“Perhaps I had better explain,” said Mr. Desmond.
“Yes, thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Mr. Desmond began by describing the near-fatal illness which had inspired him to write his recollections. He had intended that, in the event of calamity, their publication would obtain his wife and daughter a respectable sum. Invested wisely, the sum would earn them a modest but reliable annual income.
There being no calamity at the moment, Mr. Desmond was not inclined to stir up old animosities against himself and his family, particularly in the present circumstances. His daughter was unwed. As it was, she would have sufficient difficulty being accepted by a Great World which had decades ago shut its doors to her parents. To publish now was to eliminate any possibility of a respectable marriage to one of her own class.
“Delilah must marry into that class, of course, Mr. Langdon. Though her mama trod the boards for a brief time, she is still an Ornesby and Lord Stivling’s niece. Nor am I precisely a parvenu. The barony my brother inherited is an ancient one. Besides, we cannot shackle Delilah to the blacksmith or the tavern keeper. Their tastes run along more oxen-like lines, I think. Poor child. She’s neither fish nor fowl. You have seen for yourself how unrefined her manners are. Not to mention that beastly temper of hers. She will not count to ten.”
Without appearing to notice his listener’s faint flush, Mr. Desmond went on, “Lady Potterby, my wife’s aunt, has courageously agreed to transform Delilah into a Society miss and attempt to launch her in the Little Season.”
Lady Potterby must be addled in her wits to take on this Augean task, Jack thought. Still, who was he to judge? What else could a young lady do but wed, especially if she is not a well-heeled young lady? The only gainful employment open to her was as governess, companion, or prostitute. For the former two Miss Desmond’s personality appeared profoundly ill-suited. The third alternative was not to be contemplated.
“I understand your reasons for suppressing your story,” said Jack, when he belatedly became aware that a response was awaited. “I simply don’t understand the difficulty in doing so. Why did you say the manuscript was no longer safe in your custody?”
“Atkins wants it, apparently more desperately than I’d believed. He has hired confederates to invade this household and search our belongings. I made the discovery this morning. Fortunately, I’d already thought to store the manuscript in that false binding. Whoever examined my room did not trouble with a book left out in plain sight. After breakfast I took the book to the library, just as though I’d borrowed it. I had no fear of discovery. I knew that whatever Marcus pretended to be these days, he was no bibliophile. Further, his Greek and Latin were always abominable.”
“This sounds so—so conspiratorial,” said Jack uncomfortably. “Are you certain, sir, these intruders were not simply common burglars?”
“Then why has there been no general alarm? Why trouble with the belongings of obviously down—at-heel guests when there are richer pickings elsewhere? No, sir, I’m convinced Atkins is at the bottom of this. Admittedly, I did wonder at first whether our host had set his servants to search for deadly weapons. After all, we Desmonds might run amok and embark upon a murder spree.” Mr. Desmond chuckled.
Mr. Langdon’s sense of humour had deserted him. Nor were his spirits raised when Mr. Desmond went on to describe Mr. Atkins’s grief in learning the book would not be his after all. This had upset the publisher far more than hearing he must be patient for his money.
“I had not expected such intrepidity from him, I must confess,” Mr. Desmond continued. “But with your help we will keep this desperate fellow at bay until I come up with the blunt to repay him.”
The reminder that he was to be the memoirs’ guardian made the hairs at the back of Jack’s neck rise. Unfortunately, he could contrive no reason for declining the honour that did not sound discourteous or cowardly, especially after Mr. Desmond pointed out Jack’s advantages as custodian.
Jack was fully aware that everyone in the world knew he was bookish. He always carried volumes about with him. He might carry this tome wherever he went and not arouse the least speculation. He was, in short, doomed.
“It was Destiny brought you to the Black Cat the other night, sir,” said the Devil, as though he had read Jack’s mind. “The gods knew we wanted help and wisely sent the perfect man for the job.”
Having bent Mr. Langdon to his will, Mr. Desmond was next confronted with the more onerous task of pacifying his daughter, who appeared moments after Mr. Langdon had dazedly departed. In fact, judging from her high colour, she had probably collided with that young man in the hall.
“Oh, he is impossible!” she snapped, slamming the billiard room door behind her.
