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“Let us simply say I left no stone unturned. Desmond is deep, devilish deep, but even he can be excavated, if one is diligent.”
“Devilish indeed,” said Mr. Atkins, too filled with wonder to appreciate the earl’s puns, though these amused the noble gentleman immensely. “This bit about Corbell—I had not remembered it being quite so revealing.”
“Yes, it is a great piece of wickedness, but that is what the hypocritical public demands. I will want a few weeks to complete my review—it goes slowly because Desmond’s hand is virtually illegible. Then you may be sure I will personally deliver the work to you. Meanwhile, I suggest you take a well-deserved vacation, Atkins. I would recommend a location some distance from London.”
Small drops of moisture appeared upon the publisher’s brow. “I b—beg your pardon, My Lord?”
“Desmond is not to be relied upon, as you have already learned to your cost. I am concerned he will once again experience a change of heart and demand his work back. If you are not at hand, however, he cannot trouble you. I am forced to go to London on pressing family matters, but you may rest easy on that score. The work can be stored with my solicitor, and I shall take only parts of it to Melgrave House as I need them.”
The handkerchief came out and was applied to Mr. Atkins’s brow.
“Do not make yourself anxious, Atkins,” said the earl with a thin, cold smile. “But do set out at once, and be sure to keep me apprised of your direction so that I may contact you when the time is right.”
Chapter Thirteen
With the rising of Parliament and the coincidental rising of the stench of the Thames, London becomes a vast wasteland. Though the City itself may appear to be teeming with life, the West End acquires a funereal air, for the majority of the upper classes have departed. Some go to their country estates and others to any of several resorts, of which the Prince Regent’s architectural whims have made Brighton the most fashionable.
Mr. Beldon, to his unspeakable frustration, was not a participant in this exodus. He was temporarily confined to London due to a misunderstanding with his tailor, vintner, boot-maker, and landlady which could not be resolved until he first came to an amicable arrangement with a money-lender. This, to Mr. Beldon’s great astonishment, had proved exceedingly difficult.
As he wandered listlessly up and down Bond Street, Mr. Beldon was weighing a future in King’s Bench Prison against exile to whatever godforsaken spot of the continent was not in the greedy grasp of the Corsican monster. These meditations came to an abrupt halt, as Mr. Beldon did, when a far more animate and spellbinding vision appeared before him. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, blinked again, and pinched himself. Then, being a true patriot, he hastened to alert the kingdom.
Within hours, the few benighted souls remaining in London were apprised of the startling circumstance that Devil Desmond was in Town, and with him a black-haired beauty who must be Cleopatra or Helen of Troy reincarnated.
By the time the news reached Brighton, it was enhanced by more intriguing information: The beauty was none other than the Devil’s own daughter, an even more exotically gorgeous creature than her infamous mother. Upon seeing her, it was said, Lord Argoyne had driven his phaeton into a hackney. Sir Matthew Melbrook had tripped over his own walking stick and fallen face down into a puddle. In short, every time London’s gentlemen spotted Miss Desmond in public, they fell to pieces.
Fortunately, these occasions were exceedingly rare, because Lady Potterby, for some reason—possibly to whet appetites—seemed determined to keep the girl under wraps.
Mr. Langdon was surprised by neither the stir the Desmonds’ arrival caused in London nor the rapid influx of previously rusticating members of the Beau Monde. In fact, he might have predicted with precision which gentlemen would be camped upon the doorstep of Potterby House—if, that is, Lady Potterby had permitted such an outrage. She did not. Neither she nor her grand-niece was at home to any of the gentlemen, which was only to be expected.
It would do Miss Desmond’s reputation no good to be receiving a lot of idle rogues when none of the ladies wished to have anything to do with her. As Jack learned from the gossips, not one of Lady Potterby’s numerous feminine acquaintance had deigned to call.
Though he, like all the rest, had been denied every time he had called, Jack persisted. Finally, after he’d been in London nearly a fortnight, he had the luck to meet up with Mr. Desmond in St. James’s, and that gentleman was gracious enough to escort Jack to Potterby House himself.
The visit was a distressing one. Miss Desmond strove mightily to appear untroubled, but anxiety was writ plain in her shadowed eyes.
As he was leaving, Jack could not help taking Mr. Desmond aside to express his concern.
“Yes, I know she looks ill,” said the parent. “She worries too much. I have not been able to locate Atkins, though I’ve had both his house and his office watched day and night. Then, of course, there’s the Great World. They don’t want her, it seems.”
