Having had an unsatisfactorily short and not altogether enlightening conversation with her mama, Miss Desmond was at the moment wearing a circular path in the parlour carpet. She was not fitted by nature to endure suspense with her mother’s tranquillity. That lady had, to Delilah’s utter incredulity, retired to her chamber for a nap. She had been up all night, like everyone else, it seemed, while Delilah and Lady Potterby had slept in blissful ignorance of the plots being hatched below.
Delilah was still not altogether clear on just what the plot was, because her mama had looked ready to drop from exhaustion. Baffled as Delilah had been, she’d tried to be considerate, and refrained from demanding lengthy details. At any rate, Papa and Mr. Langdon would explain when they returned, her mother had promised. For now, it was enough to say they’d gone for the manuscript and had no doubt of success.
Still, that was hours ago. Surely they ought to be back by now... unless they had failed. The thought was most alarming. Though Delilah had more than once taunted Mr. Langdon with his excessive caution, she did hope he had not been reckless. Papa was accustomed to skirting the boundaries of the law and adept at wriggling out of awkward situations. Mr. Langdon had no such experience. Oh, where was he?
She heard the door knocker then and abruptly sat down. Whatever else happened, she would show Mr. Langdon she had as much poise and self-control as any other lady. She folded her hands tightly in her lap and waited.
To her disappointment, Lord Berne was announced. As he entered the room, she struggled mightily to erase all evidence of vexation from her countenance.
Fortunately, Lady Potterby had accompanied him and, during the interval of greetings and small talk, Delilah took herself in hand. She was pleased to see him, she told herself. How could she not be, when he looked so impossibly beautiful, his golden curls slightly windblown, but all else so elegant, sleek, and graceful.
“Indeed, the weather is fine today,” he was agreeing with his hostess. “There is not a whisper of a cloud in the heavens. Since these opportunities will be too rare in the coming weeks, I hastened here in hopes Miss Desmond would consent to drive with me—if she will forgive the short notice,” he added, bestowing an affectionate glance upon the young lady.
Lady Potterby was even less informed of the latest memoir-connected events than her grand-niece was, for her family had naturally supposed her nerves could not bear more anxiety. She was, furthermore, waiting for Lord Berne to come up to scratch. There was no other possible way to interpret his behaviour of the past three or four weeks, regardless what Angelica said. At the moment, the viscount looked as though he were about to burst with something, and Lady Potterby was not slow to guess what that was. Today. He’d offer today.
To her surprise, her grand niece appeared most hesitant. Still, her ladyship reflected, that was the way with girls. Bold as brass one minute, then, when matters grew serious, overcome with modesty. Delilah wanted nudging, that was all.
“You could do with some exercise, my dear,” Lady Potterby urged with unusual firmness. “You have been too pale these past few days, which I am sure is because you do not take the air. His lordship is most kind to invite you. Though I must ask you, My Lord,” she added, dropping him a knowing look, “not to keep her long. She has an appointment with her dressmaker.”
Lord Berne solemnly vowed that Miss Desmond would be returned in good time for her appointment.
Miss Desmond smiled weakly and consented.
At least, Delilah thought as the carriage reached the park gates, this was something to do. Better than pacing, certainly, and far better than working herself into a pet because her parents and Mr. Langdon had kept secrets from her. Not that she’d given her parents much opportunity to do otherwise. For nearly a month she’d scrupulously avoided them. As to Mr. Langdon, why should he tell her anything, when all she ever did was pick on him.
She was abruptly jolted from these reflections when Lord Berne, who had been uncharacteristically mute, stopped the carriage and found his tongue.
“Miss Desmond, a few weeks ago I made you a promise,” he said, his voice low and rather unsteady. “I have kept it.”
She turned a baffled glance upon him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The memoirs. I’ve got them at last.”
He shifted the reins to one hand and reached under the seat. As he drew out a thick package, Delilah experienced a curious sinking sensation. More curious still was the reluctance with which she took the parcel from him and began to undo the wrapping.
