re monstrous unfair to scold me,” she went on unsteadily, “after you’ve frightened me half to death. You might at least have said something, instead of—of assaulting me.”

  “As I recollect, it was you struck first,” he shot back. “Since I could not hit back, I tried to restrain you. When that didn’t work, I resorted to the only response that ever does seem to work with you. I’m sorry I frightened you, but really, you left me no choice.”

  She threw him a reproachful glance, but he was staring stonily ahead, his posture rigid. She could not comprehend how a man could kiss one so passionately one moment and be so coldly indifferent in the next.

  Yet she did understand. He’d only wanted to subdue her, and he’d succeeded because, as he’d said, that way always seemed to work. Without answering, Delilah turned her mortified gaze to the trees that lined the road. She heard a bird cry somewhere in the distance and another cry answering it. She wanted to cry out too.

  They rode on in tense silence for a few minutes. Then he spoke. “You’re shivering,” he said, his voice gentler.

  She pulled the rug up over her.

  Mr. Langdon drew a long breath. “Miss Desmond, have I made a mistake?” he asked. “Did you truly wish to go away with him?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Langdon. You still have not told me why you came,” she hedged.

  “Why I came?” he repeated in amazement. “I thought he’d made off with you. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you sitting so tamely beside him. I’d thought surely to find you trussed up and unconscious. I could not believe you’d go away with him of your own free will.”

  Delilah’s face began to burn. “So now you conelude I was going passively to my ruin—is that what you think?”

  “Not passively,” came the meaningful reply.

  “I see,” she said, turning away so her face would not betray her. “You thought I was ready to throw my cap over the windmill. Indeed, why shouldn’t you assume what everyone else does? Licentiousness is in my blood, of course. I could not possibly be running away to be married.”

  “If that’s what he told you and you were naive enough to believe him—”

  “I did not believe him, Mr. Langdon. I believed a piece of paper signed by a bishop.” She rubbed away the traitorous wetness on her cheeks, though she still would not look at him. “It’s in my reticule,” she added with cold dignity, “if you care to read it.”

  The carriage stopped.

  “He showed you a license?” Jack asked, his voice uneasy.

  “Not only showed it, but gave it to me for safekeeping. In my reticule—somewhere in that heap with all his things. He’ll probably take a terrible chill and die, and he has his friend to thank for it,” Miss Desmond continued while her companion bent to search.

  He found the reticule and offered it to her, but she shook her head.

  “You can’t be so careless as to trust me with that,” she said. “As you must have guessed earlier, my pistol is in there, too.”

  He opened the purse and drew out the folded document.

  “It’s too dark to read it,” he said.

  “How thoughtless of me not to bring a tinder-box and candles.”

  Mr. Langdon considered briefly, then drew a sigh.

  “I’d better take you back to him,” he said wearily. “I won’t even attempt to apologise.” He paused to gaze at her unmoving profile, then blurted out, “Damn, Delilah, but I’m sorry. Only I thought-well, you know what I thought—but I was so—I was half out of my mind with worry,” he went on hurriedly. “I was sure he’d hurt you. He wasn’t himself—I mean, he knocked me on the head with Caesar Augustus and ran off with the manuscript and I was sure he’d gone mad—”

  Miss Desmond’s head whipped towards him. “He what?”

  Mr. Langdon must have recollected himself, because he turned away from her horrified gaze. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “He was beside himself, and I suppose I can understand. His father was perfectly beastly, and Tony must have felt desperate. I mean, he’d promised you, hadn’t he? He wanted to help you, to be your hero, I expect—only I was in the way.”

  “You had the manuscript?” Delilah asked shakily. “He stole it from you—not Mr. Atkins?”

  “Evidently, I got there first.”

  “Are you excusing him? He attacked you—stole the memoirs from you—and you make excuses?” Delilah blinked, but it didn’t help. The world was still hopelessly askew.

  “I cannot decide,” she said slowly, “which one of you is more insane. But one thing is certain. I am not going back to him this evening. You will take me home, Mr. Langdon. I am not in a humour at present to be married—and certainly not to a lunatic.”

  Nonetheless, the lunatic was not altogether abandoned to his fate. Jack insisted upon leaving messages at the tollgates for Lord Streetham, describing where he might collect his son. Luckily, they were able to pass the earl’s carriage unnoticed half an hour later. He had stopped at an inn and was inside, probably making enquiries, when Jack and Delilah drove by.

