The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

“They’re green,” said Jack.

“Grey.”

“Green. And I don’t need to be restored by anyone’s eyes. I want peace and quiet, Tony, and I must tell you there’s nothing peaceful about the pair of them.” Jack was on the brink of revealing the previous night’s adventure when his friend blithely cut in.

“I don’t expect them to be peaceful,” said Lord Berne. “Don’t you know who that is? Devil Desmond, the most infamous rogue in Christendom. Adventurer, charlatan, and—at least until he wed— corrupter of feminine virtue the like of which has not been seen since Casanova. His conquests would populate—”

“Thank you, Tony. The broad outlines will do.”

“He’s a legend in his own time, I tell you. Never thought he’d return to England after that duel with Billings—but that’s aeons ago, isn’t it?”

Mr. Langdon scowled at his coffee. “Then I wonder at your father’s taking him under the ancestral roof.”

“His lordship grows pious in his dotage. Maybe he means to reform the Devil. Still, what do I care about the reasons? Delilah.” Lord Berne sighed. “Even her name throbs with sinful promise. She has not touched a hair of my head, yet I feel the strength ebbing from my very sinews.”

His friend sighed inwardly. Tony fell in love on a daily—sometime hourly—basis, and the results, in the view of some, amounted to a national tragedy. The pitiful remains of the feminine hearts Lord Berne had shattered lay strewn in a broad path from London to Carlisle. One more scrap of wreckage would not change the course of history—though, unless Jack much missed his guess, Miss Desmond’s heart was made of sturdier material.

For the philosopher, their interchange would provide an interesting study, but Mr. Langdon was not in a philosophic mood. He stubbornly insisted on going to his uncle’s.

Lord Berne played his trump card. “You must come, Jack, to save me from myself.”

“Rescue is not in my style,” was the irritated reply.

“But who else can keep me from straying beyond light dalliance into dangerous depths? Very dangerous, I promise you. You will not want to see the Devil put a bullet through my too tender heart, will you?”

“Then keep your hands to yourself.”

“But Jack.” Lord Berne fixed his friend with a wide-eyed gaze. “You know I can’t.”

Mr. Desmond and his daughter travelled in their own carriage, the earl preceding them on horseback. After they had driven some time in silence, Mr. Desmond remarked, “That young man interests me.”

“Which young man, Papa?”

‘My dear, you can hardly think I find that fair-haired coxcomb interesting. I have met his type across the world, through several generations. I refer to the Guest in Question. The unhappy young man with the rumpled brown hair and poetic grey eyes.”

“I did not find him poetic.”

“You most certainly did. Also, you felt sorry for him. I nearly swooned with astonishment.”

Miss Desmond gazed stonily ahead. “I did neither. Your eyesight is failing you, Papa, just like poor Lord Streetham’s.”

“You are very cross today, Delilah. Is it because the poetic young man turns out to be heir presumptive to Viscount Rossing and you regret your decision?”

Miss Desmond’s head snapped towards her father so abruptly that her gypsy bonnet tipped over her ear. As she straightened it she said angrily, “I am not going to force a man to marry me on some trumped up pretext of being compromised. It’s absurd.”

“He would have done it, though.”

“Because he’s an innocent babe. Oh, Papa, that’s not how I wish to begin—yet there’s no fresh beginning, is there? My feet scarcely touch English soil before I become embroiled in a dreadful scene. I wish I could act like a lady. I can act everything else, it seems,” she added ruefully.

“Had you acted a helpless female—which I take is your definition of a lady—you would have been dishonoured by that sanctimonious old hypocrite.”

“If I’d waited for my maid or kept to my room I should not have invited incivility.”

Mr. Desmond smiled, a far gentler smile than the one Mr. Langdon had observed the previous evening. “You were concerned that Mr. Atkins’s pleas would soften my susceptible heart. A natural anxiety, my dear, though quite unnecessary. In fact, I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought. Perhaps I should destroy those paltry literary efforts of mine, so we might proceed in this enterprise with easy minds. I made a great mistake in contacting Atkins, I know. But I wanted to ascertain the value of the work. Suppose I died suddenly?”

Delilah shuddered. “Don’t say such things, Papa.”

“It might have easily happened but a year ago. You and your mama would be left destitute, with no prospects of aid from either of our callous families. Insurance, I thought. A nest egg in case of calamity. Naturally I had to make sure the egg was a golden one.”

“Of course you did. And not another word about destroying your wonderful story, after all your months of work. As you say, calamities happen. I may never find a husband.”

“Or you may fall in love with a penniless young man.” .

Miss Desmond sniffed disdainfully. “I have no intention of falling in love with anybody. One cannot preserve a clear head and be in love at the same time. My marriage wants a clear head.”

“You mean a cold, calculating one, I suppose.” The parent sighed. “I fear your mama and I went sadly astray in your upbringing. We have failed you.”

“Oh,

Papa.” Miss Desmond hugged her father, setting her bonnet askew again. “You have never failed me. I only hope I might be clear-headed enough to find a man half as splendid as you.”

“That, my love, wants a muddled head. What a silly girl you are. But at least you have recovered your temper. I shall endure the silliness.”

Whatever objections Lady Streetham had about entertaining the notorious Devil Desmond were ruthlessly crushed by her lord and master.

“I have reasons,” said he, “of a highly confidential anti political nature. You may treat him with civility or you may blight my Cabinet prospects. The choice is yours.”

After subduing his wife, Lord Streetham called upon his most trusted servants and, again citing national security, ordered them to search the Desmonds’ belongings.

While Lord Streetham and his minions laboured on behalf of the imperiled kingdom, Lord Berne took his guests on a riding circuit of the park. Mr. Langdon went as well, though he knew every stick, stone, and rabbit hole of every acre. He had his book with him, however, and whenever the group had occasion to pause, would take it out to stare blindly at the pages.

Miss Desmond found this behaviour most curious. As they were returning to the house, she asked Lord Berne, “Does he always have a book with him?”

“Always,” said her companion, glancing back at his friend, “even in Town, at the most magnificent balls, routs, musicales. There you’ll unfailingly find Jack Langdon with a book, which he unfailingly loses at some point, and must of course go poking about for. Drives the ladies wild. Not that I blame them. It must be most exasperating when you’re just commencing a bit of flirtation to see his eyes glaze over and then watch him wander off, talking to himself.” His own appreciative gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. “Though I cannot understand his behaviour in the present case.”

“I find it perfectly understandable,” Miss Desmond answered lightly. “What lady can compete with Plutarch?”

The viscount opened his mouth to answer, but she added quickly, “Pray, My Lord, do not say it is myself, when the facts contradict you. Besides, that is too easy a compliment. You cannot think I was angling for it.”