“I don’t understand,” she said, as her eye fell upon the title page. “This is not possible. How—” She broke off as she flicked through the pages and saw this was indeed her father’s work.
“It was very nearly impossible, Miss Desmond,” said her companion. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself in a—a bit of trouble as a consequence.”
What was wrong? she asked herself. She’d been certain she’d never know a moment’s peace until the work was back in her possession. Here it was, and she felt nearly ill. This was undoubtedly her father’s hand—though the lines seemed uncharacteristically shaky. Or was that her vision? To her chagrin she discovered her eyes were swimming. She blinked back the tears and made her belated answer.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say. I was just so—so surprised,” she murmured. “My Lord, this is—this is exceedingly kind of you. Thank you. I cannot tell you what a relief it is.” Then his last words penetrated. “Trouble?” she asked, making herself meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I had to use my father’s name to get them,” he answered. “Atkins has dealings with him on occasion, you see. He’ll be expecting to hear from my father by now, and when he does not, he’ll seek him out—and I shall be found out.”
Lord Berne’s face seemed composed, but the feverish light in his eyes made Delilah uneasy.
“Your father will be very angry, My Lord,” she said. “I never meant—I’m sure I never wished—”
“It’s of no consequence, Miss Desmond,” the viscount replied with a shrug. “My sire and I have already quarrelled bitterly. He’s told me in no uncertain terms that I must cease my pursuit of you.” He nodded towards the manuscript. “There is my answer to him.” He paused a moment. “It’s also my question to you, Miss Desmond,” he continued in lower, caressing tones. “Will you believe now that mine is not some fickle fancy? I have stood your friend all these weeks, asking nothing in return. I have kept the promise I made you. Will you believe at last that I love you?”
He reached to take her hand and bring it to his lips. “Because I do love you,” he went on softly. He kissed each finger. “More than life, more than honour. Ask me anything and I will do it. Tell me how to go away forever, and I will.”
He turned the unresisting hand over and kissed the palm. Then he raised his head, and his blue eyes seemed to burn into hers. “But you must tell me now—and it must be forever,” he said, more softly still. “I cannot wait any longer, my dearest.”
Miss Desmond knew an ultimatum when she heard one, and like it or not, she had to see the reason in it. She could not expect to keep him dangling forever. However he’d gotten the manuscript, he had done it, and saved her father as a result. To spurn the viscount now would be the height of ingratitude—not to mention stupidity. Where would she ever again find so heartbreakingly handsome, so charming, so compelling a lover? Still, he had better understand he must be more than a lover.
“Before I answer, My Lord, you must be more specific about what you are asking,” she said, her own voice as soft as his.
He smiled faintly. “Even now you don’t trust me, though I understand your reasons. I’m asking you to be my wife. Will you come away with me—now— and marry me?”
She drew back a bit. “Now?”
“It must be. When my father discovers what I’ve done, he’ll know immediately for whom I did it.”
“But you did nothing wrong,” she cried, apprehensive now. “The book i
s my father’s. You were only returning his property.”
“The book is of no consequence. It’s you. Are you prepared to tell my sire that after obtaining the manuscript from me, you gave me my congi? No other answer will appease him, you know. If you can’t assure him you’ve cast me off, he’ll do all he can to be rid of you—even if it means destroying your family.”
“I don’t understand,” she said stubbornly. “I must either marry you at once or never see you again? That makes no sense.”
“There is no other way I can protect you from my father’s rage. Don’t you see?” He squeezed her hand tenderly. “Please, my dear, come with me now. We’ll go far away. By the time he finds us—if ever he does—it will be too late. He’ll have to accept you then, because the alternative is an ugly scandal.”
“What of my parents?” she returned. “They’ll be beside themselves if I don’t come home.”
“We haven’t time. We’ll send a message once we’re well upon the road. My love, I beg you, no more delay.” He released her hand to reach into his pocket. He took out a document and gave it to her.
