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“You need never angle for praise, Miss Desmond,” was the prompt reply.
The exotic countenance grew blank with boredom, and Lord Berne was wise enough to revise his tactics.
“Actually,” he said, dropping his voice, “Jack is more than usually abstracted because”—he paused dramatically—”he has had a disappointment.”
Miss Desmond was intrigued. “Really? What sort? It cannot have been love, since you say he eludes feminine wiles. What can it be?”
“To disclose that would be dishonourable.”
“Then you were dishonourable to mention it at all,” she retorted, tossing her head. This tipped her beaver riding hat over her forehead, causing several black tendrils to escape from behind. She impatiently thrust these back Tinder the hat while Lord Berne watched with every evidence of enchantment.
“As long as I am sunk beneath reproach, I suppose one more indiscretion can scarcely matter,” he said, when hat and hair had been jammed into order. “Yes, there was a lady in the case. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“She must have been extraordinary to distract him from his books.”
“Not at all. From what I’ve heard, she was a mousy little model of propriety—and a blue stocking. I think he’s had a narrow escape, though it wouldn’t do to tell him so, of course. A friend is obliged to sympathise and console.”
“Then I keep you from your obligations, My Lord. You must attend to Mr. Langdon, and leave Papa and me to make shift without you.” So saying, she rode ahead to catch up with her father.
“Bored so soon?” asked Mr. Desmond^. “I told you he was like everyone else.”
“On the contrary, he’s a wonderful gossip. In less than an hour I have learned the entire past Season’s on-dits.”
“Then doubtless the conversation grew too warm for your maidenly ears.”
Delilah shot him a disbelieving glance. “His lordship was courteously amusing, no more. Still, if the prey is not elusive, the hunter soon loses his relish for the pursuit, as you have told me a thousand times.”
The father grinned. “I am always right, of course. You’ve set your mind on Streetham’s heir, then?”
Delilah shook her head. “His parents would never condone it. I was most surprised by his lordship’s invitation. I don’t think he likes you, Papa.”
“Loathes me,” the Devil replied easily. “Still, he wouldn’t want his faux pas to be noised about—and even I am not so low a cur as to tattle on my gracious host, am I?”
“What an old hypocrite he is! Naturally his son is out of the question.” She smiled into the sunlit distance. “As a husband, I mean. But as a pursuer, he could prove useful. It would be pleasant to have at least one suitor on hand when the Little Season begins. Let us hope he pursues me as far as London.”
It was fortunate that Lord Streetham was not a superstitious man, else he had concluded a curse had fallen upon him from the moment he’d strayed past the Black Cat’s portals. A diligent search of all of the Desmonds’ belongings, including their carriage, had yielded nothing.
Lord Streetham now had two choices. He could offer Desmond an enormous sum for the memoirs. Though the earl was tight-fisted, he was prepared to pay in so urgent a case. The trouble was, he must pay Desmond, and to admit himself at that creature’s mercy was unthinkable. The second choice— to seek his irresponsible son’s help—was nearly as unthinkable. Yet this was one of the few enterprises in which Tony’s narrow talents could be useful. Thus, as soon as the group had returned to the house, Lord Streetham sent for his son.
“I suppose you are on your way to making a conquest of Miss Desmond,” said the earl, once the door was closed.
Tony shifted uneasily. “I was only trying to entertain them, sir. That is one’s duty to one’s guests.”
“I’ll tell you your duty,” the earl snapped. “I didn’t ask them here for their amusement or yours, and I mean to be rid of them as soon as possible. Your mother is still in fits, and she doesn’t know the half of it.” Lord Streetham proceeded to tell his son the whole of it—or most of it, for he did not reveal precisely what revelations he feared. He dwelt instead upon the ignorance of the public and the jealousy of political rivals. The latter, he insisted, would snatch at any straw that might discredit him.
“They will twist minor peccadillos out of all recognition and make me appear unfit to lead,” he stiffly explained. “What you or I, as men of the world, would shrug off as youthful folly they will exaggerate into weakness of character. Mere boyish pranks will be transformed into heinous
crimes.”
He turned from the window in time to catch his son grinning. The grin was hastily suppressed.
“I’m delighted you find this so amusing,” said Lord Streetham coldly. “Doubtless your mother will find it equally so, particularly when she grows reluctant to go about in public, for fear of hearing her former friends snickering behind their fans, or—and I’m sure this will be most humorous—enduring their expressions of pity.”
