The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

“My father can have nothing to say to this. I explained the situation to you, I thought.”

The Devil waved this away.

“You are merely his son,” he said. “He does what he likes with you. He will not find me nearly so malleable. If Delilah weds you, it will be in St. George’s, Hanover Square, and all the world will be obliged to think it a very good match, indeed. Rely upon it.”

Mr. Desmond returned his cynical gaze to the window. “You may go to her now,” he said. “After you’ve had your answer—whatever it is—my wife and I will have something more to say to you.”

Mr. Langdon had proceeded from Melgrave House to that of Lord Rand, in order to see his friends one last time before he hanged himself.

He had devoted the walk to convincing himself he had no need to see Miss Desmond one last time because she would only break his heart again. It was wounded in so many places already that one more blow would surely collapse it altogether, and he did not wish to die in front of her. Hanging himself was more dignified, and certainly more discreet.

All of which he knew was ridiculous, but he was lovesick and his case was hopeless and, in the circumstances, being ridiculous was virtually an obligation.

Peace, he thought, eternal peace. Never again need he struggle to preserve the mask of a civilised gentleman while a ravening beast within fought wildly to overpower him.

In the end he’d be quiet, just as he’d told Tony—in a cool, tranquil vault where she could never get

at him and rattle him. Never again would he look upon her maddeningly beautiful face or hold her in his arms. Never again would she run her willful hands through his hair... and, pull his mouth to hers... and moan so softly, her breath warm on his face.

He had just turned the corner into Governor Square and had to stop and lean against a railing because all the breath seemed to have rushed out of his body at once. He stood there, clutching the railing, oblivious to the curious stares of passersby, a long while. Then he straightened, tugged at his cravat, and turned back in the direction of Potterby House.

The butler was just explaining that Miss Desmond was busy at the moment, when Lady Potterby fluttered out, all smiles, and led Jack into the drawing room.

Ten minutes later, Jack was on his way home. He saw no need to linger. Tony was in the parlour with Delilah and they were unchaperoned because Tony was proposing, as Lady Potterby had been stubbornly assuring one and all he would. He had even, her ladyship announced triumphantly, gone about it in the proper way, speaking first to the young lady’s papa.

Oddly enough, Jack felt calm at last. This was the end of it. He would not hang himself—not yet. No doubt Tony would want his friend as groomsman, and it would be churlish to commit suicide before fulfilling one’s obligations to one’s friends.

Meanwhile, Jack would go back to Rossingley. He would not, however, stop at any inns along the way, not even if overtaken by a hurricane.

Lord Berne made the most moving proposal any young lady was like to hear in this century. Following his interview with her father, Tony had decided he’d be wisest to commence with a clean state. He admitted he’d been driven by lust and had intended only to make her his mistress. The special license, he explained with some shame, he’d had for ages, and had used twice before to deceive his victims.

Delilah did not appear at all surprised. She listened quietly, in a vaguely bored manner that made her suitor feel even more like a worm than he’d been made to feel by everyone else.

Nevertheless, he went on determinedly, “Even today I thought only of myself, and felt sorry for myself because I had failed and would not have another chance. I was even prepared to wed as my father ordered, because I was afraid of the consequences if I didn’t. Luckily, I have a friend far more loyal than I deserve, who helped me see my error. I tell you all this to make an end once and for all, of deception. I only hope you will be more generous than I deserve. Will you forgive me, my dear, and allow me to begin fresh? Will you do me the very great honour and give me the great happiness of consenting to be my wife?”

Delilah was certain she’d meant to say Yes. The words came out as No, however, and she thought her heart would break when she saw the shattered look on his beautiful countenance. More beautiful, she thought, than it had ever been before, perhaps because for once in his life he had told not his fantasy truth but his heart’s truth.

Yet as he’d spoken, he’d somehow revealed her own heart’s truth as well, and that crumbled all her carefully built defences, her cynical rationales, and her assurance.

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” she said. “I really am sorry to hurt you. I meant to marry you, you know. I would have made you do it—you don’t know me— and then we would have been so unhappy.”

