Mr. Langdon was rather late in arriving, having spent some hours in conference with Mr. Desmond, then a few more in consultation with his friends. All had agreed that, whatever the upshot of his current plans, the rumours must be squelched in the meantime. Accordingly, members of the Demowery family immediately set about laughing the story off. Their dismissal of the scandal sheet was sufficiently scornful to raise doubts in the minds of many of their acquaintance, some of whom—though naturally they could not admit it—were made to feel ridiculous indeed.
Thus the mood of the crowd at Miss Melbrook’s party gradually softened, and soon Delilah had most, if not all, her partners back.
Though she remarked this change, she assumed Lord Berne’s dancing with her had somehow brought it about. Consequently, she felt obliged to think more kindly of him. Whatever foolish promises he might make and break, he had done her a service. That was why, when he returned a while later to beg for a second dance, she acquiesced, though she had made it a rule never to dance with any known rake more than once in an evening.
Mr. Langdon, who had kept count, was instantly outraged when he saw Lord Berne claim her a second time. Had she taken leave of her wits? All the guests were sure to remark this aberration and speculate upon it—as if they did not already have more than enough to say about Miss Desmond.
Accordingly, Jack took up a martial stance by Lady Potterby. When Delilah returned to her chaperone and her next partner appeared, Mr. Langdon curtly informed the bewildered major that he had made a mistake.
The soldier wisely retreated before Mr. Langdon’s baleful glare, and an irate Delilah found herself being hauled to the dance floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she fumed.
“Confounding the enemy,” he said. “And if you have any nous at all, you’ll endeavour to appear as imbecilely fascinated with all the rest of your partners as you did with Lord Berne.”
“Imbecile? How dare you?”
“You were hanging on his every word,” her partner answered.
“Because he was talking sense.”
“Tony has never talked sense in his entire life.”
The dance separated them briefly, but when she returned to face her partner, Miss Desmond’s eyes were blazing.
“Evidently,” she snapped, “Lord Berne has been saving up all his sense for when it was most wanted. He has a plan to get Papa’s memoirs back,” she went on, her voice taunting. “A plan, Mr. Langdon. Not just pretending nothing’s happened and keeping a stiff upper lip.”
Mr. Langdon’s upper lip, along with the rest of his countenance, did stiffen at this. He’d altogether forgotten Tony’s aspirations. Naturally he’d want to dash to her rescue—and he had the necessary resources. His father had tremendous influence, and being a book collector, was sure to have useful connexions—which Miss Desmond was pointing out when the dance required they separate once more.
Abruptly Mr. Langdon’s own plans seemed pathetically inept. When they came together again he felt honour bound to agree with her.
“I’m sure Tony has an excellent plan,” said Jack, “as well as the means to carry it out, as you said. I do beg your pardon. My remarks were most unjust. I ought to beg his pardon as well. If he’s promised to help you, he will. He would not—no gentleman of honour would—make a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.”
Since the day he’d made his dramatic exit from his father’s study, Lord Berne had really not given the memoirs any thought. The manuscript was his father’s problem. The son’s was Miss Desmond, and she had become even more of an obsession with him than the memoirs seemed to be with everyone else.
Nothing would move her. She was indifferent to the viscount’s beauty and unresponsive to his irresistible charm. He’d pursued her for more than a month and was no nearer to achieving his aims than he’d been at the start. Nonetheless, he refused to believe the situation was hopeless. She was only more difficult and demanding than other women. Looks, charm, and speeches were not enough for her. At the gala he’d discovered loyalty wasn’t enough, either. He would have to be heroic as well.
In the heat of the moment, heroics had seemed reasonable enough, but by the following morning, Lord Berne found himself reflecting unhappily upon the reckless promise he’d made.
He’d assumed his father had destroyed the manuscript as soon as he got it. Now the viscount had no idea what his parent was about, nor did he wish to know. Whatever Lord Streetham’s intentions, they were bound to be at odds with his son’s.
Instead, therefore, of beginning with his father, Lord Berne began with Mr. Atkins. Or tried to. Mr. Atkins, as Miss Desmond had told the viscount, was not to be found.
At the publisher’s office, Lord Berne heard only complaints from the assistant left in charge.
