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“So long as it does work,” she said, “I don’t care whether I just learned it or knew it all along.”
“I assure you it works admirably,” he answered as he gave the horses leave to start. “That particular brand of aristocratic disdain cannot be learned. One is born with it. Keep that in mind the next time anyone tries to make you feel like—” he hesitated.
“A trollop, I think you mean.”
He uttered an exaggerated sigh. “Madam,” he said sorrowfully, “have you never heard of euphemism?”
Delilah was able to put her lesson to practical use that evening at a ball given by Lady Rand. The technique was unfailingly effective, giving Miss Desmond the satisfying assurance that without uttering a syllable she could make a rogue just as uncomfortable as he made her. This made the affair more enjoyable than any she’d attended previously. The ball was sheer pleasure from start to near-daybreak finish, and not a little of her joy, she admitted ruefully, was attributable to Mr. Langdon’s lingering nearby for a sizable portion of the evening.
He must like me, she thought later, as she sat at her dressing table, making a vague pretence of brushing her hair. He wasn’t a saint. He would not be so kind and... protective... if he truly despised her. Certainly he would not have encouraged his friends to rally round her if he did. That she knew he had done for her—had perhaps known it in her heart even before Aunt Millicent had pointed it out during a lecture about ingratitude.
There was something else in her heart, Delilah was forced to acknowledge as she put down the hairbrush. When he’d eyed her in that insolent way this afternoon, he’d shocked her to the core. Yet at the same time, his look had conjured up other confrontations—one kiss in particular. And within she’d felt...
She shook her head and rose to remove her dressing gown, but as the silk slipped from her shoulders and fell, unheeded, to the carpet, the feeling came to her again. It had been, she realised with dismay, anticipation.
Mr. Langdon did not rise until early afternoon. He had not expected to rise at all.
He’d always prided himself on his cool detachment. He’d even managed in the past few weeks to keep his head—more or less—during the hundred mutinies his baser instincts had attempted against his reason. Yet this same philosophical Jack Langdon had fled Lady Rand’s ball shortly after midnight in a state bordering on insanity. He’d been seized with a fit of possessiveness so fierce that he must leave the place or commit mayhem.
The fit had come upon him the instant Delilah Desmond had entered. Prom that point on, it was all he could do to keep from swooping down on her and dragging her away. As it was, he’d planted himself at her side for at least half the evening while he scoured every masculine countenance for a hint of insult towards her. When he discovered what he sought, he could only seethe with impotent fury because he had no right to do anything about it. That she’d defended herself well, just as he’d known she would, had not improved his state of mind—or mindlessness was more like it—one iota.
He did not want them looking at her in any way, let alone talking or dancing with her. She was his.
Instead of pretending to be a civilised gentleman of the modern world, he should have been attired in filthy animal skins, grunting as he dragged his knuckles along the ground. That was what he’d felt when he’d danced with her the first time. She had remarked his sleek black coat and told him, in her light, practised way, that he looked rather dashing—and he had practically growled in answer.
When he’d felt his last vestiges of self-restraint deserting him, he’d made his exit. After attempting to relieve his feelings by kicking an unoffending lamppost, he had marched off to White’s, to gamble away all his money and drink himself to death.
That he’d failed in the latter was evident when his eyelids scraped open and searing pain pierced the tender organs beneath. He shut them and struggled up very slowly to a sitting position. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Mr. Fellows, tray in hand, gazing down upon him.
“Good grief,” Jack groaned. “No breakfast, I beg of you.”
“Breakfast today comes from the chemist’s shop, sir,” said the valet as he placed the tray on his master’s lap. “You had better drink it before you try the coffee.”
Jack eyed the tray with revulsion. “What is that?” he asked, nodding painfully at the rolled-up newspaper lying next to the coffee cup. “Where is the Times?”
“I think, sir, you will find this particular organ of communication more enlightening today.”
Less than an hour later Jack was at Potterby House, a torn sheet of newspaper crushed in his hand as he stammered a reply to Mr. Desmond’s greeting.
The Devil glanced down at the crumpled paper. “Ah, you have seen it, Mr. Langdon. It seems I was mistaken in my surmises.”
He took the paper from Jack and read aloud in mincing tones, “‘Rumours are afloat that Society will be set rocking one month from today, when the first installment of the long-awaited, much-feared Reminiscences of Mr. Darryl “Devil” Desmond are scheduled to appear.’ Lurid, don’t you think?” said the Devil, with a cynical smile. “Buonaparte earns from the British public little more than a disdainful sniff—while my paltry tale is to trigger an earthquake. Really, one does wonder whether these journalist fellows would not be more profitably employed by the Minerva Press.”