Lord Berne became properly solemn. “I beg your pardon, My Lord. I did not mean—”
“I’ll tell you what you mean, you rattle! You mean to relieve Desmond of that confounded manuscript.”
“I?”
“The girl, you idiot. If you must dally with her, then do so with a purpose. I am unable to locate the memoirs. That does not surprise me. Desmond is cunning. She may be equally so—certainly her mother is—but she is a female, and all females can be managed.”
Since Lord Berne had never met a young woman he couldn’t manage, he could hardly find fault with this reasoning. Nor, being sufficiently intelligent, was he slow to grasp what his father wished him to do.
“You believe I might persuade her to turn this manuscript over to me, sir?” he asked.
Lord Streetham uttered a “sigh of vexation. “Why else would I impose so on that depraved brain of yours? Of course that is what I wish. Now go away and do it,” he ordered.
Lord Berne went away not altogether pleased with his assignment—which was rather odd, considering this was the first time his father had ever trusted him with any matter of importance. Furthermore, what was at stake was power, and the viscount had selfish reasons for preferring that his father’s not be diminished in any way. Lord Streetham’s influence had more than once saved his son from an undesirable marriage, not to mention tiresome interviews with constables.
The trouble was, the son was accustomed to pursue pleasure for its own sake. Though he would have been delighted to dally with the ravishing Miss Desmond, doing so as a means to an end was very like work, and his aristocratic soul shuddered at the prospect.
Still, he thought, his noble sire could not possibly expect him to begin this minute. Consequently, Lord Berne took himself to the water tower for a cold bath, and remained there, coolly meditating, for two hours.
Chapter Three
Though she had bathed and dressed leisurely, Miss Desmond discovered she had still the remainder of the afternoon to get through and no idea what to do with herself.
Lady Streetham, Delilah knew, was not eager for her company, and the feeling was mutual. Papa was having a nap. Her host was closeted with his steward. Lord Berne, according to her maid, had not yet returned to the house.
Clearly, Miss Desmond would have to provide her own amusement until tea. The prospect was not appealing. She could not play billiards, because that was unladylike. She doubted very much her hosts would approve her gambling with the servants. For the same reason, she could not spend the time in target practice. This enforced inactivity left her to her reflections, which were not agreeable.
Though she’d made light of it to her father, last night’s contretemps preyed on her mind. It was no good telling herself, as her father had assured her, she hadn’t had any choice. She might have attempted at least to reason with the earl before drawing out her pistol. Certainly she needn’t have wrestled, for heaven’s sake, with Mr. Langdon. She might have pretended to faint or burst in
to tears, but not one of these alternatives had occurred to her, though they would have been instinctive to any truly genteel young lady.
Delilah Desmond had a great deal to learn about ladylike behaviour, that was for certain. She hoped Lady Potterby would be up to the task of reeducating her grand niece. Otherwise that grand niece would never attract the sort of gentleman she needed to marry.
Right now, for instance, she ought to make an effort to impress her stony hostess by conversing with her on some suitably dull subject, preferably while doing needlework. The trouble was, Delilah was heartily sick of Lady Streetham’s condescension and would be more likely to plunge her needle into that lady’s starched bosom.
Miss Desmond decided her wisest course was to take a stroll in the gardens. At least they were extensive enough to make the walk something like real exercise.
She crossed the terrace and followed one of the neat gravel paths bordered by low, scrupulously manicured hedges until she came to an enormous fountain where water spewed from the mouths of four enraged stone dolphins. Staring raptly at the carved monstrosity was Mr. Langdon, book clamped to his side. He seemed oblivious to her approach.
“I wonder if they bite,” said Delilah.
He spun round to face her, his countenance colouring slightly.
Miss Desmond was surprised to feel her own cheeks grow warm. She wished she hadn’t struck him quite so violently last night—or at least not in that unseemly way. She shook her head to drive off the recollection, and two pins flew out of her hair to drop with a faint tinkle upon the paving stones.
As his glance went from her hair to the pins, his eyes seemed to darken, but Delilah could not be certain because he immediately bent to retrieve the pins. In her experience, gentlemen invariably used the return of her hairpins as an excuse for squeezing her hand. Mr. Langdon, however, gingerly dropped them into her outstretched palm as though he were afraid of being contaminated.
“Thank you,” she said with an inward twitch of irritation, “but you needn’t have bothered. I’m forever losing them. Papa says he can always tell where I’ve been because I leave a trail of hairpins behind me.”
