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Mr. Atkins turned white and began to sway.
Mr. Desmond called for assistance, and an apprentice hastened in to help him lead Mr. Atkins to a chair.
“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Desmond after the publisher had been made to swallow a few gulps of gin. “I’m afraid I gave you a turn.”
“Don’t kill me,” Mr. Atkins whimpered. “It isn’t my doing, I swear to you. I never wanted—”
“Pray do not distress yourself, sir,” came the solicitous reply. “I have no wish to cause you any trouble. I’ve only come for the rest of my money.”
“Y-your what?”
“The money, sir, you promised me.” Desmond glanced around at the gathering crowd of onlookers. “But perhaps you would prefer to discuss these mercenary matters in a less public place.”
A short time later, Mr. Atkins was sufficiently in possession of his wits to believe he was not dreaming. This was Devil Desmond, sitting calmly across from him in a cramped room, claiming to be perfectly content to have his work published after all.
“Much ado about nothing,” the Devil confided to his stunned listener. “What is Woman if not changeable? My daughter, sir, is bored to extinction with London Society and wishes to go abroad. Immediately, of course. She has no patience, you know. I have been trying for days to speak to you, but you have been unavailable.” The Devil’s teeth gleamed as he grinned. “Press of business, I daresay. You could not possibly have been avoiding me. You are not so poor-spirited a fellow as that.”
Mr. Atkins was sufficiently poor-spirited to tremble, though he still maintained his fierce possession of the manuscript. Even when he had swooned, he had not loosened his grip. His fingers had apparently long since frozen permanently in position.
“My good man,” said Mr. Desmond. “I assure you there is no reason for suspicion. Please, do what you must with that package. I shall wait here patiently. I suppose there are papers to be signed?”
“Y—yes,” said Mr. Atkins. “But they are at my office.”
“Then by all means let us go there. I shall be confounded relieved to have done with this tiresome business.”
Not many minutes later, the printer had the package and his instructions, while Mr. Atkins, still nearly speechless with amazement at this turnabout, was accompanying his author back down Dean Street.
When the two had turned the corner, Mr. Langdon stepped out of the nearby chemist’s shop and disappeared into the printer’s. He re-emerged ten minutes later and glanced furtively about him before hastening down the street.
Lord Berne, who had been watching events unfold from the shadows of a doorway across the street, broke into a smile. No wonder Desmond had got the word so quickly—even before himself. The Devil had had Langdon—innocent, honest Jack—do his spying for him. And Langdon had probably got all his information just by appearing muddled and forgetful. He had likely not paid a farthing in bribes.
“Ah, Jack,” he murmured, “How it saddens me to see you take up these wicked ways. Yet I do believe you have spared me a great deal of trouble.”
Mr. Langdon managed to restrain himself until he was safely home. He had walked slowly, looking, he hoped, as innocently preoccupied as ever, and suitably inept as he hailed a hackney.
He even managed a semblance of calm as he entered his library. Then he shut the door and began ripping open one of his packages. Not until he’d checked the pages and assured himself this was the manuscript did he ait down and allow himself a sigh of relief.
Thank heaven he looked so muddled. Even the printer, harassed as he was, had felt sorry for him. He’d never doubted for an instant that Mr. Langdon had picked up Mr. Atkins’s package by mistake and given the publisher his own.
Jack had just rung for a well deserved glass of brandy when Lord Berne was announced.
“Two glasses, Joseph,” said Mr. Langdon. “Only give me a moment before you show him in.”
As soon as the servant left the room, Jack slipped the manuscript back into its wrapper and placed it underneath the other parcels.
“Jack! How glad I am to find you at home,” Lord Berne cried as he entered. “One sees so little of you these days. No doubt you’ve reverted to habit-buried in your books again.” He glanced at the stack of packages heaped on a chair. “Are these additions to the collection?”
Jack nodded. “With Madame de Stael in residence, I thought I ought to familiarise myself with her work.”
Joseph entered with the brandy. Mr. Langdon poured. His hands were surprisingly steady, considering he was beside himself with impatience. If only he could be rid of Tony quickly, so he might go at once to Potterby House with the book. He should have gone directly, but he could not trust his luck, and had to check his treasure first—without Miss Desmond’s scornful eyes upon him.
“Ah, just the thing,” said Lord Berne. “For now, that is. Perhaps later today I may return the favour with champagne, when I solicit your congratulations.”
Jack paused in the act of lifting his glass.
“I’m going to do it, Jack. I mean to be riveted at last—if she’ll have me.” Glass in hand, Lord Berne sauntered away from his friend to gaze at a small marble bust of Caesar Augustus that stood upon the mantel. He smiled. “I think she will. She has at least given me reason to hope.”
He turned his innocent blue gaze upon his friend. “Will you wish me luck, Jack? Though she has been kind, I find my courage repeatedly deserting me. I have twice set out for Potterby House today and twice turned back. I was so agitated I feared I should be incapable of speaking at all.”
“Potterby House,” Jack said weakly, his one frail, mad hope that Lord Berne referred to another woman dashed. Then, catching himself, he went on. “You mean to offer for Miss Desmond? Have your parents yielded at last?”
“No, they have not,” was the composed answer. “Yet I am no babe, to have my life managed and manipulated by my parents. They would consign me to Hell—to Lady Jane—which is quite the same thing. ‘But when I became a man, I put away childish things.’ I’ve learned there is only one woman I love, can ever love, and that is the woman I will have. No other course bears contemplation.”
&nbs
p; Jack Langdon was too much in the habit of putting himself in the other’s place to leave off now. He had dreamed and hoped for months. He had laboured all these past weeks with one aim. It was not inconceivable that Tony, in his own way, had been doing the same. Less inconceivable was that Tony had been doing so to better purpose.
While Jack was not sufficiently unselfish to keep from hoping desperately that his friend would fail, he knew the hope was not only futile, but absurd. What woman in her senses could ever resist Tony? Countless women had abandoned the path of virtue because he smiled upon them. Though Miss Desmond, unlike the others, had resisted ruin, that was just barely. Certainly she would not decline his honourable offer of marriage.
Jack suppressed a sigh, scarcely attending his friend’s impassioned declarations of love, loyalty, fearlessness, and heaven knew what else. Really, it was beginning to grow tiresome. First Max with Catherine, now Tony with Delilah. All in the space of a few months.
This time was worse than the one before, far worse. Jack could not imagine what the next time would be like. Perhaps there would be no next time. Perhaps he would simply withdraw from the world as his Uncle Albert had and spend his remaining days as a reclusive, confirmed bachelor, his sole passion lined up neatly upon the shelves of his library.
Jack swallowed his brandy in one long gulp and raised the decanter once more. He might as well get drunk. He was entitled.
That was the last complete thought he had, for as he was refilling his glass, there came a sharp, blinding pain... and then there was nothing at all.
Lord Berne gazed sadly down upon the unconscious form sprawled upon the carpet.
“Frightfully sorry, old chap,” he said softly, “but we can’t have any more of that misplaced gratitude now, can we?”
He coolly began unwrapping the packages piled on the chair until he found the one he wanted. Then he sat down at his friend’s writing desk, scrawled a brief note, and left.