“My Lord, I must tell you I begin to doubt there is such a book,” said Mr. Black in aggrieved tones. “Mr. Atkins has written to me, telling me only to have the printer prepared to start on a work at a moment’s notice, and to have the first installment complete in a matter of weeks. You should hear what the printer has to say about that. Yet my master never says what the work is, so I cannot tell you whether it is Mr. Desmond’s memoirs or Dr. Cable-bottom’s anatomy manual. It is most vexing. I am daily plagued with enquiries—not to mention a lot of threatening letters—and we have lost three of our best people—and Mr. Atkins will not stay in one place that one might write to him.”
Lord Berne did not wait for more, but hastened instead to the printer’s. That interview proved equally unprofitable. At the mention of Atkins, Mr. Gillstone only looked hostile and muttered about overdue bills and wondered how an honest businessman could be expected to survive in a world filled with cheats, liars, and frauds.
Over the next few days, Lord Berne spoke to virtually every human being connected with the business, down to clerks, errand boys—even the charwoman. He learned nothing, though he spent a lot of money doing so. A visit with Mrs. Atkins produced two fits and a flood of weeping.
In short, all the viscount could discover was that half the world was trying to find Mr. Atkins, with the same result.
A week after he’d made his foolish promise, Lord Berne had no more information than he’d had at the start. This left his father, and the young man was more loath than ever to even hint what he wanted from the earl. So much secrecy, the disappearance of Mr. Atkins—well, it looked ominous. Whenever Lord Streetham became deep and secretive, it was best to keep out of his way.
Still, the prospect of his father’s rage was not nearly so daunting as that of Miss Desmond’s. Tony had made too many easy promises, as she’d reminded him. If he failed in this—abandoned her in her hour of greatest need—she’d never forgive him. She’d turn elsewhere for comfort. To Jack most likely—and the viscount had rather be flogged publicly than endure the humiliation of losing her to a poky bookworm.
Accordingly, as soon as his father had left Melgrave House, Lord Berne commenced a desperate search of the premises, which yielded, as he might have expected, nothing. All the earl’s important papers were kept locked in his writing desk, and the viscount knew nothing whatsoever about locks.
He sat in his father’s chair a long while and stared at the keyhole in frustration. He would have to break it, and this obviously was not the time. It must be done at night and blamed on intruders.
Since it was scarcely noon, Lord Berne decided he might as well make some use of the eternity stretching before him. He had not been to Atkins’s shop in three days. He might as well go again. Perhaps there was some word.
There was more than word. The viscount found Mr. Atkins himself, crouched over his cluttered desk, tearing at his hair.
Lord Berne’s face immediately became a mask of sympathy as he apologised for intruding. “I heard you were back,” he said. “Being in the neighbourhood, I thought to stop and congratulate you. It appears you have achieved quite a coup with Desmond’s—”
“My Lord, I beg you will not speak
that name,” the publisher cried. “It is cursed, and everything it touches is cursed.”
“Surely not,” said Lord Berne. “By now I daresay you are inundated with advance orders. This book will be the making of you, sir. Murray and Lackington—not to mention all your other competitors—will be grinding their teeth in envy. I applaud your perspicacity. Indeed, I cannot but regret my ill-chosen words at our last meeting.”
“You were right,” was the doleful reply. “It ought to have been buried, deep, deep beneath the earth. Where I might as well be. No wonder he has not troubled himself to come and kill me. He has no need. I am ruined. He’s poisoned everything.”
The publisher lifted a stack of letters and flung it to the floor. “Warnings, threats, all of them. The House of Lords wants me hanged. And that is not the half of it,” he went on querulously. “My colleagues, my employees all run from me as if I had the plague. Black has given notice of quitting. Gillstone will not take it—he claims his presses are too busy. Nobody else will take it. Nobody will do business with me.’ I cannot even buy paper.”
“Because of the threats?” Lord Berne asked, barely controlling his eagerness.
“Because the Devil has set rumours abroad that I am bankrupt. The fact is, I am short of cash at the moment—but I am not bankrupt. Yet no one will extend a farthing’s credit. I know it was he,” Mr. Atkins went on darkly as he drew out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “No one will say so, but I know it was he.”
“Indeed? Well, that must be most disagreeable for you,” said Lord Berne, thinking furiously. “What becomes of the manuscript now? Do you admit defeat and return it to Desmond?”
“If only I could. But your father berates me for being superstitious. He is suddenly determined the book must be published, despite everything—and upon the most impossible schedule. Three weeks. Who ever heard of such a thing, even in the cheap paper cover? Does he think I have all the copyists of the Times working for me?”