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She was not in the least impressed by this display of masculine arrogance, she told herself, though her heart proceeded to raise a fuss all the same.
“How dare you?” she said, rather breathlessly. “I am perfectly capable of digging a hole.” She lifted her chin and turned to leave.
He seized her wrist. “What you are capable of is beside the point. I’ll do what needs to be done, and that doesn’t include spending the night worrying about the safety of a rash female.”
Worrying? Was he truly anxious about her safety? Really, that was rather... quaint of him, she told herself, while her heart drummed against her ribs. Then she became acutely aware of the hand closed about her wrist and a most puzzling sensation of weakness in her limbs. Baffled, she stared hard at his hand. He quickly released her.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I did not mean to manhandle you.”
“No, I suppose not,” she answered, feeling dreadfully confused. “Not unless I’m disobedient, I gather.”
He gave her a faint smile. “But you won’t be, will you, Miss Desmond? You won’t try my patience, I hope?”
Miss Desmond sighed and promised to do as he bid.
Chapter Twelve
As he learned a while later, Mr. Langdon had not told falsehoods after all. There had indeed been a summons for Lord Berne, who had already left to accompany his parents back to Streetham Close by the time Jack returned to Rossing Hall.
Relieved that he would not have to endure his friend’s quizzing, Jack quickly set about preparing for his evening’s skullduggery. The first order of business was to get rid of his valet, who was given the night off. Though Mr. Fellows lingered in the house until after dinner—to make certain his master donned proper attire—he did leave at last, and Jack could ransack his own wardrobe free of prying eyes and ironic comments.
Eventually he found an old set of clothing suitable to his purposes. After donning these, he sat down with a volume of Andrew Marvell’s poetry to wait.
Delilah had intended, as soon as she returned to the house, to inform her father of Atkins’s apparent treachery. She could not. Mr. Desmond had gone out and did not plan to return until very late that evening, Lady Potterby disapprovingly informed her grand-niece.
“Some card game or cock fight, I suppose,” Lady Potterby muttered. “But that is to be expected. I only wonder he has remained so quietly at home all this time.”
As predicted, he did not return for dinner and when, several hours later, he had not yet put in an appearance, Delilah decided this was just as well. She really ought not say anything to him until she was certain the memoirs were gone. Otherwise he might go after Mr. Atkins and get himself taken up for assault on an innocent man.
Since no festivities were scheduled for tonight, the household made an early bedtime. By ten o’clock, having dismissed her maid, Delilah was curled up in the window seat of her bedchamber, gazing out at the. darkened expanse of park towards Rossing Hall.
She would have preferred a view of the garden, but her room was on the wrong side of the house. As it was, she doubted she’d be able to see anything, even if Mr. Langdon did come that way, and she had no way of knowing whether he would.
Still, she waited and watched as the old clock in the hall downstairs tolled eleven o’clock, then midnight. The clock had scarcely left off chiming when she discerned a faint light moving between the row of elms. Immediately her heart began pounding.
Lud, wasn’t that just like him—to bring a lantern. What if one of the grooms was up and about in his quarters by the stable and spied the light?
Jack darkened his lantern and placed it on the ground. Having decided that, if caught, he would simply confess all, he had brought along a spade, which he now plunged into the earth. He had just emptied his third shovelful when he heard a faint creak, then rustling. There was a light patter of footsteps, and Jack looked up to see a dark figure approaching. It was not a tall, dark figure. He uttered a sigh.
“I told you to keep away,” he whispered as the figure drew near. “Must you be so pigheaded?”
The object of his rebuke hesitated but a moment before stepping closer. In the moonlight Mr. Langdon was able to ascertain that Miss Desmond had thrown on a coat obviously not her own. The coat, which dragged on the ground, would have comfortably covered two or three Miss Desmonds. Though she clutched her large wrapping tightly about her, a peep of white at the neck and another near the toes sufficiently indicated what was beneath.
Drat the woman! She’d come out in her night rail, for heaven’s sake. How in blazes would he explain that if they were caught?