“Would it not be best,” Jack suggested hesitantly, “if she were to return to Scotland—temporarily at least?”
“It would be best, but she’s stubborn, and I’m afraid her great aunt abets her in this. Neither will admit defeat. I tell you, I’m greatly tempted to tell her ladyship the truth about the book. I have threatened to do so, to make Delilah go back to her mama, but my heart is not made of stone, Mr. Langdon. How am I to resist my daughter’s tear-filled entreaties? Really, sometimes I think we have all lost our minds. Perhaps I should have shackled her to the blacksmith after all.”
“Of all the unjust, narrow-minded, un-Christian, hypocritical, perfectly beastly—why this is infamous!” Lady Rand cried. “There, Max, did I not tell you it must be so? When every time I asked what ill they knew of Miss Desmond, those nasty creatures would only tell me tales of her mama and papa. Where should I be, I ask you, if the world judged me by my papa?” She jumped up from her chair. “Oh, I have been much amiss. I knew I ought to do something—but I let a lot of horrid prigs intimidate me. Where is my bonnet?”
“Settle down, Cat,” said the lady’s husband. “You can’t go off slaying dragons at this hour. Besides, if you go rushing to Potterby House looking all wild-eyed, they’ll pack you off to Bedlam.”
“Certainly the matter will keep until tomorrow,” said Jack, taken aback by his hostess’s sudden tempest. “I only wanted to make sure—”
“Of course you did,” Lady Rand interrupted, rushing back to him to take his hand in a firm clasp. “You were quite right to tell us. Only I do wish you had done so sooner. That poor girl—to endure such humiliation—and how poor Lady Potterby can bear it—to see her so-called friends all turn their backs on her. Really, it makes me so angry I can hardly see straight.”
Mr. Langdon was not sure at present whether he could see straight. He had not remembered Catherine’s being so volatile. Sympathy for Miss Desmond’s plight he’d expected, for Lady Rand had a powerful sense of justice. He had not, however, expected an explosion of outrage, and certainly not that the viscountess would contemplate dashing into the streets to right Society’s wrongs on the spot.
The Catherine Pelliston he had known had always been coolly intellectual and quiet-mannered. Except once, he recalled, when a villain had attempted to wrong her. He and Max had posted off to her rescue only to find that the small, fragile-looking creature had rescued herself by dint of crippling her adversary.
“Of course you’re angry, sweetheart,” said Lord Rand. “But if you can’t see straight, you dashed well won’t think straight. Can’t be going off into fits. Also, I wish you’d leave off clasping Jack’s hand to your bosom,” he complained. “It’s starting to make me see red—or maybe that’s only the colour his face is turning. Have a heart, will you, Cat, and leave the poor chap alone. Ain’t he got enough on his mind without you trying to seduce him in front of your husband?”
Mr. Langdon’s hand was abruptly dropped as the lady rounded on her lord.
?
??You,” she said, “are a low-minded wretch. Here we are talking about an innocent female driven from pillar to post and you—”
“My apologies, madam. You were only trying to comfort him, I suppose. Still, you must remember we were rivals once.”
“And you are monstrous tactless to say so.” Lady Rand reverted to Jack, her face reddening now as well. “Really, I wonder you continue friends with such a clodpole. Please forgive us both.”
“Actually,” said Jack, “I’m flattered that such a dashing fellow still considers me a rival. I suppose,” he added, glancing down at his cravat, “it is this handsome waterfall arrangement of Fellow’s.”
Thus the awkward moment passed. In fact, as he left his friends some time later, Jack was surprised at how very unawkward their reunion had been. Though he liked Catherine no whit less than he’d always done, he had felt no stir of envy or regret for what might have been.
Until he’d met her, he had never been able to carry on an easy conversation with a woman of his own class. But she’d understood him from the first, had never been puzzled or irritated by his bookish ways. She had taken him just as he was, and in her company he had discovered the delights of feminine conversation. Those glimpses into a woman’s mind, so different in such surprising ways from a man’s, had been glimpses into a new and fascinating world. He had been sorry to lose that.
Now he perceived he’d been unforgivably foolish to believe either Catherine or Max would drop him simply because they married. They were so far from doing so that they’d leapt at the opportunity to do the favour he asked.
The following day, Lady Potterby was stunned by Bantwell’s announcement that Lady Rand was at the door.