“A special license,” he said. “After the last row with my father I saw there was no alternative. If you were generous enough to consent, I had to be ready to make it right immediately. I’m ready. Will you continue to delay, when every moment is precious, when every second keeps us from our vows?”
Naturally, Delilah wanted to delay, to ask another hundred questions. This was too sudden. She hadn’t had time to prepare her mind and heart to accept him fully. Besides that, she was skeptical. Even though he’d behaved well for weeks, perhaps he’d only wanted to give her a false sense of security. He could not suppress the passion in his voice now, any more than he could mask the hot gleam in his eyes.
Still, lust was not a terrible thing—not to her. She could never be happy with a passionless man, she told herself, thrusting another image from her mind. Even if bedding her formed the greater part of Lord Berne’s wishes, she sensed there was sufficient love in him as well. That would serve—so long as he did marry her.
That he would do, she vowed inwardly, whatever he truly intended. She was no green schoolgirl. A special license was all very well, but she had her pistol in her reticule, and that was better.
Chapter Eighteen
At about the time Miss Desmond was agreeing to run away with her desperate swain, Mr. Langdon was being recalled to consciousness by his valet, who had been summoned by a hysterically babbling Joseph.
Though Mr. Langdon was confused and in great pain, he was in sufficient possession of his wits to know he had not passed out from drink. Nor did Mr. Fellows need to point out that his master must have been struck on the back of the head with the bust of Caesar Augustus. The bust, being made of marble, lay undamaged upon the carpet. Mr. Langdon’s head, being made of more delicate material, was in the process of producing a large, throbbing lump.
Mr. Fellows expressed his disapproval. He could not think what the world was coming to when young gentlemen must behave like the veriest ruffians, engaging in brawls in respectable households and bashing one another’s skulls.
“Damn it, man, it wasn’t a brawl,” Jack growled as his valet helped him to his feet. “He came up on me from behind and—” He broke off as his gaze fell upon the disorderly heap of wrapping paper and books on the floor by a chair. Thrusting his valet aside, Jack tore into the heap, flinging away paper and books in a perfectly demented manner and leading Mr. Fellows to observe aloud that his master was suffering from concussion.
“He’s taken it,” said the unheeding Jack in stunned disbelief. “He knocked me unconscious and stole it.”
“Inbreeding,” Mr. Fellows pronounced. “That is the trouble with the aristocracy. In another generation, mark my words, they’ll all be precisely like His Majesty.”
That he was nonetheless moved by the present situation was apparent, for Mr. Fellows immediately set to restoring order himself, instead of requiring the dumbfounded Joseph to do so. The valet picked up the books and placed them neatly on a nearby table—which was when he saw the folded piece of note paper.
He handed it to his employer, saying, “I suppose there is some delirious explanation in it.” He turned to Joseph. “You needn’t stand there gaping like an imbecile. Go find some ice.”
Mr. Langdon staggered to a chair and sat down to read the note, though the letters seemed to dance before his eyes. Fortunately—and uncharacteristically—it was brief. No more than five apologies and a dash of purple prose clouded the main point, which was that Tony had relieved his friend of the manuscript because he had a greater need for it, Love taking precedence over all other human concerns.
When Jack arrived at Potterby House, he found Mrs. Desmond, who’d only moments before come downstairs, standing in the hall upbraiding her aunt.
“Unchaperoned, Aunt Mimsy?” she was saying, her voice deeply reproachful. “With him, of all men?”
Lady Potterby was opening her mouth to defend herself when Jack hurried forward.
“She’s gone?” he asked, too agitated to remember his manners. “Miss Desmond has gone out?”
Mrs. Desmond’s glance took in his ashen face, the wreck that was once his starched neckcloth, and the ruin of his frantically raked hair. “The parlour,” she said quickly. “Aunt Mimsy, go to your room.”
Mr. Langdon spent no more than five minutes in the parlour—only enough time to make Mrs. Desmond promise to say nothing to her husband. Or, if this was impossible, she must at least do all she could to keep him at home.
“Then I must lie to him, Jack,” she said, “and I’ve never done so before.”