“Of course you don’t mean to let them get away with this,” said Jack. “We’ll go to Atkins now. I’m sure we can stop him.”
“My dear young man, what is the point of that? The damage is done, don’t you see? You and I are not the only persons in London who read the newspapers—if one can dignify this tattle rag with such a title.”
He studied his guest’s face for a moment. “Come sir. You look to me a man in need of the hair of the dog.” He steered Mr. Langdon into the late Lord Potterby’s luxurious study and sent a servant in search of proper refreshment.
The servant had just appeared with the tray when Miss Desmond burst in and pushed him back out.
“Oh, Papa,” she cried, running towards him.
Jack considerately closed the door.
What followed was not altogether coherent, though the language with which Miss Desmond denounced Mr. Atkins was plain enough, being composed of nearly every oath Jack had ever heard, in more than one language. She was, he was surprised to discover, more angry than alarmed. The only alarm she expressed regarded her father’s safety.
“The hypocrites would say nothing to my face,” she raged. “They only pretended they could not see me. But Joan heard plenty as we shopped, from the servants—and Papa, it’s just as you said. The members of Parliament are already talking of sedition. It appears,” she said scornfully, “your revelations will stir the masses to revolution.”
“That’s absurd,” said Jack. As he caught her startled look, he realised—not with any great surprise—that she’d been unaware of his presence. Stifling a sigh, he continued, “The worst we can expect to happen is that a few noble wives will be angry with their spouses. A very few,” he added. “Only those who take any notice of their husbands’ existence. Good grief—it’s all ancient history.”
Mr. Desmond raised an eyebrow.
“I beg your pardon,” said Jack. “I did not mean to imply—”
“But I am ancient, Mr. Langdon. I will be sixty years old in November. And while I have been irresponsibly racketing about these last thirty or forty years, Marchingham and Corbell have risen to unspeakable heights of political consequence. They and my other old friends are doubtless terrified my book will make fools of them. Your upper classes, sir, have but two fears in this world: appearing foolish and being murdered by a revolutionary mob. Naturally they believe it is all one thing. It is very difficult for the British gentleman to develop and retain more than one idea in his lifetime.”
“In other words, your powerful friends mean to work up some trumpery charges to throw you into prison and suppress the book,” said Delilah. “Though how they are to st
op odious Mr. Atkins when you have been unable, I cannot think. Not that I mean us to remain and see how they’ll manage it. We must return to Scotland.”
“I had rather go to prison, I believe,” said Mr. Desmond unperturbedly. “One meets all one’s old chums there—those at least who are not currently running the nation. Scotland is needlessly cold and damp,” he complained. “Besides, I can never make heads or tails of what those fellows are saying—”
“Papa!”
“My dear, I know your mama is there, and I do miss her grievously—but she would be appalled if I came slinking back with my tail between my legs. I could never look her in the eye again. Such fine eyes she has,” he added dreamily. “You know, Mr. Langdon, I never grow tired of gazing into them, though we have been married nearly five and twenty years.”
In vain did Miss Desmond try to awaken her father to a sense of his peril. Reason, threats, rage, and tears were all futile. The Devil had never been a coward, and he did not propose to begin now. His daughter may return to Scotland if she liked. He certainly would prefer that, as he was sure Lady Potterby would. He, however, would remain. Besides, he had an engagement this evening.
“Speak to him, Mr. Langdon,” she entreated. “You’re always so sensible. Make him understand that a man of sixty cannot long survive imprisonment, and Mama and I will not wish to survive if anything happens to him.”
Mr. Langdon dutifully did his best, though he found it monstrous difficult to concentrate. Not once, he thought—not one word about her hopes, of the destruction of her plans. Not a hint of alarm at the formidable displeasure she must confront if she remained. It was all her parents.
Was it all? Was that why she was here—for her parents’ sake? Had she not told him once that her father’s skill at cards was their only source of income? What had she said? Something about her parents not getting any younger. Was her cold-blooded resolve to marry well solely determination to provide for them?
That his arguments were disappointingly weak soon became apparent.
“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Langdon, you do sound as if you take his side,” she exclaimed in exasperation. “Must you men always stick together, ranting about honour?”