“Why? How?” he asked. “You could never make me unhappy—except now, to tell me you will not be my wife. I love you, Delilah. I would die to make you happy.”

Even as he spoke the words, he knew they were futile. Though she sat quietly enough, gazing down at her folded hands, he sensed this was not the world-weary repose it seemed to be. With a jolt he remembered what Jack had said.

Tony lifted her chin so he could look into her beautiful eyes. “It’s Jack, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re in love with him. That’s why.” There was no reproach in his tones. He saw it in her eyes, a fact, and like the others he’d confronted today, this would not go away for wishing or pretending.

She smiled, rather cynically, he thought, but that was not the truth. That was pose. What she said was pose as well—pretending, wishing.

“Oh, Tony,” she said. “You look for a rival instead of listening to what I say.”

“It’s what I see,” he answered.

“Your vision is clouded,” she said, “if you see Delilah Desmond in love with a bookworm.”

He’d risen, intending to leave, but something nagged at him. He struggled for a moment, then sat down beside her on the sofa and, taking her hand, began to speak once more.

“What is this?” Mr. Atkins screamed. “Where did you get this?”

Mr. Gillstone gazed down in bewilderment at the sheets the publisher was clutching in his hands. “From you,” he said, wondering if the man had at last gone completely mad. Atkins was too high-strung for the business. It wanted a less sensitive nature.

“This is not the manuscript I gave you,” the little man cried. “Do I not know the curst thing by heart? Where did you get it? Who bribed you to take it?”

A heated argument ensued, Mr. Gillstone being much offended by the accusation.

They shouted at each other for twenty minutes. Finally, when Mr. Atkins’s face had turned purple and the blood vessels were visibly throbbing in his temples, the printer recollected the muddled, flustered, apologetic young man who’d come to him yesterday. Then he dragged Mr. Atkins to his office, made him swallow a tumbler of gin, and told him what had occurred.

The soothing effects of Geneva notwithstanding, Mr. Atkins bolted from his chair, snatched up the manuscript, and dashed out of the shop.

Two minutes later he was back again.

“Print it,” he said.

“Print it?” Mr. Gillstone echoed.

“Yes. This is the only book we shall ever get from that fiend without trouble and I shall never see my money again, so we might as well salvage what we can. Just don’t show it to me when it’s done. Deal with my assistant. I never want to see the curst thing again as long as I live.”

Chapter Twenty

Mr. langdon had ordered his bags packed so that he might leave first thing in the morning. He’d had enough of dashing about like a madman in the middle of the night.

All the same, he did not expect to spend the night in repose, so he did not even attempt to go to bed. He sat in the library, staring at a volume of Tacitus for two hours before he noticed he had not turned a page. He slammed the book shut and flung it aside.

Then he put on his coat and went out for a walk. A long walk. Perhaps he would be set upon by ruffians and savagely beaten. That would be a profound relief.

He circled the West End endlessly, passing houses where drawn-back curtains and brilliant lights boasted of festivities in progress. Occasionally a carriage clattered past, but it was too early for great folks to be heading home, and the streets were relatively quiet. At midnight the watchman’s voice rang out, informing the interested public not only of the hour, but of the circumstance that the world, at present, was well, the moon in the sky where it belonged, and the sky itself gradually clearing.

That was when Jack’s mind must have snapped, because the watchman had scarcely completed his observations when Mr. Langdon’s legs, no longer controlled by a brain or anything like it, blithely took him to Potterby House.

The house was dark, in the front at least. Facades, however, can be deceiving, and ever a seeker of Truth, Mr. Langdon slipped round to the back. There on the second floor, one window remained faintly lit. He stood at the gate for a moment. Then he climbed over it and dropped into the pathway leading to the garden.

His eyes went up to the window once more, and his heart began to pound because he saw a movement by the curtains. A figure in a gauzy negligee passed quickly—though not quickly enough to prevent his catching one tantalising glimpse of the form outlined in the candlelight.

“‘But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?’” he murmured, though he had sense enough left to smile at his folly. “‘It is the east, and Delilah is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon—’”