“This is no time for scruples, ma’am. Tell him she’s with me. She will be, I promise you.”
From Potterby House Mr. Langdon rode directly to Hyde Park. The hour being relatively early, the place was not yet jammed with vehicles. He did not therefore require too much time to ascertain that Tony’s curricle was not there.
With increasing sense of foreboding, Jack left. He had no idea where Tony could have taken Miss Desmond. There was only one hope of discovering a clue.
Not long after he’d left the park, Jack was at Melgrave House, crashing the knocker against the door.
“Lord Berne,” he demanded of the stony-faced servant who opened the door. “Where is he?”
“His lordship is not at home, sir.”
“Damn it, I know he’s not home. Where’s he gone?”
The porter retreated a step from the wild-eyed figure before him, though he maintained his frigidity.
“An extended trip, Mr. Langdon,” he answered curtly as he attempted to close the door.
Jack pushed him aside and stormed down the hallway. “Where is Lord Streetham?” he shouted.
The shout brought out the butler and several other curious servants, none of whom seemed inclined to cooperate with this madman. That he was not taken up and thrown out bodily was attributable only to his being considered more or less part of the family. Thus, though unhelpful, no one attempted to prevent him as he stomped towards the earl’s study, where he met the gentleman at the door.
“What a devil of a noise you’re making, Jack,” the earl reprimanded. “Don’t tell me you and Tony have taken to quarrelling again as you used to.”
“Where has he gone?” Jack demanded. “You would know. You know all his hideaways. Where has he taken her?”
“My dear boy, I haven’t the least idea what you’re raving about.”
“Tony has run off with Miss Desmond,” said the dear boy in some heat.
Lord Streetham’s lip curled in contempt. “Is that all? He’s run off with a wench. What of it? This would not be the first time.”
“All?” Jack echoed incredulously. “This is not some ballet dancer we speak of, but Mr. Desmond’s daughter. Lord Stivling’s grand niece—”
“I know who her relations are, “said Lord Streetham. “Most of them do not acknowledge her existence—and rightly s
o, if what you announce is true. She has bewitched my son and he has made her his mistress—as she no doubt has schemed for from the first. Well, I wish her joy of the transaction, for not a penny will I give that stupid boy to throw away on her.”
Upset as he was, Jack could see that pleading Miss Desmond’s innocence would be futile. Though certain she’d been deceived—may even have been rendered unconscious, as he had—Jack could never convince the earl of that.
Only one prospect might rouse Lord Streetham from his sneering complacency.
“I think, My Lord,” said Jack, “you underestimate how thoroughly ‘bewitched’ Tony is. Not two hours ago he was at my house, informing me he intended to marry her.” He went on to repeat as much as he could remember of Tony’s speech, with particular emphasis on his friend’s expressed defiance of his parents.
“All talk,” said the earl at the end of the recital. “More of his absurd speeches. I am sure he believed himself—for at least ten minutes.”
Nonetheless, a flicker of uneasiness had crossed the older man’s face. That was the only hint, but it was all Jack had. A few minutes later, he’d taken his leave.
Mr. Langdon waited in the mews until he heard, with unspeakable relief, the summons for Lord Streetham’s carriage.
After another endless wait, the carriage was readied. A short while later, it was on its way, with Mr. Langdon following at a discreet distance. Not until night had fallen did Jack feel sufficiently sure of its direction to dash ahead.
They were headed north, which could mean Gretna Green. Unfortunately, it could also mean Lord Streetham’s hunting box in Kirkby Glenham. Still, the earl could not be certain either, unless Tony had been unusually confiding in his valet. At any rate, Jack told himself, his lordship must stop to make enquiries along the way, and it would be wisest to precede him.
Darkness had descended and the air, consequently, had grown chilly. Miss Desmond, wrapped in a thick rug her thoughtful spouse-to-be had provided, was only uncomfortable inwardly. The farther they retreated from London, the more she repented her decision, and the harder it became to understand why she had made it, why she had so little considered the pain her act would cause others.