“Go back in the house this instant,” he whispered harshly.
This Miss Desmond firmly refused to do. Since arguing with her was bound to prove only an exasperating waste of time, Jack decided to ignore her and go on digging.
Because he had not dug a very deep hole originally, not many shovelfuls were required to confirm their fears: The false book and its contents were gone.
Miss Desmond stared for a long while at the empty hole. Then her head bent and her shoulders began to shake, and in another moment Jack heard the unmistakable sounds of weeping.
He thrust his spade securely into the dirt and stepped back to take her in his arms. Accepting the offer of comfort without protest, Miss Desmond pressed her face against his chest and sobbed like a child while he patted her back and muttered every sort of consolation he could think of.
Even if Atkins had the memoirs now, there was no reason her father could not get them back again, Jack told her. Was her papa not a brilliant man? Besides, Atkins was terrified of him. One confrontation and the nervous little fellow would give up his purloined goods. He must. Since he hadn’t yet paid in full for them, he didn’t legally own them.
Under this calming influence, Miss Desmond’s weeping gradually abated. Regrettably, Mr. Langdon did not have the same tranquilizing effect upon himself. At the moment, the young lady was a somewhat awkward bundle, but it was she, all the same. The feel of her face pressed against his coat was very pleasant. The proximity of her person, even with all that coarse wrapping, was agreeably warm. His comforting pats gradually became gentle stroking, and very soon, Jack was in agonies.
He wanted to bury his face in her hair. His fingers itched to caress her neck, her shoulders, to fling away the dratted coat and...
She raised her head just as his right hand was about to plunge into her tangled hair. The hand paused mid-air.
“Oh, Jack,” she said softly. “You’re always so sensible.”
Jack? “Jack?” he echoed stupidly, stunned by the beckoning sound of his own dull name. His hand dropped to her shoulder. His face was beginning to lower to hers when another word intruded upon his consciousness: sensible?
As she saw him withdraw, Delilah immediately set about persuading her crestfallen self she was vastly relieved. She had a sensed a kiss coming, and certainly he had no business... but that was no good, she realized with dismay as she drew away from the comfortingly strong arms. She’d wanted him to kiss her. Good heavens—she’d even called him by his Christian name!
“Excuse me, Mr. Langdon,” she said, backing away and nervously rubbing her nose on her coat-sleeve. “I should not have been so familiar. I was— distraught. Thank you so much. You have been very—very—kind. I—I had better go in now, I think. And you had better go home. The night air, you know. Most insalubrious, my aunt says,” she babbled. Then she turned and fled.
She sped up the backstairs, pausing only to return Bantwell’s overcoat to its peg, and on to her room.
She threw herself down at the dressing table and began savagely brushing her hair. Two minutes later she put down the brush and went again to the window. By now he was gone, and what possible consolation watching the faint light move through the park could have been to her, she could not imagine.
Delilah leaned her head against the glass. How very comfortable and safe she had felt, held securely against his hard chest. Well, t
hat was nothing. Jack Langdon was as safe as houses, quiet and diffident and scholarly and serious.
She blinked. Not when he kissed her, though. Not when he lost his temper and threw her onto her horse. That had left her dumbfounded. She hadn’t realized he was so strong. After all, hadn’t they been well matched during their tussle at the inn? Or had that been more of his chivalry? Very likely. He’d held himself back because a gentleman could not hurt a woman, murderess or not. Damn his gallantry. Why must he be so honourable, always, and make her feel more ill-bred than ever?
Her eyes itched, threatening tears. Angrily she rubbed them away, telling herself it would serve him right if she used that honour to manipulate him into marrying her. Certainly that would solve her problems very easily. She’d never need have a moment’s anxiety about her parents’ future. After all, Papa was not getting any younger. He could not go on living by his wits forever.
Mr. Langdon would take care of her parents. She needn’t fear they’d be tossed into debtors’ prison or be left to languish in a workhouse or spend their declining years in sordid lodgings, waiting to die. At the same time, their daughter would be spared the mortification of striving to be accepted by a Great World which didn’t want her.