  To neither Delilah’s nor Jack’s very great surprise, they were received by her parents with complete composure. Lady Potterby, succumbing to the welcome enticements of laudanum, had gone to bed. Thus, there were no shrieks, tears, upbraidings, nor any other sort of carryings-on. Even after Mr. Langdon had departed, the parents only gazed upon their daughter as though she were an exceedingly intricate and difficult puzzle.

  “You and Mr. Langdon were rather cool to each other, I think,” said Mrs. Desmond at last, as her husband refilled her wine glass. “Did you quarrel the whole way back?”

  “Not the whole way, Mama. For the last two hours we did not speak at all.”

  “Oh, Delilah,” her mother said reproachfully.

  “Well, what would you have me do, Mama? He made me feel a perfect fool. I thought—well, I could not believe he’d go to so much trouble—disguising himself as a highwayman, no less. I thought—” Delilah’s eyes went to her father then, and she flushed. “I thought he cared for me—but all he did was scold. And then the provoking man must commence to defending his friend. He even offered to take me back to Lord Berne. Can you believe it?” She sighed. “I can do nothing with him at all. It’s perfectly hopeless, which I knew it was all along. It’s all hopeless,” she went on drearily. “I wish he’d never come. I wish I’d gone back and married Lord Berne after all. He at least I can manage.”

  “Good heavens,” said Mr. Desmond. “Why did you not tell me you wanted someone manageable? I might have ordered Lord Berne at swordpoint to marry you at the outset, and spared us all a great deal of aggravation.”

  Delilah blinked back a tear. “I am not in a humour to be teased, Papa,” she said. “I am very tired.”

  Her father gazed blankly at his wife. “My dear, I am certain she has told me a dozen times at least that she could only be happy with some sort of deceitful, unpredictable scoundrel like her poor papa.”

  “Indeed, she has said as much to me countless times,” the mama agreed.

  “Am I manageable, Angelica?”

  “Not in the least. There is nothing to be done with you.” Mrs. Desmond sounded resigned.

  Their daughter, who had been trudging dispiritedly about the room in pale imitation of her usual energetic pacing, now flung herself into a chair. “I had rather be punished, you know. You might as well scold me and be done with it. Or lock me in my room for the rest of my life. I really don’t care. I’d prefer it, actually. Obviously there’s no other way to make me behave properly.” She stared glumly at the carpet.

  Her father paid her no mind, but went on addressing himself to his wife.

  “I do not understand,” he said. “I thought he was exactly what she wanted. He has a perfect genius for skullduggery. Who was it finally unearthed Streetham’s connexion with Atkins? Who learned the precise hour Atkins would deliver the manuscript to the printer? Who suggeste
d exchanging one package for another, so that Atkins would not know what had happened until it was too late?”

  Delilah looked up. “Are you telling me, Papa, this was all Mr. Langdon’s doing, not yours?”

  “Not all,” the father corrected. “Let me see. It was he who asked Lady Rand to take you about— but you were aware of that, I think. He also asked the Demowerys to help us by denying all existence of the memoirs and persuading the gossips the newspaper article was a hoax. Then there was his idea of spreading rumours better suited to our purposes—such as the legal case I was preparing against Atkins and the sad state of the man’s finances.” Mr. Desmond reflected a moment as he sipped his wine. “Oh, yes, and the matter of luring away employees, so that certain businesses could not function with their usual efficiency. Well, there’s more, I suppose, but Mr. Langdon prefers to keep some matters to himself. Very close he is, and sly. Not at all to be trusted, now I think on it.”

  “Certainly he was not open and aboveboard in disguising himself as a highwayman,” Mrs. Desmond concurred. “I’m afraid he was not altogether frank with Lord Streetham, either. Mr. Langdon must have tricked him into betraying his son’s direction. Moreover, though Delilah is too delicate to mention it, I feel certain Mr. Langdon’s behaviour this evening offended her modesty.”

  The delicate daughter flushed.

  “She is quite right,” said Mr. Desmond. “The fellow is altogether incorrigible.”

  “We should have paid more attention, Darryl. Poor Delilah is obviously no match for such a scoundrel. He would only run roughshod over her,” said Mrs. Desmond.

  Mr. Desmond shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry I did not see it sooner. Of course she will do far better with Berne. She will do, in fact, anything she likes with him.”

  The pair turned apologetic gazes upon their daughter. “We do beg your pardon, dear,” said her mama. “We have sadly misjudged the situation.”