“Not at all. Mr. Langdon is most accommodating. He has agreed to assist us, Delilah, so I recommend you mind your manners with him. From his expression earlier, I guessed you had treated him to a tantrum, then apologised with the usual fit of self-flagellation. Never before has a young man seemed so relieved at my untimely entrance. I thought he would collapse, weeping, in my arms.”
“He is stupid and obstinate. What on earth were you thinking of, to leave him with your book? He had it with him just now. How could you, Papa?”
Mr. Desmond unperturbedly explained precisely how he could, and turned an amiable deaf ear to all her ensuing protestations. He pointed out that Lord Streetham’s was an enormous old house which would crumble to pieces if not constantly kept in repair. Of the hired labourers who frequently came on this mission, any one might be Atkins’s accomplice. Until the Desmonds were securely housed at Lady Potterby’s and could safeguard against further intrusions, Mr. Langdon must keep the manuscript.
His daughter replied that they had better leave immediately for Elmhurst, because she would not sleep a wink until the manuscript was back in her father’s possession. Mr. Langdon would be sure to bring the book to dinner, where he would inevitably drop it into his soup. Miss Desmond had never met such a muddled, stupidly oblivious person in her whole life. With these closing remarks, she stormed out of the billiard room.
Mr. Atkins had been told he would not be welcome at Streetham Close while the earl’s guests remained. The publisher had therefore taken rooms in a small, uncomfortable inn nearby. The inn’s main asset was its tap room, a gathering place for all the local idlers and gossips. Virtually all that occurred at Streetham Close was a matter of public information within hours.
Mr. Atkins was swallowing a mug of ale he was certain had been made with his hostess’s laundry water when he learned the Desmonds had departed for Rossingley. An hour later, the publisher was in Lord Streetham’s study, ostensibly to seek his lordship’s advice regarding the memoirs.
His lordship was decidedly ungracious. This did not disturb Mr. Atkins, who was accustomed to being treated like the lowest species of insect. He knew less noble investors might be more amiable, but they were not likely to prove useful when a libel suit was imminent. In these litigious times, when a royal whim might land a man in prison for sedition, a wise businessman sought as backers not merely men of wealth, but men of influence. Lord Streetham being such a man, his lack of amiability might be overlooked.
What did disturb the publisher, however, was the earl’s curt announcement that Mr. Atkins need not concern himself about the manuscript, since Lord Berne had been charged with “persuading” the Desmonds to relinquish the work.
“With all due respect, My Lord,” said Mr. Atkins, “why should they do that? Lord Berne has not paid for it.”
“One fool throwing away money is sufficient, I should think,” said the earl. “We are dealing with an exceedingly devious man. In self-defence we must be devious as well. You’ve paid him for goods which he now refuses to deliver. In that case, someone must deliver them for him. Your ignorance of such simple economic logic is the reason you are on the brink of bankruptcy.”
What Lord Streetham called “economic logic” sounded remarkably like theft to Mr
. Atkins, but he held his tongue, endured a few more insults, and humbly took his leave.
He then took himself back to the inn, where he argued with his landlady for an hour over the reckoning. Finally, having paid his exorbitant shot, Mr. Atkins set out for Rossingley.
Rossingley, as Lord Berne pointed out to his father, was twenty-five miles away. The viscount could hardly visit Miss Desmond every day, claiming he was merely passing through the neighborhood. He could not stay with Jack at Rossing Hall because Lord Bossing hated company, and Lord Berne’s company especially.
“There won’t be any need to stop every day if you would but apply yourself,” the earl retorted. “You might have had the manuscript by now if you had not been gadding about the countryside.”
This was grossly unfair. Lord Berne had tried to apply himself to Miss Desmond, but his officious mama had constantly interrupted, sending him on one cork-brained mission after another. That same mama, he now told the earl, would go off in an apoplexy if he commenced regular visits to Lady Potterby’s house. “As it is she’s prodigious displeased with my neglect of Lady Jane,” said Tony.
“Lady Jane will not elope with one of the grooms while you are gone—and so I shall assure your mother. Nor need you blame her for your ineptitude. You were not on errands last evening, yet you allowed Miss Desmond to spend the whole time flirting with Langdon.”